Part 21 (2/2)

”Not yet. In fact, I don't think he's going to have time to question her tonight, because of everything that's happening. We can't keep her here because our only cell has a couple of lager louts from the rugby match in it. So I understand he's planning to send her back to where she was staying with a W.P.C. escort-which I suspect will end up being me, because I'm the only one still on duty. So I suppose I might be seeing you later. She's staying somewhere up near you, isn't she?”

Evan's brain stopped functioning rationally. All he could think was that Glynis would be arriving at Bronwen's house.

”Are you still there, Constable Evans?”

”Yes, I'm still here. Sorry. I was thinking.”

”I know. It's all so complicated, isn't it. But you're off the hook, aren't you? Now they know who they're looking for, so I suppose it becomes part of Operation Armada.”

”Right. I can go back to finding lost car keys.”

Glynis laughed. Evan didn't think it was funny.

”See you later maybe, then,” she said again as she rang off.

Evan hung up the phone and sat staring at his desk. So their first hunch had been correct after all. It was all tied in with the drug s.h.i.+pments. Of course. Why else would an outstanding chef open a French restaurant in such an out-of the way place? The drugs would arrive in small boats, be whisked up from the coast to the restaurant and get picked up from there. A great setup. It probably could have gone undetected for years if they hadn't had the tip-off and there had been no fire.

Jean Bouchard had been the real Madame Yvette's husband, but he was also involved in the shady world of drug dealing. That was probably why he'd chosen to fake his death and disappear five years ago. And now he'd been sent here to help with the drug s.h.i.+pments. It was probably pure chance that he had happened on the restaurant and discovered the woman impersonating his wife. If Janine hadn't stabbed him, who had? Had he fallen out with fellow gang members, or crossed paths with a rival gang? Evan wondered if they'd ever know.

He felt both pleased and annoyed. He was pleased that his gut feeling was correct and Madame or Janine or whoever she was had probably not committed the murder, but annoyed that he was once again being left out just as things heated up. He thumped his fist onto the table in frustration. Then he reminded himself that he had work to do. He still had to find Terry Jenkins.

He checked the village once more, looking in all the sort of places an eleven-year-old boy might want to hide. Then he went back to his car. The sun had sunk behind the westera mountains and the valley was bathed in twilight. Evan had to agree with Terry's mother for once-he didn't like the thought of the boy out on his bike in the dark. Cars drove up the winding road too fast to see a boy on a bike.

He drove first to the top of the pa.s.s and looked around the Everest Inn car park, then slowly back down the hill. Terry really must have gone into hiding-perhaps he was more scared of being taken to the police station than he wanted to admit. Perhaps he knew more than he was admitting, as well.

Evan had almost reached the village of Nant Peris when he spotted something s.h.i.+ny, almost hidden among the thick brambles beside the road. He stopped the car and jumped out. It was Terry's bike. Evan picked it up and stood there, his hand on the saddle. Why had Terry abandoned his bike? If he'd wanted to hide up on the mountain, there were plenty of tracks leading from Llanfair itself. He wouldn't have had to ride down to Nant Peris first. Was he possibly on his own quest, looking for something down here-something to do with the fire?

The ruined restaurant stood at the upper end of the village, its stone walls etched in the dying light like jagged teeth.

”Terry?” Evan called. ”Are you there, Terry? Your mum's worried. She wants you home right now.”

Silence, except for the wind sighing on the hillside and stirring the ashes of the fire. He stood looking around, not sure what to do next. The Vaynol Arms sign squeaked as it swung in the wind. A car door slammed and a couple got out of a car. Evan watched them go into the pub, arm in arm and laughing.

He pulled the bike out of the brambles, then scrambled over the dry stone wall that bordered the road to the meadow beyond. As he began to climb, his nostrils picked up a smell, a little off to the left where a small track went up the mountain. Evan followed his nose until the smell became identifiable. He bent down to a large rock and sniffed. There was no visible sign, but then the smell always lingered long after it had evaporated. Petrol had recently been splashed on this rock. A little higher up another whiff . . . . Someone had been carrying petrol up the mountain.

Idiot, he muttered to himself. He had wanted to believe that Terry was innocent, so he had refused to see the signs. Of course Potter was right. Terry was a cla.s.sic case of someone who could become a serial arsonist. He'd even admitted to buying petrol. So what was his next target?

Evan climbed onto the wall and scanned the hillside. The meadow rose steeply until it met the dark line of fir trees-the spruce plantation the locals so disliked. Was that where Terry was heading? The peaks above, the Glyders, were still bathed in rosy sunlight, making their rocks glow red, in contrast to the gloom of the fir trees at their base. Suddenly Evan's sharp eyes picked out a moving figure, not on the track, but farther over to the right, going straight up the mountain and moving fast. But it wasn't Terry. It was a grown man and the impression was one of darkness-dark hair, dark jacket, swarthy skin. He was moving through the dry bracken with a kind of animal grace, furtively, as if he didn't want to be seen, and Evan could almost hear Glynis's voice echoing in his head: ”He likes to be called the Tiger.”

Wait a second-hadn't he just seen . . . ? He glanced back at the pub car park. Yes, he was right. He had noticed a red sports car there when he'd watched the young couple get out of their car. Now he heard Terry's voice like an instant replay in his brain. ”I saw that man again, Mr. Evans. The one who drove the red sports car and had the gun . . .”

Evan could feel the back of his neck p.r.i.c.kle. The man who drove the sports car and carried the gun and who had spoken to Terry Jenkins, asking about the restaurant . . . His heart racing, Evan took this one step further-and Terry was the one person who could identify him and tie him to a place and time. Had Terry spotted the red car? Had the man seen Terry and caused him to hide his bike and flee up the mountain?

For a second he stood poised on the wall, undecided. Should he run back to the pub and call for help or go after the man? This is no time for heroics, he told himself. What could he do against a man who called himself the Tiger, trafficked in drugs and had already killed at least once? And yet he had to do something to save Terry if he could.

He jumped down from the wall, sprinted across the street and into the pub. The bar was empty except for the newly arrived couple and two old men sitting in a corner. ”Call 999,” Evan yelled to the barmaid. ”Tell them to get units up here right away. Our suspect is up on the hill. I'm going after him.”

He didn't wait for an answer. He began to climb the hill. It was getting dark now and Evan could no longer see the man moving among the dry bracken. Which meant he had to have reached the spruce plantation. The boy must have made for the trees, hoping to hide himself in the dark forest, not realizing that there was no place to hide among the slim, even rows of spruce.

Was the man carrying a gun? That made all the difference. Terry was a smart mountain-bred kid. Evan hoped he'd know the area well enough to slip through the forest and double back down to Llanfair-or at least find a good hiding place among the rocks until morning. Evan felt anger, as well as fear, welling up in his throat. He couldn't let that monster get to Terry. He couldn't wait for reinforcements to get there. He hurried on. Light was fading fast and sheep drifted like ghostly shapes, their mournful bleating echoing back from crags above. A bat skimmed low past him, making him jump.

Suddenly he stiffened as he heard a noise on the mountain above-a popping sound. His first reaction was gunfire, but then a motorbike appeared, b.u.mping down the track ahead. Evan waved his arms. The bike swerved and for a moment it seemed to speed up.

”Stop!” Evan yelled and made a grab for the rider.

”Constable Evans!” the rider gasped.

”Oh, it's you, Bryn.” Evan felt a great wave of relief. ”You haven't seen young Terry, have you?”

”Terry Jenkins?” His eyes darted around warily. ”I haven't seen anybody. I've just been for a ride.”

”Up on the mountain? I shouldn't imagine it's very good for the bike. So you haven't seen anybody? Not a man with dark hair?”

”n.o.body.” His fingers twitched at the accelerator. ”I have to get home, Mr. Evans . . .”

”I need your help, Bryn,” Evan put a hand on the handlebar. ”Young Terry's up there somewhere and a man's trying to kill him.”

Bryn swiveled to stare up at the hillside. ”Terry's up there?”

”He probably went into the tree plantation.”

”Oh no, Mr. Evans, don't say that!” Bryn leaped off the bike and flung it down on the gra.s.s. ”We've got to get up there, fast, before it's too late.”

He started scrambling up the hill with Evan at his heels. ”I hope we're not too late, Mr. Evans.” Evan could hear the boy sobbing. ”I didn't mean any harm. Honest I didn't. It was a bit of fun really . . .”

”What are you talking about, Bryn?”

”We've only got a few minutes before the fuse burns through, then the whole forest will go up.”

Evan grabbed his arm and spun him around. ”What are you talking about, boy?”

Bryn was really crying now. Large tears were welling out of his eyes. ”I set a fire up there, didn't I?”

Chapter 23.

Evan grabbed the boy's arm. ”You set a fire? Are you out of your mind?”

Bryn shook him off and staggered upward. The hillside had become steep. Bryn was scrambling up on all fours, like a dog.

Evan saw how blind he had been-how blind they had all been. Bryn had sounded the alarm both times. Bryn had been first on the scene. ”It was you!” he yelled. ”You set the fires, so that you could look like a hero and put them out again!”

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