by Rhys Bowen
Evan's new-felt sympathy and understanding vanished as quickly as they had come. "I just meant that we have to keep on digging. Find out who Alessi was fighting with when he was arraigned for disturbing the peace. Talk to Professor Rogers's colleagues some more. I get the feeling they have more to tell us if we give them time and opportunity."
"I agree with Evans," Wingate said. "There were definitely undercurrents going on there. And there was that student we were told about-the one who felt cheated out of a first. Who knows, maybe he came back here to settle scores."
"With a pizza parlor too?"
"Maybe he was employed here and Luigi gave him a hard time, or even that he used to buy his pizzas here and was shortchanged." Wingate shrugged. "I don't know. It sounds outlandish, but when someone goes off the deep end, they become trigger happy, don't they?"
"Right. So tomorrow we visit the faculty members at home. We attempt to ascertain the whereabouts of that student Simon whatsit and see if he really is abroad. Pritchard can tell us what he picked up at the pub-and it better be nothing in skirts, Pritchard. And Evans can do some praying for us all when he goes to church."
"What about right now, sir?" Pritchard asked.
"Back to HQ to take a look at the records. See what's on Luigi's rap sheet and who he and his wife talked to on the phone. I don't think we can do anymore interviewing today, do you? People don't take kindly to having their Saturday evening disturbed. And I expect you blokes like the occasional Saturday evening at home as well."
With that they were dismissed.
Chapter 17
The road that wound through the village of Llanfair was usually deserted, apart from a woman on her way to the shops, a mother pushing a pram, or a solitary vehicle winding its way up the pass. It was surprisingly full of pedestrians as Evan came down from the cottage to his car on Sunday morning. He wondered for a moment what was going on until a distant church bell reminded him what day it was. This was still a decent, God-fearing community, and everyone was off to the service at Capel Bethel or Capel Beulah, depending on how big a dose of hellfire they wanted. Capel Bethel's minister, Reverend Parry Davies, went in for a more humanistic approach, while Reverend Powell-Jones over at Capel Beulah was still a firm believer in the wages of sin being death and of hellfire waiting for most of his congregation. Since his sermons tended to go on for over an hour as well, repeated in both Welsh and English, his congregation was noticeably smaller.
Evan had just opened his car door when he heard his name called and saw Mrs. Williams, dressed in her Sunday best, black coat and hat, bearing down on him.
"And where are you off to now, Mr. Evans?" she asked.
"To work, I'm afraid," he said. "I'm in the middle of a murder case."
"Criminal just, it is, making you work on the Sabbath," she said. "You should speak to your superiors about it."
"It's the murderers I should speak to," Evan said, smiling, "and ask them to plan better when they're going to kill somebody."
"It's no laughing matter, missing chapel." Mrs. Williams gave him a severe look.
"Actually, I'm on my way to church," Evan said. "A Catholic church."
"Catholic?" Mrs. Williams's hand went to her heart. "That's even worse than not going at all. Praying to idols, that's what it is. What on earth would you be doing that for?"
"Orders, Mrs. W. I've got to spy on some Catholics."
"Oh well, that's all right then." She nodded. "I thought for one awful minute you were thinking of converting. Ever since you had the wedding ceremony in one of those papist kind of churches, and I haven't seen you or Mrs. Evans at chapel recently, I've been worried about you."
"Don't worry about us; we're just fine," Evan said. "And you better get a move on if you don't want to be the last one in."
"That would never do, would it?" she exclaimed, and waddled with great speed up the street to overtake Mair Hopkins.
Evan got into the car and smiled to himself as he drove down the pass. How simple life was around here. People worked all week, went to chapel on Sunday, had an occasional drink in the Red Dragon, and reared their families in peace. Usually he enjoyed his job and looked forward to driving down the pass to work every day. These last few days his job had felt like a burden. He had to honestly admit that he did not enjoy working with DI Bragg. It wasn't just that he was treated as a brainless junior. It was that constant state of tension-Bragg versus the world. He sensed that Bragg was the kind of man destined to put the backs up of all he encountered, and he wondered why, out of all the officers in the North Wales Police force, Bragg had been chosen for this particular assignment. After several years in the mostly pleasant, stress-free company of DI Watkins and WDC Glynis Davis, he found this tension hard to take.
The problem was that the tension was now spilling over into his private life.
"I thought I might take a hike this morning," Bronwen had said, as she poured coffee. "It's so nice and bright now, but they are forecasting another storm for later. I haven't been up the Glydrs for ages."
"I don't want you hiking alone," Evan had said.
Bronwen looked up, surprised. "Oh, you're dictating how I live my life now, are you?"
"There are too many strange people around these days, and it's not as if you'll encounter a lot of other hikers at this time of year. And what if the storm comes in early?"
"So what am I expected to do-sit home with my knitting?" Bronwen demanded, her face pink with anger. "You're never free to come with me, and I enjoy hiking. It gets out the frustration after the work week."
"I know, but . . ." Evan began.
"Then stop fussing over me. I've taken care of myself for most of my life. I hiked alone all the time before I met you, and I intend to continue doing so."
Evan had stomped down the hill feeling anger and frustration of his own. He wasn't being unreasonable. He knew better than anyone that there were crackpots who wandered the hills, and he didn't feel comfortable with Bronwen out on her own. But in his heart he also knew that he'd come across as a dominating husband, and that had put Bronwen's hackles up. He'd have to make it up to her. If he could get home early enough tonight, he'd take her out for a meal.
Evan had rarely been inside a Catholic church, apart from a school trip to Paris, when they had been taken around Notre Dame. And he had never attended a service there. Used to the simplicity and lack of adornment of the chapel, he felt most uncomfortable amid the statues and ritual. It seemed they were constantly standing, sitting, kneeling, and chanting in a way that was impossible to follow, and he was glad he'd taken up position behind a pillar where some particularly bad-tempered saint was scowling down at him. The hymns were unfamiliar and sung without the zest of the usual Welsh congregation. There was incense too, that curled around the pillars and made him want to sneeze.
The church was by no means full. The majority of the congregation was over the age of fifty, but there was a sprinkling of young families. As soon as mass was over, Evan made for the priest, now standing at the front door to shake hands.
It appeared that there was only one Italian family who were regular mass goers, the Salvatores, and they were in their seventies. The priest had only been assigned to this parish for the past two years, and the name Luigi Alessi didn't ring a bell. Not a regular churchgoer then. One item they could cross off their lists.
Reluctantly Evan drove on to police headquarters to meet with the rest of the team. Pritchard hadn't much to report from the night before. Most of the customers at the pub knew Luigi. They could confirm that he was inclined to talk big and get easily riled when he'd had a few, but the general feeling was that there was no real malice in him. Nobody with whom he sparred on a regular basis, anyway. Another item to cross off the list.
"I've got a list of recent phone calls here." DI Bragg waved sheets of paper. "Nothing that stands out as suspicious. Mrs. Alessi called her doctor quite a lot. Mrs. Rogers, on the other hand, hardly made any phone calls at all."
"No n
umbers in common then?" Evan asked.
"No, they didn't both call the same hired killer, Evans. So you can put that theory out of your mind." Inspector Bragg smirked.
"So where do we go from here?" Wingate asked, with obvious frustration in his voice.
"You have suggestions for things we're not doing and should be, Wingate?" Bragg asked.
"Well, no sir. Finding the link. That's what we've got to do."
"And how do you propose to find it?"
Wingate frowned. "Well, I thought one of us should follow up on Simon Pennington, the student."
"Can I assign that to you, then, since you're so keen?" Bragg said. "I take it you know how to contact Interpol and British embassies and all that kind of stuff you're going to need to find out where in the world he is?"
"I think I could handle it, sir," Wingate answered stonily.
"Then you go for it, son." Bragg looked at Pritchard and Evans. "Any other bright ideas? Any volunteers?"
"I wouldn't mind tackling Dr. Brock again," Evan said.
"Brock?"
"The one they call Badger. He was the one who wasn't surprised that Martin Rogers had been killed. In fact he seemed delighted. Dr. Humphries said he enjoyed baiting Professor Rogers. It might be interesting to get more of his take on things."
"Do that, if you think it's worth doing," Bragg said, with a resigned shrug. "Frankly I have a gut feeling that this has nothing to do with the university. Okay, a faculty member could have shot Rogers, but what connection could any of them have with a pizzeria ten miles away? None of them lives in Llandudno, do they?"
"No, they all live within reach of the university," Evan said. "But something's got to come out eventually. The killer had the habits of the Rogers's household down pat. Exactly when Mrs. Rogers took the dog for the walk. The fact that Martin Rogers sat at the window to have breakfast."
"Ditto for the Alessi murder," Wingate added. "Although it wouldn't be hard to establish that he cleaned the kitchen alone late at night with the TV on loudly. Any one of the neighbors could have told him that."
"I'm going to stay here and take a look at old arrest records," Bragg said. "I want to see where Alessi's name comes up and in what connection. As you say, we have to stumble upon something eventually."
"Bragg is about to throw in the towel," Wingate muttered to Evan as they walked down the hall together. "I get the feeling he's never had to handle a complicated case before. He likes the sort of murder where they catch the bloke red-handed with a smoking gun, and he hands over the weapon saying, 'I shot the bitch. She had it coming to her.' "
Evan chuckled. "It's true that most of us don't come up against a really complicated crime often. Let's hope that you and I can get somewhere on our own. He might eventually come to trust us with a little freedom."
"Dream on, sonny." Wingate chuckled as they reached the exit doors.
Chapter 18
Badger Brock wasn't at home. This wasn't too surprising given that it was a fine Sunday morning, but he lived alone in a modern block of flats and Evan had no way of knowing where to find him. On impulse he drove out to the only place he knew where archeological digging was going on. It was the site of a Roman camp on the other side of Caernarfon, and he was rewarded by spotting a solitary figure, long, dark hair blowing out wildly in the wind, picking his way through the puddles. Evan parked, climbed over the barrier, and went to join him.
"Hey, you're not allowed in here. Didn't you read the signs?" Brock shouted as Evan approached, then recognized who it was. "Oh it's you. How did you know I was here?"
"I'm a detective," Evan said. "It's my job to find what I need to know. And right now I need to talk to you about Martin Rogers."
"I thought I'd told you everything I knew the other day." Brock sounded annoyed. He picked up a piece of plastic sheeting. "The storm the other day blew off the tarpaulin. The students couldn't have secured it well enough. Now God knows what the rainwater's washed away."
Evan looked down at the square pit, with a couple of inches of water sitting at the bottom.
"So this was a Roman camp?" he asked.
"Absolutely. They used this as a staging area for the final assault on Anglesey."
"I never knew any of this existed when I was a kid," Evan said, squatting to examine the pit, "or I'd have been over here trying to help."
"Keen on archeology are you then?" Brock asked.
"I suppose I am. I've never had the chance to pursue it but I can see myself digging away and being excited at finding a bronze coin or a broken beaker."
Brock nodded. "Yes, it is heady stuff. Most of the time it's boring, routine work, of course. Day after day of sifting through soil, finding maybe a small fragment of pottery, and then one day, bingo-you find something so wonderful that it keeps you going for years. I found a Celtic torque in Ireland once, you know. Fabulous."
His face was alight with joy as he spoke.
"You were not surprised that someone had killed Professor Rogers," Evan said, straightening up again. "You seemed more amused than anything."
Brock flushed. "That's just my way," he said. "When I'm uncomfortable, I joke about it. Actually I was shocked."
"But still not surprised," Evan insisted. "Do you have someone particularly in mind who might have done it?"
"Good Lord, no. No one at all. I mean, Rogers could be a bit of a bastard. He was autocratic. He liked to act like admiral of his own ship. His way or no way at all. He knew little about archeology, and yet he would tell Skinner and me how to do our work and run our classes."
"There are rumors . . ." Evan said slowly, "that he was trying to get rid of you."
"What are you insinuating?" Brock demanded. "That I killed him to keep my job?"
"It's one of the best motives we've come up with so far."
"Then think again, mate," Brock said angrily. "I'm a pacifist. I don't believe in wars. I don't believe in killing. I've attended antiwar rallies. And you should check on your facts-I gather Rogers was killed at eight o'clock in the morning. At that hour I was kneeling in the mud here with half a dozen students to vouch for me."
"I'm sorry," Evan said, "but we have to rule people out to get at the truth. In your case, you've a bloody good alibi, unless you bribed all your students to lie for you." He smiled. "That was just a joke, by the way."
"My students probably would lie for me," Brock said. "They think I'm the greatest. I'm not stuffy like the other professors, you see. I'm quite happy to have a pint with them after we've finished at the dig."
"Not like Professor Rogers, one gathers," Evan said. "The students didn't like him?"
"He's had some nasty blowups with the Student Union, I know that. He was on the site council, so he had the power to veto any activities he didn't like. And he was pretty narrow in his views. No gay/lesbian activities. Nothing religious or inflammatory or controversial. He vetoed a speech by an extremist Muslim cleric last year. That caused a fuss with our Muslim students. Big demonstration. Oh, and he vetoed a piece of artwork he found obscene. He was a bit of a prude. I thought the sculpture was good, personally. And you needed a good imagination to spot that it was a couple having sex."
"How long ago was that?"
"Also last year. This year's been tranquil so far. Of course, students are still finding their feet this first month of classes. There are more freshmen mixers than radical speeches."
"The rest of your History Department," Evan said. "Is there anything you could tell me about them?"
Brock laughed. "There's a lot I could tell you, but none of it would have any relevance to shooting Professor Rogers."
"Gwyneth Humphries, for example?" Evan asked. "She was sweet on Rogers?"
"Clever of you to notice that. Yes, she certainly had a love/hate relationship with him. She had been known to come on strong to him, especially after a couple of glasses of wine."
"And did he respond?"
"Good Lord, no. Like I said, Martin Rogers was a prude. And Mrs. Rogers w
as always there, hovering in the background."
"So you can't see Gwyneth Humphries being driven mad with desire?"
Brock paused, then laughed. "No, I can't," he said. "And as for shooting somebody-she's so ham-fisted that she'd probably shoot herself in the foot first."
Evan looked around. The breeze off the Irish Sea had picked up. It wouldn't be long before those clouds on the horizon came rushing in. "I'd better leave you to put your tarpaulin back in place," Evan said. "We're due for more rain later."
"When are we not due for more rain?" Brock said. "I've lived in Wales for ten years now, and it rains with monotonous regularity."
"Where did you come from before?" Evan asked.
"Patagonia. I was born in the Welsh community there."
"Good God, were you? I've always wanted to meet someone who'd lived there. Is it true they still speak Welsh?"
"Absolutely," Brock said, switching to that language. "As you can see, I speak the language quite well."
"So we could have had this whole conversation in Welsh rather than English." Evan shook his head. "Well, sometime, when things are not so hectic, I'd really enjoy hearing about your life in Patagonia. It's always fascinated me."
"Right. You know where to find me." Brock picked up the large piece of black plastic, and Evan helped him drag it into place. "Thanks. Diolch yn fawr," he repeated it in Welsh.
Evan could see why the students liked Badger Brock. Interesting what he had said about Martin Rogers and his blowups with the Student Union. If that demonstration over the Muslim cleric had happened this year, Evan could guarantee that Rashid would have been at the forefront of it. Evan wondered if those mates Rashid had found were equally militant.
He drove on toward Bangor, looking wistful as he passed the Caernarfon Police Station, deserted on a calm Sunday. Would he ever be sent back there again, he wondered. He stopped to pick up a hamburger at a McDonald's, which was one of the few businesses that opened on Sundays, and continued on to Dr. Humphries's house.
She was at home and reacted with surprise as she opened the door to him. She was not wearing scarves today, but what appeared to be a Middle Eastern caftan. Her hair was down around her shoulders, making Evan wonder if this was her dressing gown and she hadn't been up long. She appeared flustered when she saw who was standing outside her door, but she invited him in.
