Evan Blessed Page 15

  “I wish I could tell you that,” Hirsch said.

  Chapter 16

  He finished typing the letter, printed it out, folded it carefully, and put it into the envelope. Then he affixed the stamp and smiled at the address on the envelope. “‘Will you walk into my parlor?’ said the spider to the fly,” he whispered to himself.

  “A lot of bloody good that was,” Watkins muttered as he returned from escorting the profiler and met Evan still sitting with Glynis and Sergeant Jones. “Short of going door to door and seeing who turns down his sheets with hospital corners and eats baked beans, I don’t see how we’ll ever manage to track him down.”

  “Excuse me, sir.” Glynis Davies touched his arm. “I’ve been thinking.”

  “The little lady has been thinking,” Sergeant Jones said and got a warning frown from Watkins and Evan as well as a stony stare from Glynis herself.

  “As I was saying,” she went on, “everything we’ve done presupposes that our man has a history here, in this area. He’s been seen by a psychiatrist, joined a music society, bought those CDs locally. What if he is just a summer visitor, like all the other tourists? What if he’s living in a caravan, maybe? What easier way to transport tools and supplies? He could have parked close to the mountain and carried up supplies at will.”

  There was silence in the room.

  Caravan—the word sparked a reaction in Evan’s gut. It hadn’t been long ago that he had been called upon to search a caravan park for a missing child. He saw how easy it would have been to bring a girl down the mountain and into a waiting caravan.

  Watkins cleared his throat. “And is it your opinion that he and his caravan are still in the area?”

  “I hope you’re not going to ask my boys to search every bloody caravan park in North Wales again,” Sergeant Jones said. “We’ve already done that once this year.”

  Glynis shrugged. “If he saw that the bunker had been discovered, maybe he’s taken off in a hurry. I’ve just had another thought—” she frowned at Sergeant Jones before he could open his mouth. “Maybe he removed the handcuffs because they could have identified him. After all, how many suppliers of handcuffs are there in the country? We could probably have tracked them down, given the chance.”

  “Damn,” Watkins muttered. “Why didn’t we think of that before?”

  “We were working through all the other angles,” Glynis said. “We still have the photos taken in the bunker, don’t we? I think we could blow up those photos and possibly track down the supplier on the Web. I’ll give it a try.”

  “I’ve just had another thought, sir,” Evan said.

  “The little gray cells are positively buzzing this afternoon, aren’t they?” Watkins commented, but with a smile.

  “We could put out a call for videos,” Evan continued. “Some of those tourists will have taken videos and photos of their trip up Snowdon on the day that Shannon disappeared. It’s possible that they would show a caravan or camper van parked at the start of the path up the mountain. Who knows, maybe we could even pick out a license plate number.”

  “That’s a good point, Evans. Call the local papers and TV, will you? And let’s at least get a list of names of addresses from all the caravan parks in the area. Any vans with single males in them, especially those who checked out last Tuesday. That would at least be a start. Your boys can do that, can’t they, Bill?”

  “I suppose so,” Sergeant Jones said grudgingly.

  “And ask them to be on the lookout for any camper or caravan parked alone in remote areas,” Evan added. “On the offchance that he is holding the girl captive somewhere in the area still.”

  Sergeant Jones shot Evan a look that clearly indicated he wasn’t going to be bossed around by a mere detective constable, went to say something, then changed his mind. “Can’t do any harm, I suppose,” he muttered, and left the room, letting the door bang shut behind him.

  Watkins looked up at Evan. “I take it that your investigations into the music angle didn’t come up with anything productive?”

  “Nothing, sir. But I did look into that young chap at the bank I told you about and I don’t think we should dismiss him completely. Apart from not being middle-aged, he really fits the profile. He lives with a very dominating mother, he’s shy and withdrawn, he loves music, and he’s a great outdoorsman.”

  “But presumably he can account for himself last Tuesday. Wasn’t he at work?”

  “Yes, he was,” Evan had to admit. “That’s right. I was in the bank with Bronwen around four o’clock. I remember seeing him there. But couldn’t he have made it up to Llanberis and back in his lunch hour?”

  “A long lunch,” Watkins said. “And he’d have needed time to stalk a girl on the mountain and hide her away somewhere.” He grinned. “I think you’re getting a fixation with this bloke, Evans. Apart from the fact that he looked uneasy when you saw him, you’ve got nothing to go on. Perhaps you saw him parking on a double yellow line once and he’s been feeling guilty ever since, who knows?”

  “But listen to this, sir. He’s taken leave, unexpectedly. The bank manager is angry with him for leaving them in the lurch. He’s off somewhere walking in the hills, according to his mother.”

  “He’s still a long shot, Evans. Any other bright ideas?”

  Evan frowned. “I thought that maybe I should take another look at a couple of National Parks employees. According to Paul Upwood, Shannon spoke to a man on the mountain resembling Eddie Richards, one of the park rangers. Eddie says he was nowhere near Snowdon that day. And the other ranger, Roger Thomas, is a shy sort of chap who’s a music buff. He had the day off on Tuesday and says he was practicing with his choir in Bala.”

  “Easy enough to check,” Watkins said. “You’ll do those this afternoon, then?”

  “Right you are, sir.” Evan nodded. “But what about the Dead Deb? Is Glynis going to keep working on that angle?”

  “What about her?” Watkins said. “We’ve checked around the UK and drawn a blank. No unaccounted girls called Deb show up.”

  “So why give us that clue if we can’t solve it?”

  “Warning us that he has killed other girls before?” Watkins suggested. “Raising the stakes for us?”

  Evan shook his head. “We are supposed to know what he’s talking about,” he said. “I’m sure of it.”

  Shortly afterward Evan was in a police car, driving south to the National Parks Headquarters again. It was slow going, clogged with tour buses, cars piled with children, beach balls, luggage—and then there were the caravans. Lots of them. Caravans wherever he looked, in fields, on the road, stopped in lay-bys. How on earth could anyone check all of them? It was truly a hopeless task. If the kidnapper really had brought the girl down to a caravan, they could be anywhere by now. He could have killed her and waited for the ideal opportunity to drop her into a lake, down a mine, or even to bury her.

  But the letter was mailed from Bangor, he reminded himself. And the postcard requesting the music was mailed locally too. The man had stayed around the area after the girl was kidnapped, at least long enough to mail letters. Recalling the postcard at the radio station reminded him that the musical request on the show was one aspect he hadn’t yet looked into. What if the first notes of that music also spelled out a warning? On impulse he turned off toward Porthmadog. He seemed to remember there was a music shop in the High Street. There was, but they didn’t have a score of Sheherazade.

  “You wouldn’t happen to know what the opening notes of the Shipwreck theme of it would you?” Evan asked.

  The young girl behind the counter looked blank, as if he was speaking Chinese. “Come again?” she asked.

  Evan repeated the question.

  “Just a second,” she said. “I’ll get Mr. Cuthbert.”

  A few minutes later an elderly man came from a back room, hastily wiping what looked like cream and jam from his mouth.

  “Sorry about that,” he said. “My neighbor bakes wonderful Welsh cakes and she a
lways brings me some when they’re hot.”

  “I wouldn’t pass up hot Welsh cakes either,” Evan agreed, and explained his request.

  “There are various passages in the suite in which the ship and wave motif occurs,” Mr. Cuthbert said slowly. “You wish to know the notes that open the Shipwreck sequence?”

  “I’m not quite sure,” Evan said. “I know the part they played on the radio was called something like the Ship and the Sea, or the Shipwreck. It was quite strong, with lots of brass and cymbals clashing, but I’m not a musician.”

  “It’s the motif you’re probably looking for,” Cuthbert said. “The musical phrase that is repeated. I’m not sure what key it’s in, but I can probably make a stab at it.” He went over and opened a piano lid. Then he tried some tentative notes. “Yes, that’s about it.”

  He looked up at Evan and Evan nodded. “That sounds right.”

  He played it again.

  “And those notes are?” Evan asked. “The actual notes you are playing.”

  Mr. Cuthbert called them out. They spelled nothing.

  “Of course it probably wasn’t in that key,” Mr. Cuthbert said. “I’ve got pretty good pitch, but not perfect.”

  “If it was in another key, what notes would it be then?” Evan asked.

  Nothing meaningful was spelled after several more attempts.

  “Right. Thanks. Sorry to trouble you,” Evan said.

  “What exactly were you looking for?” Cuthbert asked.

  Evan explained and the man shook his head. “What a strange business. So you’ve no idea why he chose this particular piece of music?”

  “None at all,” Evan said. “I can’t see what a piece of music about a shipwreck has to do with a missing girl in North Wales. But thank you for your time. You can get back to those Welsh cakes before they’re completely cold.”

  He left the town of Porthmadog and headed back to the main road. None at all, he repeated to himself. Storm at sea. Shipwreck. There were wrecks around the coast. Was it possible that the girl was hidden away in a boat somewhere? Were they being led on one wild goose chase after another and was the man watching them, enjoying their helplessness?

  His hands gripped the steering wheel in frustration. Something was just not right about the whole thing. He had felt it right away and he still felt it. He tried to picture a man lurking on the mountain, taking his chance to grab Shannon Parkinson. Was she a random grab or had he seen and stalked her before? In which case, how did he know she’d part company with her boyfriend? No, it must have been random. In which case, was he looking for a particular type of girl? Might it be worth obtaining a picture of the missing Debbie in Birmingham to see if they looked at all alike? He took this one step farther—what about other girls who were missing, presumed abducted? Did any of them resemble Shannon Parkinson?

  And when the man had grabbed Shannon, how did he keep her quiet? How did he get her down from the mountain without being observed?

  And what had any of this to do with some old piece of music about a shipwreck? Who was Deb and how did she die? Was it all really an elaborate hoax? Was someone getting a good laugh at the North Wales Police force’s expense?

  He looked up in surprise as he found himself approaching the turn off for the Parks Headquarters. He had been so lost in thought that he had no recollection of driving there. Today, he was in luck. Eddie Richards was actually in the office. He seemed surprised to see Evan again but answered his questions with polite resignation. No, like he said, he hadn’t been on the mountain that day. If Evan wanted to check, he was delivering brochures to the Parks office in Betws-y-coed that afternoon. And he didn’t remember stopping to help a girl with boots that were hurting her.

  “Right. Thanks, Mr. Richards,” Evan said. “I’ve been told to question everybody again, so I’m doing it. Do you like music, by the way?” He cursed himself for asking the question in such a clumsy and obvious way. If Eddie Richards were the man he was looking for, he would be well and truly warned by now.

  “Music?” Eddie Richards shrugged. “I suppose I like it as much as the next bloke. I used to enjoy the singing in chapel when I was a kid, but I can’t hold a tune myself, as my wife will tell you when I try to sing in the bath.” He chuckled at that. Then his face grew serious. “I suppose there’s a good reason for all these questions. Now, do you mind telling me what all this is about?”

  Evan explained as much as he could.

  “Someone has been able to build a complete bunker in the woods not far from the Llanberis path,” he said. “That means that someone has been able to carry tools and supplies up without being noticed.”

  Eddie Richards nodded. “Ah, so it makes sense that a Parks vehicle could do that. But where does the music come in?”

  Evan told him that too and he shook his head. “You’re dealing with a real nutter, aren’t you? Someone who’s gone off the deep end. I only wish one of us had spotted him digging his bunker or abducting the girl. Poor little thing, I wonder if she’s still alive?”

  “I wonder, too,” Evan said. “It seems to me that we’re running around in circles, getting nowhere.” He glanced across the room at the receptionist who was busy on a phone call. He lowered his voice. “What about Roger Thomas? He likes music, doesn’t he?”

  “Roger? He lives for that choir of his. Always singing. Drives some of the other employees round the bend to hear him But as far as being the man you want—no, Roger’s a good bloke. Always ready to lend a hand, is Roger. Quiet, like. Withdrawn, but a good bloke. I’d depend on him in a jam.”

  Evan left the building feeling secure about Eddie Richards’s innocence but still uneasy about Roger Thomas. He had summed up Eddie as a reliable sort and one whose judgment was sound. And Eddie had thought that Roger Thomas was a good bloke. But Evan had been on the force long enough to know that good and evil were not always what they seemed. As a police detective, it was his job to double-check everything, including the alibi of a man who reputedly lived for his music.

  Chapter 17

  As soon as Evan was back at his car, he took out his mobile phone and called the number listed for the Cor Meibion y Moelwyn in Blaenau Ffestiniog. He found he was talking to a Mr. Howard Rhys-Davies, who revealed himself instantly as a pompous and self-important individual. Evan suspected he was probably on the small and mousy side to look at.

  Yes, indeed, he was correct. The choir had practiced last Tuesday at the hall in Bala, in order to get a feel for the acoustics. And yes, Roger Thomas was one of their longtime and loyal choir members, who definitely would not have missed a practice unless he’d been on his deathbed.

  This was what Evan had suspected he’d hear. He thanked the man, but just before hanging up he remembered to ask, “What time was the practice last Tuesday afternoon?”

  “It wasn’t in the afternoon, young man, it was Tuesday evening, at six o’clock,” Howard Rhys-Davies said. “We have too many members who work for a living and can’t get away during working hours, so we have to have evening rehearsals these days.”

  “Six o’clock,” Evan repeated. “And Roger Thomas showed up on time?”

  Evan heard the man suck in air through his teeth. “Now that you mention it, he came in a few minutes late, which isn’t like him. But we were only just getting our music in order, so he didn’t miss anything. May I ask what this is about? Mr. Thomas hasn’t done anything wrong, has he?”

  “We’re just checking statements at this stage, Mr. Rhys-Davies. Nothing to worry about.” Evan hung up and flipped his phone shut. Roger Thomas had lied then, and he didn’t seem like the kind of man who would lie without a compelling reason. And he would have had a whole afternoon free before he got to his choir practice in Bala a little late …

  Evan checked on Thomas’s home address and drove straight there. He was surprised to find it was a semi-detached council house on an estate at the edge of Harlech. He didn’t know why he should be so surprised, except that he had a mental impression of park
rangers living in remote cottages like his own. As he checked off street numbers and realized which house belonged to Roger Thomas, his pulse quickened. A caravan was parked in the front garden. Evan almost broke into a run as he pushed open the front gate and went straight to the caravan. He tried the door, which was locked, but he found that by climbing onto the hitch, he could see into the back window. It was a good-sized van, immaculately neat, with a table and bench at one end and a bed across the other. Down one wall were sink, fridge, and cooking surface, all gleaming. But no sign that the van had ever been occupied. No closet in which a girl could be imprisoned.

  Of course she wouldn’t still be in there, Evan told himself. Thomas would only have used the van to transport her to the place he had prepared for her—another bunker, or even a room in his house.

  “Hey, you. What do you think you’re doing? Get down from there—you’ll scratch the paint.”

  The voice behind Evan startled him and he stepped down awkwardly, almost twisting his ankle. Roger Thomas stood at his open front door, glaring at him.

  “Oh, it’s you—Constable Evans,” he said, the bluster going out of him like a deflated balloon. “May I ask what you’re doing with my caravan?”

  “We’ve been asked to check all caravans in the area, Mr. Thomas. And since I was on my way to visit you, I thought I’d better take a look at yours too.”

  “Check them for what?”

  “A young girl has been abducted, Mr. Thomas. A caravan would be one way of transporting her out of the area.”

  “And you think I might have done something like that?” Roger Thomas demanded, his face flushing scarlet. “You think I might have abducted a girl?”

  “We have to check everybody who could have been in the area, Mr. Thomas. And National Parks workers could obviously transport a girl down a mountain without drawing attention to themselves.”

  Roger Thomas glanced up and down the street and noticed a woman had come out of the house opposite, ostensibly to put out milk bottles. “You’d better come inside,” he said.