Part 19 (1/2)
He followed her into the kitchen, where warm, inviting smells were coming from the stove. He sat musing, with the cup cradled in his hands. What Watkins said was probably true. There was little likelihood of catching Madame Yvette. She had probably fled back to France-in which case it was out of their hands. It was frustrating not to be able to see it through. Maybe he'd never know whether she killed Jean Bouchard and maybe even started the fire that killed the real Yvette, too. Funny-but she still hadn't seemed like a murderer to him.
Well, he was up and awake now, so he'd better get on with his day, back to the old routine and probably a pile of complaints from Mrs. Powell-Jones about the van. He showered and put on his uniform, then decided he might have time to see Bronwen before school started.
As he walked up the village street, Llanfair was coming to life. Evans-the-Milk was heading toward a doorstep, milk bottles rattling in his hands. ” 'ello, Evan bach, bach,” he called. ”Back from your jaunt to the South then, are you?”
Evans-the-Post came out of the post office, extracted a postcard from his mail bag and stood in the middle of the street, studying it. He jumped guiltily when he saw Evan.
”It's from Mrs. Jones, Number 24's sister,” he said, waving the postcard in Evan's face. ”She's on holiday in Bournemouth. Look, see the picture? That's the pier. They say you went down south, too. Did you go on the pier when you were down there, Mr. Evans?”
”Your snooping is going to get you in trouble one day,” Evan said. ”That's personal stuff you're reading there.”
”I don't do no harm,” Evans-the-Post protested. ”I don't read letters from the income tax or the pensions, do I?”
”Only because you can't open them,” Evan said with a grin. Evans-the-Post grinned too and loped off down the street.
Evan moved on. Even Evans-the-Post, with his limited brainpower, knew of his secret mission. No wonder Madame Yvette had heard about it and fled.
He was deep in thought as he continued up the street. Maybe Madame Yvette had even heard somehow that he'd gone to France. Nothing seemed to escape the Llanfair spies. Suddenly he looked up and found himself confronted with a large green bus. It was parked outside Chapel Beulah and painted on its side were the words CELESTIAL OMNIBUS. CHAPEL BEULAH. LLANFAIR.
And in smaller letters underneath, We pray in Welsh, we sing in Welsh, we preach in Wels.h.!.+ We pray in Welsh, we sing in Welsh, we preach in Wels.h.!.+
It completely dwarfed the plain gray van parked across the street outside Chapel Bethel.
Evan started to laugh. What next? Would Rev. Parry Davies have to indulge in a helicopter? A fleet of limousines? He looked forward to having a good chuckle with Bronwen about it. He felt a sudden thrill of antic.i.p.ation about seeing her again. He had only been away three days, but he had missed her. That was a sign that he must be serious about her, wasn't it?
But as he put his hand on the playground gate and looked across at the schoolhouse with the smoke curling from its chimney, he felt suddenly hesitant. She'd obviously be busy preparing for the school day and probably wouldn't have time to talk to him. And it was absurd to be missing her when he'd only been gone such a short time. He'd come back when school was over this afternoon.
He turned and began to walk away, half hoping that he'd hear his name called and see her standing there. But he reached the police station door without being stopped.
Inside, the green light was blinking on his answering machine and a pile of letters lay on the mat. He picked up the letters and noted the top one. It was on good stationary paper, headed Grantley, Straughan and Grantley, Solicitors Grantley, Straughan and Grantley, Solicitors in Buxton, Derbys.h.i.+re. He couldn't make a connection until he began to read. The letter was written on behalf of Mr. and Mrs. Paxton-Smith, owners of cottage Ty Bryn. Evan nodded to himself. The English couple-so that was their name. He'd bet it wasn't really hyphenated, but just plain Smith. Obnoxious prigs! Mr. and Mrs. Paxton-Smith were not satisfied with the original police report . . . possible negligence . . . understood he was the officer on duty . . . wanted his firsthand account of the handling of the fire . . . in Buxton, Derbys.h.i.+re. He couldn't make a connection until he began to read. The letter was written on behalf of Mr. and Mrs. Paxton-Smith, owners of cottage Ty Bryn. Evan nodded to himself. The English couple-so that was their name. He'd bet it wasn't really hyphenated, but just plain Smith. Obnoxious prigs! Mr. and Mrs. Paxton-Smith were not satisfied with the original police report . . . possible negligence . . . understood he was the officer on duty . . . wanted his firsthand account of the handling of the fire . . .
Evan put it down in disgust. They'd collect on the insurance but it sounded as if they were preparing to sue somebody as well. He'd pa.s.s it on to HQ and let them handle it. He put on the electric kettle for tea, then sat at his desk and punched Replay on the answering machine.
”Constable Evans?” The voice was soft and Welsh. ”This is Mrs. Parry Davies at Chapel Bethel. There is a large bus blocking the entire street. It's creating quite a traffic hazard. Please have it moved immediately.”
Evan grinned.
The next message made his pulse quicken. ”Constable Evans, this is P.C. Glynis Davies from headquarters. I just thought you'd like to know that Forensics have found the murder weapon and they're attempting to get a good set of prints from it. Oh, and there's no answer from the French police yet to any of our inquiries so we're not much the wiser-bye.”
Evan smiled to himself as an image of Glynis's stylish, elfin face swam into his mind. Would finding out about the prints on the murder weapon give him a good excuse to go down to HQ and maybe see her again? Wait a second, he reminded himself severely. A few minutes ago you were pining for Bronwen. What's wrong with you, boyo?
”Evans!” Sergeant Potter's voice barked from the speaker, instantly banis.h.i.+ng any thoughts of Bronwen or Glynis from his mind. ”I want to see you in my office right away. I think we may have the answer to our serial arsonist. I need you to make the identification.”
Short, sweet, and to the point, Evan thought. At least now he had his excuse to drive down to HQ. It was strange, but he'd pushed the whole arson aspect of the case aside the moment they started to focus on Madame Yvette and the murder. Obviously there was still a serial arsonist out there, even if he might not have torched the restaurant. Evan wondered if it would turn out to be the Meibion Gywnedd extremists who were responsible for the fires after all. It would be nice to solve at least one aspect of this case.
Chapter 20.
As luck would have it, Evan literally b.u.mped into P.C. Davies as he came through the swing doors.
Oh, I'm sorry,” he exclaimed as she staggered backward, then realized whom he was steadying and felt doubly stupid.
”Oh, Constable Evans, it's you,” she said, not looking at all fl.u.s.tered. ”Welcome back. How was Paris?”
”All I saw was one street, one metro station, and a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower,” Evan answered.
”Too bad. And too bad that the Frenchwoman got away after all your efforts. I bet you were amazed when you found out she wasn't the real Madame Yvette, weren't you? The D.I. couldn't believe it when he heard.”
”I still haven't got the whole thing straight,” Evan said. ”It got more complicated by the minute. And now that Janine's disappeared I wonder if we'll ever know the truth. By the way, thanks for keeping me updated on the murder weapon.”
”I thought you'd like to know and I didn't imagine anyone else here would remember to tell you,” she said, glancing around with a guilty smile. ”I'm escaping to get my coffee fix again. I don't suppose you've got time to join me?”
”I've been summoned to the presence of Sergeant Potter,” Evan said.
”That awful Englishman? Talk about G.o.d's gift to the world of forensics!” She grinned. ”Good luck.”
”Thanks, I'll need it,” Evan said.
”I'll bring you back an espresso if you like. I think strong coffee is in order after you've been in with him.”
”Thanks, Glynis,” he said. She really was very nice, as well as being pretty and clever. Close to perfect, actually. He still couldn't tell whether she really did fancy him, or if she was just friendly to everyone. Better to keep it strictly on a professional level, just in case, he reminded himself. No more calling her by her first name . . .
”Only don't let on to Sergeant Potter that I'm bringing you back a coffee,” she murmured, leaning close enough to him that he got a whiff of a very nice spicy perfume. ”He asked me to get him a cup of tea the other day and I told him not to expect maid service just because I was a woman.”
Evan laughed. ”I'll remember. So what's the latest on the murder weapon-did they find any prints?”
”Yes, two sets. One belonging to Madame Yvette, or whatever her real name is-which makes sense because it was her biggest kitchen knife, but a thumbprint that doesn't belong to her. And it doesn't match any print that we've looked at so far.
”Man's or woman's? Can they tell?”
”It was bigger than hers but not necessarily a man's. I'll keep you posted if I hear any more, okay?”
He nodded. ”Brilliant.”
”Although her sudden disappearance must point to her guilt, don't you think?” Glynis asked. ”You don't run away if you've got nothing to hide.” She looked up at him. ”Do you think they'll ever catch her?”
”I hope so, but I wouldn't bet on it.”
”I wonder who tipped her off that you'd gone to France and were checking into her background?”
Evan smiled. ”You don't know how the local bush telegraph works in places like Llanfair. It would have been around the whole district in seconds.”
”Doesn't it drive you mad, trying to work in a little village like that?” she asked. ”Why don't you ask for a transfer to headquarters?”
”I'm sort of used to it now,” Evan said. ”It's my own little niche up there.”
”You're too young to get stuck in a rut, Constable Evans,” she said. ”It's about time you thought about getting ahead.” Then she realized what she had said and blushed. ”I'll bring you back that coffee.”