Evan and Elle (4 page)

Evan made sure the last of the stragglers came down with him from the mountain. He was on his way to the police station to call in his report when he saw Bronwen running down the village street, her long red cape flying out behind her like wings.

“Evan, are you all right?” she called. “I’ve just heard there was a fire.”

“I’m fine,” he said, smiling at her as she came up to him. “Old Rhodri’s cottage went up in flames. Nobody was hurt. The fire brigade’s just finishing up right now.”

“I don’t know about you,” she said, standing so close that she was looking up into his face. “I can’t leave you for one day without some great drama happening behind my back.”

“Then you’d better not go away again, had you?” Evan teased. He reached out and stroked her cheek, even though he was aware that this action would undoubtedly be all around the village by morning. “You worry too much. And I’ve told you often enough that a policeman’s job isn’t all beer and skittles, haven’t I?”

Bronwen nodded. “You’re right. I’m a born worrier. I’m glad nobody was hurt. Do they know what started it?”

Evan shook his head. “The English people had gone hours before and the place was all locked up. We’ll have to take a look in daylight.”

Bronwen wrapped her arms around her as she stared up at the headlights of the fire engine on the mountainside. “I don’t like it, Evan.”

“Don’t like what?”

“That it was that cottage which burned—the one recently bought by outsiders. I hope that kind of thing’s not starting here.”

“So you’re at it again,” Sergeant Watkins called as he got out of his police car the next morning. “You’re a bloody nuisance, you know that, don’t you?”

“Hello, Sarge.” Evan smiled as he shook the sergeant’s extended hand. “The fire brigade told me that they regarded the fire as suspicious, so I had to report it. I’m sorry you were the one who got dragged up here.”

“So you should be,” Watkins said, but he was half smiling. “I had a lovely relaxing weekend with the family. I get to work, raring to go on Monday morning and what does D.I. Hughes tell me? He says, ‘Watkins, you’re off the case.’ ”

“What case is that?” Evan asked.

“Only the juiciest thing to happen around here in a long while. You remember hearing about the yacht that was
found off Abersoch with a bloody great hole in her side? Well, her ownership has been traced and it appears that she was one of a fleet used to import drugs from the continent, via Ireland. They’d been mainly coming in through Holyhead before, but the Anglesey division had put extra surveillance on there. So now it appears they’re trying the mainland instead.”

“Abersoch?” Evan mused. “That would be ideal, wouldn’t it? Not many tourists on the Llyn Peninsula at this time of year.”

“Ideal, as you say. I might have been in on a really big international drug bust. And instead what happens? The D.I. says ‘I’m sending you up to Llanfair, Watkins, because you’re familiar with the territory up there.’ So I get sent to look into a cottage that burned down last night, probably because the owner was frying chips and watching telly at the same time.”

“The owners weren’t there, Sarge,” Evan said. “The cottage was only recently sold to English people.”

“Oh, is that a fact?” Watkins’s face became serious. “Oh, I don’t like the sound of that. I don’t like the sound of that at all. Don’t tell me it’s all starting again?”

“But there hasn’t been a holiday cottage burned up here for a long while, has there?” Evan asked. “Not since I’ve been here, anyway.”

“No, there hasn’t, but that’s not to say it couldn’t start up again. We’ve heard that there’s a new group operating in the area. They call themselves Meibion Gwynedd—the Sons of Gwynedd—and they’re pretty radical. They’re not going to stop until they get complete Welsh independence.”

“That’s bloody daft,” Evan exclaimed. “Welsh independence? Do they really think we could exist with no support from England?”

Watkins shook his head. “I don’t suppose they’ve thought it through that far. What most extremists want is the best of both worlds, isn’t it? Independence for Wales but full protection from Britain.”

“So do we have any names?”

“We’ve got our hands on a couple of their newsletters and we know they’ve had meetings at a chapel in Bangor. I’d say they were pretty much the loony fringe—the kind of people who would burn down cottages to prove a point.”

Evan was frowning. “Then someone up here must have told them about English people moving in recently . . .”

Watkins picked up on where this thought was going. “Which means someone up here is involved in the group in some way?”

Evan tried not to think of Evans-the-Meat, but he couldn’t help it. He remembered the butcher muttering “Unless somebody makes them.” He was so fiercely nationalistic, and hotheaded, too—just the type to be enticed into a radical fringe group like the Meibion Gwynedd. “It’s certainly possible,” he said.

“Maybe that’s something you could look into on the quiet,” Watkins said. “I know what it’s like in a village. Everybody knows everybody else’s business, don’t they?”

Evan glanced across at the butcher’s shop. “But you’d better come and take a look for yourself before we go jumping to conclusions. As you said, we might find that someone left a cigarette in the wastebasket and all this worry will have
been for nothing.” As he spoke a thought struck him. “Come to think of it, Sarge, I came right past the cottage myself, not too long before.”

“And? Did you see anybody?”

“Only Farmer Owens. He came from the cottage to join me.”

“Farmer Owens, eh? Is he known for his radical tendencies?”

Evan laughed. “On the contrary. He’s very much live and let live, although . . .” Although he had certainly made it plain what he felt about English people buying the cottage, Evan thought. And he admitted having been there . . . Evan recalled the sudden tension and watchfulness he himself had felt. He shook his head. “I don’t think it could have been Farmer Owens, but I’ll have a word with him, if you like. He might have seen something useful.”

The two men set off up the hillside. Morning mist had draped the valley like sheep’s wool but as they climbed they came to clear blue sky and the sound of larks.

“My, but I could get used to this weather,” Watkins said with a sigh. “They do say the world climate’s changing, don’t they. Maybe Wales is going to be the next Riviera.”

“Don’t tell Evans-the-Meat that,” Evan laughed, then his smile drained as he saw Watkins staring at him. “You don’t think he was involved in this? Not this time, Sarge—it’s just not possible. He was in the pub with us when the alarm was sounded.”

“There are ways of delaying a fire, you know. A good arsonist can be miles away by the time the thing goes up.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t him,” Evan said. “He was being his
usual self—loud, offensive but not at all nervous.”

“Maybe he’s a cool customer.”

“You know he’s not. Look how he went to pieces that time we hauled him in for questioning.”

“But he could have been the tip-off man, you have to admit that.”

“Yes, I do admit that,” Evan said. “He’s the kind of bloke who might well want to join the Meibion Gwynedd. He might know something. I’ll try asking a few discreet questions.”

They had reached the blackened remains of the cottage. Only the shell of four walls was still standing, the gray stone hidden under a layer of soot. Inside the walls they could make out the shape of a stove and a bathtub, but everything else was a blackened, soggy mess.

“Bloody ’ell,” Watkins muttered. “They certainly did a good job, didn’t they? There’s not much left to go on.” They picked their way carefully around the perimeter of the cottage. “But I’d pretty much bet it was arson. Look how the ground is blackened here. That had to be some kind of flammable liquid.” He looked up at Evan. “Nobody thought of taking pictures, did they?”

“Pictures?”

“Yeah. Photos or videos. Either would do. It’s a known fact that arsonists like to watch their handiwork, see? It would have been good to have a record of the crowd, just in case it happens again.”

“I think I could tell you who was here,” Evan said. “Nobody from outside the village, anyway.”

“That’s worth thinking about,” Watkins said.

A scrap of white fluttering amid trampled bracken caught Evan’s eye. He went to investigate and found it was a scrap of paper, charred at the edges.

“Hey, look at this, Sergeant,” he called. “I think this probably confirms your theory.” He came back holding the paper cautiously with two fingers and handed it to the sergeant. Watkins read it and looked up. ‘You’re not wanted here’?” He let out a big sigh. “You know what this means, don’t you? It means we’re in for Peter Potter and his wonder dog Champ.”

“Come again, Sarge?” Evan grinned.

“Oh, you won’t be smiling when he gets here, boyo. He’s our new arson expert—trained at Scotland Yard, no less.”

“North Wales Police has imported an English arson expert?” Evan was impressed.

“Not exactly. His wife got a job up here with a posh hotel in Llandudno, so he asked for a transfer. It just happened that he was an arson expert complete with sniffing dog. It seems it was his own dog he was using and the dog came, too.”

“Well, that’s good news, isn’t it?”

“If you happen to want people like Peter Potter around. He’s a bloody know-it-all. I’ve only had one encounter with him so far but he almost patted me on the head and said, “Run along and play, sonny.”

“He’ll learn,” Evan said.

Watkins peered in through one of the former windows. Shards of glass had twisted and melted onto the stone, running down like tears. “I think we’d better keep well away
from doing any more here. I don’t want to be accused of cocking-up the evidence.” He paused and stared thoughtfully. “We are sure there was nobody in here, are we?”

“They went home hours earlier,” Evan said. “Besides, it’s not a big place. Anyone could have got out and sounded the alarm before the fire took over.”

“Unless the person was drugged, drunk, or in some way unconscious.”

Evan peered in the other window. “But you’d see a body, wouldn’t you?”

“Not if the fire was hot enough. What do you think crematoriums do? Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”

“And this fire was certainly hot.”

“Have the owners been contacted yet?”

“Not by me. I filed a report last night and gave their names and addresses. Apart from that I’m only—”

“I know—a humble village bobby. I’ve heard that one before.” Watkins turned away and started down the mountain. “But if you want my advice, that’s the part you should play when you’re dealing with Peter Potter and his wonder dog.”

As soon as Sergeant Watkins had gone, Evan went up to find Farmer Owens. He caught him coming from an upper pasture on his motorbike, a dog on either side of him. He shook his head slowly. No, he couldn’t remember having seen anything unusual the night before . . .

“Too bad I didn’t have my dogs with me. They’d have spotted right away if anything was wrong. Sharper than humans they are, aren’t you, girls?”

Two black-and-white heads looked up at him and tails wagged furiously. “Whoever wanted to burn Rhodri’s cottage made a damned good job of it,” he commented. “Not much left of their antiques or their French bathroom.”

“Any idea who might have wanted to do a thing like that?” Evan asked cautiously.

“Someone with an ax to grind, obvious, isn’t it? Spiteful thing to do, if you ask me.”

Evan didn’t point out that Farmer Owens himself had an ax to grind—the Englishman had almost killed his dog. But he just didn’t think that the kindly farmer would go around setting buildings on fire.

His next visit should be to the butcher, although Evan wasn’t looking forward to it. Evans-the-Meat was noted for his quick temper and his belligerence. Extra tact would be needed if Evan was going to get anything out of him.

“
Bore da
, Evans-the-Law,” the butcher greeted him as he sliced a lamb’s liver with a murderous-looking knife. “I take it this isn’t just a social visit.”

“No, it’s not, Gareth. Look you, I know you’ve got strong feelings about foreigners so—”

“So you think I sprinted up the mountain and set fire to their cottage last night? Are you out of your bloody mind?”

“I wasn’t suggesting you did, Gareth. You were in the pub when I got there, so you could hardly have been up on the mountain starting fires, could you now? But it’s possible that you might know the kind of people who were involved . . .”

The butcher’s face flushed red with anger. “And if I did, do you think I’d turn them in to you?”

“Not for a minute,” Evan said. “But I wish you would, if you do know anything. One day these people may go too
far
. The next cottage they burn might have a baby sleeping inside. Think about that, eh?”

Evans-the-Meat went back to his liver slicing. “Well, thanks for the lecture, Evans-the-Law. If I come across any arsonists, I’ll let you know, then, shall I?”

Evan walked toward the door, then turned back. “We’ve got an arson expert coming. If I were you, I’d keep my opinions to myself for a while.”