by Rhys Bowen
"Then he'd already have left the university last summer, wouldn't he?"
"But he came back a couple of weeks ago and had a shouting match with Professor Rogers," Evan said.
"Have you tried to contact him?"
"I called his home in Surrey," Evan said. "Apparently he's gone abroad."
"How convenient."
"That's what we thought."
"Well, I suppose it's the only credible lead we've got so far, apart from the widow," Bragg said. "Right, let's get on with the job in hand and see what turns up, and Wingate, you can retrace the steps of Mrs. Rogers's dog walk yesterday and see if anyone can vouch for seeing her. Of course, that proves nothing. It would only take a minute or so to shoot her husband and then walk the dog as if nothing had happened."
He was speaking in his usual loud, strident voice, and Evan looked at the open study door.
"I don't think you should give her any idea that you suspect her," he said.
"Of course I should. Make her good and nervous. When you've been in the force as long as I have, Evans, then you can start giving suggestions. Until then you sort through that filing cabinet and keep quiet."
Evan bit back the anger and went over to the filing cabinet. Everything was in meticulous order, ranging from household accounts to historical papers published. Years and years of receipts, bank statements, letters written to the water board to complain about water pressure. Martin Rogers's whole life was documented here, neatly filed to be resurrected if needed. Evan flicked through the household accounts. For every month there was a handwritten sheet stapled to a typewritten sheet. Evan realized that the writing on the first sheet was not Martin Rogers's. It must therefore be Missy's. Account for the week ending September 21. Then beside some of the items, in Martin's small, neat script, some comments: 'Wasteful. Why not buy larger size?' And even against one item: 'Not necessary. Amount not allowed.' On the typewritten sheet was a reconciliation-the amount of money paid into the housekeeping account that year, compared to the previous year. Evan wondered if Martin gave his wife any money for herself. He certainly vetted what she spent on keeping the house running and queried her over trivialities.
He put the accounts back and went on looking. Under letters he found copies of every letter Martin had written. Evan read through the last year or two but came up with nothing inflammatory. Then he pulled out a bundle of envelopes, tied with a string. Old love letters? He wondered and hesitated to open the bundle. Then he noticed that some of the postmarks were quite recent. He pulled out the first letter and was surprised to see it was addressed to Missy Rogers, not Martin. It was from her sister in France. "I haven't heard from you in a while so I hope you are well," she wrote. Just a chatty, ordinary letter. There were more letters from her sister, letters from what appeared to be an old school friend, even from her parents, dated five or more years ago. Had Missy asked Martin to keep them in the filing cabinet for her? Evan retied the string uneasily. Now was not the right time to confront her with them. He'd wait and see how things developed.
In the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet, he came upon a folder marked WEAPONS. In it was a detailed list of all the antique weapons Martin Rogers owned, date purchased, from whom, history, when used as a visual aid in a class. Evan read through the list slowly, then double-checked.
"Have you got something there, Evans?" Inspector Bragg called.
"I think I have." Evan looked up. "This is a list of the weapons in that drawer. There never was a second dueling pistol."
"What exactly are you saying?" Bragg asked.
"That there doesn't appear to be a missing weapon. The ones in the tray downstairs are all accounted for."
"So someone laid the same gun down on the velvet to give the impression of a missing weapon?" Bragg nodded. "Now who would have had the opportunity to do that?"
"Only the widow, I suppose," Evan had to admit.
"It's looking more and more likely, Evans. And yet she's sitting down there doing her embroidery, not blinking an eyelid, knowing that we're up here. Pritchard?"
Pritchard jumped up from where he was squatting at the bottom drawer of the desk. "Yes sir?"
"Leave that and start looking for another weapon," he said. "We know that none of those antique pistols has been fired recently. So the real weapon has to have been hidden or disposed of."
"Maybe Mrs. Rogers dropped it into the shrubbery on her dog walk," Pritchard suggested, "Or threw it into the Menai Strait."
"Both possible. Evans, call HQ and have a team of men sent out to search. We may also need frogmen."
"Shouldn't we wait for the ballistics report?" Evan said cautiously. "It would make more sense if the men knew what they were looking for."
"I suppose so," Bragg reluctantly agreed. "Let's have the WPC take Mrs. Rogers out for a walk or a cup of coffee, and then we'll give this whole place a proper going over. Maybe she's stashed it under our noses."
But a thorough search of the house failed to turn up the weapon. Evan felt most uncomfortable rummaging through neat drawers of underwear and nightclothes. On Missy's bedside table there was a faded photograph of a couple taken in wartime, the man handsome in his army uniform, the woman looking coy in one of those 1940s suits with the big shoulders. Beside it another photo of the same couple, their faces now wrinkled but still handsome. Beside it a photograph of Missy, her arm around another woman in what looked like the south of France. Her parents and sister, Evan surmised. They were the only photographs in the house.
His search was interrupted by the arrival of DS Wingate. He had retraced the route of the dog walk and had spoken to the old man Missy had mentioned, the one with the little white dog of whom Lucky was so fond. The old man remembered seeing Mrs. Rogers go past at her usual time the previous morning, but she had seemed more hurried and preoccupied. She'd just given him a perfunctory "Good morning" and dragged Lucky past without giving the dogs time to greet each other in their usual way.
"She was stressed," Bragg said delightedly. "What did I tell you? She was in a hurry to get back on schedule after she'd taken the time to shoot her husband and then put the lawn mower away."
"Did anyone else see her?" Evan asked.
"The woman at the corner shop was just putting out the trays of apples and saw her walk by, but that was about it. At least we know she stuck to the route she had described to us."
"Right, lads, back to searching for that weapon," Bragg said. "Given the amount of time she'd have needed to complete that walk, she wouldn't have had much chance to hide a weapon before she called us."
"Unless she'd dropped it in the bushes along the way," Evan reminded him.
He didn't look pleased to be reminded. "Right. Yes. We know that," he said.
But another hour's searching revealed nothing. Mrs. Rogers had returned from her outing with the policewoman and was now out in her garden, pulling the dead heads off chrysanthemums while the policewoman threw a ball for Lucky. It was a peaceful, everyday scene. Someone had lit a bonfire in a neighboring back garden, and the pleasant smell of burning wood and leaves floated toward them as they piled back into their vehicles.
"I get the feeling she's a smart cookie, and she thinks we're rather slow and stupid," Bragg said. "She probably thinks it's really easy to outwit us."
"Well, she has, so far," Wingate said. "We've got nothing on her that would stand up in court."
"We'll get it," Bragg said. "I have a good feeling about this one."
As soon as they arrived back at headquarters in Colwyn Bay, they went first to the forensics lab.
"I was just about to call you lot," they were greeted by Owen Jones, one of the members of yesterday's team. "I think we've wrapped up all the preliminary findings on your crime scene yesterday."
"And?" Bragg demanded.
"What do you want first? Ballistics report?"
"Fire away," Bragg said. Pritchard smirked. Evan couldn't decide whether Bragg was intending to be witty or not.
"Right.
" Jones picked up a piece of paper from the table beside him. "Interesting size bullet-eight millimeter. You don't come across that often in modern weapons. Nine is more common. Our ballistics chap suggests it might have come from a Nambu Type 14, a Japanese handgun used by their officers in World War II. I take it nobody's been able to come up with the casing yet? That would confirm it."
"No casing," Bragg said. "We've given the house and grounds a pretty thorough search, and we've come up with nothing."
"There was a photo of a bloke in a WWII uniform on the bedside table," Pritchard said. "Her dad, do you think? Left her the weapon?"
"I bet he did," Bragg said excitedly. "Tell me, do you think it was a weapon that a woman could have fired easily?"
"Absolutely,' the technician said. "If it's a Nambu, it's a light little thing. In fact it was always a source of amusement that Japanese officers were issued something so flimsy. Most of them chose to carry swords instead, so I understand. More chance of killing somebody with those."
"And yet it seems to have done an efficient job this time," Bragg said.
"Five feet away-you can't very well miss, can you?"
"True. So what else have you got for us, Jones?"
"Fingerprints-no obvious fingerprints that we can't identify. Especially significant from your point of view, the only prints on the lawn mower were Mrs. Rogers's and the gardener's. Mrs. Rogers's were the clearest. And on the window latch, only Mrs. Rogers's fingerprints show up, apart from a few indistinct ones."
"And if the killer had worn gloves?" Bragg asked.
"If he'd worn gloves, he'd likely have smudged the nice clear set of prints we got. As it was, we didn't see any evidence of smudging or attempts to wipe anything clean."
"If Mrs. Rogers really is the killer, surely she'd have thought of that," Evan blurted out. "The first thing she'd have done is to wipe away her fingerprints."
Bragg smirked. "As I've said before, it's lucky for us that most perpetrators aren't too bright. And they're in panic mode. They don't always stop to think." He clapped his hands together. "Right, lads. I think we're finally getting somewhere. Let's have the uniform boys bring her in."
"Are you charging her, sir?" Wingate asked. "Isn't that a little premature?"
"I'm not charging her officially, Wingate. As of now she's helping us with our inquiries. However, I think we're going to be too busy to get to her before tomorrow morning. Let's just see whether a night in a cell will make her more willing to tell us what she knows."
Chapter 13
Evan felt uneasy as he drove home in the fading light. The storm had blown away, leaving stripes of deep blue cloud across a pink sky. The setting sun glowed on the west-facing slopes, turning the granite dusky pink and even tingeing the fleeces of the sheep. Water cascaded down the hillsides in ribbons and danced in the ditches beside the road. The sounds of splashing water and bleating of sheep floated into the car through the open window, over the noise of the engine.
Earlier in his career Evan would have parked the car and gone for a brisk walk up the hill to savor the sunset. Now he felt burdened with too much on his mind. He was still uncomfortable with Inspector Bragg's decision to bring in Mrs. Rogers. The thought of that genteel woman spending a night in jail was repugnant to him. He admired her quiet dignity, and he wanted to believe in her innocence. He knew from past experience that a few obvious clues do not necessarily a murderer make. And yet he had to agree with Bragg that she did now seem the likely suspect. Would anyone else have thought of coming back into the house to close the window? Would anyone else have put away the lawn mower? He had to admit he was rather glad he wasn't in charge of the case.
He parked his car and climbed up the track just as the last rays of sun vanished, leaving the valley in deep gloom. Ahead of him the slopes of the Glydrs still glowed brightly, and the windows in his own little cottage winked back the sun's dying rays. He quickened his pace and took the last part of the hill at a run.
"Bron?" he called, flinging open the door. "Bron, do you feel like coming for a walk before it's quite dark? Have you seen the sky out there? It's a lovely evening."
Bronwen came out of the bedroom, brushing the wisps of fair hair back from her face.
"Oh hello, Evan," she said. "Sorry, I haven't started supper yet."
He took a long look at her. "What's wrong?" he asked. She'd clearly been crying.
"I've just had a really horrible experience," she said.
He went over to her and took her into his arms. "What is it, cariad? Tell me all about it."
She buried her head against his shoulder. "I went to see the Khans, like I promised," she said. "I thought we could talk like reasonable people. I was doing okay with the parents at first. I told them that Jamila was a bright girl and had a good future ahead of her, and if they loved her they should think what was best for her. And her best future was obviously here. Then the brother arrived, and he went ballistic on me. He screamed that it was all my fault that his sister had turned into a loose slut with no morals. He accused me of turning her against her family and her religion. She'd never have dared to answer her father back before she met me, he said. He got right in my face, and he said if I ever dared to speak to her again, I'd be sorry."
"Oh, he did, did he?" Evan started to move toward the door.
Bronwen grabbed at his sleeve. "No, Evan. Don't go down there. It wouldn't do any good."
"I'm not having anyone threatening my wife," Evan muttered.
"But more fighting won't solve anything. I just feel like such a failure." She let out a big sigh. "I guess I'm not the wise schoolteacher I thought I was. I really thought I was going to be the voice of reason, and they'd listen to me. But the moment Rashid came on the scene, the two older ones sided with him. Even the father told me I was interfering in private, family business and would I please leave his house immediately. Then I suppose I lost it too. I told them that my husband was a policeman; and if they tried to take Jamila out of the country, they'd find that British law wouldn't allow them to behave in that barbaric way."
"Not the wisest thing to say," Evan said. "There's nothing we could do to stop them from taking their daughter where they like. You know that."
"I suppose so." Bronwen nestled her head against him again. "I just felt so angry and hopeless. Now I'm afraid I'll have scared them into taking some sort of action sooner than they'd intended to."
"You might be right," Evan said.
She pushed him away from her. "Stop sounding so damn smug and reasonable!" she shouted. "I suppose you'd have handled it perfectly! You were just about to go down there and beat up Rashid."
Evan had to smile. He pulled her close again and stroked her cheek. "I'm sure I'd have done no better than you, sweetheart. You're not going to change a mind-set that has been formed through the culture of generations."
"So what can we do now, Evan?" Bronwen demanded. "We can't just let them take her to Pakistan and marry her off to some old man."
"I suppose you could speak to someone at her school," Evan said. "They may have the power to intervene, although, I warn you, Jamila may not thank you for it if she's forcibly taken away from her family. And I suspect that this is such a delicate cultural issue that the school will stay well clear."
Bronwen paced the room. "I feel so angry and so powerless," she said.
"There is something you might do," Evan said. "Talk to Jamila herself and ask her what she wants. Would she really rather be put in foster care?"
"I don't think that's going to happen easily," Bronwen said. "From now on her brother is going to be driving her to school and back, so that she doesn't have a chance to meet with us corrupt non-Muslims." Her face brightened as she came up with an idea. "I know. Perhaps we could tell everybody to boycott the shop until they promise to keep Jamila here with them."
Evan shook his head, smiling. "You really are riled up tonight," he said. "I've never seen you like this before. What good do you think that would do? They'd up and mov
e away, and then you wouldn't even know what happened to Jamila." He took her face in his hands. "What you don't seem to realize is that you can't force these people, Bronwen. They're proud of their culture. Any attack on their way of life and they are going to resist you, however sane and logical you think you are being."
"I suppose you're right."
"Jamila's a bright girl and she's made some friends. She may well figure this one out for herself," Evan said. "In fact there's only one thing to do now."
"What?" she looked up hopefully.
"I'll open a bottle of wine, and you start cooking the dinner."
At that she laughed. "That does seem the only sensible thing to do. Did you have a horrible day as well?"
"It wasn't bad," Evan said, "but we wound up arresting Professor Rogers's widow."
"The wife did it?"
"My boss seems to think so."
"But you don't?"
Evan shrugged. "I don't know. All the physical evidence does seem to point in her direction, but she's such a restrained, dignified woman, Bron. One of the old school, brought up to keep all her emotions in check and always to do the right thing. I just can't picture her shooting somebody."
"I'm sure you'll find out the truth, Evan. You always do," Bron-wen said.
"I hope so. It's not as if he's going to let me say a word when he interviews her, and his interviewing style is such that anyone would clam up."
"Then you're going to have to do a little extra sleuthing on your own."
"Go behind my inspector's back?"
She laughed. "When has that ever stopped you before?"
The next morning Evan woke Bronwen with a cup of tea.
"Well, this is really nice," she said, giving him a sleepy smile. "Breakfast in bed and a nice day ahead."
"Not for me, love, I'm afraid." Evan bent to kiss her. "I've got to go to work. Don't look at me like that. I know it's Saturday, but we don't get days off when we're on a case. We keep going as long as it takes. You know that."
Bronwen sighed. "Yes, I suppose I did know that. You drummed it into me before we got married. You told me being a policeman's wife wasn't easy."
