by Rhys Bowen
The Red Dragon’s regular customers had been at the bar for an hour or more, enough time to create a thick tobacco fug. Bronwen stifled a cough.
“It will be better in the ladies’ lounge,” Evan whispered, knowing her feelings on smoke.
“If you think I’m being exiled while you stand around the bar chatting with your mates, you can think again,” Bronwen whispered back.
Through the smoke haze the voices of the village butcher and milkman, both called Evans, rose above the low hum of conversation.
“Bloody tourists,” Evans-the-Meat’s loud baritone echoed back from the oak-beamed ceiling. “Don’t tell me they’re good for the local economy. And don’t tell me you’re getting rich by selling them ice creams either. I had some English yuppie type come into my shop today and ask if I had any marinades to go with the lamb she was buying. I looked her in the eye and told her it was best Welsh lamb, not your imported New Zealand rubbish. It didn’t need marinades. It had flavor all by itself.”
The other men at the bar chuckled and nodded agreement. As Evans-the-Meat finished his story, he looked up and spotted Evan and Bronwen in the doorway. “Well, would you look what we’ve got here,” he exclaimed. “None other than the lovebirds. Is this the equivalent of the last phone call then, Evan bach? You’re being allowed one final look at the inside of the pub before your marriage?”
“He won’t have the strength to stagger up that mountain after he’s been drinking,” Evans-the-Milk dug the butcher in the ribs.
“And if he manages to get that far, he won’t have enough strength for anything else that night,” Evans-the-Meat retorted, and the group broke into noisy laughter.
“You two just keep quiet.” Betsy the barmaid leaned out across the bar to deliver a slap on the closest arm. “I think it’s lovely just that there’s going to be a wedding in this place. So romantic. I can’t wait to see Bronwen in her veil and her long white dress.”
“And Evan in his top hat?” Evans-the-Meat quipped.
“Give over, Gareth,” Evan said to the grinning butcher. “Can you see me in a top hat? I’m just going to be wearing a dark suit. None of this morning coat stuff, thank you.”
“I think you’ll look just fine,” Betsy said, giving him a wistful smile.
“Where’s Barry tonight then?” Evan asked, mentioning Betsy’s current flame and hoping that Bronwen hadn’t noticed Betsy’s gaze.
“Out on the mountain looking for some stupid lost hiker,” Betsy said. “Charlie’s up there with him and a couple of other men from the village too.”
“How long ago were they called out?”
“They’ve been gone a couple of hours, wouldn’t you say?” Betsy asked.
There were several nods. “They had vans full of coppers. They even had dogs,” Evans-the-Meat said. “Big-scale operation, I’d call it.”
Evan turned to Bronwen. “So it looks like she hasn’t been found yet. Maybe I should call in to see if they need me.”
“Not until you’ve had a pint and something to eat,” Bronwen said. She lowered her voice. “And now that we’ve found out that Charlie isn’t here, maybe we could go up to the Everest Inn?”
“That would be rude, now that we’re here,” Evan said, “and I thought we were supposed to be saving up for the honeymoon.” He turned back to Betsy. “What can you rustle up for dinner for two hungry people, Betsy fach?”
Betsy wrinkled her forehead. “I’m sorry, but we’re not doing food tonight. Harry’s away, you see, and it’s just me holding the fort.”
“Never mind.” Bronwen gave Evan a quick glance. “Why don’t we just have a quick drink then and I’ll cook something at your place.”
Evan managed a convincing smile and resigned himself to the omelette. Personally, he felt that eggs belonged on the breakfast table or hardboiled at a picnic. Definitely not a man’s dinner.
“A pint of Guinness, is it then, Evan?” Betsy asked, already starting to draw it. “And for you, Miss Price?”
“Bron will have a shandy,” Evan said before Bronwen could ask for a Perrier and thus embarrass him.
Betsy had just handed them their drinks when Evan’s mobile phone rang. He excused himself and stepped out into the hallway to answer it.
“Evans, Watkins here,” came the clipped voice of his inspector. “I want you to meet me at the Snowdon Railway. I’ve just had a call from the boys in the search party and you won’t believe what they’ve found.”
“They’ve found the missing girl?” Evan didn’t dare to ask more.
“No, it’s not the missing girl. I can’t talk right now.”
“Do you want me to bring any more men with me?” Evan asked.
“No, we certainly don’t need any more men.” Watkins’s voice sounded tense. He lowered it. “This could be something rather nasty, Evans.”
“I’ll be right there, sir.” Evan put the phone back in his pocket. “Sorry, cariad, but I’ve got to go.” He gave Bronwen a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll see you later. I’m needed with the search party.”
“Oh, Evan. Haven’t they got enough men searching so that you have time for dinner?”
“Inspector Watkins wants me there right away.”
Bronwen’s face fell. “Oh no. Something hasn’t happened to that girl, has it?”
“I don’t know yet, love. I honestly have no idea what it is. Only that the inspector sounded very upset. You’ve got a key to let yourself back in, haven’t you?”
With that he pushed open the heavy oak door and stepped out into the cool night air. The evening star hung big and bright over the horizon and behind the peaks a glow hinted at a moon about to rise. At least it would be a good night for searching, if searching was what he was being called to do. He recalled the dread in the inspector’s voice and shivered. It took a lot to rattle someone like Inspector Watkins, who had been on the force for almost twenty years now.
He made the journey down the pass to Llanberis in less than ten minutes and parked in front of the terminal of the little rack-railway that ascended Mount Snowdon. Two white police vans were parked there, but no sign of any policemen. As he stepped out of his car, Inspector Watkins emerged from the shadows of the station porch, his hands thrust into his raincoat pockets.
“That was quick,” he called.
“I was at the Dragon. It’s only a ten-minute drive,” Evan said. “I had to leave without having dinner, so I hope this is important.”
Usually Watkins would have come back with some quip about Evan’s waistline. Instead he muttered, “It’s important all right,” and led the way past the station platform where the little train sat silent and dark. “I hope we don’t need hiking boots,” he said. “I understand we’ve got a bit of a climb.”
“And it’s not the missing hiker, sir? What exactly is it?”
“I’m holding off judgment on that until I see for myself. Okay, Pritchard, D.C. Evans is here.”
A uniformed figure rose from a bench beside the path. “This way, sir,” he said, and set off, following the lane that ran beside the railway track. He carried a torch and the beam danced ahead of them.
“We thought she might have taken the Llanberis path down, because it’s the easiest.” The young constable turned back to Watkins as the lane began to climb steeply and then became a hiking track. “Sergeant Jones suggested we search that wood, just in case someone had been lurking and saw her coming down alone.” He indicated the dark shape of a stand of trees ahead to the left of the path. “And we had the dogs with us and one of them led us right to it.”
They left the main path and picked their way through heather, bracken, and rocks until they reached the wooded area. D.C. Pritchard shone his torch and led them among the trees.
“It’s not that far,” Pritchard said, his voice echoing unnaturally loud in the clear night air. Leaves and bracken crunched underfoot. Gnarled old oaks and giant conifers loomed up in front of them, looking like deformed monsters, reaching out clawed hands in the tor
chlight. They started to climb steeply as the wood ascended the slopes of the mountain. Evan felt his heart hammering, although he was used to walking up mountains. He sensed the urgency in the other men. He just wanted to know and to get it over with.
As they came out into a clearing, moonlight streamed down onto them, and a view opened up below them. Across the narrow valley they could see the thin ribbon of Llyn Padarrn, glistening in the moonlight. The slate cliffs rose in menacing tiers above it, looking like a forbidding fortress in the dark.
Then they plunged into thick woodland again. Brambles and twigs grabbed at their clothing as they pushed past. Ahead of them Evan could see lights bobbing among the trees and the murmur of voices.
“Here’s Inspector Watkins now, sir,” someone called out, and the beefy Sergeant Bill Jones stepped out from behind a large fir tree.
“Hello, sir. We thought you’d better take a look at this. I’ve also taken the liberty of calling forensics, just in case.” He looked over at Evan and nodded hello. “This way, then. Mind your step in the dark. Davies, bring that torch here so I don’t go arse-over-tip.”
He bent down, pulled on something, and a trap door opened.
“We didn’t go down, sir,” he said, looking up at Watkins, “but we shone the torches around pretty thoroughly. It doesn’t look as though anybody’s there.”
Watkins dropped to his knees and took the torch that the young policeman was holding. Evan knelt beside him and peered into the hole.
“Bloody’ell,” was all Watkins could say.
Evan looked and fought back the sick, sinking feeling in his stomach. The torchlight didn’t illuminate the far corners but what he could see was enough. It was a complete bunker, furnished with a camp bed, camp stool, and foldout table.
“Did the owner leave a convenient ladder for us to get down, Jones?” Watkins asked.
“Not that we’ve found so far, sir.”
“I want to get into that hole right now,” Watkins said. “Any suggestions?”
“A good shove, sir?” came from the darkness, followed by a general chuckle.
“Most amusing, Roberts,” Watkins said. “We’re looking for a missing girl, for God’s sake. Would you want your girlfriend down there?”
“No, sir.”
“Then bloody well think of a way to get someone down to take a look.”
It took all of Evan’s willpower to speak. Being naturally claustrophobic he dreaded the thought of dropping into darkness. But the thought of a young girl, maybe still alive in one of those dark corners, drove him. “I could probably lower myself, sir, and then help you down.”
“I’m not a decrepit old fogey, Evans,” Watkins said. “And I don’t want you breaking an ankle.”
“It’s not that far, sir. I’m over six foot and I’d say it wasn’t much deeper than that. If you can come up with something for me to hang onto …” He lowered himself experimentally and sat with his legs dangling into the darkness.
“Here. Grab hold of my hand,” Pritchard said.
“I didn’t know you cared, Huwey,” someone quipped.
“Too bad he’s already engaged,” another voice added, but the constable grinned and knelt down.
“Someone hold onto Pritchard. We don’t want him tumbling in too,” the sergeant commanded.
Evan turned onto his stomach and inched himself over the lip, just as he had done many times when climbing down a mountain. Hands grabbed at his wrists as he lowered himself until his voice echoed up, “Okay, let go.”
There was a thud, the sound of something falling, and a muttered, “Bloody’ell.”
Watkins peered over the rim. “Are you okay, Evans?”
The damp, moldy, earthy smell was overpowering.
“I’m okay.” Evan shivered in the miserable cold. As he moved around in the torch beam, grotesque shadows stretched across the walls and dirt floor. His hands reached out over the damp soil until he located what had fallen. “I knocked something over when I landed. It’s all right. Just a stool. Are you ready to come down now, sir? The boys can lower you the way they lowered me.”
“The big question is can we get you out again?” one of the young constables said and got a general laugh.
Evan felt cold sweat run down the back of his neck. He could never reveal that his darkest fear was being shut underground, or they’d kid him about it forever. He heaved a sigh of relief as Watkins’s lean frame came down toward him and he reached up to guide the inspector to the ground. Watkins switched on his torch and Evan blinked, temporarily blinded by the powerful beam.
“Don’t touch anything if you can help it, Evans. We’ll want forensics to go over it,” Watkins said. He covered one wall with the torch beam, then the next.
Seen from close up like this, the small room wasn’t as frightening as it had seemed from above. It was a rectangle, about eight feet by six, well framed with sturdy timber. The camp bed took up most of one wall. Behind it was a bucket toilet. There was a camping lantern with extra batteries, a one-burner camp stove, and a supply of cans and dehydrated food. A personal CD player and some CDs were piled on another stool behind the bed.
Watkins picked up the top one with his handkerchief. “Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos—highbrow stuff.” He turned to Evan. “So what do you think?”
Evan looked around him. “I think that maybe we’re dealing with some sort of survivalist, a crackpot who wants to be ready for the next nuclear war.”
Watkins shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he said. “Look up there.”
The torch beam picked out chains hanging from the beam at the top of the far wall. Chains with handcuffs attached to them.
Chapter 4
It was just before dawn when Evan’s car finally drew up outside the red front door and he staggered up the stairs. He felt sick with hunger and tiredness and every muscle in his body ached. He told himself he should eat something before he went to sleep, but he was just too exhausted. He thought of waking Bronwen to cook him something, but when he saw her lying there, her long ash blond hair spread out over the pillow like a figure from a Renaissance painting, he hadn’t the heart to disturb her. He took down his sleeping bag and spread it on the floor. He even started to wriggle into it. Then the desire to be close to her, to feel the warmth of her was too strong, and he slid into bed beside her, trying not to wake her.
She did wake, though, and turned to give him a sleepy smile. “Hello. What time is it?”
“Five o’clock,” Evan said. “Sorry to disturb you. Go back to sleep.”
“You’re freezing,” she said. “Have you been out on the mountain all night?”
“Pretty much.”
“Did you find the girl?”
“No, not yet. They’ve still got teams out there.”
“Perhaps she got fed up and went home to Mum. Has anybody thought of calling her home?”
“I don’t think she did, Bron,” Evan said. “We found something really horrible. An underground bunker, fully equipped with food and everything, as if it was ready and waiting for someone.”
“You think someone might have been looking for a young girl to kidnap?”
“The thought did cross our minds.”
“Are you sure it wasn’t just boys building a secret clubhouse? Some kind of Scout project maybe?”
“There were chains on the wall, Bronwen. Chains and handcuffs.”
Bronwen shivered. “How horrible. Some kind of proper psycho, then. Thank heavens you discovered it. At least now he won’t be able to take anybody there.”
“But he may already have her, Bron. He may have captured her and now not know what to do with her, and that’s not good.”
“No, you’re right. If he’s nowhere to put her, he either has to let her go or—” She couldn’t complete the sentence.
“And he couldn’t risk letting her go because she’d be able to identify him.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I’ll find out wha
t the overall plan is when I report back for work at eight o’clock. Between now and then I’d like to get a couple of hours of shuteye.”
Bronwen wrapped her arms around him. “I suppose I’m now just learning what life as a policeman’s wife is going to be like,” she said. “At least I’m glad I’m here to get up and make you breakfast before you go.”
Evan snuggled into her arms, enjoying the warm, sweet smell of her. Other thoughts crossed his mind but before he had time to decide whether to act on them, he had fallen asleep.
In his dream he was down in that bunker and looked up just in time to see the trap door being closed, plunging him into total darkness. He felt around for the stool, climbed on it, and started pounding on the trap door.
“Let me out!” he shouted. He thought he heard the sound of maniacal laughter. He went on pounding and pounding until … he opened his eyes to bright sunlight streaming in through the window. Birds were singing but their song was drowned out by the pounding that was still going on. Evan sat up, his heart hammering as loudly as the noise he could hear. He was alone in the bed and now that his senses were returning, he could smell coffee downstairs.
He jumped up, just as the pounding ceased. Downstairs, he heard voices. They had found the girl, he thought. He was being called to a murder scene. He ran down the stairs. Bronwen was standing at the half-open front door. She was wearing one of Evan’s T-shirts, which came to mid-thigh on her, and nothing else. She looked up at the sound of Evan’s feet on the stairs.
“I didn’t want to wake you until seven-fifteen but we’ve got a visitor,” she said, her voice unnaturally cheerful.
“I wasn’t expecting to find you here, Miss Price,” a voice said, and to Evan’s horror, his mother stepped past Bronwen and into the front hall. “Hello, son,” she said.
“Mother, what are you doing here?” Evan stammered. “We weren’t expecting you until the weekend.”
Mrs. Evans’s face was a stone mask. “My next-door neighbor, Mrs. Gwynne, said her son was driving a furniture lorry up to Bangor. I thought to myself, why not surprise my son and save the money for the train fare too?”
