by Rhys Bowen
“So fill me in on what we’ve got so far,” Watkins said. “What made you first think she’d been kidnapped? Glynis said something about music and a new letter?”
“I got home and there was no sign of her,” Evan said, frowning as he relived the event. “I thought she must have gone shopping. She’s been spending half her life shopping recently, what with the wedding and furnishing the cottage. Then there was a message on my answering machine.” Evan told the inspector about the Sheherazade story, and then fumbled in his jacket pocket to produce the letter.
“What does Bad Bebb mean?” Watkins asked.
“I couldn’t figure that one out to start with,” Evan said, “but as soon as I suspected that Bronwen was missing, I realized. It must be Bronwen Evans-to-be.”
“Ah. Yes. Could be.” Watkins sighed.
“You shouldn’t be wasting this time with me, sir,” Evan said. “We have to get onto this straightaway. We might not have much time.”
“I think we have some time, son,” Watkins said. He’d called Evan a lot of things before, but never son. “If he’d been planning to kill her straightaway, he wouldn’t have bothered to send you notes. He wants you try to find her. It’s part of his game. I’ll wager there’s another note in the post right now with more tantalizing instructions on it.”
Watkins pulled out his mobile phone. “Davies? Watkins here. He’s on his way to hospital. Yes. Seems to be fine, thank God. Is the D.C.I. there yet? Right. I’ll be coming as soon as I drop off this lad. In the meantime let’s get some things in motion, shall we? I want someone up in Llanfair, questioning everyone who might have seen Bronwen. What time they saw her last. Did she leave by bus or in a car? What kind of car? You know the drill. And I want someone at the sorting office to see if we can intercept another letter. Oh, and I need to talk to D.I. Fuller in Bangor. I’d like a video camera on the postboxes at the main post office there—just in case our suspect chooses to post his letters where there is complete anonymity. Got it?”
“Yes, sir,” Glynis’s voice came down the line. “And I’ve already …”
“Good thinking,” Watkins’s voice said. “Be with you as quickly as possible.”
He hung up.
“What has she done?” Evan asked.
“She’s getting a list of phone calls made to Bronwen’s number.”
“She’s a really bright girl,” Evan said.
“She certainly is. She’ll probably wind up as chief constable before you and I retire. If she doesn’t go daft and marry some local yokel first.”
Evan went to smile, then grimaced in pain as the ambulance went over a bump in the road. The pain instantly switched his thoughts back to Bronwen. Had he hurt her? Was he intending to? Those handcuffs, high on the wall, flashed across his mind and he fought to turn off the image. If he’d so much as touched her … Evan gritted his teeth. “Can’t they make this bloody ambulance go any faster?”
Then it was all action as he was wheeled into the bright lights of casualty at Ysbety Gwyneth.
“There will be a wait, because he’s not critical,” the nurse at the admitting desk said.
“He’s North Wales Police and he’s needed instantly on a kidnapping case and there will be no wait,” Watkins said.
“We’ll do our best,” the nurse said frostily. “He’ll have to go to triage to be assessed. And if he’s not critical, I’m afraid we do have to prioritize.”
“Look—It’s his fiancée who has been kidnapped.” Watkins leaned toward her half confidential, half threatening. “Every moment he is here is one less officer for us on the case. Two while I’m here. And we’re wasting time arguing.”
The nurse looked flustered and rose to her feet. She disappeared behind a curtain and almost instantly Evan was wheeled in.
“There’s nothing much wrong with me,” he said to the doctor, who looked like a sixth former in a white jacket. “I’ve done something to my shoulder, that’s all.”
“And he was almost suffocated and buried alive in a bunker,” Watkins added. “Give him a thorough checkover, but as quick as you can, okay?” He took out his phone again. “I’m going outside to call for transport and I’m off to the station. I’ll have a second car waiting for you. Don’t let them mess you around. If you have any trouble, call me.”
Then he was gone.
“Bit of a bastard, your supervisor, is he?” the young doctor asked Evan with a grin.
“He’s a good bloke. Gets things done,” Evan said.
“X-rays first then,” the doctor said.
“Do I really need X-rays? That will take time. You can feel what’s wrong with my shoulder, can’t you?”
“I won’t be able to tell if you’ve cracked a collar bone.”
“I’ve played rugby before with a cracked collar bone. Let’s just strap me up and get me out of here.”
“All right, but I can’t be responsible then if a bone sets crookedly.”
“I’ll come back and get X-rays as soon as I’ve got a moment,” Evan said, “but I’ve just found out my fiancée has been kidnapped by a madman who tried to kill me. You wouldn’t want to be lying around in some hospital if that was you, would you?”
“No, I wouldn’t.” The doctor took out his stethoscope.
Fifteen minutes later Evan was on his feet, feeling somewhat woozy, but determined as he made his way out to the squad car.
“So have you been given a clean bill of health?” D.C.I. Hughes asked as Evan walked into the police station and a roomful of people.
“Not exactly, sir. I didn’t want to waste time on X-rays so I’ve my arm immobilized and a shot of painkiller. That should carry me through for now. Is there any news?”
A uniformed constable got up and motioned for Evan to take his seat. Evan sat, gratefully.
“Would you like to fill in Evans on what we’ve been doing so far, Watkins,” Hughes said, indicating to Evans that he had probably only just got there himself.
“We’ve got a couple of men asking questions in the village,” Watkins said. “They haven’t called in anything so far. Hopefully we have someone going through the mail at the main sorting office to catch any more letters to you, and Glynis has been onto British Telecom to come up with a list of phone calls.”
As if on cue the door opened and Glynis Davies came in, waving a piece of paper. “Got it, sir. She had a phone call from her mother at ten-thirty, another from her mother at one, and then a call from a local number at two. The local number turns out to be an antiques dealer in Caernarfon.”
“That antiques bloke. Why didn’t I think of him before!” Evan jumped to his feet. “He fits the profile. Loner. Just moved here. Played classical music in his shop, and I could tell he fancied Bron by the way he looked at her.”
“What’s the address?” Watkins was already heading for the door.
“It’s Past Times Remembered, on Church Street in Caernarfon. Owner is Andrew Cartwright,” Glynis said.
“That’s right. Mr. Cartwright.” An image of the tall, slim, slightly effeminate man came to Evan. “And I believe he said he was renting the premises over the shop.”
“Right, lads,” Hughes said. “I want Cartwright brought in for questioning immediately and while he’s gone I want his premises searched, top to bottom, inside out. Jones—I’ll leave you to assign men to the job. Make sure they check anywhere a body could be hidden—trunks, wardrobes.”
“Right you are, sir.” For once Jones seemed as keen as any of them. “You heard the D.C.I., boys. I’ll bring him in, and Pritchard and Roberts, you conduct the search.”
“What about me, sir?” Evan asked. “I want to do something. I’d rather be doing something.”
“You’ll be in on the interview, Evans. As long as you can keep cool,” Hughes said. “We can’t risk your losing your temper and jeopardizing everything.”
“I’ll behave myself, sir,” Evan said. He glanced across at Watkins and knew exactly what the other man was thinking. If they c
ould just get Cartwright alone, they’d make him talk all right … Evan wished that they could have conveniently forgotten to call in D.C.I. Hughes until the morning.
Chapter 21
Andrew Cartwright looked pale and drawn as he entered the interview room, flanked by two uniformed officers. They went through the formality of introductions. Evan noted that Cartwright started when he recognized him.
“You’ve read Mr. Cartwright his rights, Jones?” D.C.I. Hughes asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“And you understand the implications? You have the right to have a lawyer present.”
“I don’t understand anything,” Cartwright said. “One minute I was sitting in front of the telly, watching the ten o’clock news. The next I was being dragged away like some common criminal. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to have done. Does this have anything to do with not declaring VAT on every item I’ve sold?”
“More serious than VAT violations, I’m afraid,” Hughes said, in his clipped voice. “You made a phone call today to a Miss Bronwen Price.”
Cartwright’s face registered surprise. “Bronwen Price? Yes, I did phone her around two o’clock. She’d been looking for a brass bed and I was able to locate a fine specimen for her. I called her to tell her I had it in the shop, if she’d like to take a look at it. She said she’d come as soon as she could.”
“And?” Watkins asked. “What time did she arrive at your shop?”
“She didn’t.” Cartwright said. “I waited for her all afternoon. I even kept the shop open extra late, in case she hadn’t managed to get a ride down from her village earlier, but she didn’t come.”
“So you haven’t seen Miss Price at all today?” Watkins asked.
“I just told you.” Cartwright looked around at the policemen.
“And she didn’t phone to say why she was detained?”
“No. I heard nothing more from her after that one phone call. Now, will somebody tell me what this is about?”
“Miss Price is missing,” Hughes said. “Presumed kidnapped.”
“Good God.” Cartwright’s pale face turned one shade whiter. “But you can’t suspect that I … ?”
“The last known contact she had with anybody today was your phone call at two o’clock.”
“This is absurd.” Cartwright gave a hysterical laugh. “It’s Kafkaesque. You can’t just haul somebody in because he made a phone call. I was helping Miss Price find a brass bedstead. That’s all. Why would I want to kidnap her? What am I supposed to have done with her? You’re very welcome to search my premises.”
“Our men are doing that very thing right now,” Hughes said.
Evan had kept silent so far, not trusting himself to speak, but he leaned forward in his seat now. “Did you go out at all this evening, Mr. Cartwright?”
“This evening? Yes, I went to the fish and chips shop to buy some dinner and to post a letter.”
“To whom?” Watkins asked.
“To my mother. I write to her every week. She likes to know I’m all right and she won’t use the telephone.”
Until now Evan had remained silent, trying to phrase the right questions in a way that would catch Cartwright off guard.
“Do you have a computer, sir?” Evan asked.
Cartwright turned to him. “Yes. Of course. One needs a computer these days. I find it most useful to do Internet searches for items.”
“What about other programs? Do you use your computer for entertainment purposes also?”
Cartwright flushed. “Are you hinting about visiting porn sites? Stuff like that?”
“Oh, good lord, no. Nothing like that,” Evan said. “No, I meant more like music programs.” As he said it he wished back the words. Talk about unsubtle. That wasn’t going to catch anybody off guard.
“Music programs?” Cartwright sounded surprised. “You mean for downloading songs—that kind of thing?”
“For writing music.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand what you’re getting at. I don’t write music. I have no musical training.”
“But you like listening to it. You play it in your shop.” Evan had risen to his feet.
“Well, yes. I was advised to have suitable background music playing in the shop. It sets up the right ambiance.”
“What about hiking?” Evan switched tactics. “Do you get out into the outdoors much?”
“I like the outdoors,” Cartwright said, “but I haven’t done much real hiking recently. I—I haven’t been too well.”
“You’ve just moved to the area, I believe.” Watkins glanced at Evan, standing poised and ready to spring, and took over. “What did you do before you came here?”
“I lived in Greater London and I worked for a big company. An advertising company, actually.”
“And why did you leave?”
“I wasn’t well.”
“Cancer or heart?”
Cartwright flushed. “Actually, I—had a nervous breakdown. I was diagnosed with bipolar disease. Obviously I had to move to a less stressful lifestyle. I received some severance pay and used it to open my little shop here. Now, could I please go home? My doctor says I’m not supposed to be upset. It’s very bad for me.”
“Constable Davies will take you to the cafeteria and get you a cup of tea,” Hughes said. “And then we’ll see.”
“Wait.” Evan barred his way. “You can’t let him go yet. He must know something.”
“That’s enough, Evans.” Watkins quietly took his arm. “Sit down.”
Evan sat, breathing heavily and in truth rather ashamed of himself as Cartwright was led out.
“If you can’t control your anger, Evans, we’ll have to remove you from the case,” Hughes said.
“Sorry, sir. It’s just that—”
“We understand perfectly,” Watkins said. “But it’s not going to get us anywhere.”
“Well, what do you think?” Hughes asked as the door closed behind them.
“He doesn’t seem to be our man,” Watkins said slowly. “No musical background. Probably not the strength to dig that bunker.”
“I’ll have our lads bring in that computer, just in case,” Hughes said. “It should be easy enough to see if it has a music composition program and if the letters were written on it. And we’ll run a background check. You obviously think he was lying, don’t you, Evans?”
Evan had wanted so badly to believe that they had found their man. “He admits to a history of mental disease,” Evan said, almost forcing the words out as he tried to stay detached. “but he did seem quite bewildered to be here. I rather think that the man we’re dealing with would act with indignant righteousness.”
“Yes, I agree with that,” Watkins said. “But he could be putting on a good act—poor little me.”
“Interesting about the VAT.” Hughes smiled. “It’s amazing how often they confess to petty sins for us, isn’t it?”
“We’re not going to just let him go, are we, sir?” Evan asked.
“I think we should keep him for a while,” Watkins said. “Just in case a stint in a dark cell makes him decide to tell us anything else.”
“At least until we’ve given his premises the once-over,” Hughes said. “Why don’t you go and take a look for yourself, Watkins, just to make sure they’re not missing anything,”
“And I’m having Evans driven home,” Watkins said.
“Absolutely not,” Evan said. “I’m staying here, ready to do what it takes.”
“Did nobody at detective training ever mention obedience to superiors?” Watkins said. “Look, boyo, you’re probably in shock, you’re dosed up with pain pills. You’re about to lose it and you’re better off in bed tonight.”
“I’ll be fine. I can’t just go and—”
“I’ll tell you another good reason for being home: What if she hasn’t been kidnapped? What if she’s off on some strange errand, or she met her bridesmaid and they decided to go for a drink together and she shows up, pe
rky and smiling, asking you to look at the delightful table centers she’s found?”
“She would have called if she was going to be late,” Evan said flatly, trying to will himself to accept this scenario. “Besides, someone was damned serious about killing me.”
“Granted. But if she was kidnapped and manages to escape? If she’s allowed to put through one phone call to you—you’ll want to be there, won’t you?”
D.C.I. Hughes put his hand on Evan’s shoulder. “Go on, lad. Do what he says. You’ll be more use to us after a good night’s sleep.”
Evan stood up, trying not to let them notice that he had to put a hand on the back of his chair to steady himself. “You don’t need to spare a man to drive me home,” he said. “I can drive myself.”
“You’re not allowed to drive legally with one arm,” Watkins said. “One of the boys will drive you home and bring you back tomorrow, and no arguing. Don’t worry, we’ll keep you up to date if we find out anything at all.”
“Before I go, don’t you want a picture of her?” Evan asked. “We need to get her picture out everywhere as quickly as possible. I’m sure I’ve got one in my wallet. I’ve a better one at home, of course. We need it to make tomorrow’s papers, and put out flyers and the early TV news …”
“Strictly speaking, we can’t regard her as a missing person yet,” Hughes said.
“Of course she’s bloody missing!” Evan yelled, not stopping to consider that he was shouting at a superior officer. “What about the letter? What about someone kicking me into a bunker?”
“I agree there are signs that we should take very seriously,” Hughes said, “but I don’t know that we have a mandate to announce her as missing to the media. What if she went off on a last-minute whim? What if she decided she needed to take more time to think about her marriage? We’d look like fools.”
Watkins stepped between Hughes and Evan. “On this occasion I’d rather look like a fool than do anything to risk the life of that young woman. Give me the photo, Evans. I’ll get Glynis to send it to the media immediately.”
“Watkins, may I remind you—” Hughes began.
