Constable Evans 03: Evanly Choirs Page 7

  “Look at all the TV vans,” Billy Hopkins commented as they came to a halt outside the biggest tent. “Do you think my mam will be able to watch us at home?”

  “It might even go out on the BBC national,” Mostyn said proudly. “Especially since we’ve got such a great man singing with us.”

  “Where is he then?” Evans-the-Milk looked around nervously.

  “He said he was driving down in his own car,” Mostyn said. “That’s understandable. You can’t expect a celebrity to carpool.”

  This remark made the choir members smile. Inside the tent they could hear another Côr Meibion going through its paces. The strains of “Men of Harlech” competed with the tooting of car horns and the hammering of scaffolding.

  Mostyn consulted his watch. “I hope they know they have to vacate the stage by seven,” he said. “Our practice time is from seven to seven-thirty. I’m going in there on the dot of seven. I’m not sacrificing our practice time. Let’s just hope that Ifor shows up right away.”

  As they entered the huge tent the choir on the stage finished their rehearsal and began to file off the stage. “The Ffestiniog Choir,” Mostyn said with a disapproving sniff. “I see they didn’t persuade Ifor to join them yet.”

  “’Ello, Mostyn, old friend,” the director called out as he came down the steps from the stage. “Going to give us a run for our money then, are you? I hear you’ve found yourselves a secret weapon.”

  “No thanks to you,” Mostyn said coldly.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You know very well,” Mostyn said. He passed the other man as if he didn’t exist and started arranging his music on the stand. The choir director looked long and hard at Mostyn then shrugged and walked away. The Llanfair choir took up their positions.

  “Five past seven,” Mostyn said, checking his watch again, “and Ifor still isn’t here. What did I tell him? I said seven o’clock sharp, didn’t I? He really has no idea of time. We only have half an hour.”

  “He’ll be here,” Evans-the-Meat said. “We heard him warming up when we stopped to pick up Harry.”

  “He better get a move on,” Mostyn said. “Warming up indeed. This isn’t Covent Garden. What does he need to warm up for?”

  Ten minutes later Ifor still hadn’t arrived. Mostyn took them through their three songs, but it was only a half-hearted attempt as the men all had one eye on the door. Mostyn was getting angrier by the second. He yelled at the men who were setting up chairs and told them to go away until he’d finished. At last he threw down his baton. “Oh, this is hopeless. Hopeless. He’s ruined everything. How could I be so stupid to think that he’d help us? When did he ever help me? Ifor was always for himself and nobody else.” He started packing music mechanically into his briefcase. “I know what he’s doing, of course. He’s realized how bad we sound and he doesn’t want to lose face by singing with us. Understandable I suppose, but why did he say he’d do it, when he knew what we sounded like?”

  “He’ll be alright on the night,” Harry-the-Pub said. “He’s a professional. He knows what to do.”

  “That’s right, Mostyn,” Evans-the-Meat added. “Stars like Ifor don’t need rehearsals. He’ll be fine tomorrow.”

  “I wish I could believe that,” Mostyn said. “If he doesn’t show up tomorrow, we’ll all look like fools standing up there with no soloist.” He stalked down the steps and out of the pavilion ahead of the choir members, his eyes darting left then right, still searching for Ifor. He paused beside his Mini. “I’ve decided. I’m going to give him a piece of my mind,” he said. “He’s a professional and this is inexcusable.”

  “Don’t go and upset him, Mostyn,” Harry-the-Pub warned. “Then he might decide not to sing with us at all. As he said, he’s not under a contract, is he? He’s only doing us a favor.”

  Mostyn sighed. “You’ve got a point, Harry. But I still want to talk to him. He has to know how we all feel about being let down like this. It’s just not right. It’s not fair.” His gaze fastened on Evan. “You come with me, Constable Evans. You know about handling people and saying the right thing. You can keep an eye on me and make sure I don’t say something I’ll regret. I know I have a tendency to fly off the handle.”

  “Alright, I suppose,” Evan said hesitantly. He really had no wish to be trapped in a room while Ifor and Mostyn shouted at each other, but if it resulted in Ifor showing up on time at the eisteddfod on Saturday, then he supposed he should do it.

  “I’ll give you a lift in my car,” Mostyn said. “Hop in. We’ll go straight there.”

  Evan tried to maneuver his long limbs into the Mini’s passenger seat. His head brushed against the roof and his knees were almost up against his chest. He could see the choir members grinning at his discomfort.

  “We’ll be there in no time at all,” Mostyn said as they roared out of the parking lot. “She might be old but she hasn’t lost an ounce of her zip.”

  Evan had never been more glad to see the lights of Llanfair ahead of him. He had been flung from side to side, unable to brace himself, as Mostyn took the bends like a racing driver. His head hit the ceiling every time they went over an uneven stretch of road and the seat belt crushed his windpipe. He unwound his legs and climbed out unsteadily in front of Ifor’s house.

  A light was on and Ifor’s black Mercedes was parked in the driveway.

  “There you are. He just couldn’t be bothered to come,” Mostyn said, pointing angrily at the house. “Just don’t let me tell him exactly what I think of him. I’ll try to remain cool but it’s not easy.” He marched up to the front door and lifted the knocker.

  The front door swung open to his touch.

  “That’s odd.” Mostyn looked up inquiringly at Evan.

  Evan tapped on the half-open door. “Mr. Llewellyn? Are you there?” he called.

  There was no answer. Evan pushed the door wide open.

  “Do you think we ought to go in, Constable Evans? I mean, he’s probably over at the pub, drinking as usual and we’ve no right to…” But Evan had already entered the dark entrance hall.

  “Mr. Llewellyn?” he called again. His voice echoed from the black-and-white tiled floor and the ceiling high above the staircase. “Is anyone here?”

  The only sound was the deep rhythmic tick-tock of a grandfather clock in the front hall. Then Evan noticed the shoe. It was a fashionable lady’s dress shoe, black patent with an open toe and a high spiked heel. It lay directly outside the drawing room door.

  “We should just leave, Mr. Evans,” Mostyn said, grabbing at Evan’s sleeve. “He’s probably got a woman here. That’s why he didn’t show up. We can’t just go barging in on God knows what.”

  Evan tapped on the drawing room door. “Are you in there, Mr. Llewellyn?”

  Cautiously he opened the door. Immediately he was conscious of two smells. The first was alcohol, overpowering in the warm, closed room. He couldn’t quite place the other smell.

  He pulled at his collar. “Hot in here, isn’t it?”

  “He was used to Italian temperatures, wasn’t he?” Mostyn said. “I expect he found this house too cold for him. He’s probably turned the central heating on in the middle of summer!”

  “There doesn’t seem to be anybody…” Evan began. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn and the room had an aquariumlike quality. He reached for the light switch. Then he noticed the overturned table. It was a small round drinks table and it was lying in the middle of the floor. Evan started toward it.

  Mostyn was skirting the edge of the room cautiously, as if not anxious to trespass. He reached the bow window and pulled back the heavy velvet curtains. “This radiator’s on,” he said.

  Evan was well into the room when he noticed the foot, sticking out from behind the high-backed chintz sofa. Then he recognized the other smell. It was the smell of death.

  Chapter 8

  Ifor Llewellyn was sprawled on the Axminster carpet, an empty glass beside his outstretched hand. An overtur
ned end table and an almost empty bottle of Jameson lay on the hearth rug where they had landed. Evan heard Mostyn’s horrified intake of breath as he dropped to his knees beside the body.

  “Is it … him?” Mostyn could hardly get the words out.

  Evan nodded. Without moving the body he could see the dark sticky patch on the right side of his head where the skull had been crushed. The dark stickiness had soaked into the carpet around his head, turning the red pattern brown. Cautiously his fingertips felt the neck for a pulse, with little hope of finding one.

  “He’s dead, I’m afraid,” Evan said. Instinctively he looked around for a weapon. His gaze fastened on the old-fashioned brass fender, complete with curlicues and knobs, that surrounded the fireplace. The knob closest to Ifor appeared to have traces of blood on it. “He must have fallen and hit his head…” Evan said tentatively.

  Mostyn came across and stood at a suitable distance behind the sofa, looking down on the body. “I told him his drinking would be the end of him,” he said in a choked voice, “but I never thought it would be like this. And here I was berating him for not showing up on time. I feel terrible, Mr. Evans.”

  Evan got to his feet again. “How could we possibly have suspected,” he said.

  “I think I’ll wait for you outside, if you don’t mind.” Mostyn’s face was distinctly green. “I’m not feeling too well.”

  “I’m coming, too,” Evan said. “We shouldn’t touch anything until the CID squad gets here.”

  “The police?” Mostyn asked. “But surely, it was an accident, wasn’t it? You don’t suspect…”

  “It certainly seems to have been an accident, but I still have to call them. I’m just the village bobby and we have experts to handle things like this.” He shepherded the shaken Mostyn from the room.

  “Should I wait, do you think?” Mostyn asked as they stepped into the welcome freshness of the night air.

  “You’d better. They’ll want to take a statement from you, seeing that we discovered the body together.”

  “Alright,” Mostyn said. “I’ll sit in my car, if you don’t mind. I’m feeling rather faint.”

  “Why don’t you go across to the Dragon and get yourself a stiff drink. You look like you could use it.”

  “Oh, no thank you. After what I’ve seen tonight, I don’t think I’ll want to touch alcohol again.” Mostyn shuddered. “No, I’d rather sit in my car, if you don’t mind.”

  “Alright, Mostyn.” Evan put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “I’ll call from the police station. They shouldn’t be too long.”

  * * *

  It was half an hour later that the white police van drew up at the Powell-Joneses’ house.

  “You certainly pick your times, don’t you?” Sergeant Watkins complained as he got out. He looked very much the detective in a beige trenchcoat, but Evan noticed he was wearing jeans and a T-shirt under it. “I was in the middle of watching Heartbeat.”

  “Don’t tell me you watch police shows in your free time,” Evan said, holding out his hand to his old friend. “You’re a glutton for punishment.”

  “The wife wouldn’t miss an episode of Heartbeat,” Watkins said. “And our Tiffany loves it, too. So what sort of accident was it that you’ve dragged me away for?”

  “Nasty. It looks as if—” Evan began, then he broke off as he saw another man getting out of the van. This man was slim and elegantly dressed in a dark suit and tie. Evan took a quick look and then muttered to Watkins, “You didn’t have to bring the big guns, you know.”

  “Good evening, Constable. The commissioner felt that I should come and see for myself, considering the implications.” D.I. Hughes seemed to be answering Evan’s question even though he couldn’t possibly have overheard. “With a celebrity of this magnitude the press will need to be handled. Statements will have to be made.”

  Evan could tell that D.I. Hughes was looking forward to being the one on the telly, making those statements.

  “This way.” Evan led the detectives up the driveway to the Powell-Jones’s residence.

  “So who found the body?” D.I. Hughes fell into step beside Evan, leaving Sergeant Watkins to walk behind.

  “Mr. Mostyn Phillips the choir director and I did, sir.”

  “You seem to make a habit of finding bodies,” D.I. Hughes said dryly. He had never quite forgiven Evan for having solved a couple of murder cases that had stumped his department. “So tell me how you happened to be the one to find this one.”

  “Ifor Llewellyn was supposed to be rehearsing with our choir at the eisteddfod in Harlech and he didn’t turn up so Mr. Phillips asked me to come with him and see what was going on.”

  “Ifor Llewellyn—singing with a local choir?” D.I. Hughes didn’t try to hide his astonishment or contempt. “What on earth for?”

  “He was an old chum of Mostyn’s. He was doing our choir a favor.”

  “I see. I’ll need to talk to this Mostyn Phillips then, won’t I?”

  “He’s right here in his car, sir,” Evan was delighted to have scored a minor point. “I told him to wait for you.”

  “Splendid. We’ll take a look at the body and then you can get a statement from him, Watkins.” D.I. Hughes pushed open the front door with a gloved finger. “I hope you haven’t been touching things, Constable.”

  “Oh no, sir. I opened the drawing room door, and I felt the body for a pulse, but that’s it. I left everything else just as it was.”

  He indicated the door on his left. “He’s in here.”

  D.I. Hughes stepped over the lady’s shoe then reeled as he opened the drawing room door. “My God, what was he doing, bathing in the stuff?”

  “He must have knocked over the bottle when he fell.” Evan indicated the empty bottle beside the overturned table.

  “It’s awfully warm in here,” D.I. Hughes complained.

  “He’s got the central heating turned on, apparently. He had just come from Italy.”

  “Then turn it off and open the windows, Constable. It really is most unpleasant in here. I can’t work in these conditions.”

  The detective inspector bent to look at the body. “Very nasty,” he said, turning the body slightly with his gloved hand to see the full extent of the wound. “Poor chap. What a way to go. Was he known to drink a lot, Constable?”

  “I’d say he put away a fair bit,” Evan said, struggling with the catch on the window, “but I never saw him incapacitated. He always seemed to hold it rather well.”

  “Of course we don’t know how much of the bottle he got through,” D.I. Hughes said. “He might have been the type to go on occasional binges. Was anyone else in the house?”

  “I haven’t been in any other room, but I haven’t heard or seen anybody else. I thought I’d better wait until you got here.”

  “Quite right, Constable. But in this case, it appears to be rather conclusive, doesn’t it? The poor chap drank a little too much, tripped over, and hit his head on that fender—my God, what a wicked-looking piece it is. You’d think they’d have done away with it years ago, wouldn’t you, especially with central heating in the house.”

  “If it were my house, it would be out in the shed,” Sergeant Watkins commented.

  “Well, the Powell-Joneses don’t have any children,” Evan said, “and I can’t imagine that anyone was ever allowed to run around in this house.”

  D.I. Hughes squatted beside the fender. “Ah yes—there are clear traces of hair and blood on this knob. Poor chap. All the room to fall in and he has to fall in that direction.” He got to his feet again and stood looking down dispassionately at Ifor’s body. “Of course, Dr. Owens and the lab boys will have to verify the cause of death, but it does seem to be rather obvious, doesn’t it? Anyway, there’s nothing more I can do here tonight. Will you see about notifying next of kin, Sergeant? I’ll make the phone call to HQ and then maybe I can get back for the tail end of my dinner party.” He brushed his hands smartly against one another and began to walk out of th
e room.

  “So was he living here alone?” he turned to ask Evan. “I thought he was supposed to have family with him.”

  “His wife has been here,” Evan said. “We heard he has a son and daughter but I don’t know where they are. They haven’t shown up here yet.”

  “But we don’t know where the wife is at the moment?” D.I. Hughes turned back to Sergeant Watkins. “She’ll need to be contacted right away. Take a look around the place and see if you can find out where we can get hold of her. We’ll go on down to your station, Evans. I’d rather call the office from there. We’ll need to get Dawson up here to take pictures and I suppose I’ll have to contact Dr. Owens at his yacht club. He always dines there on Friday nights. And we should alert the chief inspector that we’ll need a detail of men posted up here. The moment this story breaks we’ll be besieged by the media. Let’s try and keep it to ourselves until we can get the body to the morgue, shall we? I’d rather we didn’t have gory pictures splashed all over every front page.”

  Evan gave Ifor’s body one last look as he followed the inspector out of the room.

  “You might just check out the rest of the house first, Sergeant.” D.I. Hughes paused at the front door. “Just in case we find that—”

  He broke off as the light tap of footsteps crunched on the gravel outside and the door was pushed open. Mrs. Llewellyn came in, dressed in a raincoat and scarf and carrying an overnight bag. It must have started raining because drops were dotted like pearls over her hair. Her face was flushed and her eyes were bright.

  “What on earth’s going on here?” Mrs. Llewellyn demanded as she confronted the three men in her hallway. “I saw the police car outside. Has there been a burglary? I can’t think what they’d have taken. There’s nothing of worth here. It’s all junk and we left all our good stuff in Italy except—”

  “I’m afraid it’s more serious than a burglary, Mrs. Llewellyn,” D.I. Hughes said, going over to her. “I’m sorry to tell you there’s been a nasty accident.”

  “Ifor’s been hurt?” Her expression changed instantly from annoyance to fear. “A car accident? But no, the car’s outside.”