Evan Blessed (25 page)
Authors: Rhys Bowen
Bronwen tried to scramble to her feet, but his shoe came to meet her in a violent kick, sending her reeling backward. She put her hands over her face to defend herself as he loomed over her.
At that moment the front door bell rang. Then someone knocked loudly.
“Mr. Shorecross. Police. Open up,” a voice shouted.
Shorecross looked around wildly, then started to scramble up the ladder. Bronwen returned the favor and grabbed onto his ankle. He tried to kick her off.
“Don't come in. I've got the girl,” Shorecross screamed. “I'll kill her!”
“Evan. It's me. I'm here. Come and get me!” Bronwen shouted.
“I'm warning you, I'll kill her!” Shorecross yelled.
The next moment, the front door shuddered as an attempt was made to break it down. Evan grunted as his body was jolted against the front door and pain shot through his injured shoulder. He pulled out his mobile. “Backup right now. Shorecross's house. He's got her here. I can hear her. He's going to kill her!” he shouted.
Then he pushed past bushes to the front window. The light was on behind the curtains in the front room. Evan wrestled a large stone free from the rockery in the front garden and hurled it at the window, smashing the pane. Then he kicked out an opening big enough to crawl through and climbed into the room. The piano had been pushed forward and the carpet folded back to reveal a trap door cut into the floorboards. He ran to it and yanked it open.
“Don't come any closer. I have a knife at the girl's throat,” a voice said from the darkness.
Evan froze.
Suddenly there was a yelp and Bronwen's voice shouted, “He hasn't got a knife, Evan. Come and get him.”
“I want my solicitor present,” a calm voice said. “I'm not going anywhere until my solicitor is here. I've heard about police brutality. I haven't been well. I need a doctor.”
“Let Miss Price come up to me,” Evan said. “Nobody's going to hurt you. Let her up now.”
He waited and soon Bronwen's head emerged from the hole. Evan hauled her up.
“I knew you'd find me. I knew you'd come,” she said, and fell into his arms, laughing and sobbing at the same time.
It was almost midnight before Evan returned from the hospital to which Bronwen had been taken. Apart from dehydration and some bruises and scrapes, she had weathered her ordeal well, but the doctor insisted they keep her overnight for observation.
He felt utter elation as he drove back from the hospital to the police station. She was safe. Nothing else mattered in the world. Shorecross had given up without any kind of struggle. In fact, he had been like a deflated balloon when he emerged from the underground room. When Evan came into the station, he found Shorecross in the interview room with a solicitor on one side of him and Watkins and Hughes on the other.
“May I be present, if you don't mind?” Evan asked, and was given a nod, indicating he should take the chair in the corner.
“D.C. Evans has just entered the room,” Watkins said into the tape recorder. “Now, Mr. Shorecross, to recapâyou had your Scouts build the bunker on the mountain. Is that correct?”
“We were doing a survival training weekend,” Shorecross said. “They only dug a primitive shelter. I went back later and finished it.”
“For what purpose, sir? Was it built with Miss Price in mind?”
“No, not at all,” Shorecross said. “It was only during the last couple of weeks that I learned that Miss Price now lived locally.”
“Then what was your intention, sir?”
“I don't think that's any of your business.” Shorecross looked at his attorney. “I don't have to answer, do I?”
“Not if you feel it incriminates you further.”
“Then I choose not to answer.”
“I have an idea,” Evan said, making the others look around at him. “Hillary Jones. It was you, wasn't it? You were her stalker. You fantasized about holding her prisoner.”
“But I wasn't really going to do it, you stupid boy,” Shorecross snapped. “It was all play-acting. Fantasy. You can see for yourself that the bunker was never used.”
“So where did you take Shannon Parkinson?” Watkins asked.
“Who?”
“Shannon Parkinson. The girl who disappeared on the mountain last week. If you didn't take her to the bunker, what did you do with her?”
“The girl who disappeared on the mountain last week? I know nothing about her,” Shorecross said angrily. “I offered to help you search for her, remember.”
“You offered to help us search for Miss Price,” Evan said.
“But the first offer was genuine. Why would I want to kidnap some girl from a mountain? Besides, I was in my office at the bank when it happened. Everyone will vouch for me.”
“I suppose we have to be satisfied with that outcome,” Watkins said wearily as they left the interview room later that night. “I'm not thrilled about his pleading insanity, but at least it will ensure that he spends the rest of his life locked away.”
“In a nice parklike setting, not a cell like the place he kept Bronwen,” Evan said bitterly. “But I've got Bronwen back safely and that's really all that matters, isn't it?”
“Do you think he was telling the truth about Shannon Parkinson?”
“I'm inclined to believe him,” Evan said.
“In which case, we're back to square one where she's concerned.”
They walked together to the canteen and Watkins shoved a pound coin into the beverage machine. “In the good old days we'd have had real cups of tea all night,” he said. “Not this bloody dishwater.”
“Better than nothing,” Evan said, putting his own coin in.
“You'd better get home to bed,” Watkins said. “You look a wreck.”
“I'm all right now,” Evan said. “It's like coming out of hell.”
“I'm glad for you, son,” Watkins put a hand onto Evan's arm. “We're all glad for you.”
Evan looked away and cleared his throat. They sat in the semi-darkness at a Formica table, waiting for the tea to be cool enough to drink.
“I don't quite know what else we can do about Shannon Parkinson,” Watkins said. “We've had divers search the lake. We've had people check mine shafts. Someone must have taken her.”
“Unless she went of her own free will,” Evan said, stirring his tea with a plastic straw.
“Meaning what?”
“She could have staged her own disappearance. What if she was fed up with her current boyfriend and she'd met somebody new? Or what if she was fed up with the tight restrictions her family placed on her? She could have come down the other side of the mountain, even caught the train down, and gone off on her own for a while.”
“In which case no crime has been committed and we're off the hook.” Watkins took a sip of his tea, made a face, and put it down again. “Tastes like piss water,” he said. “But I don't like to walk away like this, especially with her family waiting for news of her. You know how you felt when we didn't know where Bronwen had gone.”
“I do,” Evan said. “Why don't we go and talk to her family and friends. Maybe one of her friends knows something, a secret she hasn't shared until now.”
“It's worth a try,” Watkins said. “Go home and get a good night's sleep and we'll head for Liverpool in the morning.”
Evan stopped at Bronwen's bedside at the hospital first thing in the morning, to find her bed surrounded by flowers and her parents already in residence. He stood at the entrance to the ward feeling strangely superfluous until Bronwen looked over at him and her face lit up in a radiant smile.
“Evan,” she said, holding out her hand to him.
“How are you feeling?” he asked and bent to kiss her.
“Absolutely fine.”
“That's wonderful. I was so worried.”
“I know.”
“You were so brave.”
“Survival instincts kicked in.”
“I hope you have that bastard securely behind bars and you aren't going to let him out on any amount of bail,” Bronwen's father said.
“Don't worry. He's not going anywhere. He's pleaded not guilty by reason of insanity.”
“InsanityâI should say insanity!” Bronwen's mother said, smoothing back her daughter's hair. “It's too bad we don't have the death penalty any longer.”
Evan shook his head. “We're talking about a man who handed out his own death penalty to anyone who crossed him. He killed his own father because his father despised his musical talent.”
“And my friend Penny,” Bronwen said. “He killed her, too. He put a trip wire across a path so she tumbled from her horse and broke her neck. And he was going to kill me.” Her voice wavered. “I still can't believe it really happened. It's like a film I was watching. All the time he was so civilized, offering me a cup of cocoa ⦔
“That cup of cocoa had enough drugs to make sure you went to sleep and didn't wake up,” Evan said.
“What turns a person into a twisted monster like that?” Bronwen's mother asked.
Evan shrugged. “Maybe some people are just born that way.”
He paused and looked up as a doctor entered the ward. “I thought you were supposed to have peace and quiet,” he said to Bronwen, and then he glared at Evan, “and you were supposed to come back to have that shoulder X-rayed properly.”
“What happened to your shoulder, Evan?” Bronwen asked.
“It's okay. I hurt it when I fell into the bunker.”
“What bunker?”
“The bunker where I thought he was hiding you,” Evan said. “He pushed me in and then shut off the air supply.”
Bronwen reached out and took his hand. “Oh Evan, how awful for you.”
Evan smiled. “Lucky I had a squad car and it was parked where it could be seen from the road or neither of us might be here right now.”
“I do hope you won't have to wear a sling for the wedding, Evan,” Bronwen's mother said. “It will spoil the pictures.”
“Mother!” Bronwen glared at her. “Damn the bloody pictures.”
“Bronwen!” Mrs. Price said.
Evan grinned to himself.
An hour later he was riding beside D.I. Watkins, joining holidaymakers in the Sunday mass exodus from Wales.
“You'd think our economy should be booming with all this tourism, wouldn't you?” Watkins said.
“Most of them have their own caravans, look you,” Evan said. “They probably bring their own food as well and all we get out of them is the occasional ice cream or drink in the pub.”
“You're a cynic, boyo, you know that.”
“I haven't exactly been through the happiest of times, have I?” Evan said. “It's going to take a while to get over this.”
“Of course it is,” Watkins said, “but I've no doubt a wedding will cheer you up.”
“I still can't believe that it's less than a week away,” Evan said. “I hope Bronwen will be well enough.”
“How did she seem this morning?”
“Remarkably bright.”
“She's a tough girl, Evan. Many women would have cracked after what she's been through.”
“I still can't come to terms with Shorecross getting off so lightly,” Evan said. “Do you think the judge will buy the insanity defense?”
“Oh, I'd say he was clearly round the twist, probably has been all his life.”
“So he'll wind up in some cushy insane asylum where they'll let him stroll the grounds and play his piano. It doesn't seem fair, does it?”
“Isn't that the first thing you realized when you joined the police force?” Watkins asked. “Life's never bloody fair. Good people get their heads bashed in. Bad people walk away free. It's only very occasionally that we actually see justice done.” He slapped on the rim of the steering wheel. “I hope to God we find out what happened to Shannon. I don't like leaving it not knowing.”
“I agree,” Evan said.
The motorway skirted to the north of Chester and soon they were crossing the Mersey into Liverpool. Shannon Parkinson lived in one of those faceless suburbs that sprawl out from every major city. Neat semi-detached houses built before World War II, front gardens with gnomes and birdbaths, men outside polishing cars and mowing pocket handkerchiefâsized lawns, children riding scooters. The house and garden were well kept although there was no sign of life and the curtains were drawn. Evan suspected that the family might be away and was surprised when he knocked on the front door that it was opened quickly by a middle-aged woman, smartly dressed in a summer suit and heels.
“Can I help you?” she asked warily. “We're just off to church. If you're from a newspaper, we're not talking to anyone.”
“It's Inspector Watkins and D.C. Evans, North Wales Police, madam,” Watkins said, stepping forward. “I take it there's been no news on your daughter then?”
“How can there be when the likes of you haven't done a damned thing?” she snapped, her face contorting with bitterness. “She may not be an important case to you, but she's all we've got. Our precious joy.” She put her hand up to her mouth and turned away.
“Now, Mother, don't distress yourself again.” A tall, gaunt man, dressed in his Sunday suit, came out of the living room behind her. “Did I hear that you're policemen? You've nothing to tell us, have you?”
“I'm afraid not, Mr. Parkinson,” Watkins said. “But I don't want you thinking that we haven't done everything we could. We've searched the whole mountain several times, we've had divers in the lake where we found her glove ⦔
“Glove? I didn't think she took gloves with her. I told her to and she said it was the middle of summer and I always fussed too much.”
Watkins glanced at Evan.
“Paul Upwood identified a glove we found as Shannon's,” Evan said. “Bright red wool.”
Mrs. Parkinson shook her head. “She never wore gloves. She's one of those young people who never seem to feel the cold. Even in winter she'd go out without a coat. Her father told her she wanted her head examined, but she never listened to us, did she, Father?”
“Too headstrong by half.” Mr. Parkinson nodded agreement. “We weren't exactly happy with her going on this trip but she went anyway.”
“Why weren't you happy?” Evan asked.
“I didn't trust him,” Mrs. Parkinson said. “He wasn't the right young man for her.”
“He seemed like a nice enough bloke,” Evan said. “Well mannered, attending the university.”
Mrs. Parkinson shook her head. “There was just something about him I didn't like. Shannon changed after she started going out with him.”
“You're not suggesting that he had something to do with her disappearance, are you?” Watkins asked.
The Parkinsons looked at each other, then Mr. Parkinson shook his head. “He worshipped the ground she walked on, I'll say that much for him. He'd not have let Shannon get hurt.”
Mrs. Parkinson glanced at her watch.
“Sorry, you were on your way to church,” Watkins said.
“That's all right, if there's anything else we can do to find our Shannon,” Mr. Parkinson said, looking at his wife's face. “The wife doesn't like to be late usually.”
“Is there anything else we can tell you?” Mrs. Parkinson said. “We've been over everything with the local police, so I really don't know what to say ⦔ Her voice trailed off into hopelessness.
“By all means, go ahead to church then,” Watkins said. “But maybe first you could give us the names and addresses of Shannon's best friends. Sometimes young girls will confide something to a best friend that they keep from their parents.”
“Like what?” Mrs. Parkinson looked perplexed.
“If she was planning to run off somewhere on her own maybe? Go into hiding for a while?”
Evan saw a great wave of relief flood over her face as she realized her daughter might still be alive. “Why would she want to run off and put us through all this worry?”
“Because you disapproved of her young man, maybe?” Evan suggested.
“You think it was all a plot and she's off somewhere now with that Paul?”
“It's possible.”
Mr. Parkinson shook his head violently. “No, she'd never put us through all this worry. She's a good girl at heart. She cares about her mum and dad.”
“Shannon's best friend was Amy Illingsworth,” Mrs. Parkinson said. “She lives round the corner on Milton Drive. I think it's number twenty-eight. It has a monkey puzzle tree in the front garden. I can never understand why people plant those things. Ugly as sin, aren't they?”
Evan noted the number.
“Thanks very much for your help,” Watkins said. “I can tell you now that for a while we thought she'd been captured by a madman. We discovered a bunker, you see. Only it turns out he had nothing to do with her disappearance. So now we can put out feelers all over the country and hope for better news, can't we?”
“Oh yes.” Mrs. Parkinson's face glowed. “I do hope so.”
“I hope we haven't raised her hopes too high,” Evan said as they
drove away. “If someone's not found after a week, the outcome isn't often good.”
drove away. “If someone's not found after a week, the outcome isn't often good.”
“If she's run off anywhere, the friend will know,” Watkins answered. “All we have to do is persuade her that it's in Shannon's best interests to tell us.”
Amy Illingsworth's house was indistinguishable from the Parkinsons', except that the front garden was paved over and a motorbike was parked there. An unkempt woman, still in her housecoat, opened the door.
“Yeah? What do you want?” she demanded. “And it better not be bloody Jehovah's Witnesses again.”
“North Wales Police, madam,” Watkins said. “We'd like to speak with your daughter Amy, if we may.”
“Amy? She's not done anything wrong, has she? I told her she was asking for trouble, staying out all hours at those bloody clubs.”
“She's not done anything wrong, Mrs. Illingsworth,” Watkins interrupted. “We understand she is Shannon Parkinson's best friend. We hoped she might help us in our search for Shannon.”
“Oh. Right. But I don't know how she can help you. She's been that worried.” She went to the foot of the stairs. “Amy!” she yelled in a voice that would cut metal. “Get yourself up and down here. We've got policemen wanting to talk to you.”
A few minutes later a bleary-eyed girl, her face bearing the smudged remains of last night's makeup, came into the room.
“It's Sunday morning. Only time I get to sleep in all week,” she complained, flopping into the nearest armchair. “Anyone got a fag?”
“I'll make us all a cup of coffee,” the mother said, and disappeared tactfully to the kitchen.
“Have you heard anything about Shannon yet?” Amy asked.
“Nothing. That's why we came to see you,” Watkins said. “We wondered if she'd maybe confided something to you about her plans.”
“Plans?”
“Such as running away from too strict parents?”
Amy looked surprised. “They're not too strict. They spoil her rotten. Give her everything she wants, they do. Not like my mum.” She lowered her voice for the last phrase.
“Paul Upwood claims that they forbade her to see him and watched over her like jailers,” Evan said.
Amy's lip curled in a sarcastic smile. “He said that, did he? He's a bloody liar, then. The only one who watched over her like a jailer was him.”
“Paul?”
“Yeah. He was too bloody possessive by half. Told her what to wear, wouldn't let her put on makeup, that kind of thing. She turned into a zombie after she started dating him. We had a falling out over it. He wouldn't let her see me anymore âcause I'm too common, apparently. I said to her, âYou choose, it's either him or me.' And she said, âYou know I can't go against him.' But I tell you what”âand she leaned forward in the chairâ“she was getting right fed up with him. In fact, I think she'd met someone else she fancied more.”
“So you think she might have run off to be with another bloke?” Evan asked.
Amy considered this. “Yeah. It's possible. She'd want to hide out for a while so that Paul couldn't come and find her.”
“You've no idea who this other bloke was, have you?” Evan asked.
She shook her head. “Like I said, we weren't speaking much before she went on holiday. I only saw her the once and I told her it was daft, going away with him. âYou hate walking and fresh air and all that healthy stuff,' I told her. And she said that Paul had set his heart on it and she didn't want to let him down. âBut it will be the last time,' she said.”
“What did she mean by that?” Watkins asked sharply.
Amy shrugged. “I expect she'd made up her mind to dump him for that other bloke.”
“And you've no idea where she met the other bloke?” Watkins asked. “A local, is he?”
“Like I said, we haven't been talking much. Paul cut her off from
all her old friends. So I've really no idea. It's not likely to be anyone from school. She liked older men.” She attempted to smooth down her unbrushed hair. “So, I'm sorry, I can't really help you. I wish I could.”
all her old friends. So I've really no idea. It's not likely to be anyone from school. She liked older men.” She attempted to smooth down her unbrushed hair. “So, I'm sorry, I can't really help you. I wish I could.”
Watkins and Evan made their exit before Amy's mother appeared with the coffee.
“We should pay a call on the local police and have them interview Shannon's school friends,” Watkins said as they drove away. “Maybe she confided about the new boyfriend to someone else. But she could have met him anywhere.”
“Too bad it's the summer holidays,” Evan said. “If anyone is away from home at the moment, it will be assumed that he's off on holiday. Shannon could have arranged to meet him and faked tiredness on the mountain as an excuse to get away from Paul without a fuss.”
Watkins nodded. “That does seem the most likely scenario. We'd better get onto the media again and have her picture shown. She'll have to have surfaced somewhere.”
“Funny about the glove, though,” Evan said. “Why would Paul lie about it?”
“Unless he was trying to place her somewhere that she hadn't really been,” Watkins said thoughtfully.
“And why would he do that?” Evan asked.
Watkins paused for a long moment before he said, “What if she'd told him she was leaving and going off with someone else? It might have been a way of salvaging his pride, or of punishing her.”
“Seems like a ridiculous length to go to,” Evan said. “If we hadn't scoured the whole mountain, I might have thought that he'd got rid of her himself and planted the glove to hint that it was an accident.”
“But then her body would have turned up in the lake.”
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