Evans Above Page 12

  “That’s right,” Evan said.

  The man was still staring at the picture as if he was trying to refresh his memory. “She came rushing up to me, just after the eleven o’clock train left the station. I told her she was unlucky. She’d have to wait two hours for the next one. Then she asked me if a big man with dark hair had taken the train.”

  “I told her what I told you. Hundreds of people pass me all the time. I don’t have time to look at most of them. She hung around for a while, then she went away again.”

  “She wasn’t with anybody that you could see?”

  “No, she seemed to be on her own. But then someone could have been waiting in a car for her, couldn’t they? I didn’t notice where she went or when she left.”

  “Thanks,” Evan said. “You’ve been a lot of help. Sorry about the closed railway.”

  “I don’t mind for myself,” the man said. “I get paid the same wages if we run or not. But I don’t like getting yelled at as if it’s my fault. And I feel for Gwladys, too. She runs the snack bar up at the top and all her food’s going stale on her.”

  “Where would I find Gwladys?” Evan asked. “She might have seen something too.”

  “She’d be home now, wouldn’t she?” the man said. “Watching the telly. Addicted to telly, our Gwladys is. She lives for Coronation Street. You’d think those people were her relatives, the way she talks. We’re always giving her a hard time about it.”

  He pointed out her cottage to Evan. Evan approached her front door hesitantly. The booking clerk had warned him that Gwladys would be more than annoyed about her food going to waste. But when she saw his uniform, her face lit up. “Come about the murder then, is it? You’d better come in then, hadn’t you?”

  She led him into a tiny, neat parlor. As had been predicted, the television was on in the corner.

  “Sit you down,” she said, pointing at a chair, piled with silky pillows. Evan sat, cautiously.

  “I remember you,” Gwladys said. “You were the one who bought two cups of tea this morning, weren’t you?”

  Evan didn’t tell her how disgusting the tea had tasted.

  “I wondered if you might be able to help us,” he said. “You must see a lot from your little kiosk up there.”

  “Indeed I do,” Gwladys said, nodding seriously. “You’d be amazed at what I see up there! You’d never expect those sort of things to go on up on a mountain, would you now?” She paused, her eyes widening. “You’re not saying I might have seen the murdering brute with my own eyes, are you?” she asked. “’Deed to goodness. To think I might have been up on the mountain alone with him. It makes the blood run cold, doesn’t it?”

  Evan produced both the photographs. Gwladys studied them both.

  “This is the man, is it?” she asked, pointing at Stew Potts.

  “Do you remember seeing him?” Evan asked.

  Gwladys studied the photograph again. “Yes, I’m pretty sure I do. I remember thinking at the time that he looked like a shifty sort of character.” She leaned closer to Evan and grabbed at his sleeve confidentially. “And the one he was talking to—I didn’t like the look of him at all. That’s a pair of bad ’uns, I remember telling myself. But you still could have knocked me down with a feather when I heard there had been a murder up there. Drug dealing maybe, but murder’s something else, isn’t it?”

  “Could you describe the other chap he was talking to?” Evan asked hopefully.

  “Like I said, a real criminal type of face he had.” She focussed on Simon’s picture. “And is this one of the gang too? He doesn’t look the type, does he?”

  “Do you remember seeing him? Early this morning, it would have been.”

  “Wait a minute. It’s all coming back to me,” Gwladys said, a big smile spreading across her face. “I think he was with the first man, and then they met the nasty-looking one.”

  “This morning?” Evan looked puzzled.

  “I might be mistaken, of course,” Gwladys said, “But I got a sort of premonition that a crime was going to be committed. I went cold and clammy all over.” She pointed to the pictures. “You want to find those two in a hurry and put them safely behind bars.”

  Evan concluded that the railway clerk had been right—Gwladys watched too much television. He’d come across this kind of thing before—someone who so desperately wanted to be helpful and involved that she’d say whatever she thought the police wanted to hear. Evan was fairly sure now that she hadn’t seen any of the men or anything more suspicious than someone pouring away one of her cups of tea.

  However he did have one good lead to go on now: The positive identification of Greta was quite genuine. When he got back to Llanfair he left a message on Watkins’ machine, suggesting that they go to visit Greta in Liverpool on their way to Manchester.

  It was almost six o’clock by the time Evan finally got back to the police station in Llanfair. Charlie Hopkins and Roberts-the-Pump waved as he passed them on their way into Red Dragon. A pint of Guinness was just what Evan needed right now. It had been a long, trying day. He was relieved to find no irate messages from Mrs. Powell-Davies and left a quick message on Sargeant Watkins’ answering machine before heading over to the pub himself.

  As he walked in the door of the public bar, he instantly regretted his decision. Being a Friday evening, the bar was full. As well as the local tradesmen, the farmers had congregated in one corner. Evan noticed a newborn lamb tucked in a shepherd’s jacket and a sheepdog at his feet.

  “There he is now, himself,” Evan heard someone say and there was a sudden hush as all eyes turned to him.

  “What’s this we’ve been hearing then, Evan bach?” Charlie Hopkins asked. “They’re saying there’s been another body found on the mountain. So Dai shoved three of them over the edge then, did he?”

  “Lucky we caught him before he could do any more harm, right Mr. Evans?” Cut-Price-Harry demanded, with a deliberate swagger for Betsy’s benefit.

  “It looks like we might have got the wrong man,” Evan said as he joined them at the bar.

  “But he confessed. That’s what they were saying in the papers,” Roberts-the-Pump said.

  “He confessed all right, but he was in a cell last night and some poor boy was killed up there this morning.”

  “They’re saying his throat was cut from ear to ear,” Betsy looked horrified and delighted at the same time. “How terrible for you, Evan. I’d have fainted clean away if I’d seen something like that.”

  Evan was forced to admire the efficiency of the local bush telegraph. So far the police hadn’t given out any details of the killing, but the people of Llanfair had found out anyway.

  “A pint of Guinness for you, is it, Evan?” Betsy asked, already pouring the dark liquid into a tilted glass. “You don’t expect to hear about violent killings here, do you?” she went on, putting the glass in front of him. “It’s just like that film I saw last week about the Italian Mafia. Oh, it was horrible. I could hardly watch the things they did to one poor man to make him talk. Disgusting, that’s what it was.” She glanced up shyly at Evan. “It’s still playing down in Caernarfon, if you want to go and see it with me—I wouldn’t mind seeing it again.”

  “Thanks, but I’ve had enough of violence for the moment,” Evan said.

  “That’s what I said when I came out of the cinema,” Betsy said. “Next time I go to the pictures, I want a nice, quiet love story. Oh, and speaking of love stories … I already spoke to Mr. Harris and he says it’s all right with him.”

  Evan stared at her, his mind racing. He had just noticed that she was wearing a silky white blouse with a black bra under it. What’s more, the top three buttons were undone so that Evan had a glimpse of the bra peeking out. That was disconcerting enough in itself. But he couldn’t think what she was talking about, and he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to find out.

  “You are still going to do it, aren’t you?” Betsy demanded. Evan was conscious of faces, watching him.

&
nbsp; “Everyone’s counting on you,” Betsy added.

  “Uh—what exactly are we talking about?” he was forced to ask. “I’ve had a very tiring day. My brain’s not working too well.”

  “The dance, silly,” Betsy said, laughing. “You and me—we’re going to be chaperons, remember?”

  “Oh, the dance. Right,” Evan said. “I’m not sure if I’ll be able to make it after all. Not now that we’re in the middle of this new murder case. I promised the detective sergeant that I’d help him tomorrow. Who knows how late I’ll be back …”

  Betsy gave him a hard stare. “You just better be there, Evan Evans,” she said. “Those children are counting on you, and I went out and bought a new dress. You’re going to like it—it’s very sexy.” She smoothed her hands down over her waist as she said this, so that a good inch of black bra, and a lot of flesh, was visible.

  “You hear that, Evan bach?” Charlie Hopkins exclaimed, giving Evan a hearty slap on the back. “She’s not going to let you wriggle out of this one. If you’re still out with that detective, she’ll come and find you and bring you back here!”

  “I would too,” Betsy said, over the loud laughter.

  The next morning Evan left early to meet Sergeant Watkins in Caernarfon.

  “Seen this morning’s paper yet?” Watkins asked as they sped along the highway beside a gray ocean. He indicated the backseat of the car. Evan turned to retrieve the paper. ANOTHER BRUTAL MURDER HAS LOCALS TERRIFIED was the banner headline. Underneath in not much smaller type it proclaimed, “Local police understaffed and undertrained says local Member of Parliament. After four tragic deaths within the space of two weeks, local residents are afraid to go out of their houses.” Evan’s eye scanned down the column. The same local MP went on to suggest that Scotland Yard should have been called in immediately and hinted that the local police were not skilled enough to find the murderer.

  “Your chief’s not going to like this,” Evan said with a grin.

  “Too right he’s not,” Watkins agreed. “My word, are we going to be in for it on Monday. I’m just thankful it happened at a weekend. He’ll have to wait until Monday morning to blow his top, unless he summons us all for a special meeting tomorrow.”

  “Did the D.I. turn up anything at Scotland Yard?”

  “If he did, he hasn’t told me,” Watkins said. “And from the foul mood he’s in, I rather think that he didn’t. Between you and me, Evans, I’m rather thinking that maybe we’ve put all our eggs in one basket. We’re assuming that this child molester, this Lou Walters, is the one we’re looking for. We’re following his mum and staking out his house. What if it wasn’t him?”

  “I suppose you have to go with the most likely suspect, don’t you?”

  “At least all the parents are keeping a close eye on their children right now, so he’ll not find it easy to strike again around here,” Watkins said. “I told the wife that Tiffany’s not to go out alone ever, even if it’s just across the road to her grandma’s house.”

  Evan nodded. “You can’t be too careful, can you?” he agreed. “The schoolteacher up in our village was telling her pupils the same thing.”

  As he said the words, a picture of Bronwen came into his mind and he remembered her cold gaze and the angry way she had parted from him. He had been so busy that he hadn’t even had time to try and make things right with her. He wasn’t even sure what he was supposed to say. It was always so complicated, dealing with women. That was one of the reasons why he had wanted to avoid any entanglements for a while, after moving from Swansea. His last experience was all too clear in his mind. He remembered the girl’s expressionless face as she told him that she wasn’t prepared to wait around until he was well again. It had hit him when he was at his lowest. He didn’t want to go through anything like that again. Women, he thought, you’re never really sure … which brought his mind back to the reason for their trip.

  “I’ll be interested to hear what Greta has to say for herself,” he said.

  “If it really was her,” Watkins added. “You’d be surprised how many people are so anxious to help the police that they make up things.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t be surprised at all,” Evan said, chuckling. “The old woman who served us that disgusting tea yesterday swore that she’d seen Stew Potts and Simon Herries together on the mountain yesterday, and they both looked as if they were up to no good.”

  “That’s what makes our job so difficult,” Watkins said, smiling too. “But what would Greta Potts have been doing around here? And why would she lie about it? If she was lying, she was a good actress, I’ll give her that. She seemed completely surprised to hear that her husband had been in Wales.”

  “She’d have had as good a motive as anybody for bumping him off,” Evan said. “She didn’t trust him, she didn’t like the way he ran around with other women, and she wanted to go home to Germany. One little push off a mountain would have solved all those things.”

  “And Tommy Hatcher? Do you think she pushed him too?”

  “Maybe he saw her do it,” Evan suggested. Then he smiled, shaking his head. “It is a little hard to take, I agree. But she came across as a determined woman, and a bitter one. And women are capable of anything when they’re determined.” He was thinking of Betsy, telling him that she was prepared to drag him to the dance, if necessary.

  “That’s for sure,” Watkins agreed. “The missus has taken it into her head that we need a new washing machine. I keep telling her there’s nothing wrong with the old one, but she won’t give up on it. Every time we’re out for a walk and we pass a shop, she has to stop and point out the washing machine she wants in the window. In the end I’m going to be so fed up with hearing about washing machines that I’m going to buy her one to keep her quiet.”

  “They usually manage to get their own way in the end, I notice,” Evan said.

  “You’re not married yet, are you?”

  “No. I had one close call. Now I’m taking my time,” Evan said.

  “Good idea. I’d had a drop too much one night and told Kathy that I could picture us spending the rest of our lives together, and she took it as a proposal. I suppose I must have meant it at the time, but next morning I was in a furniture store, picking out bedspreads and curtains. We had a deposit on a dining room set by the time we left the store and there was no way I could back out then. She’s a nice woman, and our Tiffany’s a lovely little kid, but I often wish I’d had more time to enjoy my freedom.”

  “I’m trying to hang onto mine,” Evan said.

  “You sound as if there’s someone trying to make you change your mind.”

  “More then one of them,” Evan said. “All nice girls, but …”

  “Keep fighting, lad,” Watkins said, chuckling. “This job is hard enough without the complications of coming home to a stopped-up toilet or a washing machine on the blink.”

  The mountains were receding behind them, as they crossed the flat coastal plain toward Chester and the industrial Northwest beyond. Evan could already see the brown line of pollution hanging across a pale blue sky. He couldn’t imagine why anybody would want to live in a place like Manchester or Liverpool.

  “Wouldn’t it be great if Marshall turned out to be the one we were looking for?” Evan said.

  “He’s hardly going to confess to it, if he is,” Watkins said. “And if he is, then we’re dealing with a tough character. We’ve got to watch our step and tread very carefully. He mustn’t think we’re onto him. We’re just curious to know if he got an invitation too and if he knows anything about this reunion and what it was for.”

  “Right, sarge,” Evan said, nodding in agreement. “But we’re going to do Greta first, aren’t we?”

  “Might as well. She’s on the way and I’d like to hear what she has to say before we tackle Marshall.”

  Chapter 15

  Greta Potts lived in a small, box-like semidetached house on a new housing estate about five miles from the center of Liverpool. The house
s were all identical, with tiny squares of garden in front of them. Most of the gardens were a riot of spring flowers, and some had plastic gnomes on handkerchief-sized lawns. The English certainly love their gardens, Evan thought. The Welsh did too, but not as fanatically.

  The small square of ground in front of Greta’s house was paved over and boxed in with a chain between cement posts. He wondered whether Greta hadn’t picked up the English fanaticism for flowers and lawns or Stew had been too occupied elsewhere. A car was parked outside the house and two little blond girls were sitting on the front step, playing house. They jumped up and ran inside calling, “Mama!” as they saw the two men approaching.

  Greta was wearing jeans and an old T-shirt and came to the door with a mop in her hand. She wasn’t wearing makeup today and her hair hung around her face. Evan thought she looked nicer this way, and younger too. He hadn’t realized before that she was only in her midtwenties and he found he was thinking of her quite differently. It must be tough to find herself a young widow with two little kids in a foreign country, Evan thought.

  “Yes?” She stared at them for a moment before she recognized them. “Oh, it’s you,” she said flatly.

  “We have a few more questions we’d like to ask you about your husband’s death,” Sergeant Watkins said. “Some more evidence has come up during the week. Do you mind if we come in?”

  Greta glanced back down the passage, as if making up her mind. “I suppose so,” she said. “I haven’t finished doing the living room yet.”

  The living room had a few toys scattered about on the floor, but it was otherwise spotless. Obviously Greta prided herself on her housekeeping because she rushed around, picking up the toys before inviting them to sit on a quilted satin sofa.

  “I don’t know why you came all this way,” she said, perching on the arm of a matching satin chair. “I could have answered questions over the phone, and I already told you everything I know.”

  Watkins glanced at Evan. “We’ve come up with the name of another possible friend they went to meet,” Evan said gently. “We just wondered if you’d heard of someone called Marshall.”