Evanly Bodies (5 page)

"The traffic's terrible these days," Evan said. "It sometimes takes ages just to get out of Colwyn Bay."

"So what do you think, Evans?"

Evan was surprised at the question. "What do I think, sir? She certainly loves her dog, doesn't she? The only time we saw
any emotion at all was when I brought that dog into the room."

"In the case of a tragedy, you cling to anything familiar, don't you? And dogs are supposed to be a wonderful comfort, aren't
they, although I can't see it myself. Peeing and pooping all over the floor and shedding hair wherever they walk. Got a dog
yourself?"

"No sir. It wouldn't be fair. My wife and I are out of the house all day. Besides, we're newly married."

"Wouldn't want half her attention going to a dog, eh?" Bragg chuckled.

"Are you married, sir?"

"I was. Nor ready to take that plunge again in a hurry. Let's go and see where Wingate and Pritchard have got to."

He set off ahead of Evan with determined strides.

They found the other two officers in the garden shed.

"I hope you haven't been putting your paws over stuff in here," Bragg said, as he stood in the doorway. "This might be important.
A good place to hide out and watch what was going on in the house. There's a clear view from here of the front door."

"We touched a pair of gumboots," Wingate said. "We needed to match them up with a couple of footprints we found. They're lady's
size, obviously Mrs. Rogers's."

"Any other prints that don't match these?"

"A couple, sir. Great big boot in some of the flower beds."

"That would probably be the gardener. When we interview him, we must remember to get a print of his boot sole."

Bragg stepped into the shed and sniffed. "Smells like someone's been using an engine of some kind in here. Hot oil smell."

"That's right, sir," Pritchard said. "The lawn mower has been used recently. It was still a little warm."

"Mrs. Rogers said she did a spot of gardening this morning, didn't she?" Evan said.

"So she did. Well, that explains that then. No luck with finding the weapon?"

"No sir. We searched the bushes pretty thoroughly. There's a garden pond. We fished about in it a little, but we didn't find
anything. You might want to have it searched more thoroughly if you think that the perpetrator might have got rid of the weapon
and not run off with it. If it had been me, I'd have taken it away with me."

"He probably did, but people don't always behave rationally when they've just killed somebody. Sometimes they panic and want
to get rid of that weapon as quickly as possible. You'd be amazed where I've found weapons before now. Stashed in the most
obvious of places, almost as if the killer wanted to be discovered."

They came back out into the fresh air.

"So what's next, sir?" Sergeant Wingate asked.

"We'll know more as soon as forensics get here," Bragg said, staring with annoyance in the direction of the road again. "And
we'll need to do a detailed search of the house once forensics have taken fingerprints. We need to find out if that antique
weapon is really missing or just moved somewhere else."

"And if it's been recently fired," Evan added.

Bragg gave him a withering look. "Obviously we'd like to know if it's been recently fired, Constable. That goes without saying."

"Oh, have you found the weapon, sir?" Constable Pritchard asked.

"Possibly. Rogers has an antique gun collection. One of them is missing."

"I see." Wingate nodded. "It would be good if we knew the type of weapon we were looking for. What sort of bullets do antique
guns use?"

"They just used to melt lumps of lead and pour it into a mold, didn't they? I've no idea if any modern bullets would fit.
Let's hope the ballistics bloke knows the answer to that one," Bragg said. "Right, let's get on with it. We're wasting precious
time standing here chatting."

"I think we should interview the neighbors as soon as possible, while the whole thing is still fresh in their minds." Wingate
stared at the tall Victorian house next door that could be seen above the high hedge.

Bragg looked around. "It's hardly likely the neighbors will have seen anything with all these bloody trees and bushes in the
way. The houses are too far apart."

"But someone would have heard a shot, surely," Evan said. "And there always seems to be somebody who just happens to be looking
out of a window and notices who comes and goes from neighboring houses."

"Thus speaks the expert detective," Bragg said. "How long have you been on the force, Evans? How many months is it?"

"Not many, sir." Evan laughed it off.

"But that's a valid observation," Wingate commented. "There usually is one nosy neighbor on every street. Even if they saw
nothing this morning, they might be able to offer us some insight into the dynamics of the Rogers's household."

" 'Insight' and 'dynamics.' My, we are into big words this morning, aren't we, Wingate? Are you planning to ram your university
education down our throats?"

"I'm sorry, sir. I'll choose my language more carefully in future."

Evan stifled a smile. As an insult, it could not have been better.

"Don't get me wrong," Bragg went on, as if nothing had happened. "I fully intend to interview the neighbors. And it will be
worth asking for the public's help through the media too. Evans, this comes under Western Division, doesn't it? You'd be familiar
with the local media. I'm leaving it to you to get it onto this evening's news and into tomorrow's paper. Can you do that?"

"Yes sir. I think I can manage it."

"Good lad."

Bragg really had no appreciation of sarcasm, Evan decided.

"Be careful how much you tell them. A suspicious death-don't call it a homicide until we're sure of our facts. You can tell
them the street name and the approximate time of the incident. Anyone who was passing and noticed suspicious or unusual activity
is requested to call the Bangor Police Station, got it?" He looked up as a white van turned into the drive and scrunched over
the gravel. "Ah, finally forensics have got off their arses. It's important that I stick around while they're here, but I
think I can send you off to interview the neighbors, can't I, Wingate?"

"Yes. I think that may be within the realm of my capabilities, sir," Wingate answered.

This time the sarcasm was not lost. "There's no need to be smart, Wingate. We're a brand-new team, and I'm the fall guy if
anything goes wrong. I have to make sure my officers know what they are doing."

"I assure you that I am quite capable of interviewing the neighbors, sir, as I suspect are Pritchard and Evans."

"Yes, well, I'll need Pritchard with me while Evans is away. You can bugger off now, Evans, and you too, Wingate."

The two men walked down the driveway together, passing the forensic crew as they opened up the back of their van.

"Hello, Evans. Having fun, are we?" the young police photographer asked in Welsh. "He's a right bugger, so they say, that
Bragg." He saw Evan's face and grinned. "And his Welsh isn't too hot either."

Evan turned to Wingate. "How is your Welsh?"

"Not a native speaker like you. My family farms in border country, and we were raised to speak English."

"That's too bad."

"In the current circumstances, I'd have to agree with you," Wingate said. "I'm Jeremy, by the way, and you are?"

"Evan."

"No, your first name."

"That's it. Evan Evans. Parents lacking in imagination, I'm afraid."

Jeremy Wingate grinned. "We'll get through this somehow, although I don't know what we've done to deserve this form of cruel
and unusual punishment."

"He may not be so bad when we get to know him," Evan said.

"On the other hand, he may be a bloody sight worse." Wingate leaned closer as Evan opened the squad car door. "I'll keep you
posted on what I find out from the neighbors. I have a distinct feeling this chappy isn't too bright. We may need to do his
work for him."

Evan drove away, catching glimpses of the bright waters of the strait on one side of him and the Snowdon range, bright crisp
outlines in the clear air, on the other. The local Bangor Police Station would have been nearer to look up media contacts,
but Evan headed for Caernarfon instead. At least he knew his way around there.

Evan felt a pang of regret as he entered through the familiar swinging glass doors. Why did they have to choose him of all
people for this assignment? What if this new setup was so successful that it became permanent? A bleak future stretched ahead
of him, starting every day at the soulless redbrick-and-glass headquarters and ending with a long drive home. He was on his
way down the hall, when a man came out of the duty office to his right and almost mowed him down. It took Evan a second to
realize who it was.

"Sorry, Sarge. I didn't recognize you. What are you wearing? Is it dress down Friday or something?"

The beefy sergeant Bill Jones scowled. "It's the new bloody uniform. I've been selected as one of the guinea pigs, and if
you make any cracks about it-"

Evan examined the black roll neck sweater and the black combat pants. "Well, you'd blend in well at a rock concert or a skinheads
gathering," he said.

"I think it's bloody terrible," Sergeant Jones said, "and I can't stand the feel of this around my neck. Makes me itch all
the time. And too hot when I'm in the office like today."

"You tell them what you think. If enough of us do, they won't go ahead with it."

"Some of the younger men like it, unfortunately," Sergeant Jones said. "They think it makes them look cool." He pulled a disgusted
face. "So what are you doing here then, boyo?" he asked. "I heard you'd been called to higher things." He put his hands together
as if in prayer and looked toward heaven.

"Give over, Bill," Evan said. "You don't think I wanted this assignment, do you?"

"Major Crimes Team? I'd say it was a step up the ladder for you. The local boys are livid because it means that all we'll
get here will be the petty stuff-the nicked wallets and the drunken brawls-while you blokes get all the juicy crimes."

"Yes, but at what price?" Evan said. "Have you run into DI Bragg ever? He's a right son of a you-know-what."

Sergeant Jones grinned. "I expect it's good for you. You've had it too easy here." He reached across and thumped Evan on the
shoulder with a meaty hand. "Don't let it get you down, boy. You're a good cop, and he probably knows that. He's just trying
to establish a pecking order."

"Thanks, Bill," Evan said. "I came here because I've got to contact the local radio and TV stations about this morning's murder,
and I know where to find the list of media contacts here."

"A murder, is it?"

Evan nodded. "A university professor in Bangor shot to death at the breakfast table."

"Likely as not it's one of his students, disgruntled about the marks he got on his exams. They tend to go to extremes these
days, don't they? Too much pressure and some of them crack."

"Interesting thought, Bill. We'll look into that." Evan continued down the hall and into the room that housed a couple of
computers. He had just logged on when Glynis Davies came in, looking fresh and elegant in a dark blue pant suit.

"I certainly didn't expect to see you," she said. "Has Bragg kicked you off his team already?"

"No, worse luck." Evan looked up at her with a smile. "Hey, maybe you're onto something there. If I'm clueless enough, maybe
he'll ask to have me replaced."

"You might find yourself out of the force or back in uniform. Not worth the risk," Glynis said. "No, Evan, whatever you may
think, this is a career opportunity for you. You have to make the most of it. So what are you doing here?"

"I have to contact the local media to ask for the public's help on this murder case. I know how to find everything here, although
. . ." he looked up appealingly. "I know what a computer whiz you are. You wouldn't like to-"

"No, I bloody well wouldn't," Glynis said. Then she paused and smiled, "Or as it's been drummed into us during our sensitivity
training: thank you for asking, but I respectfully decline."

Evan laughed. "Oh well, it was worth a try."

"I tell you what I will do for you," Glynis said. "I'm off to get some lunch at the Greek place across the street. Do you
want me to bring back a sandwich for you?"

"Glynis, you're an angel. I'll love you forever."

"You better not let your new wife hear you saying that. She might not understand." Glynis tossed back her striking red hair
and flashed him a smile as she headed for the door.

"I went to make my calls from my old station. A very kind young lady offered to fetch me a sandwich. I could hardly refuse."

"Some people have all the luck." Wingate said. "The very least you could have done was to have her bring one for me too."

"Next time I will. For all I knew, Bragg might have decided to take a lunch break."

"Not him. Works till he drops, I fear."

"Are the forensic boys still in there?" Evan looked at the white van still beside the front door.

"Yeah, still at it. It will probably take them twice as long with Bragg breathing down their necks. I can't tell you how glad
I was to get out on my own for a while. I expect you felt the same."

"Pangs of regret, I have to confess," Evan said. "Still, it's hard when everyone keeps telling you it's a step up the ladder."

"Hopefully a quick step." Wingate grinned.

"So did you learn anything from the neighbors?"

"Not much. As you'd expect, you don't have a good view of the street from most of these houses. And there must be several
professional couples. Nobody was home at either of those houses across the street, which is annoying, as they'd be the only
ones with a clear view of who was going in and out of this gate."

"What about next door?" Evan indicated a large, redbrick house, half hidden by large evergreens.

"Crusty old bugger-an ex-colonel from the south of England. He lives alone since his wife died. It seems that he and Professor
Rogers have had their run-ins over the years. He thought she was pleasant enough, but as they both like to keep themselves
to themselves, they only exchanged the odd word when they were gardening."

"And he hadn't noticed anything unusual this morning."

"He had a gripe about the fact that someone was out there mowing before eight. He said the noise disturbed his breakfast.
He couldn't hear the news properly. He was about to come out and complain when the sound stopped."

"I wonder why she was mowing?" Evan said. "If they have a gardener, you'd have thought she'd have left that to him. Heavy
work, lugging a mower, even a power one."

"She's obviously a fanatic where her garden is concerned. You look at all those beds. Not a weed in sight. Maybe she found
a few blades of grass that the gardener missed, and she couldn't stand to see them."

"Maybe." Evan nodded, pushing other, more disturbing thoughts to the back of his mind. "So what's next, do you think?"

"We have to wait until the great man emerges and pronounces judgment, I suppose. Well, talk of the devil." They looked up
at the sound of feet scrunching on gravel and saw DI Bragg coming toward them.

"Finished already?" he called, looking at Wingate.

"Yes sir. Nothing much to report from the neighbors. Several houses unoccupied at this time of day. Some of the neighbors
I spoke to knew the Rogers. Thought he was a pleasant chap. She was rather standoffish. Said 'good morning' but not much more.
The man next door complained about the lawn mower being used this morning, but he didn't see or hear anything unusual."

"So no strange cars parked on the street?"

"No sir."

"And anyone hear a shot?"

"No. One woman thought she heard an engine backfire while she was upstairs getting dressed, but the shower was running in
the bathroom and she didn't think any more of it. Most of these houses have double glazing installed, and the traffic on the
Holyhead Road is quite noisy at that time in the morning."

"That's too bad. Let's hope someone will come forward after they hear about it on the news. You contacted all the local media,
did you, Evans?"

"Yes sir. All done. It will be on this evening's news and in tomorrow's papers."

"Good man. Well, I can report that forensics are getting along nicely. They've located the bullet. Dug it out of the wall."

"Out of the wall?" Evan blurted out.

"That's right. It went in through one side of the head and out the other apparently. This is particularly lucky because now
they can work on an exact trajectory and be able to tell us where it was fired from. The ballistics chap is inclined to go
along with our theory of firing through the open window, by the way."

Evan thought he remembered that Bragg had discounted that theory when he presented it. Now, suddenly, it had become "our"
theory.

"What about fingerprints?" he asked.

"They've finished dusting for fingerprints, and there is one set of prints we can't yet identify. I suspect it will turn out
to be the cleaning lady's because they are all over the house."

"What about on the window latch?" Evan asked.

"Nothing. Just his and hers."

"Maybe the killer wore gloves," Evan suggested.

"You can't shoot very well in gloves. He'd have had to take them off to fire the gun."

"Unless they were latex. I expect you can shoot just as well in those," Sergeant Wingate said.

"True. In which case he departed wearing them. We didn't find any in the rubbish bin. And you didn't find any dumped in the
bushes outside, did you?"

"No sir. Nothing dumped in the bushes. The whole garden is meticulously neat."

"What about the cartridge?" Evan asked. "If the shot really was fired through the window, wouldn't the cartridge have been
ejected outside?"

"Again, unless he looked for it and took it with him," Wingate said.

"A thoughtful, well-organized murderer." Bragg said the words slowly. "Maybe we can start to put together a profile. What
have we got so far?"

"He must have observed the Rogers's morning routine," Evan said. "He knew when Mrs. Rogers left to walk the dog. He knew Professor
Rogers sat at the window to eat his breakfast and that the window was likely to be open."

"So a carefully planned crime. Nothing impulsive about it."

"And someone who knew the victim," Wingate added, "ruling out any kind of burglary or home invasion."

"Right." Bragg looked up as two members of the forensic team came out to the van. One of them came up to the detectives.

"We're off for a bite of lunch," he said. "We should have you cleared to move the body this afternoon. We'll schedule the
morgue pickup and the clean-up crew so that the widow can use her kitchen again by tonight. I don't suppose she'll want to
make herself a cup of tea with blood spatters on the walls."

"So we're definitely dealing with a homicide?" Bragg said. "No possibility that he shot himself?"

"Blew his brains out and then went to dispose of the weapon?" the technician said with a chuckle.

"The wife could have disposed of the weapon."

"And why would she do that?"

"She was ashamed that her husband killed himself?" Bragg suggested.

"Usually it would be the other way around. They kill somebody and then stick the gun into his hand to make it look like suicide.
But no, in this case the victim was definitely shot by someone standing about six to eight feet away. Small-caliber weapon."

"Will you have any way of knowing if the bullet was fired from an antique weapon? The one missing from the collection?"

The technician shrugged. "You'll have to ask Freeman; he's the ballistics expert. But judging by the imprint left on the velvet
in that drawer, the missing gun looked identical to the dueling pistol beside it. And that would be logical, wouldn't it?
You always had dueling pistols in pairs-one for each party." He grinned. "And if my memory serves me correctly, they didn't
fire bullets in those days but round balls. Whether they could be adapted to fire modern bullets, I don't know. As I said,
ask Freeman. I have to go now, or Huw will leave without me. He's like a madman if he doesn't get his nosh on time."

He didn't wait for an answer but ran to hoist himself into the rapidly reversing van.

The woman police constable appeared at the front door. "It's past lunchtime, and I really think Mrs. Rogers should have something
to eat," she said. "Is it okay to take her to a café? They're still working in the kitchen, and the body's still there."

"That's fine with me," Bragg said. "Take her out if she'll go. It might be a good thing. You could try chatting to her in
the car and see if she opens up at all. I get the feeling she knows or suspects more than she's letting on. Someone must have
hated her husband enough to have wanted him dead. It might even have been her."

"Oh surely not, sir," the WPC said. "She's in shock, poor woman. Ashen gray."

"Not exactly showing grief though, is she? Or surprise? When we opened that drawer and saw a gun was missing, I was watching
her face. No surprise registered at all. It was almost as if she knew it wouldn't be there."

"But why on earth would she want to murder her husband?" the WPC asked.

"That's what we've got to find out."

DI Bragg showed no indication of wanting to take a lunch break, and Evan silently thanked Glynis again for the gyro. When
Pritchard and Wingate muttered about needing at least a cup of coffee, Bragg relented and sent Pritchard off for fast food.

"Bunch of pansies," Bragg said. "Obviously never been through army training."

"Oh, so you served in the army, did you, sir?" Wingate asked, giving Evan a knowing look.

"I did. Seven years. Saw action in Kuwait and then in Bosnia. I tell you boys, I've seen stuff that would make your hair curl.
There's no crime you'll encounter here to compare with some of the attrocities I've seen."

That explained a lot, Evan thought. He tried to think more kindly of DI Bragg. Anyone who had seen atrocities in Bosnia would
have to have come back a changed man.

"Right, don't hang about here doing nothing. Just because someone's gone on a food run, doesn't mean the rest of us can take
a break. Evans, you can drive. We're going to talk to the charwoman. Wingate, you can see if the gardener's home. He only
lives around the corner."

"Anything particular you want me to ask him, sir?" Wingate asked innocently.

"Use your initiative man," Bragg snapped. "I presume you must have shown some resourcefulness in the past or you wouldn't
have been promoted to sergeant."

"Right you are, sir." Wingate set off.

Evan suspected that Wingate was going to get his kicks by baiting their senior officer. While it might be amusing to watch,
it made for an atmosphere of tension and that would be no way to work in the long run. It was probably as Sergeant Jones in
Caernarfon had suggested-they were jostling for pecking order at the moment, testing each other's strengths and weaknesses.