Authors: Rhys Bowen
Evan Blessed (22 page)
He put the glass back on the counter. “Thank you, sir, but I'd better
not on duty. And if you'll excuse me, I shouldn't be wasting any more time.”
not on duty. And if you'll excuse me, I shouldn't be wasting any more time.”
“No, of course not,” Mr. Price said gruffly. “If there's anything we could do to help?”
“I don't think so at the moment,” Evan said.
“You will call us as soon as you know anythingâanything at all?” Mrs. Price's voice was scarcely more than a whisper.
“Of course I will.”
He couldn't think of anything else to say. He started to walk out of the bar. At the doorway he turned back. “I will find her,” he said.
It took Evan a while to locate Bronwen's ex-husband, Edward Ferrers. He had moved away from his former London address, for obvious reasons, Evan decided. Too many bad memories. It was lucky that Edward was of the old school brigade. Evan seemed to remember Bronwen mentioning something about Harrow, and the old boys' association was able to furnish a current address and place of business. Public schools never let their alumni slip through their clutches.
“Ferrers here,” Edward's slightly breathy voice came on the phone line.
Evan was able to keep his voice calm and even as he explained the situation. Edward had shown himself once to be emotionally unstable and now he almost yelled into the phone, “Bronwen? You're saying that some bastard has kidnapped Bronwen? How could you let that happen?”
At least this outburst verified that Edward himself had nothing to do with it.
“Yelling won't solve anything, Edward,” Evan said. “I need your help. We're trying to come up with a motive. We have a profile of the person who is likely to have abducted her. Loner, outdoorsman, passionately fond of music, probably slightly older than we are. So
I'm asking you to rack your brains and try to remember if there was anyone at Cambridge, or anyone who Bronwen ever mentioned, who annoyed her, or followed her around, or even stalked her. Someone with a musical connection.”
I'm asking you to rack your brains and try to remember if there was anyone at Cambridge, or anyone who Bronwen ever mentioned, who annoyed her, or followed her around, or even stalked her. Someone with a musical connection.”
Edward was silent for a long while, then he said, “There was one bloke at Cambridge who was in a history class with Bron. Odd sort of chap. I suppose you'd call him the typical nerd, horn-rimmed glasses and always had his nose in a bookâsocially inept. And I seem to remember that he played some instrumentâcello, maybe? Well, he did follow Bronwen around for a while, but then he attempted to assault another girl who was in Bronwen's dorm. I think he was arrested for it.”
“Her name wasn't Debbie, by any chance?”
“No.” Edward sounded puzzled. “I think it was Alexandra. Why?”
“Because the name Deb, or Debbie or Deborah, is apparently important in a clue he left for us.”
Another long pause. “I'm afraid I can't think of anyone called Deborah at the moment. Certainly not in our crowd at Cambridge.”
“But the man's nameâyou can remember that?”
“Let me see. I think it was something strange, that suited him. Erwinâthat was it. Erwin Gouge.”
“Thank you, Edward. That's really helpful.” Evan scribbled it down. “If he was arrested, that will give us something to go on, and he'll have been fingerprinted. I'll get onto the Cambridge police straightaway.”
“If there's anything more I can doâ” Edward let the rest of the sentence hang in the air.
“I'll keep you posted,” Evan said. “And if you do happen to remember a Deborah, or anything else that might be important, I'll give you my mobile number.”
“Yes, right.” Edward attempted to match Evan's brisk detachment. “It willâI meanâyou do have some chance of finding her, don't you? You'll do your best. You and she were ⦠close, at one stage.”
“Close?” Evan's calm snapped. “I'm bloody well getting married to her next Saturday.”
After he hung up, Evan went outside and stood in the fresh breeze, taking deep breaths. He had never liked Edward Ferrers, despised him actually. Ferrers seemed to bring out the worst in him at the best of times, and this was not the best of times. When he had calmed himself sufficiently, he put a call in to the switchboard and was given the number for East Anglia Police. It didn't take long to locate Erwin Gouge on their records.
“That's right. Arrested for attempted assault on a young woman.”
“What happened to him?” Evan asked. “Is he in prison?”
“No, he's notâ”
Evan's heart lurched. “Then you don't know where he is?”
“Oh yes, I know that.” The voice sounded weary. “He hung himself in a holding cell before his trial.”
Evan snapped shut his phone in bitter disappointment. So hopeful and now back to square one. He had no alternative but to drive down to HQ and see what Watkins and Hughes wanted him to do next. He got in the car and winced in pain as he adjusted the strapping around his shoulder to allow him to grip the wheel. Then he drove down the pass faster than he should. His brain was whirring in overdrive as the adrenaline continued to flood through his body. Every second counted and they were getting nowhere. They didn't even know where to start. Glynis had been right. What they needed was the link, the one thing that bound all these strange elements together. The key must be somewhereâin one of those messages he had been sent. Someone hated him, or hated Bronwen, or hated the idea of their being together. The clues were pitifully few. A dead father. Someone called Deb also dead. Classical music. A bunker. A girl missing from a mountain path.
Then it was almost as if he heard Bronwen's voice. “I went to school with a couple of girls like that.” Debs! A tenuous link at best, but the only one that connected Bronwen to any of the clues. He stopped the car and pulled out his phone again, trying to force his brain to remember everything Bronwen had told him about her school. He didn't know one posh girls' school from another. It was
on the Welsh border, he remembered, in the Malvern Hills, and the name had been similarâsomething to do with monks. Malvern Priory. That was it. He called Directory Inquiries and was given the number for the school. After a couple of rings, a plummy female voice came on the line. “You have reached Malvern Priory School for Girls. The school office is currently closed for the summer holidays. Michaelmas Term begins on September 15. Please leave your name, number, and nature of your inquiry and ⦔
on the Welsh border, he remembered, in the Malvern Hills, and the name had been similarâsomething to do with monks. Malvern Priory. That was it. He called Directory Inquiries and was given the number for the school. After a couple of rings, a plummy female voice came on the line. “You have reached Malvern Priory School for Girls. The school office is currently closed for the summer holidays. Michaelmas Term begins on September 15. Please leave your name, number, and nature of your inquiry and ⦔
Evan threw down the phone in disgust. Someone had to be at the school. The premises had to be kept running, even in the summer holidays. He had no alternative but to drive there. The thought of driving that distance made him grimace with pain, but he wasn't going to waste time talking it over with Watkins and Hughes, getting permission or not. He put his foot down and at the roundabout he turned onto the A55 in the direction of Chester instead of Caernarfon.
After a weary hour and a half's drive southward through the border hills that have long separated Wales from England, he found himself passing between impressive brick gateposts and then along a driveway lined with rhododendron bushes. At the end of the drive an elegant yellow stone house could be seen, surrounded by manicured lawns. The only indication that this was a school and no longer a stately home was the lacrosse goal posts on the field to one side and the discreet sign stating. PLEASE DRIVE SLOWLY AND WATCH OUT FOR SCHOOLGIRLS. VISITORS MUST REPORT TO THE SCHOOL OFFICE. An arrow directed Evan round the main building to what was obviously a former stable block. The office, however, was locked.
Evan made his way back to the main building, but that too appeared to be locked and deserted. Just as he was walking back to the car, not sure what to do next, he heard the
putt-putt
of an engine, and a tractor, equipped with mowing blades, came into view between buildings, dropping snippets of newly mown grass as it approached. Evan ran to intercept it. An elderly man with a ruddy, weatherbeaten face, wearing the traditional Welsh farmer's woolen flat cap, was driving the tractor and looked up in surprise as Evan hailed him.
putt-putt
of an engine, and a tractor, equipped with mowing blades, came into view between buildings, dropping snippets of newly mown grass as it approached. Evan ran to intercept it. An elderly man with a ruddy, weatherbeaten face, wearing the traditional Welsh farmer's woolen flat cap, was driving the tractor and looked up in surprise as Evan hailed him.
“Hello, sir. Sorry, the school's closed for the holidays,” he called.
“I'm with the North Wales Police,” Evan shouted back over the loud popping of the tractor. “Is there anyone here I can speak to?”
The man leaned forward to switch off the motor. “What's this about then?” he asked.
“A matter of great urgency. Can you tell me where I can contact someone in authority?”
The old man frowned. “The headmistress just left yesterday for her cottage in France and the school secretary's on holiday with her family.”
“Is there nobody who could answer some questions about girls who attended the school? Someone must have contact numbers for somebody.”
“Hold your horses, young man.” The tractor driver held up his hand in a calming gesture. “There's the assistant secretary comes in during the week, but today's Saturday, isn't it? I suppose you could call her at home and see if she'd come in for you to open up the records.”
“That would be very helpful,” Evan said. “Where would I find her number?”
“The name is Jones,” the man said. “Husband's Richard. They'll be in the phone book.”
“Jones? Won't that be like looking for a needle in a haystack?”
The old man grinned. “We're on the English side of the border here. Not so many Joneses as where you come from.” He looked at Evan curiously. “What exactly is it you need?”
“I need to find out about girls who attended this school about twelve to fourteen years ago. It's essential I get the information right now. Aâa woman has been kidnapped.” He fought to keep the description impersonal.
“Well, now.” The old man stroked his chin. “You could always ask Miss Posey. I expect she'd be at home.”
“Miss Posey?”
“Latin mistress. She lives on grounds in one of the staff cottages. Over beyond the kitchen garden there.”
“She's been here longer than twelve years, has she?”
The old man smiled. “They all have. They come here as soon as it's clear that they're never going to get hitched and then they stay on until they die. Miss Posey's pushing seventy, but her mind's still sharp enough.”
“And she's in a cottageâ” Evan had already started to walk in the direction the old man had indicated.
“Honeysuckle Cottage. The third one along. It's quicker to walk than to drive. You can cut across the kitchen garden.”
Evan did as he suggested, hurrying between neat rows of runner beans and fat vegetable marrows. Then, on the other side of a tall yew hedge, he came upon a pretty circle of cottages. They must formerly have been occupied by estate workers. Now they were surrounded by well-tended gardens. Honeysuckle was growing profusely over the porch of its namesake cottage and the front garden was a riot of peonies and roses. Evan was about to raise the brass lion's-head knocker on the front door when a woman's voice called, “Can I help you?”
He spun around and spotted the small white-haired woman on her knees, weeding a side bed in the shade of the hedge.
“Are you Miss Posey?” Evan asked. “I'm Constable Evans from the North Wales Police and I need to ask some questions about girls who attended this school.”
“Oh dear.” The woman got to her feet a little stiffly. Although she was petite, there was nothing frail about her. Her face was set in the sort of expression a teacher needs when dealing with a classroom of difficult pupils. “You'd better come inside, then. Wait a minute while I make myself respectable.”
She proceeded to take off a large gardening apron and to wash her hands in the water barrel beside the house, drying them on a faded cotton skirt.
“Come in, then,” she said, kicking off muddy gardening clogs at the door and proceeding into the house in stockinged feet. “I expect you'd like a cup of tea.”
“Only if it's not too much trouble.”
She looked up at him and a smile creased her severe face. “No. It's teatime. I always take a cup myself at four. You can talk to me in the kitchen while I boil the water.” She led Evan along a dark, narrow hallway lined with bookcases into a simple but immaculate small kitchen. In contrast to the hallway, this room was bathed in afternoon sunlight. The window was wide open and the sound of a thrush floated in, along with the heady smell of roses.
“Sit.” She pointed at a white ladder-backed chair at the table. Evan sat.
“Now. How can I help you?” she asked.
Evan told her. The old woman's face showed alarm. “Bronwen Price? I remember her well. Bright girl. Went to Cambridge. You suspect she's been abducted?”
Evan nodded. He couldn't bring himself to speak.
“How simply terrible. Was this just a random kidnapping or do you know the motive behind it? I don't recall that her family was particularly wealthy, not like some of the girls we have here.”
“That's why I'm here,” Evan said. “I'm trying to discover the motive. The kidnapper has sent some cryptic clues and one of them mentions Deb. This could be a girl's name, of course, but we can't seem to come up with anyone called Deborah. My colleague suggested that it might apply to a debutante. I know there aren't any official debs anymore, but Bronwen said that there were several girls at school with her who fit that description.”
“There certainly were, in her day,” Miss Posey said as the kettle whistled and she turned it off. “Not anymore, of course. We were most selective once. Only the girls of the best families. Now we take anyone who can pay the fees. We've even got two girls from Saudi Arabia who insist on walking around in those ridiculous headscarves. I find it most unfair when the rest of our girls have to adhere strictly to the uniform code, but the Head won't risk offending the father, who is some prince or other and ridiculously wealthy.”
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