Authors: Rhys Bowen

Evan's Gate (10 page)

BOOK: Evan's Gate

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“Don’t be such a pessimist, Bill,” Watkins said.

“Well, can you see the Moscow police sending him back to us to be prosecuted? Or making him give up his own kid when he’s the rightful father?” the sergeant asked.

“That doesn’t mean we don’t try.” Glynis frowned at him. “And even if he’s the father, that doesn’t mean he has the right to take her out of the country without his spouse’s permission, unless he has been granted sole custody, which we don’t know yet.”

“I’m just saying they might not see the law the same way we do,” the sergeant said. “In many societies the father is the only one with rights, isn’t it? They keep their women in their place at home, not running around like they do here.” He shot a glance at Howell Jones, the other sergeant, and it was obvious that the barb was aimed directly at Glynis.

“Not in Russia,” she said evenly. “In Russia women drive tanks and bulldozers, remember.”

Evan grinned to himself.

“I don’t think it’s up to us to make any decision.” Watkins cut short the discussion before it turned ugly. “Once we hand the information over to NCIS and the Foreign Office, it’s their headache, isn’t it? We’ve done our bit. Glynis?”

“Don’t say it—you want me to contact the NCIS for you. All right.” She picked up her pen and added another item to the list in front of her, then looked up as another thought struck her. “And isn’t there some kind of missing child database? We should definitely get her on that.”

“On the computer, you mean?” Watkins asked.

“All right. Me again.” Glynis laughed. “I don’t know whether to feel flattered or like the general dogsbody.”

“But you’re so quick at these things. It would take Evan and me half a day to turn the bloody thing on.” He got to his feet, nodding in satisfaction. “That should give us enough to get on with, shouldn’t it? Let’s meet back here at four this afternoon. That gives us all plenty of time to do what we have to.”

“And what exactly will you be doing, sir?” Evan asked.

“Me? I’m supervising, coordinating, and I might pay Mrs. Sholokhov another visit too. Just in case there is something she’s remembered or hasn’t told us. And I’m bearing responsibility on my shoulders, so none of your cheek. Got it?”

“Oh, yes sir, absolutely.” Evan and Glynis exchanged a grin as they left the room.

“Glynis, do you know how one goes about contacting media?”
Evan asked as they came out into the hallway. “I haven’t a clue how to start.”

“Don’t ask me, I’m already doing nine-tenths of the work,” she said. “Check the Yellow Pages. Look up newspapers, call the radio and TV companies. That should do it.”

“Right.” Evan went to find a telephone with a sinking feeling in his stomach. He had never had a good relationship with phones—probably a phobia inherited from his mother, who still held a phone six inches from her head and yelled into it. He started off with the news desk at BBC Wales. The person who took the information spoke Welsh and seemed so interested and concerned that Evan then felt confident enough to tackle the English television channels and major newspapers. All promised to run something on their regional news and on national if they could fit it in. It was a good start, and Evan felt rather pleased with himself. This was such new territory for him.

He located the D.I. in the cafeteria, finishing up a cheese-and-tomato roll and a cup of what might have been either tea or coffee. It was hard to tell in the cafeteria. Evan was tempted to make a quip about relaxing on the job but decided against it. He and Watkins had developed a good working relationship and even a friendship when Watkins had been a sergeant. Now he was an inspector, and Evan had to remind himself that the dynamics had changed. He got himself a cup of tea and a beef-and-pickle sandwich and brought them to Watkins’s table.

“If you say anything about me slacking off while you’re run off your feet, you’re fired,” Watkins said cheerfully.

“The thought never crossed my mind,” Evan said, pulling out a chair beside the inspector. “I just wanted to tell you that I’ve pretty much covered the media. Channel Pedwar C is going to do a piece on it tonight. They’re sending up a cameraman and a reporter, and they’d like you to call them and let them know when they can meet you at the caravan park.”

“Excellent,” Watkins said. “Local television exposure. Couldn’t be better.”

“And I’ve got promises from all the big boys in London that they’ll try and squeeze it into their newscasts—at least the regional ones.”

“Well done. We’ll have you as our media consultant before you know it.”

“If I’m your media consultant, do you want me to come along for your TV spot today?”

“To coach me on what to say?”

“To check your makeup.” Evan grinned.

“Cheeky bugger. I’ll have you search that mountain again if you’re not careful.”

“So what would you like me to do now?” Evan asked.

“I don’t suppose you can give Glynis a hand, can you?”

Evan made a face as he took a sip of his tea. “You know my computer skills are about as good as yours. I’d be more of a hindrance than a help, I think.”

“You’re going to have to learn how to do it sometime,” Watkins said, “but I agree this isn’t the moment. Speed is of the essence, isn’t it? We want this bloke found and brought in before he finds a way to skip the country.”

“Remember to ask the mother for details of Ashley’s medication when you see her today,” Evan said.

Watkins nodded. “Good point. And that’s something else you can ask them to mention on the TV broadcasts, isn’t it? They like the human drama angle, don’t they? Little transplant victim’s life could be in danger unless she’s found straightaway. Makes it more newsworthy somehow. You can give the media that tidbit when I’ve got the facts straight from the mother.”

“Right,” Evan said, not relishing the prospect of repeating all those phone calls.

Watkins took a last bite of roll, scattering grated cheese over his plate, then got to his feet, brushing crumbs from his raincoat. “I’m off then for my TV spot and my next grilling of Mrs. S.” He paused and looked back at Evan. “Was this supposed to be one of your days off, too?”

Evan nodded.

“Why don’t you take a couple of hours to yourself then? I won’t need you before four, only take your mobile along this time, just in case something comes up, okay?”

“Okay. Thanks. As it happens, I’ve got something I’m dying to do.”

“Take a nap?”

“No, dig out a sewer line,” Evan said, with a smile.

The weather was fast deteriorating again as Evan made his way up the mountain track, clutching a spade. For the first time he reconsidered Mr. Pilcher’s thoughts on not finding the view so thrilling when he had to stagger home with groceries. Of course they’d have a car, wouldn’t they? Bronwen wouldn’t have to carry the shopping up from the road on foot. But they only had one car, and he’d need it to drive to work. Possible complication ahead. He brushed it from his mind and set about attacking the task in hand.

There was a low stone wall around the cottage, and the previous occupants had made some attempt at starting a garden. It hadn’t been too successful, given the exposed setting and the fact that it had been a holiday cottage and they had only shown up sporadically. There were a couple of good-sized bushes growing by the front gate. There had been roses along the house walls, but the fire had wiped them out. Still, the beds had been dug and it was a start. He stood at the gate, picturing the finished product—the beds a mass of blooms, a small kitchen garden at the rear, new roses climbing over the front door. He had never done much gardening himself, having lived in a terraced house in a city for most of his life, but Bronwen loved to garden and possessed a green thumb. If anyone could make a go of this, she could.

The first spatters of rain in his face reminded him that he’d better get on if he wanted to dig out the sewer line today. He had seen the septic tank on the plans, and he knew that the sewer and water lines pretty much followed the front path. That involved
taking out flagstones before he started. He put his spade under the first of them and prized it up. Then the next. He was red faced and soaked in sweat by the time the front path was only dark earth and the flagstones were stacked in a neat pile beside the gate. In spite of the rain, which was falling quite steadily now, he took off his jacket and placed it under the large bush. Then he picked up the spade and started to dig. The soil was heavy and wet and each spadeful came away with a loud sucking sound. He realized that his plan to dig this whole thing out in one afternoon was maybe a little ambitious, but he had no idea when he’d get any more free time while the missing child case was ongoing. He dug down six inches, then another six, and still hadn’t located any lines. At last he felt the chink of something solid as his spade cut through the earth and met resistance.

“Finally,” he said, and dug more carefully. The last thing he wanted to do was damage either line. He bent to scrape away the earth from around what was probably the waterline. To his horror, what he took for the pipe moved and a piece of it came away in his hands. He found he was standing there, holding a long, thin bone.

More careful scraping revealed more bones. It could be anything, he decided—a sheep that had died, even a former shepherd’s favorite sheepdog. Then he came upon the shoe.

Chapter 10

“Where’s the fire then, Evan
bach?
” Charlie Hopkins shouted as Evan came running down the track and almost passed him without a word.

“Not a fire, Charlie,” Evan paused, gasping for breath. “I’ve just found a skeleton outside my cottage. I’ve called my inspector and he’s on his way, but he told me to tape off the area, just in case.”

“A skeleton, outside Rhrodri’s old cottage, you say? A human skeleton, do you mean?”

“That’s exactly what I mean, Charlie.”

“
Escob annwyl!
Now who could that be, I wonder?”

“I’ve no idea. I didn’t like to unearth any more, once I saw what had to be a shoe.”

“I don’t recall anybody dying and not getting a proper burial, and old Rhodri’s wife died in the hospital so we know he didn’t knock her off on the quiet, although I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had, miserable old witch that she was.”

“I think this might have been a child,” Evan said. “It was only a little shoe.”

“I only recall the one child up there—old Rhodri only had the one daughter on account of his wife dying young—and she’s still going strong, so it must have been before my time.” Charlie
slapped Evan on the back. “With your luck, boyo, you’ll find that it’s a listed skeleton—probably some ancient Celt, sacrificed by the Druids, and you’ll have archaeologists digging up your entire front yard forever more.” He gave one of his wheezy laughs that turned into a cough.

“Don’t say that!” Evan exclaimed. “Besides, it can’t be that old because it’s above the waterline, and I don’t imagine the cottage has had running water that long, has it?”

“No, it was only put in about seventy-eight or seventy-nine, if I remember rightly. They got some kind of government money for rural water and electrification. My mother’s family on Anglesey had been getting their water from the pump at the bottom of the hill all their lives. You’d have thought they’d have been happy to have the water laid on but my old
nain
said she didn’t trust the tap water. At least she knew that her pump came from her own spring and not from water that somebody’s sheep might have peed in.”

Evan laughed. “Some people just don’t like change,” he said. “But I can’t stand talking, Charlie. I’ve got to get the area taped before the boss shows up, or I’m in trouble.”

In fact he was just tying off the last of the yellow tape across the gate when he saw a white incident van coming up the pass at a speed that was definitely exceeding the limit. It stopped outside the small police station, which had been closed since Evan went into plainclothes training.

Evan saw D.I. Watkins get out, plus a tall, red-haired man he recognized as a forensic tech.

“Up here!” he shouted, indicating the track, and watched them struggling up the slick, steep surface.

“You want to actually live up here?” Watkins gasped, as he reached Evan on the bluff. “You want to walk up and down this bloody mountain every time you run out of milk?”

“It will keep me fit, Sarge—I mean sir,” Evan said.

“All right, show me what you’ve got, and it better be good, boyo.” Watkins looked around him. “Because I’ve had to postpone
my television appearance thanks to you. If you hadn’t been so bloody insistent, I’d never have come, not when we’re in the middle of an important case like this.”

“It’s over here, just inside the gate.” Evan led the way. “I didn’t like to dig it out, without permission, but I think it’s another child. That could be significant, don’t you think?”

He pointed down at the trench he had dug. “See—right there. That’s a child’s foot, isn’t it?”

Watkins squatted and poked the object gingerly. “Certainly looks that way,” Watkins said. “What do you think, Lloyd?”

“Looks that way to me, too,” the tech replied.

Watkins stood up again and looked at Evan. “So are you suggesting there might be a connection with our missing child?”

“I’m suggesting we find out who this was and how long he or she’s been here,” Evan said.

“If the body’s already down to a skeleton, then some time, I’d imagine,” Watkins said. “What do you think, Lloyd?”

“No way of knowing.” The young man gave an unconcerned shrug as if the object in the trench had been nothing more than a discarded cigarette packet. “Could be two years, could be twenty-two or forty-two,” Lloyd said. “I’d prefer not to touch it, myself. I’m trained in crime scene techniques, but you really need a forensic anthropologist for something this old. He’d know what to look for. I’d be scared of disturbing evidence.”

“Where do we find a forensic anthropologist?” Evan asked. “Do the North Wales Police have one?”

“What do you think we are, the bloody Met?” Watkins demanded. “But I seem to remember that there is one on call from the university in Bangor.”

Lloyd nodded. “Some bloke from the university came out a couple of years ago when we found some bones down an old well. It’s wonderful what they can do. He’ll probably be able to tell you exactly how old this body is and how the kid died—all that sort of stuff.”

“However old it is, we’ve definitely got a crime scene, haven’t
we?” Evan asked, staring down at the little foot with growing unease. “And I think we should act quickly, sir. It’s just possible that it wasn’t Ashley’s father who snatched her, but someone who’s taken a child before.”

“But this could have lain here for years. It could have been a child who died from natural causes, and they were too poor to pay for a funeral. They did that kind of thing in the old days, didn’t they?”

“In the old days, yes.” Evan continued to stare at the foot. “But I’ve been digging out this trench to locate the waterline and I haven’t reached it yet, so apparently this child was put here after the line was connected, which makes it less than twenty-five years ago.”

“You’re suggesting that someone stole a little kid, killed him or her, and then buried the body inside this cottage gate? Why would anyone do that when there are miles of wild mountains he could have chosen? Look up there. Mile after mile of opportunity to dig a grave where nobody would see it. No, there has to be a reason for the skeleton being here. Who owned the cottage before those yuppie English people?”

“An old man called Rhodri was still living here when I came to the area, and I got the feeling he’d been the shepherd up here for most of his life.”

“Is he still alive?”

“As far as I know. He went to live with his daughter in Bangor. That would be easy enough to check out.”

“Right. You can do that, then.” Watkins stood up and brushed off his hands. “Only, let’s hold back until we’ve got some kind of accurate dating from our university bloke. If the bones are more than a few years old, they won’t have anything to do with our current investigation, so we can put them on hold for a while. Our number one task is to find a missing child.”

He turned to the forensic tech, who was fishing in his anorak pocket for a cigarette. “Lloyd, can you get me in touch with the
anthropologist chap? Tell him I’d like him up here as soon as possible—could be important.”

“Right, sir,” Lloyd shoved the cigarette packet back into the pocket. “And you presumably want the site protected from the elements until it’s been gone over?”

“Yes, we’d better. And I’ve still got to get myself down to the caravan park to meet the mother and the reporter before our team meeting at four. I’ll be interested to see what Constable Davies has come up with in the meantime.”

“Probably solved the whole case single-handed,” Evan quipped.

“I suspect you’re jealous because she can work the computer and you can’t,” Watkins said with a grin. “Well, don’t just stand there, Lloyd. Get cracking. I want that anthropologist up here ASAP.”

He set off down the mountain at a great rate. Evan watched his back with interest. When Watkins had been a sergeant, he’d been easygoing and matey. Now that he was an inspector and running the show, he was metamorphosing before Evan’s eyes into another D.C.I. Hughes. Evan put on a spurt to catch up with him. “That skeleton. It’s not anyone from around here, at least during living memory. Old Charlie Hopkins—you remember Charlie from the pub, don’t you? The one with the missing teeth—he says he can’t think of anybody from the village who died and wasn’t given a proper burial.”

“Could be donkey’s years old.”

“But what about the water pipe?”

“Maybe you just missed it. It’s easy enough to do—a couple of inches too far to the right or left.”

“So you really think I should wait to check out the former shepherd until the anthropologist has had a chance to date the bones?” Evan asked.

“Seems like a lot of extra work for nothing if we find the remains are fifty years old.”

“It looked like a modern shoe, didn’t it? Like a trainer?”

“Hard to tell until they’ve washed all the mud and muck away.
It wasn’t a Victorian boot or anything, that’s for sure, but I don’t think kid’s shoes have changed that much during my lifetime.”

Evan stood and watched as D.I. Watkins prepared to get back into the police van. “So you don’t need me until the meeting at four?” he asked. “Then maybe I should keep an eye on the site until someone shows up.”

“Yes, you could do that,” Watkins agreed. “And if we can get the anthropologist up here, you can give him a hand. You might learn something.” He opened the van door. “Come on, Lloyd. I haven’t got all day.”

“Hang on, sir. They’ve just gone to look up the anthropologist’s number for me,” Lloyd called back, maintaining his balance with one outstretched arm as he came down the mountain with the mobile phone close to his cheek. “Right. Okay, go ahead.” He had stopped and scribbled down a number. “Good. Got it then. Cheers, mate.”

He came running down the rest of the way to the van. “I’ve got a number here. Do you want me to call or do you want to do it yourself?”

“You can do the calling while I drive,” Watkins said. “I’ve got a lot to fit into a short time this afternoon. If anyone’s caught speeding, it better be me.”

The van took off, scattering gravel. Evan watched it go then made his way back up the hill to the grave site. He was glad that Watkins hadn’t required him to do something else because he was feeling strangely protective about that little grave. Someone’s poor child was buried there, maybe a child who had gone missing like Ashley—a child the police had never managed to find. But that was stupid, wasn’t it? Inspector Watkins had to be right—nobody would have chosen to bury a child inside a cottage garden when there was a whole mountain range to do it in. He couldn’t wait to talk to the old shepherd, and he couldn’t rule out that English couple either. It would be worth checking whether any children had vanished from the region where they had their home in England.

An hour passed and no policeman appeared to guard the site, so Evan used the time to dig out more of the trench, well away from the little grave. He located where the water pipe emerged from the house and began to dig it out, hoping to find the sewer pipe beneath it. But he couldn’t concentrate on the digging. That little foot and leg bone had strangely affected him. He couldn’t shake off the sense of urgency that nagged at him and the fear that this could be happening to Ashley at this very moment somewhere in these mountains.

He squatted beside the open grave and stared down. That really was a little shoe he was looking at, wasn’t it? He bent and carefully scraped away some of the mud.

“Hey, what are you doing?” A woman’s voice behind him made him almost lose his balance and fall into the hole.

He righted himself and looked up to see a young woman in jeans and a Harvard sweatshirt staring at him. She had a fresh face, free of any makeup, freckles, and a light brown ponytail.
An American student, obviously,
he thought, and got to his feet. “I’m sorry, miss, but this area’s off-limits at the moment. See the crime scene tape? Now if you’d just move away.”

“I can see the crime scene tape,” the girl said, “but I thought its purpose was to keep people out.”

“It is.”

“Then why were you messing around, touching things?”

“Because I’m a police officer, miss. A detective constable.”

BOOK: Evan's Gate

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