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Authors: Rhys Bowen

Evan can Wait: A Constable Evans Mystery (23 page)

BOOK: Evan can Wait: A Constable Evans Mystery
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“Be careful, boyo,” Watkins said.
“I’ll be careful.” Evan glanced at Bronwen, who was eyeing him with interest.
“Anything good to report?” she asked as he hung up the phone.
“Nothing bad either. Lloyd-Jones has arrived and is driving the D.I. crazy with his slow, methodical ways.”
“Is that good?”
“It means that they can’t get Edward rushed and flustered, which is what you were worrying about.”
She nodded. “You’re right. So what are you going to do now?”
“Check on the last phone calls he made from his mobile. I think they were all pretty routine, but you never know.”
She went to the oven. “The bread’s just about ready. Would you pour the tea, please?”
Evan picked up the teapot, poured one cup, then put it down again. “I think I should skip the tea, if you don’t mind. There are some phone calls I should make right away.” Then seeing her disappointment, he added, “But you can save me a piece of bread for later, please.”
“All right.” She managed a smile. “You’re onto something, aren’t you? You’ve just found out something important.”
“I’m not sure. It’s just a hunch. I’ll tell you later.” He went to kiss her, thought better of it, and waved awkwardly as he headed for the door. His footsteps echoed back from the steep valley sides as he strode down the street. The National Gallery, he thought. It had to have something to do with the National Gallery and those pictures stored in the mine during the war. Edward had said that Grantley Smith was excited about something and wouldn’t say what. He had wanted to change the focus of the whole film because of something he’d just learned. What if he’d discovered that pictures were stolen and never recovered all those years ago? What if he had come up with a clue as to where they were hidden?
He had almost broken into a run by the time he reached the police station and fumbled with his key. He glanced at his watch. Only just after four. That meant that nobody would have gone home yet. He dialed the number Sergeant Watkins had given him.
“Archives.” The woman’s voice sounded young, crisp, and efficient.
“Do I have the National Gallery?” Evan asked cautiously.
“Gallery Archives. What department did you want.”
“This is North Wales Police here.” He took a deep breath. “A Mr. Grantley Smith made several calls to this number a few days ago. Would you have been the one who took the calls?”
“Grantley Smith? Was he the man who was making the film about the war?”
“That’s right.” Evan felt his pulse quicken. “I wonder if you could tell me what he wanted to know and what you told him.”
“Oh, he was just asking general questions about how we moved the collection, how well it survived. I don’t think we were able to help him much. We’ve got all the documentation in the archives, of course, but there’s nobody still working here who was alive then.”
“Did he ask whether any paintings were stolen?”
“Yes, he did. And they weren’t.”
“Nothing was stolen? You’re sure?”
“Very sure. Security was very good, you know. I understand the whole operation went remarkably smoothly.”
“Oh. Oh, I see. Well, thanks for your help.”
He hung up, deflated. It had seemed like such a promising lead. He called the other numbers Watkins had given him. The mine company merely confirmed that Grantley Smith had been insistent about being allowed to film inside the mine. He had told them it was for a major BBC production, and sounded very important, so they had agreed. But he hadn’t said anything about why he wanted to film there.
The other call was to the
Daily Express
. The recipient, a Mr. Dan Raleigh, just happened to be at his desk, writing up his day’s stories. Yes, Grantley Smith was an old Cambridge pal. He had called to say he was going to let Dan have the scoop on a great story. He needed to check the facts for himself and he’d call back the next day. He never did.
“He couldn’t,” Evan said. “He was lying dead at the bottom of a mine.”
“Killed? Do we know how and why?”
“We’re still trying to find out. He didn’t give you any sort of hint about what this scoop would be, did he?”
“Grantley loved drama. He was suitably mysterious. Actually, he didn’t say much at all. I took it all with a pinch of salt. Grantley
was a little prone to exaggeration, you know—and he liked to pose as the expert when he wasn’t. Oh, I suppose I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. I liked the chap, actually. He was a lot of fun at Cambridge. It’s just that that kind of thing doesn’t always transfer well to real life, does it?”
Evan decided he had had enough for one day. He was going nowhere with his investigation. He might just as well go home. Soft pink wintry light was flooding the valley. If he hurried, he might have time for a short hike before it was completely dark. Walking in the hills often helped him to sort out his thoughts.
“Is that you, Mr. Evans?” Mrs. Williams called from the kitchen. “Home early, aren’t you? And your dinner not even cooked yet.”
A rich herby smell wafted along the passage, almost making him change his mind about the hike.
“No hurry, Mrs. Williams.” Evan poked his head through the kitchen doorway. “I thought I’d just change and go out for a short walk while it’s still light. It’s lovely out there right now.”
“It is indeed, lovely just.” She nodded agreement. “And snow up on the peaks already. Just like a Christmas card, isn’t it?” She stirred a large pot on the stove. “Well, you take your time, Mr. Evans, and I’ll have the dumplings ready by the time you get back. I’m doing hotpot tonight.”
Evan’s mouth watered. Mrs. Williams was famous for her dumplings—light, fluffy, floating daintily on top of a rich, brown gravy.
“You need to get out and have some fresh air,” Mrs. Williams said. “It’s been a hard time for you, all those tragedies. That poor man dying down the mine and old Mr. James having the heart attack. My, but it’s been a sad week, hasn’t it? And I was talking to my sister today and she says that the man I told you about, old Trefor Thomas, he’s just taken a turn for the worse. They’re going to have to put him in a home right away.”
“Oh no, I’m sorry to hear that. He seemed quite bright when we visited him.”
Mrs. Williams shook her head. “It’s very up and down at this stage, isn’t it? They say he never fully recovered from the stroke. A shame really. Before that, he was as fit as a fiddle. Never had a day’s illness in his life—after he recovered from the war, of course.”
“He was wounded in the war?”
She lowered her voice. “Captured. By the Japs. He was all skin and bones when he came back. Lucky to have survived at all, if you ask me, and knowing what happened to so many of our poor boys. And he was never the same. Before the war, he used to be really fun-loving, the life and soul of the party, and a great one for the girls. But when he came home, he didn’t go out, didn’t mix at all. I’d imagine being in a prison camp does that to you.” She sighed and wiped her hands on her apron. “My sister said his son has been wonderful to him. Showed up the moment he got out of hospital and has been taking care of him ever since. He’ll likely be relieved when his father has full-time nursing in a home.”
“What? Oh yes, I’m sure he will.” Evan’s brain had been wandering onto an unlikely path. Everything had happened after Grantley had gone to see Trefor Thomas. Trefor Thomas had also been an artist—albeit a very amateur one. And Trefor Thomas had helped move the pictures into the slate mine. Could there possibly be a connection?
The next summer, the summer of ’42, I turned seventeen. I waited anxiously for my call-up papers to arrive, half-excited, half-dreading the moment, but anything was better than that bloody mine, even a battlefront. At least I’d see some excitement. Finally, a few weeks after my birthday, the foreman called me aside and said I was to go home. I’d got a week’s leave before I reported for duty with the Royal Welch Fusiliers.
I was excited and impatient all the way home, but as I lay in my own bed that first night, it really hit me. Now that I was about to go off to fight, everything seemed different.
If you want to know the truth, that picture was starting to play on my conscience. What if I died with a sin like that against me? My dad had dragged me to chapel enough to make me believe a little bit in hellfire. Thou shalt not steal. Thieves went straight to hell, no questions asked. I made up my mind that I’d put the picture back where it belonged. But it was only fair that I went and told Ginger what I was going to do. It wasn’t right to have her counting on something that wasn’t going to happen.
I was a bundle of nerves as I sat in the bus on the way to Llandudno. I could imagine how upset she was going to be and I really didn’t want to let her down. But I didn’t particularly want to go to hell, either.
I went into the convalescent home, found a girl washing the floor, and asked for Mwfanwy Davies. I imagined she’d have to use her proper name at work.
“Ginger, you mean? I think she’s up in the linen room.”
“Where’s that?”
“Up the stairs and at the end of the hall on the right, but you can’t go up there. No visitors allowed until two o’clock, and no gentleman callers.”
“I’m not a gentleman caller. I’m family.” A small lie. I hoped to be someday.
“Even so, you’d get her in terrible trouble with Matron if anyone saw you.”
“I’m only staying a minute. Don’t worry. I won’t get anyone in trouble.” I flashed her my biggest smile. It worked. She fluttered her eyelashes at me. “My name’s Margaret. Do you have a girlfriend?”
“Yes, and I’m off to join up on Saturday.”
I ran up the stairs and along the hall as she had directed. As I approached, I heard Ginger’s rich sexy voice, talking to someone. “Don’t worry about it, Peggy. I’m not. He’s a nice bloke, honestly. He said he’ll do the right thing and I know he will.”
I wondered if she was talking about me. For a horrible moment, I thought she might have been telling someone about the painting. I pushed open the door. Ginger and another girl were standing there with armfuls of clean sheets. There was a look of total shock on both their faces.
“Tref—what are you doing here?” Ginger stammered. “You won’t half get it if Matron sees you.”
“I’ve only got a couple of days and then I’m off into the army. I’ve got to talk to you, Ginger. It’s very important. It’s about you know what.”
She looked around anxiously. “Not here and not now. I’m on duty until nine tonight.” She must have seen my disappointed face. “Look, I’ll trade shifts and I’ll get the day off tomorrow and come home, okay?”
“All right. I’ll be waiting.”
Next morning, she showed up about eleven. It was a lovely warm, sunny day and we went for a walk, away from the town up onto the moor. Larks were singing and the heather was in bloom. It was just beautiful up there. Ginger looked beautiful, too, but different somehow. She was wearing different sort of clothes, for one thing. She used to go in for tight sweaters like the girls in the posters, but today she was wearing layers of clothes as if it was cold, which it wasn’t. I studied her. Her face was different, too.
“You’ve put on weight,” I said. “You won’t get discovered in Hollywood if you’re chubby.”
“It’s the damned stodge they feed us at the home,” she said, making a face. “Every day it’s nothing but stodge, stodge, stodge. And I have to eat it because I’m always so ruddy starving, the way they make us work. Don’t tvorry. I’ll go on a diet as soon as I can.” She gave me a wonderful, warm smile. “So you’re really going away, Tref. Into the army, is it?”
I nodded. “No sense in the navy or air force,” I said. “If I’m going to be blown to pieces, I’d rather it happened with my two feet on the ground, not in some tin can of a ship or plane.”
She shivered. “Don’t talk like that. You’ll be just fine. Remember what I said about telling them you’re a good artist.”
Which reminded me. “Ginger. We have to talk about the painting. I’ve decided. I can’t go through with it.”
“What do you mean?” Her voice was sharp, her eyes dark and dangerous.
“Like I said, I can’t go away to fight with that on my conscience. If I die, I’ll go to hell.”
She actually laughed. “You don’t still believe all that stuff, do you? Of course you won’t go to hell. And you’re not going to die.” She grabbed my arm. “Come on, Tref. Think of the future. Think of us. How will we get out of here if you throw away our one ticket to happiness?”
“But it’s wrong, Ginger. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. Great art is a national treasure. It should belong to everyone.”
Her eyes were still flashing dangerously. “Belong to the English, you mean. We don’t exactly get much of a share in it, do we? The moment the war’s over, it’s off back to London. Not to Caernarfon, or even Cardiff, is it? No, the English make sure they keep all the good stuff for themselves—and grab poor sods like you to go and fight their wars for them. They owe it to you, Tref.”
“Even so, I can’t go off with that on my conscience. I’ve been thinking about my family. I don’t want to get them in trouble. What if I’m killed and they find that painting in our house? They’d go to jail, wouldn’t they? I’m going down the mine today to put the painting back.”
She grabbed my shoulders then, her nails digging in so that they hurt. “Listen, you dope. You can’t back out now, when everything is about to work for us. I was going to tell you some good news. Listen to this—I’ve found a way to sell the painting.” Her face was alight and her eyes glowing. “Remember that Yank you saw me with when you came home last? I told you his name’s Johnny Gabbiano. His dad’s some kind of boss in the underworld over there. Johnny says he can sell that picture for us, no problem. And he’s been invalided out. He was a bomber pilot and he got shrapnel in one eye, so now he can’t fly anymore and they’re shipping him home. He says he’ll take the picture with him. They fly home on military aircraft and nobody really checks what’s in their kit bags. He’ll send us the money.”
I laughed. “Oh yes, does he think we’re stupid?”
“He’s a nice bloke, Tref. He’s all right. His old man might be crooked but Johnny’s as straight as a die. He won’t cheat us, I promise.”
I stood there, wrestling with myself. I wanted to please her so much, but then … “I can’t,” I said at last. “They’re going to know when they find the copy. They’re going to trace it back to me. I don’t want to put my family through worry.”
“So you care more about your family than you do about me—about us? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”
“No. Of course I care about us, but …”
“You do want to come to Hollywood with me, don’t you, Trefor? You want to be with me and not stuck here for ever and ever?”
“Of course I do. But it won’t work. I know it won’t. Even if you manage to sell the picture, the National Gallery will know they’ve got a fake and they’ll come after us. I don’t want to live worrying about that every day, and I don’t want to die with it on my conscience either.”
She turned away and started walking across the moor, her feet swishing through the heather. Then she turned around suddenly. “All right. I’ve got another idea. It’s pretty wet down in that mine, isn’t it? Often gets flooded when there’s a storm?”
“Yes, it is.” I couldn’t see what she was getting at.
But she looked excited. “So, if a picture got damaged, damaged beyond repair, it would just be bad luck. The water could come in through a badly fitted back panel on the shed. Such a pity.”
Now I saw what she was hinting.
“It might just work,” I said.
“Of course it will work.” She stood there, her eyes sparkling now, her loose jacket blowing around her. She looked so beautiful. I went up to her. “All right. I’ll give it a try. And since there’s nobody watching …”
She pushed me away. “Not now, Tref. I have to get back.”
And she was off, ahead of me, across the moor to town.
“I’ll be back in a while, Mrs. Williams,” Evan said. He started up the stairs, then glanced at his watch and changed his mind. He had to find out before they went home for the night.
“Archives,” the efficient voice said again.
“It’s the North Wales Police again. Look, sorry to disturb you, but I was just thinking. Is it possible that one of the paintings you stored down the mine could be a forgery?”
She laughed. She had a nice, musical laugh. “I really don’t think so. They were all checked over by our experts for signs of damage before they were rehung. Unless it was an absolutely incredible forgery, it would have been noticed. It’s the whole
age thing, isn’t it? Our experts can date a picture from looking at the age of a canvas.”
“Oh, I see.” He felt rather stupid again. “So the whole collection came through intact. No problems at all.”
“I wouldn’t exactly say that. Water got into one of the huts during a storm. It was rather unexpected as the huts were supposed to be waterproof. Three pictures were damaged, one beyond repair.”
Evan hung up and stood staring at the phone. One picture was damaged beyond repair. Knowing what incredible restorations could be made these days, that was very badly damaged indeed. Maybe damaged too badly to know it was a forgery? He was annoyed that he had forgotten to ask the name of the damaged picture, but he didn’t like to call back again.
All right, he said to himself. Obviously, Tref Thomas hadn’t taken the picture—he wasn’t exactly living in luxury and he’d gone back to work in the mine right after the war. Then he remembered the girlfriend Mrs. Williams had mentioned, the one who had run off with an American G.I. She could have taken it with her, or—what if she had switched the painting, damaged the copy so that it wouldn’t be recognized, and then had to leave the original behind at the last minute? It was unlikely that she’d come back to find it after all this time. After all, she’d be close to eighty these days and hardly likely to be tramping around in mines. But she could have told someone else about it. She could have sent one of her relatives to find it. Maybe she’d kept quiet all these years and then on her deathbed she had told her son, or her nephew. An image began to form in his mind. Someone who was about the right age and who had come from California. The image that formed in his mind was that of Howard Bauer.
He had never been able to find a satisfactory reason for Howard Bauer’s involvement in this film. Maybe he had it planned all along and was just biding his time and Grantley caught him at the wrong moment … maybe Howard wasn’t who he seemed to be.
Evan hurried back into the kitchen. A startled Mrs. Williams looked up from the stove. “’Deed to goodness, Mr. Evans. I thought you’d gone out on your walk!”
“Listen, Mrs. Williams. Remember when you first told us about Trefor Thomas. You said his girlfriend had run off to America and left him?”
“That’s right. Oh, he was so cut up about it. Treadful, it was. She left him a note to say she’d run away with a Yankee airman. They were getting married and she was going with him to America.” Mrs. Williams shook her head. “She got what she always wanted, I suppose. Always talking big about going to be a Hollywood star.”
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