Evanly Bodies

by Rhys Bowen

  "What are you implying-that I'm a nutter?"

  "Of course not. So it's just a case of stress and depression then, is it? The normal difficulties of life?"

  "That's about it. The normal difficulties."

  "And you haven't been in hospital recently for any condition?"

  "What's this about hospitals?" she asked sharply.

  "Just following up on something we've heard."

  "Hang about. You don't suspect me of murdering Lou, do you? Shooting my husband? What, because I'm really off my head? Oh, that would wrap it up nice and conveniently for you, I must say."

  Evan raised a protesting hand. "Nobody's accusing you of anything, Mrs. Alessi. We have to follow up on all the leads we've been given, however absurd they seem. I'm sorry to have troubled you."

  With that he made his exit. A visit to the regional hospital nearby did not show that she had been admitted there. Neither did a phone call to Ysbyty Gwyneth, the big regional hospital in Bangor. Of course there were always private nursing homes and hospitals out of the region. He'd have to see what the other two came up with.

  Soon after he arrived back at HQ, Pritchard came back with the news that Megan Owens had been admitted overnight to the regional emergency center just over a month ago. Reason listed was miscarriage. She was discharged the next morning. Then Wingate arrived. No hospital in the area showed Missy Rogers as a patient. She denied ever having said that she was going into hospital-was quite indignant about it, in fact. And yet Gwyneth Humphries had insisted that she had been away getting medical treatment and Martin had been desolate without her.

  "Maybe it was some kind of treatment she didn't want to admit to," Evan suggested. "Mental illness, maybe? Perhaps she went to a facility outside of the area. And it's just possible that Pam Alessi was also treated at a place like that."

  "But Megan Owens wasn't. We've got records of her visits to the health clinic during her pregnancy prior to the miscarriage. She couldn't have left the area for more than a couple of days."

  "So that shoots that theory," Bragg said. "Any more bright ideas, Evans? I thought you were supposed to be the whiz kid."

  "I never claimed to be anything special, sir," Evan said. "I just try to do my job, like everyone else. And right now I'm as stumped as the rest of you. But the connection has to be out there. I thought that maybe we might be dealing with a hit man after all. If the men secretly gambled, took drugs, borrowed money and didn't repay it . . ."

  Bragg considered this then shook his head. "I've had a bit of experience with lowlifes. They don't shoot you for not paying your debts. They'd like those debts repaid. They might bash you about a bit, break your legs, set fire to your car, just as a warning. But why kill off the goose before it can lay the golden egg?"

  "That's just what it boils down to, isn't it?" Wingate said thoughtfully. "Why do it? What had anybody got to gain from it? The wives are going to be struggling financially as widows. Alessi and Owens had zero money to speak of. What was it for?"

  "When we find that out," Bragg said, "then we'll have solved it. Until then let's get cracking again. So the gay angle turned up nothing, did it?"

  "Quite the opposite in my case," Evan said. "Martin Rogers was so anti-gay that he tried to stop the gay/lesbian dance last year and nearly caused a campus riot."

  "He seems to have been a proper killjoy," Wingate said. "Vetoing everything he didn't agree with."

  "Yes, but you don't kill somebody for stopping you from having fun, do you?" Bragg sucked thoughtfully at the end of his pen.

  "Especially not if you're a student," Evan agreed. "You protest. They love having something to protest about. They've got some kind of big rally going on. They were trying to put up the banners. Celtic Pride, I believe."

  "Celtic Pride!" Bragg sniffed. "When I was young you were given a clip round the head and told you were lucky to be born Welsh and should feel sorry for everybody else. We didn't need bloody festivals to remind us to have pride in ourselves."

  "So what else before we wrap it up for tonight?" Wingate asked wearily.

  Bragg considered for a moment. "I suppose we should go back to the housing estate where the Owens lived. People who were out at work will be home by now. We can find out if Owens crossed swords with anybody there. Also telephone his mates-I've got their numbers-and find out what they've got to say about him." He got up, started to walk to the door, then looked back at them. "Well, come on. Don't just stand there."

  It was after eight when Evan drove wearily back up the pass. Wind swirled dead leaves around the car and buffeted him on the turns. Winter was definitely on the way. One day soon they'd wake to find the peaks opposite dusted with snow. As he parked and got out of the car, he saw a portly figure in an overcoat running toward him. It was Mr. Khan.

  "Any news yet?" he shouted. "Any news at all?"

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Khan, but I'm not assigned to work on Jamila's case."

  "My daughter's disappearance is not important enough that you drop what you're doing and look for her?" Mr. Khan shouted. "Because we're Asian, right? Because Pakistani people don't matter?"

  "Hold on a minute," Evan shouted back over the wind. "I really wanted to look for Jamila, but I'm assigned to the Major Crimes Unit, which is investigating three murders within the past week. But I can assure you that my old boss, Inspector Watkins of Western Division, is doing everything he possibly can to find your daughter."

  "But she's not anywhere," Khan said quietly now. "It's as if she's vanished from the face of the earth. Where could she have gone? She hasn't been here long. She doesn't know many people."

  "There is one thing," Evan said after a moment's hesitation. "Your son, Rashid. I went to the house where he's now living, and his house mates were decidedly nervous about talking to me. So I'm asking you now, is it possible that Rashid has done something to her?"

  "Done something? What do you mean?"

  "Kidnapped her or even . . ." He couldn't say the words.

  "You mean killed her? Killed his own sister? What do you take us for-monsters?" He was screaming now. "We should never have come to this country. I bring up my children to be good British citizens. I tell them about British justice and fair play, and what happens when I need justice and fair play? You tell me that. All we meet is prejudice."

  "Mr. Khan, everybody feels very sorry for you and, believe me, we're doing everything we possibly can. Bronwen took her lunch hour to go and speak to Jamila's friends. She thought they might be more inclined to tell the truth to someone who wasn't officially with the police."

  "And?"

  "One of them said that Rashid had threatened to kill his sister if she stained the family honor."

  "No. I don't believe this. That was just Rashid talking big," Mr. Khan said. "He says silly things sometimes. He doesn't mean them. He would never hurt Jamila. He would never-" He collected himself. "I must go back to my wife. She is almost out of her mind with worry."

  "And I must go to my wife too," Evan said. "She feels almost as bad as you do."

  He left the older man trudging wearily back down the road.

  Bronwen looked up expectantly as he came in. "You've been working late? Any news?"

  "Nothing," Evan said. "A completely frustrating day."

  "She must be somewhere," Bronwen called over her shoulder, as she went into the kitchen to take out his dinner plate. "If she'd left the area, she'd have had to be on a bus or a train."

  "Unless she hitchhiked. They're going to display her picture on the missing children Web site. But they can hardly show it to every long-distance lorry driver, can they?"

  "Where would she go? Surely not back to Leeds. She hated it there, she told me. She hated living in a ghetto, being surrounded by only Asian families. She said she had no one to talk to. The other girls weren't interested in English or physics or any of the subjects she liked."

  "I wish I knew, Bronwen," he said. "Just the same as I wish I could figure out why three very different men were shot wi
th the same gun and apparently still no connection between them."

  "What you need is one piece of luck," she said. "Now come and eat your dinner. You must be starving."

  Chapter 24

  During the night the wind grew in intensity. It howled down the cottage chimney. Evan held his breath, expecting to hear the crash of slates falling from the roof. But the cottage stood firm against the gale. His mind raced through all the events of the past few days. The answer had to be somewhere. Jamila had to be somewhere. Would Watkins have dared to search Rashid's house? Was her body in that heavy trunk? Where else could he have dumped it? He pictured Mr. Khan's angry face. "All we get is prejudice." And all at once he heard Megan Owens's voice. "Terry and his mates used to say terrible things about other races. They blamed immigrants for taking away jobs."

  He sat up in bed. He realized that he had seen the connection all along, and it had been nagging at him. Martin Rogers had caused a near riot on campus for vetoing a speech by a radical Muslim cleric. And Luigi Alessi had been at odds with the Muslim family next door. All three men had clashed with Muslims. And Evan could imagine that young men like those he had met today might well decide to take justice into their own hands.

  He got up and paced the room. Bronwen stirred sleepily. "What time is it?"

  "Only three thirty. Go back to sleep."

  "What are you doing up then?"

  "I think I've figured something out, Bron. Each of those murders had a Muslim connection. What if extremists, like those young men I met today, decided to take things into their own hands and mete out justice to people who had insulted them and their religion?"

  She sat up too. "I suppose it's possible. Extremists put out a death sentence against Salmon Rushdie for insulting the prophet, didn't they?"

  "Those boys were jumpy, Bron. Two of them obviously thought the third was mad for inviting me inside the house. Does that mean they have something to hide in there?"

  "Then put your case to your boss in the morning. See what he says," Bronwen said. Then she added, "Luckily it's not up to you to give the order to do something so racially charged. If you're wrong, you'll never hear the end of it."

  "I know. But are we going to sit back and do nothing because we want to be politically correct? Mr. Khan said he brought up his children to be proud of British justice. Now it's about time we let British justice take its course."

  "Evan the orator." Bronwen smiled. "Now come back to bed. It's freezing and there's nothing you can do until morning."

  In the morning Evan presented his thoughts to DI Bragg and suggested that Inspector Watkins be invited to join them. "I would never have made that kind of connection if it hadn't been for the missing Parkistani girl from my own village, the case that Watkins is currently working on," he said.

  "Right. Give him a call and ask him to join us," Bragg said wearily. "If you're right, this will require tact and strategy. I may decide to call in someone with more clout than us to help decide how we proceed. God, I hope you're right on this one, boyo. I really don't want to end up on the front page of the Daily Mirror for having caused a race riot."

  "I'm not saying I'm right," Evan said. "I'm just saying that this is a connection we can't overlook. When I talked to those boys yesterday, I distinctly got the feeling they had something to hide. I took it to be that they might know what happened to Jamila. But maybe we've stumbled onto something more."

  "That's how most things seem to happen, by stumbling on things, isn't it?" For once Bragg's tone was almost friendly. "But if you're right this time, God knows how we'll ever be able to prove it, unless we recover the weapon with fingerprints on it."

  Evan went down to the cafeteria to get a cup of coffee. His nerves were as tight as a watch spring. He realized if his suggestion was wrong, he'd probably be the scapegoat. He was onto something, he was sure. He sensed he'd finally got his link. Three prejudiced men, he thought. Three men who didn't care about offending other people, who thought that they were always right, who liked to get their own way. Martin Rogers made a fuss if his egg wasn't cooked the way he wanted it. Terry Owens made a fuss because there were no eggs for breakfast. Their characters-that was what they had in common. That much was indisputable.

  He was just downing the last of his coffee when his mobile rang.

  "Evan, can you talk right now?" It was Bronwen.

  "If it's important. But I've got to get back to work in a second."

  "It is important."

  "Okay then. Go on."

  "I want you to promise me something." She sounded breathless. "I want you to promise that if I tell you something, you will keep it a complete secret and won't repeat it to anyone."

  "What is this, Bronwen? Some kind of game?"

  "It's no game, Evan. It's deadly serious. It's something you really want to know."

  "To do with my work? To do with Jamila?"

  "Yes. Will you promise?"

  "All right."

  "You'll swear on the Bible?"

  "Bronwen!" He was annoyed now.

  "I can't tell you unless you swear."

  "All right. I swear."

  "I think I know where to find her."

  "Where?"

  "I can't tell you, but I can take you there. But on your own. The police can't know."

  "Bronwen, I can't just leave and not tell them where I'm going."

  "I'm sorry. I'm not being awkward. My hands are tied, and these are the conditions I've been given."

  "Somebody's holding her hostage?"

  "No, she's safe, but she's being hidden. Do you want to see her?"

  "Of course I do."

  "Then I'll be outside your headquarters building in fifteen minutes."

  The phone went dead. Evan snapped it shut and put it away. He was uneasy about the strange way Bronwen was acting and not at all sure Bragg would let him go if he asked permission. But if he didn't ask permission, then he'd be in trouble. He decided to risk the trouble. Then he had a lucky break. Just as he was leaving the building, he saw Inspector Watkins and Glynis Davies getting out of their squad car. He went over to them.

  "What's this, a welcome reception?" Watkins called as Evan approached. "I have to tell you that you've stirred up a right hornet's nest-"

  "Look, I need your help," Evan interrupted. "I can't tell you where I'm going, but it's important that I go there. You two know me enough to trust me. More than that I can't tell you, but it might have something to do with finding Jamila. Can you stall Bragg for me? Tell him I've got a lead that has to be followed right away, and I'll check in as soon as I can?"

  Watkins stared at him for a moment then shook his head. "I hope you know what you're doing, boyo," he said.

  "I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing, if you want to know the truth. And I wish I could tell you more, but I can't. Just give me an hour, okay?"

  "Evan, you're not thinking of interfering in this operation, are you?" Glynis asked. "Nothing crazy like going alone to check on a terrorist cell."

  "Terrorist cell? Who said anything about that?"

  "Only this whole thing could turn out to be bigger than any of us imagined, and you could impair the investigation at this point."

  Evan looked at Watkins for clarification. "We've been in touch with the Home Office. It appears that one of the lads we've interviewed has been making visits to Pakistan, and it's not to see his aged father. It's possible he's training young extremists right here in Wales."

  "So that's why they were so jumpy. Did they let you search the house?"

  "Only Rashid's room and, of course, we found nothing. We commandeered the trunk and have taken it to forensics, and that amused them."

  "So you don't think I'm crazy for suggesting that these three murders may be some kind of Muslim extremists taking revenge?"

  "Let's just say I'm going to recommend that we take no further action until we get more direction from the Home Office. We don't want to blow what could be a national security sweep. I don't know what you thi
nk you're going to be doing, but it better not be anything to do with those boys at the university, and that's an order."

  "I understand." Evan nodded. "Bronwen's organizing it, and it's more likely to be one of Jamila's friends hiding her somewhere." He saw a car slow on the street outside and recognized Bronwen's fair hair. "There she is now. I've got to go. You will stall Bragg for me, won't you?"

  He didn't wait for an answer but ran across the car park and out to the road.

  Bronwen was sitting in the passenger seat. Evan climbed into the rear. The driver was a woman he had never seen before, slim, distinguished looking, gray haired.

  "Evan, this is Miss Prendergast," Bronwen said. "She is Jamila's English teacher. She's prepared to take us to Jamila, but only if we promise not to reveal Jamila's whereabouts."

  "Then she's safe?" Evan asked.

  "For the moment, yes," Miss Prendergast said. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you both to do something very strange. I want you to take these scarves and blindfold yourselves. I know it sounds ridiculous but lives can depend on it."

  "Very well," Bronwen said and tied hers immediately. Evan followed suit.

  "Why all the secrecy?" he asked.

  "Because the address of the place I am taking you to must never be revealed," she said.

  Within a Ford Escort in the middle of Colwyn Bay, it sounded overly dramatic. Middle-aged spinster were the words that crept into Evan's head. He felt the car pick up speed onto the dual carriageway, then slow into traffic again. Several stops and turns later they stopped, and she turned off the car.

  "You can remove your blindfolds now," Miss Prendergast said.

  Evan wasn't sure what he would see and was surprised to find they were parked outside an ordinary redbrick house with two large laurels outside the front door, on a perfectly normal suburban street. The house's name, THE LAURELS, was on the front gate.

  "This way," Miss Prendergast said, and led them up the front path. As she raised her hand to knock on the front door, she turned back to them again. "I do have your word that none of this will be repeated?"