by Rhys Bowen
Evan felt a pang of regret as he entered through the familiar swinging glass doors. Why did they have to choose him of all people for this assignment? What if this new setup was so successful that it became permanent? A bleak future stretched ahead of him, starting every day at the soulless redbrick-and-glass headquarters and ending with a long drive home. He was on his way down the hall, when a man came out of the duty office to his right and almost mowed him down. It took Evan a second to realize who it was.
"Sorry, Sarge. I didn't recognize you. What are you wearing? Is it dress down Friday or something?"
The beefy sergeant Bill Jones scowled. "It's the new bloody uniform. I've been selected as one of the guinea pigs, and if you make any cracks about it-"
Evan examined the black roll neck sweater and the black combat pants. "Well, you'd blend in well at a rock concert or a skinheads gathering," he said.
"I think it's bloody terrible," Sergeant Jones said, "and I can't stand the feel of this around my neck. Makes me itch all the time. And too hot when I'm in the office like today."
"You tell them what you think. If enough of us do, they won't go ahead with it."
"Some of the younger men like it, unfortunately," Sergeant Jones said. "They think it makes them look cool." He pulled a disgusted face. "So what are you doing here then, boyo?" he asked. "I heard you'd been called to higher things." He put his hands together as if in prayer and looked toward heaven.
"Give over, Bill," Evan said. "You don't think I wanted this assignment, do you?"
"Major Crimes Team? I'd say it was a step up the ladder for you. The local boys are livid because it means that all we'll get here will be the petty stuff-the nicked wallets and the drunken brawls-while you blokes get all the juicy crimes."
"Yes, but at what price?" Evan said. "Have you run into DI Bragg ever? He's a right son of a you-know-what."
Sergeant Jones grinned. "I expect it's good for you. You've had it too easy here." He reached across and thumped Evan on the shoulder with a meaty hand. "Don't let it get you down, boy. You're a good cop, and he probably knows that. He's just trying to establish a pecking order."
"Thanks, Bill," Evan said. "I came here because I've got to contact the local radio and TV stations about this morning's murder, and I know where to find the list of media contacts here."
"A murder, is it?"
Evan nodded. "A university professor in Bangor shot to death at the breakfast table."
"Likely as not it's one of his students, disgruntled about the marks he got on his exams. They tend to go to extremes these days, don't they? Too much pressure and some of them crack."
"Interesting thought, Bill. We'll look into that." Evan continued down the hall and into the room that housed a couple of computers. He had just logged on when Glynis Davies came in, looking fresh and elegant in a dark blue pant suit.
"I certainly didn't expect to see you," she said. "Has Bragg kicked you off his team already?"
"No, worse luck." Evan looked up at her with a smile. "Hey, maybe you're onto something there. If I'm clueless enough, maybe he'll ask to have me replaced."
"You might find yourself out of the force or back in uniform. Not worth the risk," Glynis said. "No, Evan, whatever you may think, this is a career opportunity for you. You have to make the most of it. So what are you doing here?"
"I have to contact the local media to ask for the public's help on this murder case. I know how to find everything here, although . . ." he looked up appealingly. "I know what a computer whiz you are. You wouldn't like to-"
"No, I bloody well wouldn't," Glynis said. Then she paused and smiled, "Or as it's been drummed into us during our sensitivity training: thank you for asking, but I respectfully decline."
Evan laughed. "Oh well, it was worth a try."
"I tell you what I will do for you," Glynis said. "I'm off to get some lunch at the Greek place across the street. Do you want me to bring back a sandwich for you?"
"Glynis, you're an angel. I'll love you forever."
"You better not let your new wife hear you saying that. She might not understand." Glynis tossed back her striking red hair and flashed him a smile as she headed for the door.
Chapter 7
Evan had just worked his way through the warm gyro by the time he arrived back at the Rogers's house in Bangor. As he got out to open the front gate, he saw Jeremy Wingate coming up the street toward him. Wingate glanced at him, then scowled. "You've got onion on your chin. Don't tell me you stopped for lunch, you sly bugger?"
"I went to make my calls from my old station. A very kind young lady offered to fetch me a sandwich. I could hardly refuse."
"Some people have all the luck." Wingate said. "The very least you could have done was to have her bring one for me too."
"Next time I will. For all I knew, Bragg might have decided to take a lunch break."
"Not him. Works till he drops, I fear."
"Are the forensic boys still in there?" Evan looked at the white van still beside the front door.
"Yeah, still at it. It will probably take them twice as long with Bragg breathing down their necks. I can't tell you how glad I was to get out on my own for a while. I expect you felt the same."
"Pangs of regret, I have to confess," Evan said. "Still, it's hard when everyone keeps telling you it's a step up the ladder."
"Hopefully a quick step." Wingate grinned.
"So did you learn anything from the neighbors?"
"Not much. As you'd expect, you don't have a good view of the street from most of these houses. And there must be several professional couples. Nobody was home at either of those houses across the street, which is annoying, as they'd be the only ones with a clear view of who was going in and out of this gate."
"What about next door?" Evan indicated a large, redbrick house, half hidden by large evergreens.
"Crusty old bugger-an ex-colonel from the south of England. He lives alone since his wife died. It seems that he and Professor Rogers have had their run-ins over the years. He thought she was pleasant enough, but as they both like to keep themselves to themselves, they only exchanged the odd word when they were gardening."
"And he hadn't noticed anything unusual this morning."
"He had a gripe about the fact that someone was out there mowing before eight. He said the noise disturbed his breakfast. He couldn't hear the news properly. He was about to come out and complain when the sound stopped."
"I wonder why she was mowing?" Evan said. "If they have a gardener, you'd have thought she'd have left that to him. Heavy work, lugging a mower, even a power one."
"She's obviously a fanatic where her garden is concerned. You look at all those beds. Not a weed in sight. Maybe she found a few blades of grass that the gardener missed, and she couldn't stand to see them."
"Maybe." Evan nodded, pushing other, more disturbing thoughts to the back of his mind. "So what's next, do you think?"
"We have to wait until the great man emerges and pronounces judgment, I suppose. Well, talk of the devil." They looked up at the sound of feet scrunching on gravel and saw DI Bragg coming toward them.
"Finished already?" he called, looking at Wingate.
"Yes sir. Nothing much to report from the neighbors. Several houses unoccupied at this time of day. Some of the neighbors I spoke to knew the Rogers. Thought he was a pleasant chap. She was rather standoffish. Said 'good morning' but not much more. The man next door complained about the lawn mower being used this morning, but he didn't see or hear anything unusual."
"So no strange cars parked on the street?"
"No sir."
"And anyone hear a shot?"
"No. One woman thought she heard an engine backfire while she was upstairs getting dressed, but the shower was running in the bathroom and she didn't think any more of it. Most of these houses have double glazing installed, and the traffic on the Holyhead Road is quite noisy at that time in the morning."
"That's too bad. Let's hope someone will c
ome forward after they hear about it on the news. You contacted all the local media, did you, Evans?"
"Yes sir. All done. It will be on this evening's news and in tomorrow's papers."
"Good man. Well, I can report that forensics are getting along nicely. They've located the bullet. Dug it out of the wall."
"Out of the wall?" Evan blurted out.
"That's right. It went in through one side of the head and out the other apparently. This is particularly lucky because now they can work on an exact trajectory and be able to tell us where it was fired from. The ballistics chap is inclined to go along with our theory of firing through the open window, by the way."
Evan thought he remembered that Bragg had discounted that theory when he presented it. Now, suddenly, it had become "our" theory.
"What about fingerprints?" he asked.
"They've finished dusting for fingerprints, and there is one set of prints we can't yet identify. I suspect it will turn out to be the cleaning lady's because they are all over the house."
"What about on the window latch?" Evan asked.
"Nothing. Just his and hers."
"Maybe the killer wore gloves," Evan suggested.
"You can't shoot very well in gloves. He'd have had to take them off to fire the gun."
"Unless they were latex. I expect you can shoot just as well in those," Sergeant Wingate said.
"True. In which case he departed wearing them. We didn't find any in the rubbish bin. And you didn't find any dumped in the bushes outside, did you?"
"No sir. Nothing dumped in the bushes. The whole garden is meticulously neat."
"What about the cartridge?" Evan asked. "If the shot really was fired through the window, wouldn't the cartridge have been ejected outside?"
"Again, unless he looked for it and took it with him," Wingate said.
"A thoughtful, well-organized murderer." Bragg said the words slowly. "Maybe we can start to put together a profile. What have we got so far?"
"He must have observed the Rogers's morning routine," Evan said. "He knew when Mrs. Rogers left to walk the dog. He knew Professor Rogers sat at the window to eat his breakfast and that the window was likely to be open."
"So a carefully planned crime. Nothing impulsive about it."
"And someone who knew the victim," Wingate added, "ruling out any kind of burglary or home invasion."
"Right." Bragg looked up as two members of the forensic team came out to the van. One of them came up to the detectives.
"We're off for a bite of lunch," he said. "We should have you cleared to move the body this afternoon. We'll schedule the morgue pickup and the clean-up crew so that the widow can use her kitchen again by tonight. I don't suppose she'll want to make herself a cup of tea with blood spatters on the walls."
"So we're definitely dealing with a homicide?" Bragg said. "No possibility that he shot himself?"
"Blew his brains out and then went to dispose of the weapon?" the technician said with a chuckle.
"The wife could have disposed of the weapon."
"And why would she do that?"
"She was ashamed that her husband killed himself?" Bragg suggested.
"Usually it would be the other way around. They kill somebody and then stick the gun into his hand to make it look like suicide. But no, in this case the victim was definitely shot by someone standing about six to eight feet away. Small-caliber weapon."
"Will you have any way of knowing if the bullet was fired from an antique weapon? The one missing from the collection?"
The technician shrugged. "You'll have to ask Freeman; he's the ballistics expert. But judging by the imprint left on the velvet in that drawer, the missing gun looked identical to the dueling pistol beside it. And that would be logical, wouldn't it? You always had dueling pistols in pairs-one for each party." He grinned. "And if my memory serves me correctly, they didn't fire bullets in those days but round balls. Whether they could be adapted to fire modern bullets, I don't know. As I said, ask Freeman. I have to go now, or Huw will leave without me. He's like a madman if he doesn't get his nosh on time."
He didn't wait for an answer but ran to hoist himself into the rapidly reversing van.
The woman police constable appeared at the front door. "It's past lunchtime, and I really think Mrs. Rogers should have something to eat," she said. "Is it okay to take her to a café? They're still working in the kitchen, and the body's still there."
"That's fine with me," Bragg said. "Take her out if she'll go. It might be a good thing. You could try chatting to her in the car and see if she opens up at all. I get the feeling she knows or suspects more than she's letting on. Someone must have hated her husband enough to have wanted him dead. It might even have been her."
"Oh surely not, sir," the WPC said. "She's in shock, poor woman. Ashen gray."
"Not exactly showing grief though, is she? Or surprise? When we opened that drawer and saw a gun was missing, I was watching her face. No surprise registered at all. It was almost as if she knew it wouldn't be there."
"But why on earth would she want to murder her husband?" the WPC asked.
"That's what we've got to find out."
DI Bragg showed no indication of wanting to take a lunch break, and Evan silently thanked Glynis again for the gyro. When Pritchard and Wingate muttered about needing at least a cup of coffee, Bragg relented and sent Pritchard off for fast food.
"Bunch of pansies," Bragg said. "Obviously never been through army training."
"Oh, so you served in the army, did you, sir?" Wingate asked, giving Evan a knowing look.
"I did. Seven years. Saw action in Kuwait and then in Bosnia. I tell you boys, I've seen stuff that would make your hair curl. There's no crime you'll encounter here to compare with some of the attrocities I've seen."
That explained a lot, Evan thought. He tried to think more kindly of DI Bragg. Anyone who had seen atrocities in Bosnia would have to have come back a changed man.
"Right, don't hang about here doing nothing. Just because someone's gone on a food run, doesn't mean the rest of us can take a break. Evans, you can drive. We're going to talk to the charwoman. Wingate, you can see if the gardener's home. He only lives around the corner."
"Anything particular you want me to ask him, sir?" Wingate asked innocently.
"Use your initiative man," Bragg snapped. "I presume you must have shown some resourcefulness in the past or you wouldn't have been promoted to sergeant."
"Right you are, sir." Wingate set off.
Evan suspected that Wingate was going to get his kicks by baiting their senior officer. While it might be amusing to watch, it made for an atmosphere of tension and that would be no way to work in the long run. It was probably as Sergeant Jones in Caernarfon had suggested-they were jostling for pecking order at the moment, testing each other's strengths and weaknesses.
Chapter 8
"You're lucky to have caught me at home." The bony little woman wiped her hands on her pinny as she faced the detectives at her front door. Her house was in the middle of one of those grimy rows that once housed slate quarry workers. Some had now been gentrified, with bright painted flower boxes at the windows and a sports car parked outside. This one hadn't. "I usually work for Mrs. Thomas on Thursdays," she went on, "but she was feeling poorly today and didn't want me to come. She gets migraines something terrible, poor dear. Ydych chi'n siarad Cymraeg?" she asked hopefully.
"I do, but Detective Inspector Bragg here prefers English," Evan said.
"Detective Inspector? Dear me-what on earth is this about? Nothing's missing from any of the homes I clean, is it? I'm always so particular about locking up after me." She glanced up and down the street to see if any neighbors were watching.
"No, I'm afraid it's more serious than that, Mrs. Ellis. Do you mind if we come inside?"
"All right," she said, after a moment's hesitation. "Come on, then." She led them into a small, dark living room at the back of the house. There were two well-worn armchair
s facing a television set, but she indicated the straight-backed chairs on either side of a Welsh dresser to the policemen. She herself did not sit but stood in front of an electric fireplace, her bony arms folded.
"I believe you work for the Rogers on Oak Grove Road?" Bragg asked.
"Oh yes, I do. I have done for years. A very nice lady, Mrs. Rogers. Very refined."
"I'm afraid we have some bad news for you. Professor Rogers was found dead this morning."
"Found dead? Well, I can't say I'm really surprised. I've seen it coming."
"What do you mean?" Bragg asked sharply.
"Well, that man was working himself to death, wasn't he? And always strung up, like a rubber band ready to snap. I always thought he might end up having a heart attack."
"So tell me about him, Mrs. Ellis. He was always 'strung up,' as you put it? Was he ever at home when you worked there? What was he like?"
"Well, he wasn't easy to please. He liked everything just so. And if everything wasn't how he wanted it, he'd fly off the handle. If I dusted his desk and moved one of his papers, he'd let me know it. But then if I didn't dust, he'd point that out to me, too. 'You missed a spot here, Gwladys,' he'd say."
"So why did you keep on going there if he was so unpleasant?" Bragg asked.
"I wouldn't say he was unpleasant, just hard to please. He was the perfect gentleman most of the time. Ever so polite, you know. He'd always open the door for me if he saw me coming, that sort of thing. But he was a perfectionist, you know. Everything had to be arranged in the exact order he wanted it, or he wasn't happy. His food had to be just right too. Poor Mrs. Rogers-if she over- or undercooked something, he'd let her have it."
" 'Let her have it'?" Bragg looked up sharply. "You mean he hit her?"
"Oh no, sir. Nothing like that. Like I just said, Professor Rogers was a gentleman. But he'd yell a lot. 'Missy, where are you? Come down here right away. I thought I told you I wanted my eggs cooked for three minutes.' That's the way he spoke to her."
