Authors: Rhys Bowen

Evan's Gate (3 page)

BOOK: Evan's Gate

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A thin woman with bleached blonde hair was leaning against a white caravan, smoking a cigarette and staring out toward the ocean. She looked up as she heard them approaching and hastily stubbed out the cigarette under her heel. She was wearing jeans and a black imitation leather jacket tied tightly at the waist. She had a pale, pinched face, made paler by the blackness of the jacket, and her eyes darted nervously.

“Mrs. Sholokhov?” Watkins asked. He pronounced it cautiously, as Show-lock-off.

“Yeah? What do you want?”

“We’re from the North Wales Police,” Watkins began.

She grabbed at his sleeve, her eyes wild with fear. “Have you found her? Oh God, tell me she’s all right. Tell me it’s not bad news.”

Watkins prized her hand from his sleeve and patted it. “No, it’s not bad news. We haven’t found her yet—”

“Then what the hell are you doing back here again, worrying me?” she shouted. “You should be out there looking for her before it’s too late.” She spoke with a North of England accent, clipping the consonants and broadening the vowels.

“Hang on a minute,” D.I. Watkins raised his hand to calm her.
“Our men are still out there looking. We’re doing everything we can to find her quickly, so just calm down.”

“Sorry,” she said, pushing her straggly blonde hair back from her face, “but I’m going nearly out of my mind with worry.”

“I’m sure she’ll turn up safe and sound,” Evan said. “They nearly always do, you know.”

“I’ope so.” She was staring past them, out toward the sand dunes and the beach. Evan had now defined the accent as coming from east of the Pennines—Yorkshire not Lancashire.

“We’re from the Plainclothes Division,” Watkins said. “I’m Detective Inspector Watkins and this is Detective Constable Evans.”

Evan still got a rush of excitement when he heard those words. They had been so long in coming he had begun to believe he’d be stuck in the Llanfair subpolice station forever. But he had finally finished his training course and been assigned to shadow his old friend D.I. Watkins, much to his satisfaction.

“We came because we were given to understand that you thought someone might have taken your daughter.”

“I don’t know how she could have disappeared so sudden otherwise.” Her voice rose again. “I mean one minute she were there, next she were gone.”

“Is this where you’re staying?” Watkins asked, glancing up at the small caravan with peeling white paint. “Your van? Did you tow it here behind the car?”

“Not likely,” she said. “Bloody dump, isn’t it? But I wanted Ashley to get some sea air to strengthen her up again.” She put her hand to her mouth to stifle a sob. “Bloody stupid of me. Always doing the wrong thing.”

“Has your daughter been ill?” Evan asked gently.

“Didn’t they tell you? She’s had major heart surgery.”

“No. We haven’t been told anything much,” Watkins said. “Can we come inside and you can fill us in?”

“Right-o.” She opened the door and went up the steps ahead of them. The interior of the van was cramped with a pull-down table taking up most of the available space and the bed serving as
the seat on the far side of it. Big enough for a woman and a little girl, maybe, but not for two large policemen. Evan stood at the doorway and waited to see where D.I. Watkins would position himself. Watkins motioned Mrs. Sholokhov to the bed/bench on the far side and perched on a foldout chair. Evan continued to stand and took out his notebook.

“Now, why don’t you tell us what happened?” Watkins said.

“It were all so sudden,” the woman said. “The sun came out this morning so I took Ashley down to the beach for some fresh air. I’m trying to build her up again after being in hospital so long. She were playing nicely on the sand, so I just popped back to the van for a fag. She weren’t even out of my sight for thirty seconds. I went into the van, grabbed the pack of cigarettes, and then I glanced out of this window at the beach and I couldn’t see her. I ran back down to the beach and there was no sign of her. As I were running back through the dunes, I thought I heard a car engine start and take off. I ran back to the vans, but there was no sign of a car either.”

“Then what did you do?” Watkins asked.

“What did I do? What the hell do you think I did? I ran around like a crazy thing, yelling her name, knocking on caravan doors, stopping anybody I met and asking if they’d seen her.”

“When you left her on the beach this morning, was there anyone nearby?”

“The beach was almost empty,” she said. “There was a man walking his little white dog. I’ve seen him several times. Ashley liked the dog, even though she’s not supposed to get near pets on account of her allergies. Then there were a couple of boys throwing stones into the waves, but they were a good way off and there was someone fishing way down toward whatever that place is called—Criccieth. Oh, and an old couple walked past a few minutes before I left her, but that were about all, I think.”

“And what about on the caravan site? Did you find many people?”

“It’s almost empty at this time of year, isn’t it? There’s a couple
of hippie types who live here year-round. One is an artist—or at least he calls himself an artist. He makes sculptures out of old junk. The site owner has warned him to clear them up. Bloody eyesore, that’s what they are. He were outside, working, but he said he hadn’t seen anybody. There was a foreign couple—German, I think, in the big yellow van at the end, and then the site owner was in her office. None of them had seen anything.”

“What about heard anything?” Evan asked, wondering as soon as he’d spoken whether he was supposed to be butting in.

“Like what? Screams or something?” she asked.

“I meant the car engine you said you’d heard. None of them saw or heard a car go past?”

“I don’t know if I asked about that. I was half out of my mind with worry. I probably didn’t even make sense.”

“Then you called the police?” Watkins asked.

“The park owner called for me. I have to say they got here really quickly, and they were very nice. A policewoman stayed with me and asked me questions while the men went door to door and searched the beach.”

Watkins consulted his notes. “And came up with nothing.”

She nodded. “It’s like she was snatched from the sky. It just doesn’t seem real.”

“How old is your little girl, exactly, Mrs. Sholokhov?” Evan asked.

“Just turned five.”

“Has she ever hidden from you for fun?” Evan went on. “I know I used to do that when I was little—scared the daylights out of my mother a couple of times.”

Watkins glanced up at him. “She wouldn’t keep hiding for three hours, Evans.”

“Not intentionally, but I was wondering if maybe she ran off and then got lost or fell asleep among the dunes or got caught on brambles under a hedge or even got caught under a caravan—there’s all sorts of possibilities.”

“Our men worked over the caravan park pretty well,” Watkins
said, “and I believe the dog units are still out, going along the dunes. But if you say you only left her for thirty seconds, she couldn’t have run far in that time, could she? Five-year-old kids don’t have very long legs.”

“And she were quite happily playing on the sand when I left her, or I’d never have gone.”

Watkins got to his feet. “Let’s go down and take a look at the exact spot, shall we, Mrs. Sholokhov?” he said.

“It all looks the same,” she said angrily. “There’s nothing to see, only bloody sand.”

They climbed down the rickety steps and took the path through the dunes to the long expanse of flat, sandy beach. It was now completely deserted, although Evan could make out a chequered police cap farther along the dunes. He stared up and down the beach. No waves to speak of, just a gentle lapping as the tide came in. Certainly nothing big enough to sweep a child out to sea.

Watkins must have been echoing his thoughts. “Was the tide farther in this morning? Would she have gone near the waves, do you think?”

She shook her head vehemently. “She were scared of the water. Always was a timid little thing, and she’s become much more clingy since her operation.”

She picked her way in high heels across the soft sand until they reached the firmer, wet sand. “Round about here she were playing, I think.”

“What happened to her sand toys?” Evan asked suddenly.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“Did she leave them on the beach? Were they just lying there?”

“She didn’t bring any toys down with her,” Mrs. Sholokhov said.

“What? No bucket and spade? What kiddy goes to the beach without a bucket and spade?”

“She didn’t go for digging much,” she said. “She liked to run around and pick up shells and seaweed and pretend she was a
mermaid. Very into pretending our Ashley is. Always being a princess or a magic horse or something.”

Evan’s eyes scanned the beach, trying to see where a child might have started a collection of shells or played with seaweed.

“You don’t remember what shells she was playing with?” he asked.

“How do I know one bloody shell from another?” she snapped.

Evan gave her a reassuring smile. “I was just thinking that if she had shells in her hand or her pocket and somebody grabbed her, they might have fallen somewhere.”

Mrs. Sholokhov put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, my God. You do believe she’s been kidnapped then.”

Watkins gave Evan a warning frown.

“Of course not,” Evan said quickly. “There’s usually a very ordinary explanation in these cases. Kiddies go missing all the time and turn up safe and sound.”

“We’ll do another search of the whole area, Mrs. Sholokhov,” Watkins said. “I’m going to see if we can bring in a bloodhound and maybe his nose can pick up a scent better than our police dogs. And in the meantime, do you have a picture of Ashley you can show us?”

“Of course,” she said. “What mother doesn’t carry pictures of her daughter around with her?”

She led them back to the caravan, opened her purse, and took out several snapshots. They showed a sweet little child with elfin features and long, blonde hair.

“She’s lovely,” Evan said. “Pretty little thing.”

Mrs. Sholokhov pressed her lips together and nodded. Then she mastered herself. “Everyone used to stop us when she went out in her pram,” she said. “They used to say she was like a little doll. Of course, I used to have hair that color once. Now it has to come out of a bottle.” Her laugh turned into a smoker’s cough.

“Can we take the pictures with us for now?” Watkins asked. “I’d like to have them ready to send out on the Internet—just in case.” He put the pictures into the folder he was carrying then
glanced up at Evan. “Evans, why don’t you do the tour of the caravan park. See if anyone noticed anything out of the ordinary, like vehicles coming and going this morning.”

Evan nodded. “Right you are, sir.”

“And I’m going to talk to the uniformed boys again. I want reinforcements brought in from Caernarfon and from Bangor if necessary. And I want a W.P.C. to keep Mrs. Sholokhov company again.” He looked at her with compassion. “You don’t want to be on your own at a time like this, love. Do you have anybody in the area?”

“Nobody at all. I’m Yorkshire born and bred. I’m living in Leeds at the moment. I just brought Ashley here because I wanted her to get some good sea air, and the Yorkshire coast is too bloody cold. Not that this is any warmer, but my neighbor at home said that she always comes to Wales and how lovely it is, so I took her advice. Last time I do that, stupid cow. It’s been bloody freezing all week. I’ve hardly been able to let Ashley out and then when I do …” She put her hand to her mouth again. “What am I going to do if we don’t find her?”

Inspector Watkins put a hand on her shoulder. “We will. You’ll see.”

“What about your husband, Mrs. Sholokhov?” Evan asked. “Is he at home? Have you told him yet?”

“Ex-husband,” she corrected. “We’ve been separated about a year now.”

BOOK: Evan's Gate

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