Authors: Rhys Bowen
Evan's Gate (15 page)
Hugh gave her a warning frown. “Really, Suzanne, this is neither the time nor the place. You obviously haven’t learned to conquer these childish outbursts. I’m sorry, Inspector. Please proceed.”
Evan noticed that she flushed bright red and continued to glare at her father.
“I don’t have your name and address yet, sir.” Watkins addressed Hugh, who seemed unaffected by the encounter.
“Hugh Bosley-Thomas. I live in Buckinghamshire. West Wyckham—the Old Grange.”
“And you are the father of these two?”
“Yes, and I was once the father of three. Sarah’s father.” He pressed his lips together to master himself.
“Yes. I’m sorry. It must be horrible for you having to go through this again,” Watkins said.
“Better to know for sure than not to know,” Grandfather Thomas said. “Let’s hope it is her, so that we can get her properly buried and start mourning.”
“Mourning? You don’t think we’ve been mourning all these years?” Hugh demanded.
Evan glanced at Watkins, sensing the tension rising around the dining table.
“We’ll only keep you another minute; then you can get back to your coffee,” Watkins said. “But I suppose I should get details on you too, sir.” He addressed the old man. “Are you Mr. Bosley-Thomas too?”
“Plain old Thomas. Tomos Thomas to be exact. It was my boy here who went posh on me and started hyphenating his name.”
“So the Bosley is your wife’s maiden name?” Watkins turned back to Hugh.
Hugh flushed a frown of annoyance. “My mother’s maiden name. I thought it only fair to honor her, too, since she came from such an old family.”
“Ah.” Watkins smiled as he jotted it down. He looked across the table. “That leaves these two gentlemen over here.”
“We’re the cousins. Our father was Uncle Hugh’s younger brother,” Val said. “Unfortunately, he passed away a couple of years ago.”
“And your name, sir?”
“I’m Val. Short for Valentine. Bloody awful name to give a son, wouldn’t you say?”
“And is it Bosley-Thomas too?”
“No, just plain Val Thomas. I’m an artist and I live in Hampstead Village. I too have a card somewhere in my jacket pocket.” He fished around and produced one with bold black words on a design in red and yellow.
“And last but not least,” Nick said, smiling affably, “I am Nicholas Thomas. Don’t say it—the same as a character in a children’s book, I know. I never lived that down at boarding school.”
“Presumably you are Fr. Nicholas Thomas these days, unless dog collars are the latest fashion,” Watkins said.
Evan shot a quick look at him. Watkins attempting to be witty? That was new, too. He remembered the prosaic sergeant and wondered if attempting witticisms was part of the training in inspector classes.
Nick laughed good-naturedly. “No, I don’t go in for fashion statements. I am a Catholic priest, much to the horror of my Methodist grandfather here, no doubt. And I live in Montreal.”
“And where can we reach you while you’re in this country?”
“As of now at the Everest Inn, but then I’ll probably be staying with my mother in Surrey. You can contact me through Val if you need me.”
“Right. Thanks very much. I think that’s all we need for now. Sorry to have intruded on Sunday lunch.” Watkins snapped his notebook shut. “I don’t know what time the forensic anthropologist will be able to meet with us tomorrow, but I’ll keep you posted and try to speed this up as much as possible. Are you all staying at the Everest Inn if I need to contact you?”
“I am staying here with grandfather,” Henry said. “The rest are dispersed.”
“I’m at a hotel in Llandudno. The Majestic,” Hugh said. “One of the few comfortable beds in this godforsaken place.”
“Nick and I are at the Everest Inn, also known for its comfortable beds,” Val said, giving Watkins his charming smile.
“And I am in a grotty B and B in Porthmadog,” Suzanne said. “The Seaview Hotel.”
“Right. That just about does it then. Thanks again, folks. Come on, Evans.”
Evan had been standing unnoticed behind the inspector. The scene was painfully reminiscent of those childhood summers when he had stood by the fence, watching them, willing them to invite
him to come and play. Now, all these years later, he was still the outsider and wondered why on earth Watkins had bothered to bring him along since he had hardly been allowed to say a word.
him to come and play. Now, all these years later, he was still the outsider and wondered why on earth Watkins had bothered to bring him along since he had hardly been allowed to say a word.
“Good-bye then,” he said to the group. “Nice seeing you again.”
Before he could reach the front door, he heard Suzanne’s high, light voice. “Why do you think they were here?”
“The inspector told us.” Hugh’s lazy, upper-class drawl. “They had to get our particulars so they can contact us if needed.”
Evan lingered with his hand on the front door latch.
“They could have just sent Evans if all they wanted was our names and addresses. There is more to it than that. They know something they haven’t told us.”
Val said, “Such as what?” at the same time as Henry said, “Don’t be so bloody melodramatic, Suzanne.”
“Perhaps they’ve found out who killed Sarah,” she said.
“They were as jumpy as a bunch of grasshoppers, weren’t they?” Watkins muttered, as Evan closed the door behind him.
“Definitely rattled,” Evan agreed.
They headed for the car. Watkins opened the driver’s door this time and got in.“You know them,” Watkins said, “so what did you think?”
“I knew them twenty-five years ago when they were kids.”
“So you didn’t have any suspicions about any of them in those days.”
“You mean wondering whether any of them might have killed Sarah?”
Watkins nodded.
“Never crossed my mind,” Evan said. “I was a kid too, remember. When you’re seven years old, you take people at face value. They were perfectly normal—Henry was always a bit pompous. When we played, he was very big on rules. Suzanne was always getting upset and saying that other people were cheating and it wasn’t fair. Val often did try to cheat, and Nick was just as you saw him today, always willing to do what the others wanted.”
“That’s pretty much how they came across now, wasn’t it? The girl is a bit highly strung, wouldn’t you say?”
“But that doesn’t mean that she’d be bonkers enough to kill her younger sister. And she wouldn’t have had the strength to carry her over a mountain and down the other side and then bury her.
Besides, none of them would have had the opportunity. If any of them had been missing for that long, they’d have been noticed.”
Besides, none of them would have had the opportunity. If any of them had been missing for that long, they’d have been noticed.”
“Then why are they so bloody jumpy?” Watkins demanded.
“It may just be that they are dreading seeing her skeleton and trying to identify her. It’s like opening old wounds, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I can’t say I’d want to go through that, not after all these years. They’ve probably just about managed to put her out of their minds.”
“Maybe. I bet they still dream about her,” Evan said.
“You know one thing that’s interesting.” Watkins started the car and turned on the circle of gravel before accelerating down the driveway. “Suzanne is staying in Porthmadog.”
“Yes, I did notice that,” Evan said. “But then Val and Nick are at the Everest Inn. It’s only a short drive down Nantgwynant to the coast from there, isn’t it?”
Watkins laughed suddenly and shook his head. “This is stupid, isn’t it? There would be no reason for any of them to have driven to a caravan park on a deserted beach and just happen upon another child who looked like Sarah the moment her mother’s back was turned.”
“It does seem rather far-fetched when you put it like that,” Evan said. “In fact, now that I’ve had a chance to see them again, I really can’t believe any of them were involved in Sarah’s death, or Ashley’s disappearance.”
“You’re the one who made the connection in the first place. You’re the one who dragged me out here.”
“I know, because it seemed like too much of a connection to ignore; but now that I think about it, they all adored Sarah. She was that sort of little kid—everybody’s darling.”
“Everybody’s darling usually means that somebody’s nose is out of joint,” Watkins commented dryly.
Evan’s thoughts went immediately to Suzanne. He remembered her standing, hands on hips, lips pouting, shouting, “It’s not fair!” “If it’s okay with you, sir, I might just check on their movements
since they arrived here,” Evan said. “After all, they were jumpy like you said.”
since they arrived here,” Evan said. “After all, they were jumpy like you said.”
Watkins slapped his hand against the steering wheel. “I just wish we could find bloody Johnny Sholokhov and know whether he’d got his daughter or not. If she’s safe and sound with him, then a twenty-five-year-old skeleton can wait. If she’s not—” He let the rest of the sentence hang in the air.
“Maybe one of the leads will pan out,” Evan said. “The ones we called sounded quite hopeful. And if he’s hiding with her somewhere, he can’t stay hidden forever.”
“It’s the waiting I hate most in this bloody game,” Watkins said. “I don’t mind when I feel I’m doing something, but I hate it when it’s out of my hands. Knowing that I’m at the mercy of some bloody petty civil servant in London who is probably sitting on his arse picking his spots or filling in his football pools—that’s what drives me up the wall.”
“One of us could go to London,” Evan suggested. “Maybe we’d find out more if we talked to the landlady and Sholokhov’s friends, and his lawyer too, if they were in the process of getting a divorce.”
“It makes you wonder why he’s done a bunk now if the divorce wasn’t final, doesn’t it?” Watkins tapped his fingers on the steering wheel as he drove. “Why take the kid now, at this very moment? Why not wait until he’s absolutely sure that he won’t be awarded custody?”
“Something might have pushed him to get out of the country in a hurry,” Evan suggested.
Watkins nodded. “You’re right. Something not even connected with his daughter, but he can’t bear to leave without her. Yes, I think you and I will try to take a little trip to the big city this week. We can leave young Glynis to hold the fort—since she’s the only one who can use computers and speak to foreigners anyway.” He exchanged a grin with Evan.
“And neither of us would trust ourselves on an overnight trip with her?” Evan added.
“Speak for yourself, boyo. I’m a happily married man. I gave up temptation long ago when I learned about DIY and putting in shelves.”
The game was called capture the castle. The moment Evan showed them the rocks, it became their game of choice that summer. The large granite boulders littered the summit of a small peak behind the house, and the peak itself was crowned with a fissured rock that imagination easily turned into a castle. The game was a variant of hide-and-seek. One person took possession of the castle. The others had to sneak up the hillside, dodging from boulder to boulder. The first person to get to the castle without being tagged was the winner.
Evan remembered the utterly delicious thrill of lying with his face pressed to the mossy rock, hearing footsteps coming closer, holding his breath, and then letting out a sigh of relief as he wasn’t spotted and sprinted triumphantly to the castle. He was good at the game and often won, so that if they played in teams, he was fought over. It was a great ego boost that they would now come to his front door to ask if he could play with them, rather than the other way around.
But he still hadn’t gone on a fairy-hunting expedition with Sarah. Even though they now included him in their play, they certainly weren’t going to let Sarah go off alone into the hills with him. That didn’t stop Sarah from asking him questions at any opportunity she got. She would lag behind as the big boys scrambled up the hillside and call out to Evan to pull her up.
He also remembered the thrill as he took her hand.
It was five-thirty when Evan finally drove back to Llanfair. He had spent the rest of the afternoon checking out reported sightings that had come in as a result of the Sunday morning newspapers. After a couple of hours of phone calls, Evan was convinced that people had too much time on their hands on Sundays, also that too many people harbored secret prejudices against foreigners. One phone call after another found him talking to someone, and it could equally be a woman or a man, mostly older, who was
reporting the man upstairs or the man across the street because he looked foreign, sounded foreign, and was therefore suspicious. As in the morning, two hours of making phone calls resulted in a handful of leads worth following. Among these was a sighting in Yorkshire, which was interesting since Ashley’s mother gave her current address as Leeds. However, this was on the outskirts of Skipton, on the moors, well to the northwest of Leeds. A man resembling the picture had come into a village newsagents to ask for directions a couple of weeks ago. The newsagent had particularly remembered the Russian accent—just like in spy films on the telly.
reporting the man upstairs or the man across the street because he looked foreign, sounded foreign, and was therefore suspicious. As in the morning, two hours of making phone calls resulted in a handful of leads worth following. Among these was a sighting in Yorkshire, which was interesting since Ashley’s mother gave her current address as Leeds. However, this was on the outskirts of Skipton, on the moors, well to the northwest of Leeds. A man resembling the picture had come into a village newsagents to ask for directions a couple of weeks ago. The newsagent had particularly remembered the Russian accent—just like in spy films on the telly.
The fact that it was Yorkshire made this tip worth passing along to North Yorks Police, although the trail was now two weeks old. He could have come to Yorkshire to seek them out, and then found that they had gone to Wales. But surely he couldn’t have lost his way to the extent that he had driven past Leeds and wound up on the moors?
Who knew how people’s minds worked, Evan thought, as he drove home for the night. Perhaps Sholokhov had read
Wuthering Heights
in Russian and had taken off on a whim to see the landscape for himself? They needed to find out more about his personality, rather than blindly hunting for him.
Wuthering Heights
in Russian and had taken off on a whim to see the landscape for himself? They needed to find out more about his personality, rather than blindly hunting for him.
As Evan slowed the car to a halt, he noticed a stream of people making their way up the village street. For a moment he wondered what was wrong and where they could be going. Then he saw his former landlady, Mrs. Williams, in her Sunday hat, and realized that they were heading for evening chapel. He had completely forgotten that it was Sunday and was stricken with that pang of conscience that remains with those raised in strict, religious households throughout their lifetimes.
Mrs. Williams spotted the car and was standing, waiting for him, arms folded, as he opened the door.
“Don’t tell me they’ve made you work again on the Sabbath, is it?” she said, shaking her head. “What sort of heathen institution are they running, I’d like to know?”
“Crimes don’t take weekends off, Mrs. W.” He smiled at her.
“Well, I hope you’ve got time to change and make it to chapel tonight,” she said accusingly. “You missed a beautiful sermon this morning—lovely just, it was. The reverend was in fine form. About the camel going through the eye of the needle and it being so hard to get into heaven that almost nobody’s going to make it—except for us, of course. Those people who go to chapel regular on Sundays, I mean.” She gave him a reassuring smile. “And the music was very uplifting, I must say.” She paused and examined him critically. “You’re looking peaky these days. I hope you’re eating proper. You need to hurry up with that wedding so that Miss Price can look after you. Toad in the hole in the pub—whatever next?”
And she went on her way up the street, leaving Evan staring after her. The Llanfair telegraph was so impressive that she had even heard about the toad in the hole! The smile faded as a thought struck him. Even though it was twenty-five years ago now, was it possible that someone in Llanfair knew something about the skeleton buried outside Rhodri’s cottage?
Evan sighed and went indoors to get changed for chapel. There was only one way into the Red Dragon pub on Sunday nights, and that was to follow Harry-the-Pub in through the back door after chapel was over. Although almost the whole of Wales now officially allowed pubs to stay open on Sundays, Harry had bowed to pressure from the two ministers and their wives and at least kept the front door firmly closed. It was almost six by the time Evan had changed into a clean shirt and slacks. He hurried up the street to make it into Capel Bethel before the big double doors were shut, thus making it impossible to sneak in late without being heard. As he approached the two chapels, he heard an imperious voice calling him.
“Constable Evans!”
He didn’t need to look around to know that the voice belonged to Mrs. Powell-Jones, wife of the Reverend Powell-Jones, minister of Capel Beulah across the street—the one he didn’t attend.
“A word with you before you disappear into—that place,” she said, her voice loud and clear enough for all those now entering Capel Bethel to hear. She made the words “that place” sound like a strip club or the anteroom of hell.
Evan dutifully crossed the street. “Can I help you with something, Mrs. Powell-Jones?”
“You most certainly can, young man. I know you are no longer officially in charge of the welfare of this village, but you are still a policeman and you do still live among us. Now that we have nobody watching over us and those wretched squad cars never turn up when summoned, I have nobody else to go to.”
“Is something wrong?” he asked, and wished instantly that he hadn’t.
“Of course something is wrong. Tell me, am I not right in thinking there is an ordinance on the books against excessive noise on Sundays?”
“If it’s causing a nuisance.”
“It is causing an extreme nuisance,” she said. “Electric guitars. One of those dreadful pop groups.”
“There’s a pop group in the village? I didn’t know that.”
“Oh, yes. Dreadful loud heathen music desecrating the Sabbath, making it impossible for good Christians to worship. I tried calling your so-called police hot line, and they refused to do anything about it.”
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