Evan Only Knows (10 page)
Authors: Rhys Bowen
“Of course I fucking knew her.”
“Watch your language, boy. You’re talking to a police officer.”
“You’re a fu—, a copper too?”
“Yes, and I’m getting tired of putting up with your mouth. In fact I’m getting tired of you. You deserve everything you bloody well get.”
He got to his feet then controlled himself and sat down again. “Tell me about Alison. How did you know her? She doesn’t sound like your sort of girl.”
“We met clubbing on a Friday night.”
“Clubbing—where?”
“The Monkey’s Uncle on Kingsway.”
“Alison’s parents let her go to the Monkey’s Uncle?”
Tony smirked. “Of course not, stupid. They didn’t let her go nowhere. She used to climb out of her window and get picked up by a friend’s car. She was a nice little dancer. A nice kid. I liked her.”
“What were you doing out by her house that night?”
“I went out there to give her something. Something I’d promised her.”
“So what happened? Did you see her?”
“Yeah. I saw her. I met her out in her front garden, but only for a moment. Then she said she heard someone coming and I’d better beat it. She said her father set the dog on people he didn’t like, so I nipped through a gap in the hedge, pretty lively, like.”
“And did you see who was coming?”
“I heard her speaking to someone. I’ve no idea who.”
“So she was alive and safe in her own front garden when you left her.”
“That’s right.”
“What time was this?”
“Around nine-thirty, I suppose.”
“And what did you do then?”
“Me—I was running to get the bus on the Oystermouth Road, when some fu—some sodding copper recognized me. He stopped me and wanted to know what I was doing out there. I told him it was a free country and to mind his own sodding business. Then he let me go. In the morning they came to get me. That’s when I heard she was dead.”
“And you didn’t see anybody near her house?”
“Have you been out there at night? It’s the middle of bloody nowhere. Only one streetlight and her house is up a long drive. I didn’t see a soul.”
“So if you didn’t kill her, who did?”
“Search me. You’re the policeman, mate.”
“Any idea who might have wanted her dead? Did she ever talk to you about being afraid of anybody—a boyfriend she had dumped, maybe?”
“We never talked much. It’s too loud to talk in the club.”
“What about her friends? What do you know about them?”
“Oh yeah, of course I knew her friends. We hobnobbed together at the bleedin’ country club every Saturday night, didn’t we? What do you think? I had no idea who she was until she told me where she lived. That’s when I found out that old man Turnbull was her father.”
“The one who sacked you from his factory for stealing?”
“I didn’t take nothing.”
“Then why were you sacked?”
“The foreman sent me up to Turnbull’s office. He wasn’t there. I was just taking a little look around for myself, curious like, when he came in, and he blew his stack. Sacked me on the spot. Never gave me a chance to explain—just like the rest of them. Well, I tell you this. I’m sorry Alison’s dead, but I’m glad that bastard got what was coming to him. Let’s see how happy he is with all that money now he doesn’t have his precious little darling daughter.”
He glared at Evan defiantly. When Evan said nothing, he went on. “She hated their guts, you know. Her parents. She couldn’t stand them. She said they treated her like a little kid, and they wouldn’t let her out of their sight. As soon as she turned eighteen, she was going to move to London and never come back.”
They sat there in silence.
“She was nice,” Tony said. “Easy to talk to. Not at all snooty like some of them posh birds you meet. I hope they catch the bastard that did it. Of course, they won’t even bother to look, will they?”
Evan stared at him long and hard. “So you want me to believe that Alison was alive when you left her that night.”
“Believe what you like, mate. It don’t matter to me. Nothing you say is going to make them change their minds. They’re out to get me.”
“Why should I say anything?”
“Of course you wouldn’t, would you? I bet you’re really happy about this.”
Evan got to his feet. “I’d better be going.”
“Yeah. Go on. Bugger off.”
“If you take my advice, you’ll act politely when anyone comes to question you. The way you act has guilty written all over you.”
“Oh, piss off,” Tony said.
Evan sighed and left the room.
Evan came out of the prison to find that the hot weather had broken and dark clouds were rolling in from the west. About the average length for a usual Welsh summer, he thought, Two days of sunshine and then more bloody rain. He felt the pressure of the approaching storm echoing the tension in his head. Why on earth did he have to go and visit Tony Mancini? Bronwen was right. The encounter hadn’t brought him any closure — instead it had opened a whole new can of worms. Not that he believed Tony was telling the truth. He was known as a convincing liar. He’d conned the judge at his last trial easily enough. But now a seed of doubt was planted and wouldn’t go away.He drove straight home and called Bronwen.
“You’ve got a lot to answer for,” she exploded before he could say anything. “I had to endure one of Mummy’s lunch parties today. They’d all come to meet you, so I had to face them alone. Not something I’d have chosen to do. I had to listen to what a delightful chap Edward had been and how they couldn’t understand why we broke up.”
“So you never told them the real reason?”
“Would you have told my mother that my husband ran off with another man? It would have been poor naïve Bronwen. We’d better find a more suitable chap for her next time.”
“So I gather I didn’t measure up.”
“I wouldn’t say that. They think you must be delightfully quaint. A village copper. Mr. Plod. They were devastated that you weren’t there. I told them you were called away on an important case you were solving and you’d be back soon. I hope that’s true.”
“I don’t know, Bron. I went to see Tony this afternoon.”
“And?”
“And I’ve never met anybody I’d like to send to prison more than him. He’s an obnoxious little twit. His own worst enemy.”
“So are you glad you went?”
“No. He says he didn’t do it.”
“Well, he would, wouldn’t he?”
“Yes, but …”
“And you said he’s a great con artist. Don’t tell me you believed him, Evan?”
“No, of course I didn’t.” Evan attempted an easy laugh. “He’s going to get what’s coming to him and serve him right. It’s just that — I need to find out for myself, one way or the other.”
“And if it’s the other?”
“I’m not sure. I’m really not sure.”
“It’s not up to you, Evan,” Bronwen said. “Why don’t you just come back here and suffer beside me? We’ve got sherry at the Fearnails tomorrow. And Daddy’s dying to show you his rare sheep—oh, and speaking of sheep, we’ve had problems with Prince William, I’m afraid.”
“You mean our adopted son hasn’t been behaving himself?” Bronwen laughed. “Daddy is paranoid that Prince William will get out and infect his precious darlings. And we forgot to warn Mrs. Todd that he was shut up in the laundry. She went in with a load of washing, dropped it on top of him without looking, then thought the place was haunted. She had to be calmed down with a large brandy.”
Evan chuckled.
“I miss you,” she said simply. “I wish you’d give this up and come back.”
After he had hung up, Evan felt uneasy, unsettled. He drifted
from room to room until his mother summoned him to supper.
from room to room until his mother summoned him to supper.
“I had a chance to pop out and get your favorite, liver and bacon,” she said, putting in front of him a plate piled with three slices of lamb liver swimming in rich brown gravy, adorned with fried onions and rashers of bacon. This was completed by mashed potatoes, peas, cauliflower, and marrow. He was reminded of Mrs. Williams, his former landlady, and found himself wishing he was back in Llanfair, before any of this painful business had started.
“But you don’t usually have a big meal in the evening,” he said.
“I knew you’d be hungry and needing a good meal.” She smiled, pleased to have done something right.
Evan tucked into the food, feeling comforted by his mother’s cooking.
“This is very good,” he said. “You always were a good cook.”
“No one to cook for these days, so I don’t bother much,” she said, deliberately looking away from him.
“I went to see Tony Mancini today.” The words came out before he had a chance to decide if he should have told her or not.
“That devil—you went to see him? Why in God’s name?”
“I just felt that I needed to talk to him. I never had the chance before.”
“I hope you told him just what you thought of him and how he wrecked so many lives and how he’s going straight to hell if he doesn’t shape up and repent.”
Evan smiled. “I didn’t exactly say that.”
“So that’s why you came back here? To see him?”
“I want to see if they’ll let me work on the case,” he said.
His mother actually smiled. “Your father would have been proud of you. You make sure he didn’t die in vain, Evan.”
He felt uncomfortably full when he got up from the table. “I think I might just pop down to the pub,” he said.
He could detect the instant frost in the air. “No wonder you’re not able to save up for a new car if you spend all your money drinking at the pub,” his mother said. “You’ll not be popping out to the pub every night when you’re married, I can tell you that. She’ll make sure you stay home.”
“I won’t be long.”
Evan went out into the moist evening air. A fine rain was falling, hardly more than a mist. Clouds clung to the hilltops and blotted out the far side of the bay. He started down the hill toward the pub. When he got close he heard the sound of loud voices and laughter and pulled up short. He didn’t feel in the mood to be jolly. And Maggie might be there. He really didn’t want to face her again. He crossed the street and walked by on the other side. As he walked, he remembered his conversation with Maggie. So much had happened that he had pushed it from his mind until now. Could she really think that he might play professional rugby for the new team in Bangor? He’d been a pretty handy rugby player in his day, but he hadn’t played seriously for five years now. He was over thirty. Ridiculous. And yet the thought gnawed at him. Professional rugby players made good money — much better than police constables. If he was about to embark on a new life with a wife and a family, shouldn’t he at least consider it?
He broke into a jog. He’d need to get in shape, and that wouldn’t be easy. He pumped his legs faster but only managed to go one more block before he was out of breath. Obviously some serious training would be needed before he tried out for the team. He walked back up the hill, making a mental training schedule in his head.
“That was quick,” his mother commented when he got home.
“You were right. I am drinking too much beer,” he said. He went through the house and out to the shed at the bottom of the garden. With any luck his old weight set would still be there and he could pump a little iron before he went to bed. His upper body muscles would need toning if he wanted to be of any use in a scrum again. In the orange light of a nearby street lamp he found the weights exactly as he had left them. A bar with weights on it rested on the stand. When he tried to pick it up, he found he couldn’t even move it. To his shame he had to exchange the weights several times before he could get the wretched thing off the stand.
“Who am I fooling?” he asked himself. He’d never manage to get back into rugby playing shape again. It was all downhill after
you turned thirty. There were plenty of fitter chaps. They wouldn’t want him.
you turned thirty. There were plenty of fitter chaps. They wouldn’t want him.
Then he chided himself for such negative thoughts. If he’d been able to lift those weights before, there was no reason why he couldn’t do so again. He’d take them back in the car with him and work on them every morning. And he’d start running faithfully too. It would be a good challenge. He’d been getting soft for too long.
As he stood there thinking in the darkness, he became aware of where he was. The old familiar smells reached his nostrils—the sawdust from his father’s workbench, the rich aroma of potting soil, fertilizer, and long-ago mown grass, together with his father’s brand of tobacco. They all lingered, almost too faint to notice. He breathed deeply and stood staring at the workbench, willing his father to appear there before his eyes. “I wish you were here,” he whispered. “I still need you.”
All his father’s tools still hung in their places as if he’d never been gone. A big box of pieces of wood stood beside the bench. His father was a thrifty man who refused to throw anything away. The wood gave Evan an idea. He rummaged around and came up with a nice smooth piece of darkish wood. Bronwen had hinted that she’d like a lovespoon. Women appreciated sentimental gestures like that, didn’t they? What better time to try his hand at one. He took down a chisel and some sandpaper and went back into the house to draw a design. It took him about fifteen minutes to remember that he had failed woodworking at school.
At last he gave up and went to bed. It felt strange lying in his old bed, in his old room. He remembered lying there as a child, listening for his father’s key in the door, the gentle hum of conversation downstairs, his father whistling “Men of Harlech,” his favorite song, as he took out the rubbish—all those comforting signs that everything was right with the world.
What was he going to do about Tony Mancini? He could take up the DCI’s offer and ride along in one of his squad cars. He could see exactly what evidence they had collected and then make up his own mind. That was, after all, what the jury would have to do. Comforted, he fell asleep.
He woke in the middle of the night to the wind battering his window frame and to the peppering of rain on the roof tiles. When he was a little kid he had been afraid of storms and run into his parents’ bedroom. He’d been afraid of a lot of things when his family first moved here. His dad was the rock he had clung to. His thoughts moved to that night, five years ago. That had been a blustery night too, with squawls of rain. He remembered the telephone call that had woken them, the squad car that had rushed them to the hospital, his dad lying there, hovering between life and death for a while. Evan had watched him slip away, knowing he was powerless to do anything about it.
Then he was in that courtroom, that cold and sterile place. He remembered Tony, looking ridiculously young and vulnerable, sitting sprawled in his seat in his black leather jacket as if he was oblivious to the significance of the occasion. When he heard the charges against him read, he had looked up with an almost cocky grin.
“Did you pull the trigger that killed Sergeant Evans?” the prosecuting barrister had asked.
“I s’pose I must’ve,” Tony had answered. Cocky—yes, that had summed it up. Almost pleased with himself, as if shooting a police officer was a pretty cool thing to have done. Suddenly Evan realized what had made him feel so uneasy when he had seen Tony in court this time. Evan had been to court enough times to have seen innocent men in the dock. The bewildered panic in their eyes; the incredulity that nobody believed them. He realized with a cold, sickening feeling of certainty that Tony Mancini was probably telling the truth. He hadn’t killed Alison Turnbull.
So what should he do? He got up and paced the room, slapping his fist into his palm as if the solid sound would crystallize his racing thoughts. This is not my problem. If he’s innocent, then he’ll be proven innocent in court. British courts are fair. They won’t convict without sufficient evidence. He tried repeating these lines over and over, but he couldn’t shake off the feeling that Tony was going to spend his life in prison for a crime he hadn’t committed.
And if Mancini did go to prison, Evan reasoned, it was only fair.
Justice would be served at last. His mother and the South Wales Police would be happy. Presumably he should be happy too. It would be so easy to get in his car, drive back to Bronwen, and put the whole thing out of his mind.
Justice would be served at last. His mother and the South Wales Police would be happy. Presumably he should be happy too. It would be so easy to get in his car, drive back to Bronwen, and put the whole thing out of his mind.
“I don’t want to do this,” he muttered. As if in answer he saw himself on a hillside, talking to Bill Owens. “Sometimes we have to do things we don’t like for the greater good of the whole.” That’s what he had said, and Owens had called him a sanctimonious little bugger. He’d been right, of course. His own words were coming back to haunt him.
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