Constable Evans 03: Evanly Choirs (23 page)

“Yes? What do you want?” he demanded in a flat Midlands accent.

“Detective Sergeant Watkins and Constable Evans, sir. We’ve received a complaint about this room,” Watkins said.

“You mean because I won’t let the maid come in and clean when I’m working?”

“Exactly what kind of work are you doing, sir?” Watkins asked. Several aluminum boxes were piled on and around the table by the window. A tripod was set up at the window itself and on it was something with a long barrel.

“That’s pretty obvious,” the man said scornfully. “I’m a photographer. This is one of my cameras.”

“Your window doesn’t face the mountains,” Evan said. “Exactly what sort of pictures are you taking from here?”

The man was about to tell them to mind their own business, Evan could tell. “You’ve probably heard,” he cut in, “there has been a murder in the village. Anyone with a camera trained on the house in question would naturally be a suspect.”

The young man’s face flushed. “If you must know, I work for a French magazine. They sent me over here to keep an eye on Llewellyn’s house and see if anything interesting was gooing on—you know, Welsh love nest for famous tenor and his latest flame!” He reached into his pocket and handed them a card. “Robert C. Forester.
Paris Match.
”

“So you’ve been watching the house for a few days now, Mr. Forester?” Watkins could hardly control the excitement in his voice. “And have you seen anything worth reporting?”

“Not a thing. Dull as ditchwater.” The young man sighed. “I thought things might liven up when the wife went away on Tuesday, but nary a sexy chick in sight. I would have packed up and left if this new story hadn’t developed.”

“So you saw everyone who went in and out this week?” Evan asked.

“I don’t watch twenty-four hours of the day. I pop down to get a bite to eat or out to get some cigarettes from time to time. But most of the time I’m here, especially evenings.”

“What about Friday evening? Did you see anyone then?”

“I saw a little red Mini arriving—you were in it, weren’t you?” Forester turned to Evan.

“That’s right. About eight-fifteen, that would have been.”

James Forester nodded. “And then a whole lot of policemen. That’s when I got on the phone and got a full crew out here.”

“But before I arrived,” Evan said, “say around seven o’clock, seven-thirty?”

The photographer shook his head. “Nobody. Not a soul at that time. I popped out for a pack of ciggies around six…”

“No, that would have been too early. Mr. Llewellyn was still alive well after six.”

“I was back and watching by six forty-five at the latest,” James Forester said. “It was all quiet on the western front after that.”

“What about earlier this week?” Watkins asked. “Did you see anyone unusual going in or out?”

“I’ve got all the pictures, if you want to look,” Forester said. “I develop them right here in the bathroom. The maid doesn’t like it because I won’t let her in to clean.”

He opened a drawer and brought out several pages of contact sheets. “Here’s everyone who has visited the house since I started shooting last weekend.”

Watkins carried the sheets over to the window. Evan joined him. “There’s Gladys,” Evan said. “And that’s Evans-the-Post, and Evans-the-Milk, and there’s Evans-the-Meat.”

“They led a bloody exciting life, didn’t they?” Watkins commented. “Who’s that?”

“That’s Mostyn Phillips.” Evan peered closely at the picture of the little man, stalking up the front path with a worried, but determined, expression on his face. “He went to talk to Ifor a couple of times last week.”

“That’s right,” Forester said. “I got him here and again here. Poncey little bloke, wasn’t he? Always wore a bow tie!”

“Was there anyone unusual at all—anyone who didn’t go right up to the front door with groceries or milk?”

“There was one young chap, but it was back on Wednesday, I think, and quite early in the day, too. Yes, that’s the right sheet. That one there. See the one in the dark trousers?”

“I certainly do,” Evan said. “That’s Justin Llewellyn!”

Chapter 19

“I think this constitutes a good reason to bust in on Justin Llewellyn, don’t you, Sarge?” Evan asked excitedly.

“It bloody well does,” Watkins agreed. “Let’s hear how young Justin wriggles his way out of this one.”

He turned to James Forester. “I’m going to need these photos for a while, if you don’t mind. Maybe we should take the whole lot along, just in case.”

“Be my guest,” Forester said. “They’re worth bugger all to me, unless I happen to have snapped the murderer. Just give me an advance tip if you’re going to arrest somebody, will you? I have to earn my keep somehow.”

He escorted them to the door.

“Pick up the house phone and find which is Justin Llewellyn’s room,” Watkins said impatiently. “I’m going to enjoy this, lying supercilious little snot.”

“Take it easy, Sarge. We don’t want him to think that we suspect him. Just let him tell his version and then we’ll point out to him where he strayed from the truth.”

Watkins nodded.

Justin Llewellyn looked as if he had just woken up. His hair was still tousled and he was wearing silk pajama bottoms with a matching silk robe over them.

“What now?” he asked, rolling his eyes with exaggerated boredom.

“May we come in for a moment, sir?” Watkins asked. “We have a few questions we want to ask you.”

“If it will finally satisfy you that I had nothing to do with my father’s death, then I suppose so.” He opened the door wide for them.

“Have you seen your mother this morning, Mr. Llewellyn?” Evan asked as Justin indicated the two chairs, then flopped onto the bed.

“As you can see, Officer, I’ve just woken up. I was planning to join her for breakfast…” He faltered as he picked up something in Evan’s expression. “What? Nothing’s happened to her, has it?”

“She called headquarters very early this morning and said that she wanted to make a full confession before her lawyer could get here and stop her,” Watkins said, clearly enjoying Justin’s look of horror.

“The bloody fool,” Justin muttered. “What on earth made her do that?”

“We thought you might have some idea about that, sir.” Watkins’s tone was still pleasant.

Justin sat up impatiently. “Oh come on, Officer. You must know as well as I that she didn’t kill my father.”

“Why should we know that, sir?”

“For one thing she hated the sight of blood. If she was going to kill him she’d have done it neatly, not bashed his head in. And for another, she loved him. However much grief he gave her, she still loved the bastard.”

“But you didn’t?” Evan asked.

“I loathed him. I couldn’t stand to be in the same room with him. The feeling was mutual, of course. I was the world’s biggest disappointment as a son—totally unmusical, rotten businessman, shy, hated publicity—I wasn’t any of the things my father wanted me to be. So I kept well away.”

“Except you did pay a couple of visits to the house,” Evan said.

“What are you talking about?”

“You were seen here, on two occasions.”

“Absolute rubbish! People will say anything and they always get it wrong. Who claims to have seen me?”

“Me, for one,” Evan said. He paused to let this sink in. “But you were also photographed going into this house earlier this week.” He handed Justin the contact sheet. “This is you, isn’t it, Mr. Llewellyn? The photograph is quite clear.”

“Bloody paparazzi,” Justin muttered. “They always manage to get you, don’t they?” He looked up with a genial smile. “Alright. I can explain the visit very easily. I needed some money: I had some debts that needed to be paid right away. I knew my mother would give me the money if I saw her in person. She’s always a soft touch where I’m concerned. So I waited until the old man went out for a walk, then I sneaked into the house. But she wasn’t there! I looked at her appointment book and found that she’d gone up to London. So I got out again, pretty darned quick and went up to London to try and catch her.”

“And did you?”

“Oh yes. I met her and we dined together at Simpsons.”

“And then?”

“And then I flew back to Milan on Wednesday afternoon, only to be summoned back here yesterday morning. My frequent-flyer account is growing by leaps and bounds!”

“Have you come up with anyone who can verify your being in Italy on Friday, sir?” Watkins asked.

“The servants were there in the morning,” Justin said. “I spent the afternoon alone, reading and relaxing. I ate some bread, cheese, and fruit around seven. I was there when my mother called, absolutely distraught, at nine o’clock. I suppose you could check whether the phone call went through or not. I caught the first train in the morning down to Milan and took the first flight out.”

He was relaxed and confident, as if he sensed that this was the best they could throw at him and there was nothing they could make stick.

Watkins looked at Evan. “Now about your other visit to the house, sir,” Evan said. “I saw you on two occasions, just before your parents arrived here. You were quarreling with a young girl and I heard her yell, ‘bugger off, Justin.’” He watched Justin’s Adam’s apple go up and down, although the young man’s expression didn’t change. “And I saw you again later that day, beside a lake, just before a car went into the water.”

The reaction was instant this time. “A car went into the water? What car?”

“I’m sure you know that, sir,” Evan said. “You were standing right behind it one minute and the next minute it was in the lake.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Justin said. His voice was now high and strained. “She was fine when I left her. I got out of the car because I couldn’t make her see sense. I left her and walked back through the woods. The car was fine when I left it. She’s alright, isn’t she?”

“Luckily,” Evan said. “I pulled her out before the car went into deep water. I couldn’t get her to say what had happened. It was possible she was shielding somebody—shielding you, sir. Because attempted murder is almost as serious as murder successfully carried out. And you’ve got one count of each hanging over you right now.”

Justin sighed. “Okay. I suppose I’d better get this over with and stop all this nonsense. I haven’t been quite truthful with you up to now.”

“No sir?” Watkins’s tone was still pleasant.

A spasm of pain passed across Justin’s face. “Alright, Sergeant. It was me.” He held his wrists out. “Clap on the handcuffs. Book me, read me my rights, or whatever it is that you do. I confess. I killed him.”

*   *   *

An hour later Justin was shown into the same green-walled room that his mother had occupied earlier. He had showered and dressed before Watkins and Evan had driven him to headquarters in Caernarfon. His hair was still wet and slicked back. He was wearing a black turtleneck and tight black jeans, looking very much like a tragic young poet or a ghost from the Beat Generation.

D.I. Hughes held out his hand. “Please take a seat, Mr. Llewellyn. Let’s try and make this as painless as possible.”

“Oh, not the electric cattle prods, please!” Justin said, with more than a touch of sarcasm.

“This isn’t a game, sir. Life in prison isn’t much fun, I can assure you.”

The Adam’s apple danced nervously again. “Look, I’ve confessed. What more do you want?”

“We’d like to hear your version of how you did it, sir. And before we begin—do you wish your mother’s solicitor to be present? He’s in the building.”

“Good Lord no. That bumbling old fogey would probably manage to get me hanged, even though there’s no death penalty anymore.”

“Very well.” D.I. Hughes switched on the tape recorder and began the official interview. “Mr. Llewellyn, maybe you’d like to tell us the story in your own words. Take your time.”

Justin reached into his pocket. “Do you mind if I smoke?” he asked.

“Go right ahead.” The D.I. pushed an ashtray across the table to him.

Justin lit up a Gauloise and the pungent acrid smell wafted across the room. Evan stifled a cough.

“It’s all very simple,” Justin said. “I hated my father. I couldn’t stand the way he treated my mother. I hated watching her suffer with such dignity while he chased anything in skirts that didn’t play bagpipes. Then he cut off my allowance because I wouldn’t take any of the jobs he found for me.

“Recently I got myself in a tight spot financially. I came here earlier this week, to ask him for money. He turned me down. So I waited until my mother was away, so that she wouldn’t be involved. Then I came back to Llanfair and killed him.”

“How?” D.I. Hughes asked.

“What?”

“How did you kill him, sir?”

“I—I hit him over the head with a blunt instrument when he wasn’t looking.”

“What kind of blunt instrument, sir?” D.I. Hughes asked.

“A golf club. His golf clubs were on the hallstand. I took one out, hit him over the head with it, then I wiped it clean and put it back in the bag.”

“Whereabouts on his head did you hit him, sir?” Watkins asked.

A spasm of annoyance crossed Justin’s face. “I didn’t exactly stay around to look. I swung my blunt instrument. I made contact. He fell. I got out of there in a hurry.”

“Excuse me, sir,” Evan interrupted, “but that’s just not possible.”

All three men looked across at him.

Evan turned to the D.I. “Could I have a word with you, sir?”

“If you insist.” He leaned forward and switched off the machine. Then he followed Evan out into the hall. “Alright Constable, what is it?”

“Justin Llewellyn couldn’t have killed his father, sir.”

“Oh? And why not?”

“I didn’t realize until now, watching him sitting at the table,” Evan said. “I watched him light his cigarette. He’s left-handed. If a left-handed person had struck Ifor Llewellyn, the blow would have been behind the other ear. There’s no way he could have swung a golf club and hit his father where the wound was.”

“By Jove you’re right, Evans,” D.I. Hughes looked almost approving, for once. “That’s why it makes so much sense to have an observer at these sessions. You were able to notice that from where you were standing. I was too close to him and too involved with the tape recorder, or I would have seen it, too.”