Evan can Wait: A Constable Evans Mystery (6 page)

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Authors: Rhys Bowen

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“What do you mean?” Mr. James demanded.
“You know what I mean, you dirty old man.” She turned to the wife. “He couldn’t keep his hands off me, and you turned the other way.”
She started toward the door. “I’ve had my say. This is too painful to talk about. Get me out of here.”
Grantley had been filming. He got up, camera still rolling, and followed Pauline out of the house. Evan stood awkwardly, not quite knowing what to say to the old couple.
“It wasn’t like that at all, Constable Evans,” Mrs. James said at last. “I don’t know where she got those ideas, but we treated her like our own child. Why would she want to come here and say those things?”
“Wicked, that’s what it is,” Mr. James said. “Someone’s been putting ideas into her head. Like as not one of these therapists you read about.” He looked as the boiling water jug clicked off. “You’ll not be wanting that tea now, I’m thinking.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. James,” Evan said. “I’m sure Mr. Smith didn’t think it was going to be like this, or he’d never have suggested meeting up with Pauline again.”
Grantley was subdued until they had dropped Pauline back at the station. Then he let out a great whoop of delight. “How about that, eh? Brilliant stuff. That will make them sit up in their seats, won’t it?”
Evan stared at him. “You knew she was going to say those things?”
“My dear chap, that was the whole point. I put out feelers for evacuees who had had bad experiences in North Wales. She was the only one who fitted the bill.”
“But she really upset those old people,” Evan said.
“I’m sure they deserved it.” Grantley was still smiling. “Don’t worry, Constable. I’ll send them a check to cover their contribution to the documentary. Money has charms to sooth the savage breast, doesn’t it?”
“Sit you down, Mr. Evans. You look worn to a frazzle just,” Mrs. Williams greeted him that evening. “Hard work looking after a film crew, is it?”
“You have no idea, Mrs. Williams.” Evan collapsed into his seat. “I had to work harder than any sheepdog, keeping people away from the set, and then I had to witness a most unpleasant encounter between the Jameses up at Fron Heulog and their wartime evacuee. Then I had to listen to that obnoxious creep, Grantley Smith, telling me how brilliant he was and how he was going to win awards with this film.”
“Get that down you and you’ll feel better.” Mrs. Williams opened the oven and took out a plate on which three slices of lamb’s liver and several rashers of bacon lay smothered in fried onions and rich brown gravy. She added a generous mound of fluffy mashed potato and then runner beans and cauliflower in a parsley sauce. It was times like this that Evan knew why he was being so reluctant about moving into a place of his own.
He had barely taken a mouthful when the phone rang.
“Now who can that be, disturbing your dinner?” Mrs. Williams demanded angrily. “Always so inconsiderate, aren’t they? Never think that you might need to eat your dinner in peace for once … .”
She bustled to the phone. “He’s having his dinner, just,” Evan heard her saying. “Oh, very well. I’ll get him then.” She came hurrying back into the kitchen. “I’m sorry to disturb you now, Mr. Evans, but it seems there’s something nasty going on at the Everest Inn. Major Anderson wants you up there right away.”
Evan grabbed his jacket as he ran out of the front door.
All was quiet as he entered the Everest Inn, but he saw a tense group of people sitting at the table by the fire. Behind them the hotel manager—Major Anderson—and one of the hotel employees were holding a struggling man between them.
“Here’s the police now. Over here, Constable.” Major Anderson beckoned. “I’m afraid we’ve had a bit of a fracas. I witnessed most of it myself. This person came in and started shouting at these gentlemen, then he grabbed Mr. Smith around the throat. It took two of us to prise his hands away.”
Grantley looked paler than usual and smiled wanly. “Bit of a
shock, I can tell you,” he said, “and unfortunately we didn’t have a camera handy. Now that would have made great cinema.”
“Great cinema?” Sandie demanded. “Grandey—he nearly killed you!”
“All right, sir. You can let go of him,” Evan said, turning to face the prisoner, a middle-aged man with the weatherbeaten face, aged tweed jacket, and tall boots of a farmer. He looked vaguely familiar to Evan. As soon as they released him, he swung his arms and Evan half expected to be on the receiving end of a punch.
“Easy now, boyo,” he said. “Now what’s been going on here?”
“You should be ashamed of yourselves,” the man said, with venom in his voice. “You especially, Constable Evans, for bringing that … . that disgusting creature to my parents’ house. Do you know what it did to them? We had to get the doctor for my dad’s heart condition. What did you think you were doing, bringing back that … . Pauline person … . to my parents’ house after all this time? What was supposed to be the good of it?”
“You must be the Jameses’ son then?” Evan asked.
“I am. And my parents are decent, hardworking people. Worked their fingers to the bone every day of their lives. They didn’t deserve to be put through that unpleasantness this morning. He set it up, didn’t he?” He made to step toward Grantley again. Major Anderson put out a restraining arm. “Easy now, fellow,” he said. “This isn’t going to help your case at all.”
“If you’re not careful, I’m going to have to book you on a charge of disturbing the peace, Mr. James,” Evan said.
“And what about him? Hasn’t he disturbed the peace—our peace?” the man roared. “Bringing that Pauline back to our house. I remember her right enough. I was only a little child at the time, but I remember clearly enough. She was a proper little madam, Constable. She whined all the time, wouldn’t lift a finger to help, stole food. Our parents treated her the same as they treated the rest of us. And this is how they are rewarded.” He
spun to face Grantley again. “Men like you—muckrakers like that filth in the tabloids—you don’t deserve to live. Let me catch you anywhere near my parents again and I’ll kill you, understand?”
“So what was it all about, Mr. Evans?” Mrs. Williams greeted him as he arrived home much later. “Nothing too serious, I hope.”
Mrs. Williams shook her head in disbelief as Evan told her what had happened. “The Jameses-Fron-Heulog? I know them well enough. Decent God-fearing chapel people, that’s what they are. No good ever comes from stirring up the past, Mr. Evans.”
She produced a rather dryer, older version of his dinner from the oven. “I kept it hot for you,” she said.
Evan sat down, but his appetite had gone. Mrs. Williams pulled up a chair opposite so he was forced to eat rather more dried-out liver than he would otherwise have done, while making small appreciative noises from time to time.
“Funny, talking about the past,” she said. “I hadn’t thought about my girlhood and the wartime for years, but after you asked me, it all started coming back. I can see it clear as yesterday. Oh, it was an exciting time, Mr. Evans. I was just a young girl, going into my teens, but my, did we have fun.”
Her whole face lit up and the years seemed to have fallen away.
“Fun—in wartime?” Evan asked.
A dreamy look spread across her face. “There was this boy called Trefor Thomas—ooh, he was lovely just. Handsome like a young Clark Gable, and talented, too, Trefor was. I’ve never seen anyone draw pictures the way he could. He wanted to be an artist, but of course he had to go down the slate mine, like his dad. Everyone did up there. All the girls had crushes on him, but he only had eyes for Ginger.”
“Ginger?”
“That wasn’t her real name, look you. She was really plain old Mwfanwy, but she called herself Ginger after Ginger Rogers. She
was mad about film stars and Hollywood. She bleached her hair and piled it up like Ginger Rogers. Her old
mam
was fit to be tied, but there wasn’t much she could do about it, was there?”
Mrs. Williams chuckled. “I was younger than the rest—just a hanger-on, like, but I was happy to be included, I suppose. And then later I met Mr. Williams, and well … . that was that. I came here and I’ve been here ever since.”
“So did Trefor marry Ginger?” Evan asked.
“No! She ran away with an American—a G. I. who came up here to recuperate. Just upped and left one night and sent Trefor a note saying she’d gone to Hollywood. Poor old Trefor. Broke his heart, it did. He changed after that. He got quite bitter and shut himself away. I heard he did marry and have a son, but he was never his bright, fun-loving self again. He’d had so many hopes, you see—what with the National Gallery coming to Blenau. He thought he’d be able to help with the paintings.”
Evan had been listening politely while he ate, but not paying too much attention. Suddenly he stopped, liver poised on his fork. “The National Gallery? The art gallery in London, you mean?”
“I do. They took out all the pictures and stored them in a slate mine in Blenau during the war. Didn’t you know that?”
“No. I’d never heard that before.”
“Oh’deed to goodness yes. They brought all the pictures from London in big lorries. Trevor had just started working in the mine. He hoped they’d let him handle the pictures, but of course they all came in wooden crates, didn’t they? All he helped build was the sheds to put them in.”
“Sheds?”
“That’s right. They built sheds in one of the caverns, seven floors down it was—centrally heated and everything so that the pictures didn’t spoil. It’s my belief if the Germans had ever invaded, they’d never have found where we’d put all the good paintings. They might have been there still.”
“This is very interesting,” Evan said. “I wonder if the film crew knows. Is Trefor Thomas still alive?”
“Last I heard he was.”
“I think they should get you to tell your story for the film,” Evan said. “I’ll mention it tomorrow.”
“Me? In a film?
Escob Annwyl!
Whatever next.” Mrs. Williams put her hand to her vast bosom, but she looked pleased all the same.
When Evan arrived at the Everest Inn the next morning, Edward was sitting alone with a pot of coffee, Howard was pacing around, now dressed in a leather flight jacket with fur collar, and there was no sign of Grantley or Sandie. Evan was just about to ask where they were when Sandie came running down the stairs, followed by Grantley.
“Sandie, darling, be reasonable,” he called after her.
“Don’t you Sandie darling me,” she snapped. “I hate you. I never want to see you again as long as I live. I’ll never forgive what you’ve done. Never!”
“Sandie,” he caught up with her as she reached the reception desk.
“Would you please phone for a taxi,” Sandie said, her voice quivering. “I’m leaving.”
Grantley came over to Edward and grabbed his arm. “Say something. Make her stay, for God’s sake. Tell her it was all a joke. Tell her anything, only don’t let her go!”
“You tell her, Grantley.” Edward shrugged him off.
But it appeared that Sandie was not to be persuaded. A bellboy came downstairs with her luggage and she disappeared in a taxi.
“And then there were three,” Edward commented. “I don’t
care what hysterics are going on, my salvage crew is waiting for me. And if you want to shoot this operation, you’d better get up to the lake with me.”
A glowering Grantley climbed into the car. Howard was humming to himself as if the incident had lightened his spirits. Evan sat next to Grantley, feeling very uncomfortable.
The lakeshore was bustling with activity. A floating platform was now on the lake above the sunken plane. Two divers were working and another man was directing a robot camera. A large generator was running and lights and camera were in place.
“Any chance that they’ll raise it today?” Howard asked.
“That’s probably a trifle optimistic,” Edward said. “The divers can’t work for long at those depths and those temperatures. It’s very murky down there, you know. Still, I’m hopeful a couple more days will do it.”
“That’s the spirit—the one optimist in the group.” Howard slapped him on the back.
Cameras started rolling. Divers went down. Suddenly Grantley yelled, “Cut! What the hell is that over there?”
Evan looked where he was pointing. “Oh no,” he groaned.
Betsy had just emerged from behind a large rock. She was wearing a tiny purple and white polka dot bikini that barely covered the interesting parts of her body. As the men watched, enthralled, she walked down to the shore, spread out a towel, and lay on it.
“What the hell is she doing here?” Grantley yelled. “Constable, I told you to keep people away! For God’s sake, do your job.”
Evan walked over to Betsy.
“What are you doing?” he demanded.
She smiled up at him. “I’m sunbathing. I always come up here to sunbathe, away from it all, in the middle of nature.”
“Betsy, it’s the middle of November and I told you to stay away. These gentlemen are busy trying to shoot their film.”
Betsy got to her feet, giving a good imitation of a surprised
Marilyn Monroe. “Oh, are they shooting a film up here? I hadn’t noticed. Ooh, I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t get in your way.”
The young camera crew were grinning. The man operating the robot camera wasn’t paying attention to his screen. Betsy looked at Evan’s angry face. “I’m sorry, but it was worth a try, wasn’t it? Po-faced lot, aren’t they? All right, I’m going now. ‘Bye.” She blew a kiss in the direction of the camera.
“Sorry about that,” Evan muttered. “She likes sunbathing—comes up here all the time, even in winter. It won’t happen again.”
Shooting continued. The underwater remote camera brought up dramatic shots of the plane, half-hidden in silt. Then Grantley stiffened. “Oh no, not again!”
Evan half expected to see Betsy reappearing, but instead a lone man, dressed in knee britches and hiking boots, a hat with a feather on one side and carrying a stick, came up the trail.
“It’s only a hiker,” Evan said, “and this is one of the major routes to the summit of Snowdon. We should just wait until he’s gone.”
“I suppose so,” Grantley snapped. “Break, everybody.”
Instead of continuing up the trail, the hiker veered off and came toward them.
“You are the Mr. Grantley Smith?” he demanded in a heavily accented voice. “I am Gerhart Eichner. You have found my brozzer’s plane?”
Grantley leaped forward, his hand extended. “My dear Herr Eichner. So good of you to come.” He turned to the others. “The brother of the pilot. I told you I’d located him. Start the cameras rolling, Will. This should be good—human interest. Emotion.” He escorted the German toward the monitor. “Yes, we’ve located the plane and they’ve got a remote camera on it now. See, on the screen? That’s one wing sticking up to the left. It won’t be long before we raise it.”
“My brozzer’s body—it is still in the plane?”
“We can’t see yet. We’ll have to wait until we bring it up.”
“And what do you do wiz zis plane ven you bring it up?” There was an edge to the German’s voice now.
“Oh, actually it’s going in a new museum.” Edward bounded across like an eager puppy. “‘War in the Skies.’ It’s being created in a hangar at a disused RAF base. This plane will be a centerpiece.”
“No!” The German let out a roar. “Zis I do not like. Zat plane vas my brozzer’s coffin. He is not a centerpiece.”
“Oh, don’t worry—you’ll be able to take home the remains for burial, if that’s what you want,” Grantley said. “If we can sort out who is who at this stage.”
“I vant him left in peace where he lies. He was a shy man. He would not vant to be part of zis spectacle.”
“Sorry, old chap,” Grantley said. “We’ve got permission to raise the plane and we’re going to raise it.”
“I am his brozzer. I forbid it!” Herr Eichner yelled.
“Nothing you can do to stop us, I’m afraid. It’s Ministry of Defense property.” He patted the German on the shoulder. “Now please go away, we’re very busy.”
The German’s face had turned puce. He waved his walking stick at Grantley. “I stop you!” he shouted. “I find a way to stop you. You have no right!”
“I have every right,” Grantley said. “Your side lost, remember? Spoils of war and all that!” He faced the German, an insolent smile on his face. “Now please leave before I have Constable Evans throw you out.”
“I come back!” The German waved his stick again. “I find a way to stop you, I promise!”
He stomped off down the track.
“Our Grantley has quite a way with people, doesn’t he?” Howard muttered to Evan. “Proper little diplomat. Thank heavens he didn’t decide to be secretary-general of the United Nations or we’d have had World War Three by now.”
“I heard that,” Grantley said. He looked amused. “And of course I’d never have been secretary-general of the U.N. My
name’s too ordinary. You need to be called Boutros Boutros Ghali or Perez de Queyar before they’ll even consider you.”
He’s enjoying this, Evan suddenly realized. Grantley was one of those people who fed on conflict.
“You’re right,” Howard added. “Your name is too ordinary.”
For some reason, Grantley shot him a venomous glance. “Let’s stop chattering and get back to work, eh?”
At that moment the rain began—-not a gentle mist but a drenching downpour.
“So far today hasn’t been exactly scintillating,” Grantley said as they scrambled into the vehicles and negotiated the track down to the village. “Somebody say something to cheer me up. I’m about to sink into depression.”
“It’s your own fault, Grantley,” Edward said, “you’ve behaved like a complete prat.”
“Me? I was defending myself against a Hunnish invasion.” He turned to Evan. “Now, our honest village constable, say something to cheer me up. Tell me you’ve unearthed a brilliant war story for us that will bring our dreary little epic to life.”
He was being so obviously sarcastic and patronizing that Evan was tempted not even to mention Mrs. Williams’s story. But then he decided that the story would be a definite coup.
“I do have one woman I’d like you to meet,” he said.
“Oh God, please say it’s not that awful preacher’s wife!” Grantley wailed.
“No, actually she comes from a village about fifteen miles away. She can put us onto somebody who helped to store all the paintings from the National Gallery in a slate mine during the war.”
“The paintings from the National Gallery? Are you serious?”
“Oh.” It was Evan’s turn to smile. “Didn’t you know about that? The whole lot, seven stories down in a cavern, for safekeeping.”
Grantley wriggled around in his seat. “What an incredible story. Take us to her right away!”
An hour later Evan was at the wheel of the Land Rover, driving Grantley Smith up the winding road to the slate town of Blenau Ffestiniog.
“God, what a dismal-looking place,” Grantley exclaimed as the settlement came into view ahead of them, two lines of gray cottages, surrounded by slag heaps of slate, nestled under gray slate quarries. “I’d go mad if I had to live here.” He waved his cigarette dramatically, sending pungent smoke into Evan’s face.
“Don’t say that to the locals. They think it’s the best place on earth.” Evan grinned. “Ever so proud of their choir and their chapels, they are here.” He slowed as they turned into the village high street. “I’ll just stop at the pub. I’m sure they’ll know where Trefor Thomas lives.”
The cottage was perched outside the village at the edge of a high, bleak moor. A slim, good-looking man in his forties or fifties opened the door. “Can I help you?” he asked warily in Welsh.
“Yes, we’re looking for Trefor Thomas. Have we got the right house?”
The man reacted to Evan’s uniform. “You have. I’m his son, Tudur Thomas. Is something wrong?”
“No, nothing. This gentleman is from England and he’s making a film about Wales in the war. We understand that your dad was working in the mine when they stored all the paintings down there. Mr. Smith would like to interview him.”
Grantley Smith’s eyes had been darting from one face to the other as they spoke in Welsh. He stepped between the men with his hand extended. “Grantley Smith,” he said. “I expect he’s told you we’re making a film. We’d like to feature your father in it.”
“Oh, I see.” Tudur Thomas glanced back into the house. “You better come inside and we’ll see. I’m not sure how much you’ll get out of him.” He leaned closer to them and lowered his voice. “His mind’s going, see. Some days he’s quite clear and lucid, other days he doesn’t even know me. He had a stroke last summer and I came back here to look after him. He’s recovered
pretty well physically—he always was as strong as an ox. All those old slate miners were, weren’t they? But his mind’s definitely rambling. That’s why I’ve stayed on—so that he doesn’t set fire to the place.”
“Are you his only relative?” Evan asked.
Tudur nodded. “My mother died when I was young. Dad more or less raised me by himself. He’s never been an easy man—a bit of a hermit, I suppose you could say. But he’s been good to me. I want to do right by him. I’ve taken leave of absence from my school—I’m the art master at a comprehensive in Wrexham.”
“Following in your father’s footsteps, eh?” Evan smiled at him. “We heard your dad was something of an artist.”
“A really talented artist,” Tudur Thomas said. “Unlike me. He paid to send me to art school, but I never was much good, unfortunately. Good enough to teach. Come on in then, I’ll see if he’s awake.”
Tudur Thomas went ahead of them. Evan and Grantley Smith followed, ducking their heads under the low doorway into a dark entrance hall.
“Tad? Ble ryt ti?”
he called out. “We’ve got visitors. Gentlemen come to see you.” There was an exchange of rapid Welsh conversation, too low for Evan to catch.
“Come on in. He’ll see you.” Tudur ushered them into a gloomy, cold living room. A coal fire was burning in the fireplace but it didn’t seem to give off much heat and the room had a chill, dampish feel to it.

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