by Rhys Bowen
"I'm so worried about her, Evan," she said. "I can't think straight. It's torture sitting in a classroom when I want to be out looking for her."
"I feel the same way, love. But we both have jobs we have to do."
"I just feel there would be a better chance of finding her quickly if you were on the case."
"Come on, Bron." Evan laughed uneasily. "You know Watkins is a good man. And Glynis Davies is top-notch. If they're on the case, they'll be doing their best."
"But what if their best isn't good enough?" Evan heard the catch in her voice.
"I'm on my way to speak to them right now. Don't worry. I'll make sure they're doing everything possible. See you tonight then. I've no idea what time."
Instead of turning off to the university, Evan put his foot down and kept going. There was no sign of DI Watkins, but Glynis was just coming into the police station front door as Evan was leaving.
"Hello, what are you doing here, stranger?" She gave him her dazzling smile.
"Came to check on you, actually," Evan said. "I wanted to know what news there was on Jamila."
Glynis's face grew serious again. "Nothing yet, I'm afraid. We've had the parents bugging us all morning. I went to her school first thing, and nobody there knows where she might have gone. We've got the Leeds Police asking around her old neighborhood, in case she's gone back there. We've shown her picture at the railway station and on the buses, and so far no luck."
"All of these are presupposing she's run away," Evan said.
"What do you mean? Of course she's run away."
Evan shook his head. "Bronwen says that Jamila's school friends agree with her, that Jamila's brother may have killed her because she disobeyed her family and besmirched their honor."
"Oh surely not?" Glynis smiled. "That's a bit extreme, isn't it?"
"Shipping someone off to Pakistan to marry a man twice her age is extreme too, wouldn't you say?"
"Yes, I suppose it is."
"And if you haven't met her brother yet, he's an aggressive and violent type. Quite capable of killing, I should think."
"Inspector Watkins said he was impossible," she said. "He went to interview him again this morning and came back foaming at the mouth."
"Rashid is anti-everything to do with Western culture," Evan said. "He's a bit of a religious fanatic. Did they search his digs this morning?"
"Not that I know of."
"He could have her imprisoned there, if she's not already dead," Evan said.
"Evan, aren't you maybe overreacting a little?" Glynis asked. "My guess would be that one of her friends is hiding her and just not telling us. I'll go and speak to their families tonight. I'll let them know that I'm a friend they can trust. I'll promise not to hand her over to her family if that's not what she wants."
"I hope to God you're right." Evan paced uneasily. "Do you happen to have Rashid's new address?"
"Are you thinking of visiting him yourself?"
"I'm going to be at the university anyway, so I thought that I might . . ."
"It's not your case, Evan," she said firmly. "Don't you think DI Watkins knows how to handle it?"
"Yes, of course."
"Well, then."
She was eyeing him coldly.
"I'm not suggesting that you're not trying hard enough, Glynis." "That's what it sounds like to me."
"It's just that I have a rather personal interest in this case. Bron-wen would never forgive me if anything happened to Jamila."
"We're doing everything we can, Evan. And I have to say it's rather presumptuous of you to hint that you can find her when we can't."
Evan looked at her in surprise. Until now they had been best mates, working well together in a close-knit team.
"I didn't mean it like that. It's just so frustrating not knowing what's going on and not being able to do anything."
"I understand." She nodded and attempted a smile. "I'll keep you up to date, I promise. If we hear anything, I'll let you know. And I'll make sure that Inspector Watkins knows about the death threats Jamila's brother made."
That was the best he was going to get. Evan drove back toward the university. It was lunch hour and students were spilling from all the academic buildings, heading for food. He tried the History Department common room and found it contained only Gwyneth Humphries.
"Badger will be out at the dig," she said. "The others are probably battling the line at the cafeteria, except for David Skinner-he usually brings his own lunch and eats it in the fresh air when it's not actually blowing a gale. He may also be out at the dig." She frowned at Evan. "What is it now, may I ask? What can you possibly ask us that hasn't already been asked?"
Evan hesitated, then he decided that there probably wasn't much that Gwyneth Humphries didn't know about the workings of the History Department.
"Is David Skinner gay?" he asked.
She looked astonished, then gave an embarrassed laugh. "To be truthful, I've sometimes suspected it, but he's not openly so. He's not living with anybody. Why do you ask?"
"Is it possible that he might have had a relationship with Professor Rogers?"
This time she laughed out loud. "You're suggesting that Martin Rogers had homosexual leanings? Oh, dear me, no. That would be barking completely up the wrong tree. Martin was a prude, as I think I mentioned. He was also very narrow-minded. He had strong ideas about what was right and wrong. And he was very outspoken about homosexuality. He tried to get the university to ban the gay/lesbian dance last year. It almost caused a campus-wide riot."
"Was there one particular student who was leading this riot? Anyone who might have been particularly upset by Professor Rogers's stance?"
She shrugged. "I didn't pay much attention, personally. Students are always protesting about something or other. You'd have to ask the gay/lesbian alliance. There's a very active group on campus. If you go to the Student Union Building, you'll see their notice board."
"Thanks," Evan said. "I'll do that."
Wingate's phrase "grasping at straws" came back to him as he battled the wind across the main quad to the Student Union Building. Students were trying to put up banners and stringing lights, and were having a tough time of it. Some kind of Celtic festival, he noted.
Just what did he possibly hope to gain from pursuing this? If Martin Rogers wasn't gay, then that whole theory was shot-bad choice of words, he chided himself. A member of a campus gay revolution would have had no interest in assassinating either a pizza parlor owner or an unemployed machinist.
Still, he had learned before now that sometimes the leanest of clues, the smallest of hints, could point a detective in the right direction to unlocking the case. He was about to join the swarm of students lining up to enter the Union Building when he spotted a figure crossing the quad-a swarthy fellow with a dark beard, dressed in the traditional Muslim dress, white robes billowing out around him as he strode out.
Rashid, Evan thought and changed direction. He didn't pause to consider the ramifications of following Rashid when he had clearly been told to stay off the case. He dodged around groups of students coming up the steps from the road. Rashid was moving fast, almost running now. Evan ran too. Down the steps, down the street, toward the town. Then he turned into one of the Victorian houses on College Road. Evan sprinted to catch up with him before he shut the front door.
"Rashid, wait!" he called and sprinted through the traffic.
The person spun around, and Evan saw that it wasn't Rashid at all.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I thought you were somebody else."
"That's okay. I suppose we all look alike to white people," the young man said with heavy sarcasm.
"Do you happen to know Rashid Khan?" Evan asked.
"Of course. There aren't too many of us who walk around looking like freaks, are there?" The young man stared at him coldly. "He lives here. Why do you want him?"
"I'm a policeman," Evan said.
"I thought as much. You're too late. The police have al
ready been here and questioned him."
"Is he here now?"
"No, he's at a lecture."
"He just moved in yesterday, didn't he?" Evan asked. "Did he bring a lot of luggage with him?"
"Yeah. Quite a bit. Why?"
"Heavy, was it?"
"Why are you asking me stupid questions?"
"I wonder if I could take a look at his room," Evan said.
"Take a look at his room? What for?"
"In case you haven't heard, his sister is missing," Evan said. "Rashid has already threatened to kill his sister if she went against her family. For all I know, he's kidnapped her or killed her."
"Listen, mate," The boy stepped forward wagging a finger menacingly, "if you want to know the truth, Rashid was really upset about his sister. He drove around like crazy looking for her. It's the job of Muslim men to protect our women."
"And sometimes kill them when they disobey."
The young man looked amused. "In case you haven't realized, this is supposed to be a civilized country. We're all raised in Britain, you know. It's not an Afghan village."
"Then you won't object to letting me see Rashid's room."
"Do you have a search warrant?"
Evan laughed. "You've been watching too many American movies. I can search anything I like with just cause, and a girl who might have been killed or spirited away is just cause, I believe."
They stood there for a moment, eye to eye.
"What's your name, Copper? I don't believe you introduced yourself, or showed me your warrant card."
"And I don't believe you introduced yourself either."
"I'm Saleem Mohammed. Third-year engineering student. And you are?"
"DC Evans. Major Crimes Unit."
The boy's lip curled with scorn. "A constable? I'm wasting my time with a bloody constable? You go away, mate, and come back with someone with authority, and we'll let you in."
What might have happened next was avoided by the arrival of two other bearded men in traditional Muslim dress.
"What's going on?" one of them asked.
"This bloke, this police constable, wants to take a look at Rashid's room. He thinks Rashid might have cut his sister up into little pieces and brought her here in his trunk."
"I carried that trunk upstairs." This man was older, with more rounded features. "I can verify that it was bloody heavy and full of books. But if he wants to take a look for himself, then let him."
"Let him see Rashid's room?"
"Certainly. Why not?"
Evan caught the rapid glances between the men. He wasn't sure what vibes he was picking up, but it did cross his mind that they might be quite happy to lure him into the house alone and then dispose of him. And he'd have only himself to blame. The basic rule of conducting searches in pairs was a sound one. His father hadn't obeyed it, and he had been gunned down. Evan decided not to push it this time, not only because it was taking an unnecessary risk, but because it might make things more difficult if Watkins needed to search the house later.
"It's all right. Forget it. The detective inspector in charge of the case will probably want to see for himself anyway. If you're so willing to let me inside, there can't be much to see."
Saleem didn't quite manage to hide the smirk. Evan felt like a fool as he walked away. He knew his face was red, and he was furious with himself. He shouldn't have let them get the better of him like that. Now they'd think that North Wales Police were soft.
Once across the street he stood and looked back at the house, noting the street number. They had been tense enough, that was for sure. Those glances that flickered like electricity between them as they answered his questions. Was it possible that Jamila was being held a prisoner there? He could hardly call Watkins or Glynis without admitting that he had been poking his nose into their case, and yet he couldn't walk away and do nothing. At the risk of being yelled at, he dialed Watkins's cell.
"Any news yet on Jamila?" he asked. "I had to question some faculty members at the university, and I encountered a group of young Muslim male students. I asked them some questions about Jamila, and they were definitely cagey."
"Well, they would be. They don't exactly have fond feelings about the police, most of them," Watkins said dryly.
"But then I noticed they went into a house on College Street, and I believe it's where Rashid Khan is now living. I know you've questioned him, but I just wondered if they could be holding her there. Have you searched the place yet?"
"Listen, boyo, you know how damn careful we have to be about barging into a racially charged situation like this."
"Not even if it's likely he's got his sister locked up there, or even lying there, dead?"
"You really think something bad's happened to her, do you?" Watkins asked.
"I'm trying not to, but I'm dreading the worst," Evan said. "Look, I know it's none of my business and it's your case."
"Your instincts aren't often wrong," Watkins said at last. "I suppose I can go and have another chat with Mr. Khan, and take a look at the place while I'm there. It's not as if anybody else has seen her. Now, could you leave me in peace for two minutes and go back to annoying DI Bragg?"
"I'll try." Evan managed a laugh.
Chapter 23
Frustration boiled over as Evan drove back to Colwyn Bay, wanting to drive fast, but hampered by afternoon traffic. Someone should be watching that house right now. Someone should be searching Rashid's room before he had a chance to hide anything.
He tried to make himself take deep breaths and calm down. It was not his case. He should be leaving things to Watkins and channeling his energy to catching a murderer. Yet again he would be returning to his boss empty-handed, with no new clues and no new insights. His mind went back over the incidents of the morning-the blood-spattered kitchen, Megan Owen's tear-stained face. How many more grief-stricken families would there be before this cold-blooded killer was caught? Because one thing was sure-the killer had to have nerves of steel. Shooting Rogers in a respectable street during the morning commute hour, shooting Alessi on a Friday night when people would still be coming out of the pubs and clubs, and then shooting Terry Owens in broad daylight on a housing estate. All highly risky procedures. The term "hit man" came to him again. These were all hits. The quick dispatching of someone who needed to be dispatched. Maybe their team should focus more on the North Wales underworld after all.
Why would a professor, a pizza parlor owner, and an unemployed machinist run afoul of organized crime, he asked himself? Drugs were the most obvious answer, but there had been no hint of drug use. What they hadn't yet checked was whether any of the victims was in trouble financially. They should also find out whether any of them had borrowed money or had a gambling problem.
Then he had to smile at the absurdity of these thoughts. Missy Rogers would know if her husband took drugs or gambled. So would the other wives. Ridiculous. He felt especially bad about Megan Owens. She'd gone through a lot recently for one so young and frail looking. Poor kid, she had lost a child and a husband within a month of each other. Barely recovered from one before she had to go through this. He hoped her mother was being nice to her. There had been a definite coldness between the two as Evan watched them go off in the mother's car.
Then suddenly he broke off in midthought. "Wait a minute," he said out loud. There was a connection at last. He couldn't see how it might impact the three murders, but it was a connection. He put his foot down and zigzagged in and out of the traffic.
"Listen, I think I've got something," he gasped, out of breath from taking the stairs two at a time. The other men looked up expectantly.
"Megan Owens had a miscarriage a month ago. Missy Rogers went into hospital a month ago. Pamela Alessi had been under the care of a doctor."
"So?" Bragg asked.
"We've been looking for a connection. All three women have been ill. Is it possible they met in hospital?"
"And decided to find a hit man to kill their husbands?" Bragg r
aised an eyebrow.
"You thought Missy Rogers had killed her husband," Evan pointed out. "You were about to charge her. What's to say the other women didn't do the same? All we have to prove is how the gun was passed from one to the other."
"And the motive?" Bragg asked. "They were all tired of their old men? Not a sound move financially in any of the cases. No big life insurance policies."
"But it is a thought," Wingate agreed. "It's the only possible link so far."
"Go for it then," Bragg shrugged. "Right now I'd believe it if you told me they all took belly-dancing lessons or turned tricks together. Let's find out where and when these women were in hospital. Talk to their doctors. Wingate, you take Rogers, Evans you can take Alessi, and Pritchard, you get Owens."
Evan hurried back to his car. The blinds were drawn at Papa Luigi's, and the sign said CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. But Pamela Alessi answered the door after peeping out from behind one of the blinds.
"Oh, it's you, Constable Evans. Any news?"
"Not yet, I'm afraid, Mrs. Alessi," he said. "So you're still living here then? I thought you might have moved in with a friend or gone to a hotel."
"I don't have any friends living close by that I choose to go to right now," she said, "and hotels cost money. Besides, I'd like to get the restaurant up and running again as soon as the police will release my kitchen from being a crime scene. I need to make money, or I won't be able to pay next month's rent."
"So Luigi didn't leave you well provided for?"
"Luigi wasn't good with money," she said angrily. "If he had it, he spent it. He thought nothing of blowing twenty pounds on drinks for the lads. And those TV sets? Always had to have the biggest and best."
"But didn't Luigi do all the cooking?"
"Yes, but the lads and me can probably muddle through. That's what I'll be doing for a while, I expect, muddling through."
"Have you seen your doctor since it happened?" Evan asked cautiously.
"What would he do-just give me more pills that make me dopey half the time."
"The illness you spoke about," Evan went on. "Is it serious? I know you mentioned something about your nerves, but it isn't a serious condition that put you in the hospital, is it?"
