by Rhys Bowen
Evan turned around to see his mother making a beeline for the parked car.
“Oh no,” he groaned and sprinted across the street. “All settled in, Ma?” he called as he put the car into gear and pulled away.
“Yes, but I need to talk to you about—” Mrs. Evans shouted.
“Later, Ma. I’ve got a dangerous suspect here I’m taking into custody,” he called back and drove away as fast as he dared.
“What was all that about?” Paul asked nervously. “You don’t think I’m a suspect, do you?”
Evan laughed at his worried face. “That was my mother, and if I hadn’t stopped her, she’d have kept us there for hours. She’s been in the village all morning so she’s probably already come up with at least twenty things to complain about.”
“Sounds like Shannon’s mother,” Paul said. “Nothing’s ever good enough for her.”
“Mothers can be difficult,” Evan agreed.
“What have you been doing? Driving here by way of Scotland?” Inspector Watkins demanded as Evan finally entered the Caernarfon police station and found his boss pacing the reception area.
“When I talked to you I was halfway up a mountain,” Evan said, “and since you didn’t send a helicopter to pick me up, I had to get down on my own two feet.”
“I’ve got an angry young man in the interview room, demanding to see his lawyer and threatening to tell the newspapers about police harassment.”
“The one whose fingerprints were on the tin?”
Watkins nodded. “Name’s Dave Matthews. We had him on file for an assault charge last year. He was never prosecuted because the girl withdrew her complaint, but he’s a nasty piece of work. Works as a stockboy at Tesco’s when he’s not playing in a local garage band and riding around on a motorbike pretending to be a Hell’s Angel.”
“So we’ve brought him in just on the basis of his fingerprint on the tin?”
“It’s the only match we’ve come up with. In fact, there were suspiciously few fingerprints, making me think that our man wore gloves most of the time, or wiped items clean after him.”
“Someone who thinks ahead then—considers all possibilities.”
“Right.” Watkins nodded. “Ready to face the raging bull then?”
Evan grinned as Watkins pushed open the interview room door. The man sitting at the table was swarthy-complexioned, overweight, with a lot of unkempt black hair. He was wearing a black leather jacket with studs on it and he stood up immediately, almost knocking his chair over. “About bloody time,” he said. “What have you been doing keeping me waiting like this? I’ve missed my effing lunch break. And I’d better not be docked any pay for this.”
“Sit down and shut up,” Watkins said. “We’ll ask the questions. You give us the answers and you can go back to work. Start the machine please, Evans.”
Evan saw the man react nervously at the mention of the word “machine”. He walked across to the table and pressed the button on a tape recorder. “The date is August third. Time one forty-five p.m. Present at the interview Inspector Watkins and D.C. Evans.” He turned to the man, who was now glaring at them, elbows on the table. “Would you state your full name and address please?”
“David Merion Matthews. Twenty-five Bangor Street, Caernarfon.”
“And your occupation, Mr. Matthews?”
“I play bass guitar with a rock band and I also work for Tesco.”
Inspector Watkins moved in to take over from Evan. “And last year we had the pleasure of your company when you were involved in a case of domestic violence, Mr. Matthews. You came home drunk and knocked around your lady friend. Is that correct?”
“You can’t hold that against me,” Dave Matthews said, looking at them defiantly, “because she dropped the charges. It never got to court. So as far as you’re concerned, it never happened.”
“But one thing that did happen was that you were fingerprinted,” Watkins said.
“So?”
“Would you mind telling us what you were doing yesterday?”
The reaction was complete surprise. “Yesterday? What the bloody hell is this about? Yesterday I was working the early shift at Tesco, mate, then I came home and had an afternoon kip because I’d been up since five, and then me and the band practiced over at Gareth’s house in the evening. Not exactly the most thrilling day of my life.”
“You ride a motorbike, is that correct?”
“That’s right. A Harley. My pride and joy.”
“Ever take it off road?”
“What’s this all about? That old git down the street complaining about me revving the engine and waking him up late at night again?”
“Ever drive up Llanberis way and onto the mountain?”
“What on earth for?”
“So you’ve never ridden your bike through Llanberis?”
“I might have done, although I can’t think why. Deader than a doornail once you get to those bloody villages, isn’t it? Not recently anyway. And I don’t take her off road. I’m not risking mud on the chrome.”
“What time did you clock out yesterday?”
“Two o’clock.”
“And you said you took a nap when you got home. Anyone vouch for that?”
“Yeah, I’ve got my harem waiting for me, haven’t I? Of course nobody can bloody vouch for it.”
“Your girlfriend? Are you still together?”
“We don’t live together no more. She’s a bloody pain in the arse, nagging about my smoking all the time.”
“So nobody saw you come home yesterday and nobody saw you leave again?’
Matthews shrugged. “Someone on the street might have done,” he said. “The old biddy opposite has got nothing better to do than sit behind her curtains.”
Watkins glanced at Evan. “Anything you’d like to ask, Constable?”
Evan wasn’t at all sure where this was going. He couldn’t equate this unkempt, overweight individual with the builder of the bunker who had meticulously stacked supplies, made the bed with hospital corners, and who listened to Bach.
“Not really, sir,” Evan replied.
Watkins gave him a swift look before he said, “All right, Matthews, you’re free to go for now.”
Dave got to his feet. “Are you going to tell me what this is all about?”
“Not at the moment. We may be calling on you again.”
“Then do you mind calling my supervisor and telling him that I ain’t done nothing wrong. I don’t want him getting ideas about me when I’m a law-abiding citizen.” The big man pushed his way past them and stumped out of the interview room.
“So what do you think?” Watkins asked when Matthews had been escorted out.
“If you want my opinion, he had nothing to do with it,” Evan said.
“Why’s that?”
“Wrong type,” Evan said. “Men who bash their women around don’t have to fantasize about keeping one of them in chains. And you saw how neat and ordered that bunker was. This bloke probably only takes a wash once a week.”
Watkins pushed back his sandy hair, which was now showing the first signs of gray at the sides. “I can’t disagree with that. But the fingerprint on the baked beans tin?”
“He does work at Tesco,” Evan pointed out. “He was probably the one who put it on the shelf.”
Watkins nodded again. “But why was there just this one clear set of prints and no others?”
“Because the man we are looking for is very meticulous. He wears gloves. He wipes things clean. He overlooked a couple of prints.”
“Pity. It all fitted so nicely. Violent with women, rides a motorbike—”
“What’s all this about the motorbike?”
“Oh sorry, I didn’t get a chance to tell you. The team found bike tracks near the bunker. Someone might have carried stuff up there on the back of a bike. We’ll have forensics look at Matthews’s tires, but I suspect you’re right and he’s not the type we’re looking for.”
“We do
know one thing,” Evan said.
“What’s that?”
“Our man shops at the local Tesco.”
“And what help is that?” Watkins demanded. “Do you think we can go into Tesco and ask if they saw anybody suspicious buying a tin of baked beans recently?”
“It wasn’t just one tin of baked beans. It was a good quantity of tins and packets. If he bought them all at once, one of the checkers might have remembered.” Evan smiled. “And it does tell us one thing. It’s more likely that he’s a local and not someone from outside who came to the area looking for a remote spot.”
“But that’s just the point,” Watkins said angrily. “It’s not a remote spot. It’s within a few yards of the most popular path up Snowdon. If I were going to capture a helpless female and hold her prisoner somewhere, there are plenty of really remote places.”
“Perhaps he does have other bunkers in those more remote places,” Evan suggested. “Or perhaps he just enjoys taking risks. I get the feeling he probably does.”
They both looked up at the tap of light feet on the vinyl floor and saw Glynis Davies coming down the hallway toward them.
“It’s almost two. Where is the meeting going to be?” she asked.
“Almost two?” Watkins muttered. “I haven’t even had lunch yet.”
“Neither have I,” Evan said.
Glynis smiled sweetly. “What a pity. I’ve just had rather a good salad at that new Greek place. Lots of lovely garlic and olives and feta cheese.”
“Shut up.” Watkins managed a smile. “Be an angel and go and stall Sergeant Jones and the others while Evan and I pop into the cafeteria to grab a quick sandwich, will you? Not for my own good, you understand—but this growing boy here has a wedding in a couple of weeks. We can’t have him dropping dead from lack of nourishment, can we?”
There was a flicker of amusement in Glynis’s eyes. “I’d have thought he’d welcome the chance to slim down so that he looks good in the wedding pictures,” she said.
“Slim down?” Evan demanded. “Do you know I’ve lost over a stone since I’ve been cooking for myself? And I’ve been up Snowdon and back already today, and I don’t mean by train.”
Glynis nodded. “I’m impressed,” she said. “What was that for?”
“I took Paul Upwood to retrace their route.”
“That was smart. Did you learn anything?”
“We found her glove at the bottom of a nasty scree slope, right next to Glaslyn.”
The smile had faded from Glynis’s face. “Oh no. That doesn’t look good, does it? Do you think she went into the lake?”
“I think there’s a good possibility she did.”
“I’ve already asked HQ for a team of divers,” Watkins said, “although that lake’s pretty deep, isn’t it?”
Evan nodded. “But it’s clear water. Although a day like today doesn’t make for the best conditions up there. Very thick mist. We could hardly see more than a couple of feet in front of us.”
“Lucky you found the glove then.” Watkins said.
“Very lucky. The clouds just parted at the right moment.”
Glynis looked from one to the other. “This rather changes everything, doesn’t it? It looks as if the two cases aren’t linked after all. She had an unlucky accident and maybe that bunker is just some poor twisted bloke’s fantasy hideout. He never really intends to kidnap anybody, just fantasizes about it.”
“What did your computer searches turn up?” Watkins asked. “Anything useful?”
“Not really. No patients recently released from psychiatric institutions who might behave in this way, but then, as the man at the NCIS told me, this kind of crime is almost impossible to spot in advance. Most serial killers are model citizens, quiet, well behaved, and smart enough not to do anything that might draw attention to themselves.”
“Do we have any other missing girls on our files at the moment?” Evan asked.
Watkins nodded. “That’s a good line to pursue. Not just on our files. He could have kidnapped girls from anywhere and brought them here, or he might have similar bunkers in other parts of the UK. Unless we’re lucky enough to have caught him at the very start of his career, he’s done exactly the same thing before somewhere.” He glanced at his watch. “Five past two. Well, Evans, there goes our sandwich.”
Evan sighed.
Chapter 7
It was five o’clock when Evan finally drove back up the pass with Paul Upwood in tow. He felt hollow with tiredness and it was all he could do to force his eyes to stay open. He was conscious of the long drop to the lake on his left and the tour coaches, belching diesel smoke, not to mention holiday drivers, who had little concept of the size of Welsh roads, plus the occasional stray sheep by the roadside, but sleep even fought against these hazards. Only ten minutes more, he told himself. He would drop Paul off at the hostel and then he could fall asleep.
Paul had been very quiet, sitting with shoulders hunched, staring straight ahead of him. Evan guessed that it had finally occurred to him that Shannon might not still be alive. He was probably going over and over that last argument in his mind and was slowly drowning in guilt.
“It wasn’t your fault, you know,” Evan said gently. “Every couple has ups and downs. My fiancée and I have some good old shouting matches at times, but we always make up afterwards and they’re all over and forgotten. Couples fight about the silliest things. If something has happened to Shannon, you didn’t make it happen.”
“That’s just not true,” Paul said, still staring straight ahead. “I was supposed to be looking after her. You should have seen her on the mountain paths. She was scared silly, especially when there was a big drop on one side. I kept telling her she was perfectly safe, but she wouldn’t listen to me. If she really fell into that lake and drowned, and I didn’t even hear her calling for help, I’ll never forgive myself. Never.”
Evan couldn’t come up with an answer to that one. He thought that he’d probably never forgive himself if anything happened to Bronwen.
“How long do you think I have to stay here?” Paul asked as they approached the hostel. “I mean, I want to know what’s happened to her. I’ll do anything I can to help find her, but it’s really getting me down, staying alone at the hostel, having the other hikers looking at me and whispering about me.”
“You’re free to go when you want to, of course,” Evan said. “It doesn’t appear that we’re dealing with a crime scene. But we might still need your help, so I’d stick around for a few more days, if you can bear it. Get out and do some walking if you can. It will be good for you.”
“In this bloody fog?” Paul asked.
“It will probably be better tomorrow. In fact, look, you can see the sun shining out over the sea already. You know what they say about Wales, don’t you?”
“What?”
“If you don’t like the weather, wait half an hour.”
Paul attempted a smile as he left the car.
Fifteen minutes later, Evan pulled up outside his red front door. Cup of tea then bed, he thought. He didn’t even have the strength to stagger over to the Dragon for a Guinness first. He opened the door and smelled onions frying.
“Bron?” he called hopefully.
Instead of Bronwen, his mother’s face peeped out from the kitchen.
“Oh, there you are, son. Perfectly on time, just like your father was. I’m making your favorite, liver and onions.”
“Where’s Bronwen?” Evan asked suspiciously.
“At her own place, I should imagine.” Mrs. Evans’s face was stony once more. “She did stop by, talking about cooking you some kind of pasta for dinner, but I sent her off again. ‘The boy needs good, wholesome Welsh food, not Italian muck,’ I told her.” She turned back to the stove and lifted several rashers of bacon onto a plate. “Mrs. Williams was just saying this morning that you haven’t been eating properly ever since you left her. Going out without breakfast and then having to pop across to the public house for d
inner. That’s no way to live, Evan bach.”
“Ma, I live perfectly well. I’m a grown man and I don’t need my mother to look after me.”
“Evidently you do,” she said, lifting the lid on a saucepan that contained cauliflower by the smell of it. “I don’t know when this place last had a good cleaning. Cobwebs behind the curtain rods, dust on the picture rails, and smutty windows. If that girl comes over here as often as I suspect she does, why doesn’t she take care of the place—that’s what I’d like to know.”
“That girl, as you refer to her, is soon to be my wife. I’ve never asked her to clean my place because she has a full-time job and a house of her own to take care of. What’s more, we’ve both been working in our spare time to get our own cottage finished before the wedding. Have you been up to take a look at it yet?”
“That place halfway up the mountain?” Mrs. Evans shook her head. “What on earth possessed you to think you’d want to live up there?”
Evan realized with a sudden flash of joy that the path to the cottage was too steep for his mother. He suspected that Bronwen had discovered the same thing and fled up there.
“I’m going to get Bronwen,” he said, heading for the front door. “I expect she’s starving. Be back in a minute.” And he ran out before his mother could protest.
It was definitely a slog up the mountain path to the cottage. After the morning’s jaunt up the Pyg Track, his muscles protested. He had just reached the flat area that surrounded the cottage and was pushing open the white front gate when Bronwen opened the door.
“Oh, there you are at last,” she said. “I was wondering when you’d turn up.”
Evan fought to give a measured response, but the tiredness won out. “Don’t you start,” he snapped. “I’ve had one hour’s sleep in the past twenty-four, I’ve been up a mountain and down again, I’ve been in meetings all afternoon, and now I’ve come home to find my mother has taken over my house.”
Bronwen looked at him and opened her arms to him. “Oh Evan, I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve been up here all day, lifting heavy boxes and feeling sorry for myself and angry at you for not coming home sooner to help me. And of course you’ve had to go all day without sleep.”
