Evan and Elle Page 18

  Evan grinned.

  The next message made his pulse quicken. “Constable Evans, this is P.C. Glynis Davies from headquarters. I just thought you’d like to know that Forensics have found the murder weapon and they’re attempting to get a good set of prints from it. Oh, and there’s no answer from the French police yet to any of our inquiries so we’re not much the wiser—bye.”

  Evan smiled to himself as an image of Glynis’s stylish, elfin face swam into his mind. Would finding out about the prints on the murder weapon give him a good excuse to go down to HQ and maybe see her again? Wait a second, he reminded himself severely. A few minutes ago you were pining for Bronwen. What’s wrong with you, boyo?

  “Evans!” Sergeant Potter’s voice barked from the speaker, instantly banishing any thoughts of Bronwen or Glynis from his mind. “I want to see you in my office right away. I think we may have the answer to our serial arsonist. I need you to make the identification.”

  Short, sweet, and to the point, Evan thought. At least now he had his excuse to drive down to HQ. It was strange, but he’d pushed the whole arson aspect of the case aside the moment they started to focus on Madame Yvette and the murder. Obviously there was still a serial arsonist out there, even if he might not have torched the restaurant. Evan wondered if it would turn out to be the Meibion Gywnedd extremists who were responsible for the fires after all. It would be nice to solve at least one aspect of this case.

  Chapter 20

  As luck would have it, Evan literally bumped into P.C. Davies as he came through the swing doors.

  Oh, I’m sorry,” he exclaimed as she staggered backward, then realized whom he was steadying and felt doubly stupid.

  “Oh, Constable Evans, it’s you,” she said, not looking at all flustered. “Welcome back. How was Paris?”

  “All I saw was one street, one metro station, and a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower,” Evan answered.

  “Too bad. And too bad that the Frenchwoman got away after all your efforts. I bet you were amazed when you found out she wasn’t the real Madame Yvette, weren’t you? The D.I. couldn’t believe it when he heard.”

  “I still haven’t got the whole thing straight,” Evan said. “It got more complicated by the minute. And now that Janine’s disappeared I wonder if we’ll ever know the truth. By the way, thanks for keeping me updated on the murder weapon.”

  “I thought you’d like to know and I didn’t imagine anyone else here would remember to tell you,” she said, glancing around with a guilty smile. “I’m escaping to get my coffee fix again. I don’t suppose you’ve got time to join me?”

  “I’ve been summoned to the presence of Sergeant Potter,” Evan said.

  “That awful Englishman? Talk about God’s gift to the world of forensics!” She grinned. “Good luck.”

  “Thanks, I’ll need it,” Evan said.

  “I’ll bring you back an espresso if you like. I think strong coffee is in order after you’ve been in with him.”

  “Thanks, Glynis,” he said. She really was very nice, as well as being pretty and clever. Close to perfect, actually. He still couldn’t tell whether she really did fancy him, or if she was just friendly to everyone. Better to keep it strictly on a professional level, just in case, he reminded himself. No more calling her by her first name . . .

  “Only don’t let on to Sergeant Potter that I’m bringing you back a coffee,” she murmured, leaning close enough to him that he got a whiff of a very nice spicy perfume. “He asked me to get him a cup of tea the other day and I told him not to expect maid service just because I was a woman.”

  Evan laughed. “I’ll remember. So what’s the latest on the murder weapon—did they find any prints?”

  “Yes, two sets. One belonging to Madame Yvette, or whatever her real name is—which makes sense because it was her biggest kitchen knife, but a thumbprint that doesn’t belong to her. And it doesn’t match any print that we’ve looked at so far.

  “Man’s or woman’s? Can they tell?”

  “It was bigger than hers but not necessarily a man’s. I’ll keep you posted if I hear any more, okay?”

  He nodded. “Brilliant.”

  “Although her sudden disappearance must point to her guilt, don’t you think?” Glynis asked. “You don’t run away if you’ve got nothing to hide.” She looked up at him. “Do you think they’ll ever catch her?”

  “I hope so, but I wouldn’t bet on it.”

  “I wonder who tipped her off that you’d gone to France and were checking into her background?”

  Evan smiled. “You don’t know how the local bush telegraph works in places like Llanfair. It would have been around the whole district in seconds.”

  “Doesn’t it drive you mad, trying to work in a little village like that?” she asked. “Why don’t you ask for a transfer to headquarters?”

  “I’m sort of used to it now,” Evan said. “It’s my own little niche up there.”

  “You’re too young to get stuck in a rut, Constable Evans,” she said. “It’s about time you thought about getting ahead.” Then she realized what she had said and blushed. “I’ll bring you back that coffee.”

  Evan went in search of Sergeant Watkins but couldn’t find him. The D.I. was out, too. He was met with blank faces when he inquired where everyone might be, which must mean that Operation Armada was in full swing and they were out on the coast somewhere. The whole building had an empty, deserted feel to it and more than ever he felt like an outsider.

  All right. He’d get the interview with Potter over as quickly as possible. He knocked on the office door and went in.

  “Ah Evans, you finally got here. Took your time, didn’t you?” Sergeant Potter looked up from his desk.

  “Sorry. I was with Sergeant Watkins over in France—didn’t they tell you?”

  “No, they didn’t bloody tell me,” Potter growled. “Bloody half-arsed operation here. The right hand doesn’t know what the effing left hand is doing. No wonder nothing gets solved. But they’ve got Peter Potter now. Things will change. At least I’ll show them how I solve my cases.”

  “So you think you’ve found the serial arsonist?” Evan asked.

  “I know we have, son.” Potter looked smug. “It’s all a question of profiling. I took a look at your lists of names and I talked to the fire brigade and only one person fits the bill. He was there in the thick of it, all three times. Classic serial arsonist—does it because he likes fires and he likes to help putting them out, too. I took photos at the restaurant fire. Here, take a look at this.” He handed Evan a blown-up photo. “See that young chap?”

  “That’s Terry Jenkins,” Evan said. “He’s only a little kid.”

  “You’d be amazed what an eleven-year-old boy can do if he sets his mind to it.” Potter was still looking smug. “He’s the perfect candidate for my profile—wild kid, not much supervision, loner so they say, and the fire captain said he was always there in the thick of it, trying to help—at all three fires. You know him, do you?”

  “Yes, he lives in our village.”

  “See? I knew it had to be a local. Okay, go and bring him in, Evans. I’m looking forward to a chat with him. I’ll make the little bugger confess.”

  “Hold on a minute, Sarge.” There was a sinking feeling in his stomach at the thought of bringing Terry to meet Sergeant Potter. “What about the note? Would a little kid get it into his head to write a note like the one we found?”

  “They watch the news on the telly, don’t they?” Potter said with scorn. “He probably saw a report on Welsh extremists burning cottages and that gave him the idea in the first place. Like I said, kids are sharp. They don’t miss much.”

  “I got a sample of his handwriting,” Evan said. “Shouldn’t we run that through a check before we pick him up?”

  “Match it to the note, you mean? Yes, we can do that. And I’ll get his medical records checked, too—ten to one he’s seeing a shrink. He’s probably talked about arson fantasies—they do, you know—b
ut the stupid doctors never think of getting in touch with us, do they? But I still want to see the little bugger. He won’t put anything past me.”

  “I’ll bring him in after school, then, shall I?” Evan asked, hoping to forestall Potter from bursting into Bronwen’s classroom, probably waving a weapon or an arrest warrant into the bargain. “We don’t want to upset the rest of the children, do we?”

  “If you ask me, everyone panders to kids too much these days,” Potter said. “But I can wait until school’s over, I suppose. Just bring him in. I’ll be waiting.”

  Evan still felt slightly sick as he drove back up the pass. The strong espresso hadn’t agreed with his lack of sleep and gnawed at his stomach. He wasn’t used to drinking it like that, without milk, but he wasn’t going to admit such a failing to Glynis. Maybe the sour feeling in his stomach had to do with bringing in Terry. He hadn’t told Potter that he’d also suspected the boy. Poor kid. Unfortunately Terry did fit the profile . . .

  On impulse he stopped at Roberts-the-Pump’s petrol station.

  “Off jaunting again?” The garage owner, asked. “Where is it this time—the Monte Carlo pally?”

  “I don’t need petrol. I just want to ask you something,” Evan said, beckoning the man closer. “Have you sold any petrol to young Terry Jenkins recently?”

  Roberts frowned as he thought. Then he nodded. “Yes, I have, as a matter of fact. He came in here about a week or so ago with a can. He said his mother wanted it for the lawn mower.” Realization dawned as he picked up Evan’s train of thought. “Wait a minute—they only have a pocket handkerchief square of lawn, don’t they? Why would they need a motor mower?”

  “Exactly,” Evan agreed. “Oh dear. It looks like young Terry’s in for it.”

  “Only a matter of time, wasn’t it? I thought as much when we caught the boy busting into my chocolate machines. Sometimes they’re born with criminal tendencies, aren’t they?”

  Yes, but not Terry, Evan wanted to say. Terry was just a bright, angry boy who needed a father. With heavy heart he waited at the police station until it was time to walk over to the school. A group of boys pushed through the gate but Terry wasn’t among them. Then Evan saw him climbing the fence and leaping nimbly down—a typically Terry thing to do. Evan intercepted him as he landed. The boy’s face lit up.

  “Constable Evans! You’re back? Did you catch the killer yet? Was it that creepy guy with the gun that I saw? I bet he was a Mafia bloke, wasn’t he? International crime and all that.”

  Evan put a hand on the boy’s thin shoulder. “Terry, you and I have to go and talk.”

  “What about?” The boy’s face was still alight with anticipation. “You want my report on what went on while you were away?”

  “It’s a little more serious than that, Terry,” Evan said. “Sergeant Potter in Caernarfon wants to talk to you about the fires.”

  “He does?” Terry still looked excited. “You’re going to take me down to Caernarfon?”

  “We should tell your mother first,” Evan said.

  Terry shook his head. “She’s out at work, isn’t she? We’ll be back before her.”

  “We have to call her, Terry,” Evan said. “She has to know.”

  Terry opened his mouth to protest.

  “You don’t want her to worry, do you?” Evan asked.

  Terry shrugged and followed Evan down to the station to make the call.

  “Does Sergeant Potter want me to be a witness?” Terry asked as he climbed in to Evan’s Car. “I didn’t see anybody light the fires, you know.”

  “Didn’t you?” Evan asked. He started the engine and moved away from the curb.

  “What do you mean?” For the first time the young face looked troubled.

  “What did you buy petrol for, Terry?” Evan asked. “You don’t need a motor mower for your little lawn.”

  Terry’s face flushed. “No, I know,” he said. “I thought I might get a job, see—mowing lawns. We’ve got a motor mower in the shed. But nobody around here has a big enough lawn, do they?”

  Evan looked at him, wishing he could see inside the boy’s head. “Petrol was used to start two of those fires, Terry. You were the first person to spot the fire at the Everest Inn, weren’t you?”

  “I was out on my bike,” Terry said.

  “You must be feeling pretty angry that your dad walked out,” Evan said.

  “Yeah, I suppose so. What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Angry enough to start some fires?” Evan asked.

  Terry looked shocked. “I didn’t start those fires—why would I want to start fires? I told you—I want to be a fireman like Bryn and put them out.” He turned to stare out of the car window. Evan tried to think what to say next. When Terry looked back at him, his face was a blank mask, and Evan felt a terrible sense of having betrayed the boy.

  “I can prove I didn’t start the first fire, anyway, because Dai Mathias saw me climbing out of my window and he said, ‘You’re going to get it, Terry Jenkins,’ and I told him I’d beat him up if he told on me.”

  Evan digested this piece of information. It had the ring of truth to it—not the kind of thing a child would make up on the spur of the moment.

  “All right. We’ll talk to Dai,” he said. He reached out and touched the boy’s arm. “Look, Terry, I’m only doing my job,” he said. “I was told to bring you in and I’m bringing you in. Just tell the truth and nothing bad can happen to you.”

  Terry managed a weak smile. “All right, Mr. Evans.”

  As they passed the burned-out shell of the restaurant, Terry’s face became animated again. “Guess what, Mr. Evans? I saw that man again.”

  “What man?”

  “You know, the one I told you about—the foreign-looking bloke with the gun . . . driving the red sports car.”

  “Wait a minute, Terry . . .” Evan was confused. “You’re saying you saw him again? Recently?”

  “While you were away. He stopped me again and he asked me about the fire. He spoke really funny. I could hardly understand him. He wanted to know if anyone was killed in the fire and I told him they’d found a body.”

  “While I was away, you say?”

  Terry nodded. “He a creepy-looking guy, Mr. Evans. Real scary-looking and he had a scar and everything—just like a gangster.”

  Evan glanced at the boy. Was this a diversionary tactic to take the heat off the boy himself? Evan wondered.

  “He asked about the French lady, too,” Terry went on. “I said I didn’t know where she was, in case he was the killer, even though he gave me a pound.”

  He grinned at his own cleverness.

  “Even though I do really know, but I promised Miss Price I wouldn’t tell.”

  “Miss Price?” Evan stopped the car and stared at him.

  “Yeah. Miss Price said she wanted it kept quiet that the French lady was staying with her.”

  Evan’s jaw dropped open. “Are you saying that the French lady is staying with Miss Price—right now?”

  “I think she’s still there,” Terry said. “Hey, aren’t we going down to Caernarfon?”

  “Later, Terry,” Evan said as he swung the car around with tires screeching. “We’ve got more important things to do first. Sergeant Potter will just have to wait.”

  Bronwen was out in the playground with a large broom, sweeping up the leaves that had blown across the netball court. She was wearing her red cape and her hair was unbraided, blowing out behind her in the wind. She looked like a character from an old fairy tale. As he opened the school playground gate it squeaked. She looked up and her face broke into a smile.

  “When did you get back? How was the South Coast?”

  “The South Coast was only the beginning. I went to France yesterday,” Evan said.

  “France?”

  “There and back in a day, thanks to the wonders of modern transportation.”

  “A good thing, too,” Bronwen commented as the last leaf was whisked into the
pile. “No time to get too acquainted with Gay Paree and Frenchwomen.”

  “The closest I got to the high life was a cup of disgusting coffee and a thin ham sandwich that cost me five pounds on the autoroute,” Evan said. “No, I lie. I did have a cup of coffee and a croissant, too.”

  “Living the high life, eh?” Bronwen smiled. “Hold the sack for me, please, so that I can get these leaves in before they blow away.” Bronwen handed him the sack that lay beside the leaves. He took it, caught off guard and wondering how she could be acting so normally—wondering how to ask her and why she hadn’t told him before. “They’re wonderful as compost. They’ll help with next year’s vegetable garden and nothing tastes as good as home-grown food, as I’m sure Madame Yvette can tell you.”

  “Ah yes, about Madame Yvette . . .” Evan began.

  “So what happened?” she asked. “Did you find out anything about her in France?”

  Evan nodded. “Oh, yes, we found out plenty—the major fact being that she’s not really Madame Yvette.”

  “What do you mean? Who is she?”

  “Her real name is Janine Laroque. She was a classmate of Yvette’s at the Cordon Bleu school.”

  “So why is she claiming to be Madame Yvette? Is there a real Madame Yvette?”

  “The real Yvette was badly burned in a restaurant fire in the South of England.”

  “And died?”

  He shrugged. “We don’t know yet. We’ve no idea what happened to her, whether this woman started that fire . . . but we suspect that the body we found in the restaurant is the real Yvette’s husband.”

  “Evan, that’s terrible,” Bronwen put her hand to her mouth. “Are you saying that she—killed him?”

  Evan shrugged. “It looks that way, doesn’t it? We tried to bring her in for questioning, but she’s disappeared—you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, because I heard the strangest rumor from young Terry . . .”

  “Do you think she’s dangerous?” Bronwen still had the stunned look on her face. “Oh dear.” She bit her lip. “I think I might have done something rather silly.”