Evan Only Knows (6 page)

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Authors: Rhys Bowen

BOOK: Evan Only Knows
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“Pole,” he said. “Maggie Pole.” As he said it a picture of the vivacious brunette flashed into his head. He shook his head. “Let’s not talk about her. It was all over a long time ago and not exactly happy memories.”
“Did you have a stormy breakup?”
“She dumped me,” Evan said. “If you want the whole sorry story, I had a bad time after my father died. I was off work. I couldn’t seem to get on with my life. I really needed Maggie, and she told me she wasn’t prepared to wait around for a loony. End of story.”
“What a bitch,” Bronwen said.
Evan looked surprised at this uncharacteristic outburst.
“Well, she was. If you love someone, you don’t dump them when
they go through a bad patch. When I say for better or worse, I’ll mean it.”
“I’m sure you will.” He took her hand and squeezed it.
“So now I understand why you weren’t keen on seeing her again.”
“And you know why I plan to keep out and busy all the time we’re in Swansea. If my mother has her way, she’ll trap us and invite Maggie round for tea.”
“So your mum was keen on her, I gather.”
“Not at the time. Only in retrospect. In fact she thought Maggie was flighty and her skirts were too short. No one has ever been good enough for me, according to my mother.”
“Which is why she is so frosty to me.”
“She’ll warm up. Give her time.”
“I hope so. I don’t want to be called Miss Price all my life.”
“You’ll be Mrs. Evans soon, if that suits you better.” Evan smiled. “All right. You’ve seen the site of my rugby triumphs. On to the next stop.”
“You won’t forget Dylan Thomas’s house, will you?”
“No, I won’t forget Dylan bloody Thomas.”
They continued over hilly terrain, lined with uniform streets of a council housing project. Then Evan stopped outside a gray stone chapel at the top of a hill. Without saying anything he opened the car door and got out. Bronwen followed him as he walked up the path and around the side of the chapel.
“Another scene of your boyhood triumphs?” she asked, running to keep up with him because he was walking fast.
They were facing inland now, away from the sea. Green hills and valleys rolled away as far as the eye could see.
“It used to be different when I was a boy,” Evan said, pausing to let her stand beside him. “This was all coal-mining country. There were black slag tips on top of those hills and mine equipment, and a smog always hung over the valleys because of the coal dust. It’s hard to believe now that things can change so quickly.”
He started walking again, into the little cemetery behind the
chapel. “I brought you up here because I wanted you to see my father’s grave.” He stopped beside a plain granite headstone.
The words were already being overtaken by lichen. “In loving memory of Robert David Evans, devoted husband and father and loyal officer of the South Wales Police Force. Killed in the line of duty …”
Evan ran his hand over the rough granite of the stone. “He was due for retirement, you know. He could have retired six months earlier but they were shorthanded, and they asked him if he’d stay on until the end of the year. He never liked to say no to people. He was a good man. He never raised his voice, but if he told you to do something, you knew he meant it and you did it. You could always count on him. A really good … man …”
“I’m sure he was, Evan. He managed to raise a rather nice son.”
“He was a great dad. Always seemed to make time for me, even when he was busy. I wish you could have met him.”
“I wish I could have.”
“He enjoyed life so much. Always laughing. It just seems so wrong that … so unfair that …”
He turned away and stared out at the green hillsides. Bronwen slipped an arm through his. “It’s okay to grieve, you know.”
“And if that creep Mancini is finally sentenced to life in prison, maybe I’ll think there is some justice in the world after all.”
Bronwen took his hand. “Come on. Let’s go. You still have to show me Dylan’s birthplace, and we need some exercise.”
Evan had never been in the Swansea magistrate’s court before. He remembered all too vividly the last time he had been in a Swansea courtroom—every detail of the Crown Court where Tony Mancini’s trial had taken place was etched into his mind. The Crown Court had been a new building, a concrete-and-glass structure that had felt all wrong to Evan. Courtrooms were supposed to be somber, majestic places, with oak-paneled walls and dark wood benches, reeking of tradition like the Old Bailey. This courtroom had been light and ultramodern, with tip-up seats like a theater and laminate countertops like a kitchen. There had been a skylight over the judge’s bench, and cold light had shone down onto the gray wig and the judge’s pale flabby face. Altogether wrong—and very cold. It was the cold he remembered more than anything, although, of course, that could have been shock.
This magistrate’s courtroom was less modern but still spartan. None of the historic glory of the Old Bailey here, and of course the magistrates would be ordinary people in ordinary clothes. No wigs and gowns at this level of justice.
The courtroom was surprisingly full for the arraignment hearing as Bill Howells, in police uniform, led them to seats near the front. Sitting apart on the other side, Evan noticed a well-dressed couple, still as statues, staring straight in front of them. They had to be the
dead girl’s parents. Evan recognized that look of stunned horror, that determination not to break down in public. He knew exactly what they were thinking at this moment—that there was no way they could get through this ordeal, and yet they had to, somehow.
Members of the South Wales Police filled the benches around Evan and his mother. They nodded to Evan’s mother, but she too was staring straight ahead, clearly reliving her memories. He could feel her shaking. He reached across and rested his hand over hers.
From the back of the courtroom came a relaxed buzz of conversation. Evan turned to see a large media contingent. Of course, the death of a councilor’s daughter would make this a high-profile case. The conversation ceased as a door at the front of the courtroom opened and the magistrates came in to take up their positions at the bench. There were three of them—a dapper little man with thinning gray hair neatly parted in the center wearing a red bow tie, a large horsy woman in tweeds to his left, and an equally large, slightly unkempt middle-aged man in a knitted yellow waistcoat on his right. There was a long moment of silence while they seated themselves and were handed documents by the clerk. Then a side door opened and the defendant was brought in, handcuffed and escorted on either side by uniformed policemen. He still looked ridiculously young—a skinny kid with dark hair and big dark eyes, good looking in a Latin kind of way. He looked around the room with a bewildered stare. His gaze brushed Evan, and for a moment there was a glimmer of recognition in his eyes.
“Please state your full name and address,” the middle of the three magistrates said in a high, clipped voice with only the hint of a Welsh accent.
“Anthony Edward Mancini, Twenty-one Caernarfon Street, Swansea.” The words were barely audible.
“Speak up, boy,” the magistrate insisted.
Tony repeated the words with a defiant stare.
“Anthony Edward Mancini,” the middle magistrate intoned now in a sonorous voice, “you are charged with the murder of Alison Joan Turnbull on July 17. How do you plead?”
Tony looked around the courtroom again. “I didn’t do it,” he
said. “They’re trying to pin it on me because they want to get even, but I didn’t do it. Why would I want to kill Alison?”
“Do you plead guilty or not guilty?” the magistrate insisted over Tony’s outburst.
“My client pleads not guilty, Your Honor.” A man rose from the front row of seats. If he was Tony’s solicitor he looked almost as young and skinny as his client.
“Which brings us to the question of bail.” The magistrate turned to his two colleagues. “Do I understand that there is an objection to bail being granted?”
Tony’s solicitor rose from his seat again quickly. “Your Honors, we suggest that there is no reason not to grant bail. My client has behaved in an exemplary manner since his release from a young offenders institute. He has not presented any danger to the community or risk of flight.”
The woman magistrate on the left leaned toward Tony. “Does he have a permanent address in the community, and is he gainfully employed?”
The solicitor glanced at Tony, then back at the bench. “He lives with his mother. He is currently unemployed but actively seeking gainful employment. As you know, the unemployment rate in Swansea is particularly high.”
“Has he been employed since leaving the juvenile facility?” the woman insisted.
“Yes, Your Honors. He was employed at the Unico factory.”
“And Unico is?” the magistrate persisted.
“The factory owned by Mr. Turnbull, Alison’s father,” one of the policemen interjected before the young solicitor could say anything.
The three magistrates turned toward him. “You will please wait to be asked to address the court,” the horsy woman said. “Your name is?”
A plainclothes policeman had risen to his feet. “Detective Chief Inspector Vaughan, Major Crimes Division, South Wales Police.” The words came out as a belligerent challenge. He was a square, sturdily built individual with the strong jaw so prevalent in South Wales. A former rugby player, Evan assessed immediately. “I am
leading the team investigating this case. Tony Mancini was employed by Unico until he was dismissed a few months ago for stealing.”
The woman magistrate leaned forward again toward the solicitor. “I understood you to say that this young man had a clean record since his release.”
“He does, Your Honor. No charges were ever brought, and my client feels that he was unjustly dismissed.”
“If I may address the court.” The DCI spoke again. “It seems to me that this young man has had more than his fair share of luck and leniency. He is now twenty-one-years-old, and this is his second murder trial. In the courtroom today are Mrs. Robert Evans and her son, Evan, next of kin to Sergeant Robert Evans of the South Wales Police. Tony Mancini spent four years in a juvenile institution for the murder of Sergeant Evans. I would like to ask permission for Mrs. Evans and her son to address the court.”
The magistrates exchanged eye contact then nodded. “Very well. Mrs. Evans, and Mr. Evans, would you approach the bench?”
Evan’s mother grasped at his arm like a drowning woman as they left their seats and made their way forward. “Your Honors,” she said. “My husband, Sergeant Robert Evans, was a good man, a good provider …”
“Yes, Mrs. Evans. We are not here to dispute your husband’s character. Do you have anything relevant to tell us that might help us weigh up whether bail should be denied in this case?”
Evan felt his mother nudging him. “Your Honors, my father was shot by Tony Mancini during a drug bust.” He looked across to see Tony staring at him. For a moment he held that intense stare, then he turned back to the bench. “He was part of a local gang that dealt drugs and was already known to the police at age fifteen. I think I am right in saying that he was out on bail for a drug possession offense when he shot my father.”
The center magistrate consulted his colleagues. “Is that so?” “It’s in his records, sir,” the DCI said before Evan could answer.
“Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Evans.” The woman magistrate smiled at them. “You may return to your seats.” A muttered conversation
followed. Evan’s mother was still clutching at him. Then the center magistrate got to his feet. “The court will adjourn while my colleagues and I discuss this matter. We will reconvene in half an hour.”
When the magistrates returned to announce that bail had been denied, some of the spectators broke into applause. Evan’s mother and the Turnbulls didn’t flinch. After the hearing had concluded, Evan and his mother came out into the bright sunlight on the Oystermouth Road. Seagulls screeched overhead, and the air was tangy with the smell of ocean. He watched the Turnbulls come out of court and drive away in a black Mercedes.
“Well, that went about as well as we could hope,” Bill Howells said, coming up to them. “Thank you both for coming along. I know your testimony made all the difference”
“I’m so glad Evan was here with me,” Mrs. Evans said. “I was all of a jelly. I didn’t trust myself to say any more because I wanted to tell that—that monster what I thought of him. But if I’m needed to speak at the trial, I’ll do my bit, you can be sure of it. Anything to make sure he’s sent away good and proper this time, eh, Evan
bach?”
Evan nodded. He was still feeling sick and shaken. There was something about the courtroom that he had found profoundly disturbing. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it at the moment, but something had not been right.
DCI Vaughan came out in the middle of a group of plainclothes officers. He came up to Evan and his mother and shook their hands. “Thank you both for coming. I know it can’t have been easy for you. Don’t worry, we’re going to make sure he gets more than four years of holiday camp this time.”
As he walked away Evan heard him say to a fellow officer, “I just hope to God we can make it stick.”
 
Bronwen returned soon after they got home. She had been on her own pilgrimage. “I walked across to Cwmdonkin Park and sat where Dylan used to sit, looking out at the ‘pretty, shitty city.’”
“Miss Price. Such language!” Mrs. Evans said disapprovingly.
“Dylan Thomas’s words, not mine,” Bronwen answered with a smile.
“Dylan Thomas—a drunken reprobate, if you ask me, and no credit to the city of Swansea.”
“Speaking of drunken reprobates,” Evan said, “I have a serious need for a pint at the local. Can I treat you ladies?”
“You want me to come to a pub?” Evan’s mother sounded as if he was suggesting a strip club.
“Yes, and maybe we could get some food there too, or go on to a nice restaurant?”
“So my food’s no longer good enough for you, is it?” Mrs. Evans sounded hurt.
“Of course it is, Ma. I just thought you might like to eat out for a change.”
“I prefer my own cooking at home, if you really want to know. All that foreign muck and everything disguised under sauces. My Robert felt the same way. ‘Nothing can equal your cooking, Ellen,’ he always said.”
“Then I hope you don’t mind if I take Bronwen out to the pub for a while. I’d like to show her my old local. We’ll pick up a pasty or something so that you don’t have to cook for us tonight.”
“If that’s what you want.” Mrs. Evans’s voice was tight. “I’ll be seeing you later then.”
“Oh dear, I’m afraid we’ve offended her,” Bronwen exclaimed as they shut the front door behind them.
“Don’t worry, that’s how she always is—always was. She’s got her routine and she won’t budge from it. And she’s good at laying on the old guilt. Never mind, you and I will go and have a good time.”
Bronwen slipped her arm through his as they made for the car. “I’m looking forward to seeing your old local, and the drink will definitely do you good. You looked as white as a sheet when I first got home. Was it a big ordeal?”
Evan nodded. “I hadn’t realized how big. I suppose I should be
glad because it all went well—he was denied bail for at least thirty days. So he’s off the streets. But I found the whole thing very unsettling.”
“Of course you would. It’s a horrid thing to have to go through, when you’re supposed to be on holiday too.”
Evan leaned down to kiss her. “Nothing a good pint at the pub and good company won’t cure.”
The town was bathed in rosy evening light as they parked outside a pub called the Prince of Wales Feathers. It was a typical corner pub, a tall, uninspiring redbrick building with frosted-glass windows displaying the well-known Prince of Wales’s crest and motto, on an uninspiring street of shops and faceless terraced houses. Nothing like the cozy feeling of the half-timbered Red Dragon at home in Llanfair, and on first glance, Bronwen stood there, disappointed.
“Why was this your local?” she asked. “It isn’t within walking distance.”
“It’s where the rugby crowd used to meet,” Evan said. “I don’t know if that’s still true. Let’s go and see, shall we?” He pushed open a pair of swing doors, each with a small frosted-glass window in them, and held one open for Bronwen to pass through. Inside was dark, with a couple of slot machines in the entrance hall. A notice on a stand recommended signing up early for this year’s Christmas party, now only five months away. Bronwen let Evan go ahead into the bar on the right and recoiled at the heavy fug of cigarette smoke that enveloped the crowd around the bar.

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