Authors: Rhys Bowen
Evan Only Knows (17 page)
Evan was glad when the last houses of the Penlan estate were left behind him and the blue waters of the bay came into view. He stopped beside Cwmdonkin Park, where Bronwen had sat beside the Dylan Thomas memorial, spouting Thomas’s poems. The wind in his face was fresh as he strode over the springy grass. That place had left a bad taste in his mouth. He could understand psychologists arguing that Tony hadn’t had a fair chance in life. The one interesting fact that had emerged was that the people he had interviewed were all surprised that Tony had committed such a crime.
What he needed was a list of other people with a motive. The only motive so far seemed to hinge around the character of Mr. Turnbull—the man who yelled a lot at home, according to Mrs.
Hartley, and the factory owner who had an angry ex-worker show up at his house. It would be worth finding out if there were any more disgruntled workers with good reasons to pay back their boss. Then the housekeeper had told Evan that the dog had been attack trained because Turnbull’s role on the council inspired cranks and hate calls. Had there been one particular case that had made him get a guard dog? He should swing by the council offices before they closed for the weekend.
Hartley, and the factory owner who had an angry ex-worker show up at his house. It would be worth finding out if there were any more disgruntled workers with good reasons to pay back their boss. Then the housekeeper had told Evan that the dog had been attack trained because Turnbull’s role on the council inspired cranks and hate calls. Had there been one particular case that had made him get a guard dog? He should swing by the council offices before they closed for the weekend.
Having decided on this course of action, Evan took one last look at the city spread at his feet, gave the Dylan Thomas memorial a friendly pat, then sprinted back to his car. His legs were already feeling a little stronger. He pictured himself, rugby ball tucked under one arm, as he crossed the touch line for a try.
There was a vacant parking space outside the new Crown Court building, opposite the Guildhall. Evan looked up at the concrete structure as he parked and got out. “Five years? Five years for my husband’s life?” His mother’s outburst resonated through his head. He shook the thoughts away and dodged traffic to cross the street.
The art deco building of the Guildhall was a sharp contrast to the stark, gray concrete opposite. It had been built in the thirties, when people needed cheering up and there were enough unemployed craftsmen to create the intricate parts. It was bright and cheerful inside with murals and marble stairways. After being directed a couple of times he found the room that housed the secretary to the city council. She listened to him politely.
“Made threats against Mr. Turnbull, you say?” She wrinkled a little button of a nose. “No, I can’t say I ever heard that. Of course, Mr. Turnbull is rather strong in his opinions sometimes. The homeless people on the streets, for example. Mr. Turnbull calls them a blot on society. He said if he had his way he’d give them a good scrubbing and a pick and a shovel and make them work for their food. That didn’t go down too well with the do-gooders, of course. And there were protests outside the Guildhall when the council voted to pull down some historic wharf buildings to make way for the new waterfront project.”
“Historic wharf buildings?” Evan laughed. “They were awful old
places, about to fall down anyway. I used to play there as a kid.”
places, about to fall down anyway. I used to play there as a kid.”
She smiled. “To the conservation league they were historic. There was a big hoo-ha about it, but the project went ahead anyway.”
Evan nodded. Enough to make people protest and get annoyed, but nothing that would make a person so angry that he took it out on Turnbull by killing his most prized possession.
“That night Alison was killed,” Evan said, “Mr. Turnbull was at a council meeting, I understand. He came home to find the body.”
“That’s what I read in the papers,” the girl said. “I was a little bit surprised, actually.”
“Why was that?”
“Well, we had two members away on holiday and one off sick, so we didn’t have a quorum. The meeting was cut short. They were out of here before eight.”
So Mr. Turnbull hadn’t come straight home from a council meeting. Evan put the car into gear and moved out into the traffic. What did that prove, actually? He wondered if the local police had checked on Turnbull’s movements that evening, whether he should mention the discrepancy to them. Then he dismissed the thought. Lots of people run little errands when they find themselves with time to spare. He might even have stopped off at a pub for a quick one. Nothing changed the fact that he arrived home around nine-forty-five to find his daughter lying dead on his doorstep. And it appeared that there was no one with a big enough grudge to kill Alison.The streets were filling up with cars, and pedestrians darted out into the traffic. He glanced at his watch. Almost five o’clock. Businesses were knocking off for the day. On a whim he drove up to the Unico site. Sure enough, workers were streaming out of the gates—groups of girls and women talking together as they hurried to be first in the queue at the bus stop, and men in dirty work clothes, sauntering past the girls, hurling cheeky comments in their direction. Evan parked and got out of his car. Some of the men were heading for the Queen’s Head pub across the street. The pub sign outside depicted the stern profile of an aging Queen Victoria. There must have been times, Evan thought, when the locals would
have preferred the queen’s head, John the Baptist-style, on a platter. He followed a group of men into the bar and ordered himself a Brains. He didn’t actually like the beer, which came from nearby Cardiff, but he thought it diplomatic to blend in. He took a big gulp, wondering how best to approach the men from the factory when one of them stopped him on his way back from the bar.
have preferred the queen’s head, John the Baptist-style, on a platter. He followed a group of men into the bar and ordered himself a Brains. He didn’t actually like the beer, which came from nearby Cardiff, but he thought it diplomatic to blend in. He took a big gulp, wondering how best to approach the men from the factory when one of them stopped him on his way back from the bar.
“I know you, don’t I?”
Evan tried to remember the face. “I don’t know. You might do. I grew up here. I went to the old grammar school, what’s now Bishop Gore comprehensive.”
The man shook his head. “No, I didn’t go to a brainy school like that. Wait a minute. You played rugby.”
Evan beamed. “That’s right. Did we play against each other?”
“Not me, boyo. I don’t enjoy blokes stepping all over my face. But I had a mate who played, and I remember seeing you down at the St. Helen’s ground, right?”
“Yes, I played there quite often.”
“You still playing?”
“No. Don’t have time anymore, although I am thinking of getting back to it. I live up in North Wales now and they’re starting a pro team up there, so I hear.”
“Professional rugby? You’re good enough for that, are you?”
“We’ll have to see, won’t we. I’ve been out of it for almost five years. But it would be brilliant if I could make the team.”
“I’ll say. Getting paid to play a sport—that’s every bloke’s dream, isn’t it? You say you moved up to North Wales?”
Evan nodded.
“What the bloody hell for? A lot of rabid nationalists up there, going around singing songs in Welsh from what you see on the telly.”
Evan smiled. “Oh, it’s not such a bad life, especially if you love the outdoors, like me.”
“What do you do up there? I always thought there were no jobs anymore.”
“That’s true enough. The slate mines have all closed. Farming and tourism—that’s about it, really. And farming’s taking a big
knock this year with the foot-and-mouth epidemic.”
knock this year with the foot-and-mouth epidemic.”
“It’s bad up there, is it?”
“The local farmers were about to slaughter their flocks when I came away. I was glad to get away, I can tell you. I’m the local policeman, and I was going to have to keep the peace between the farmers and the army.”
“Smart of you to get away.”
“So what do you do?” Evan asked innocently.
“Me? I work for Unico, just across the street. We make computer housing.”
“Doing all right, are they?”
“Doing all right? Can’t keep up with demand, boyo. Old Turnbull’s always trying to get us to put in more overtime, but my Sharon put her foot down. ‘If he wants you to live at the bloody factory, tell him to build you a house at the bloody factory then.’ That’s what she said.” He clapped Evan on the shoulder. “There’s a group of my mates over there. Why don’t you come and join us?”
“Thanks a lot.” Evan held out his hand. “The name’s Evan.”
“Neil Jenkins—I know, same name as the rugby star. I get people asking me for my autograph all the time. Over here then.” He led the way through the now-crowded bar to a group of men who had found themselves a table in the corner. “I’ve met a bloke I used to watch playing rugby,” Neil Jenkins announced. “Evan, this is Tom, Dave, Rhodri, Martin, and Patch.”
The men grinned and nodded. One of them grabbed a chair from a neighboring table. Evan sat.
“He lives up in the North now. Can you imagine that? He says it’s terrible with all the foot-and-mouth disease up there.”
“I reckon it’s terrible without the disease,” one of the men said. “I reckon I’d die of boredom. Only got one cinema up there, haven’t they? And nobody speaks bloody English?”
“Don’t they say the local social club is a sheep tied to a telephone pole?” a large man in spattered overalls asked, his bulky body shaking at his own joke.
Evan ignored it. “Do you all work for Unico?” he asked.
The men nodded. “That’s us. Turnbull’s slaves.”
“Is that the same Mr. Turnbull whose daughter was killed?”
“That’s right, poor bloke,” the older, skinny man in the corner said. “I can’t say I’m too fond of Turnbull as a boss, but I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.”
“Bit of a tartar is he then, Turnbull?” Evan asked.
The men glanced at each other then nodded agreement. “If he doesn’t like what you do, he sacks you on the spot. No questions asked,” one of them said. “For example, if he came in here and overheard us talking about him, we’d be out.”
“You always have to watch what you’re saying,” the skinny man agreed. “You never know when one of his spies is lurking. No one’s safe.”
“Well, except for one person.” The big man in the overalls gave Evan a nudge and a knowing wink. “But then I wouldn’t be willing to do what she does to butter up to the boss.”
“He wouldn’t fancy you, boyo. You don’t wear your skirts short enough,” Neil Jenkins said, setting off a chain of ribald comments. Evan sat quietly, observing. The boss’s secretary, obviously. He had wondered about the look that had passed between them. It wouldn’t be the first time that a secretary had provided more than coffee and typing for her boss. He noticed that glasses were empty and offered to buy the next round.
The first time it was refused. “No, no, you’re the visitor. Isn’t he, boys? Can’t make him pay for the privilege of being in Swansea.”
But Evan knew Swansea manners too well. It was polite to refuse the first time. He repeated the offer. This time it was accepted. “Oh well, if you insist, I suppose another pint might not be such a bad idea.”
He went up to the bar and came back with a full tray.
“You were talking about Turnbull dismissing his employees if he overheard them talking about him,” he said when they had all taken a preliminary swig. “Didn’t I read something in the local paper a little while ago about a man going berserk at Turnbull’s house?”
“Oh, you mean Kelly,” several of the men said in unison. “He was mouthing off about safety conditions when he came off shift
and Turnbull overheard him. ‘Go and get your cards, you’re fired,’ Turnbull told him. Kelly nearly blew a gasket. ‘You can’t fire me for saying what I like on my own time,’ he tells him. ‘It’s a free bloody country, you know. I’m entitled to my own opinions.’ ‘Of course you are,’ Turnbull says, ‘but I’m also free to sack any disloyal employees.’”
and Turnbull overheard him. ‘Go and get your cards, you’re fired,’ Turnbull told him. Kelly nearly blew a gasket. ‘You can’t fire me for saying what I like on my own time,’ he tells him. ‘It’s a free bloody country, you know. I’m entitled to my own opinions.’ ‘Of course you are,’ Turnbull says, ‘but I’m also free to sack any disloyal employees.’”
“So he came after Turnbull, did he?” Evan asked.
“Got himself roaring drunk then went down to his house and called him out to fight,” the skinny man said with a grin. “That was typical Kelly. Bit of a troublemaker. Irish, you know. They’re a bunch of hotheaded bastards, aren’t they?”
“So what happened?”
“Nothing. Kelly spent the night in jail, and Turnbull didn’t press charges.”
Evan shifted on his seat. “Has that kind of thing happened to anyone else recently?”
Several heads shook. “No other hotheaded Irishmen around, as far as I know,” one of them said at last.
“There was that Mancini kid. The one who they say killed Turnbull’s daughter,” a freckle-faced boy chimed in for the first time. “Turnbull sacked him on the spot, didn’t he?”
“Of course he did,” Neil Jenkins said. “I would too if I’d caught a bloke with his hand in the petty cash. He’s lucky Turnbull didn’t press charges. Always was a slippery little bastard, if you ask me. Jeff Pritchard swears the kid nicked his Crunchie Bar from his lunch box.”
The men laughed as if this was a good joke.
“Jeff and his Crunchie Bars. Yes, that would be a matter of life or death to him.”
Evan sat quietly among them as conversation moved on. He could do some further checks on Kelly, of course, but it seemed as if Tony Mancini was the only one with a recent grudge against his former boss. He finished his pint and made an excuse to leave before another round was bought.
As Evan let himself into his mother’s house he was surprised to hear voices coming from the kitchen. His first thought was that Bronwen had returned. A big smile crossed his face as he hurried down the hall.
“Now how did you get here?” he asked, pushing open the door. “Too impatient to wait until tomorrow?”
“Always impatient to see you again, love.” The dark-haired woman at the table gave him a sultry look.
“Maggie. What are you doing here?” Evan asked.
His former girlfriend was sitting at the table, wearing short white shorts and a black tank top that revealed an expanse of midriff. One shapely leg was crossed over the other one. A cigarette dangled between her fingers.
“Is this a nice surprise?” Evan’s mother was looking pleased with herself. “She stopped by and I invited her to have supper with us. Nothing fancy. I just made a lamb
cawl.
” She dipped a ladle into the thick lamb stew on the stove and began spooning into a bowl. “So how was your day?”
cawl.
” She dipped a ladle into the thick lamb stew on the stove and began spooning into a bowl. “So how was your day?”
“Productive.”
“I was just telling Maggie that you’re helping out the local police, making sure they’ve got enough evidence to send that boy to jail for good this time.”
“And where is Blodwyn? Upstairs weaving or spinning?”
“Her name is Bronwen and she’s at her parents’ house. I’m going to fetch her tomorrow.”
“She seems a little on the boring side,” Maggie said. “What exactly do you two do for fun up there among the sheep?”
“Oh, we find enough to amuse ourselves.” He gave her a challenging smile and was glad to see it had the right effect. “Bronwen isn’t exactly the village girl, you know. She went to Cambridge University. Her parents own a huge house and half a bloody county.”
“Then what in God’s name is she doing stuck in a dreary spot like Llanfair?”
“She likes it, as I do. Not everybody likes noise and music and hype all the time.”
“Rather you than me.” She accepted the bowl of stew that Mrs. Evans put in front of her. “So your mother tells me that you’re thinking of getting married.”
“That’s right.”
“Had any more thoughts about my proposition the other night? The rugby team, I mean?”
“I’ve been thinking about it.”
“And?”
“I’m still thinking about it.”
“Stew will want to know soon. If the team gets the go ahead, they’ll be working out in a couple of weeks.”
Evan nodded and busied himself eating the soup. Maggie chatted away brightly to Mrs. Evans about local scandals and people Evan didn’t know. He was glad he wasn’t expected to join in. After the plates had been cleared away, Maggie got to her feet. “Well, I suppose I’d better be going then. I’ve got to meet the boys down the pub at nine. Stew will wonder where I’ve got to.”
“See Maggie to the door then, Evan,” Mrs. Evans said. “And do stop by again, dear, won’t you? It really brightens up the place when you’re around.”
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