Evan And Elle Part 11

"Call France?" Watkins looked horrified. "Just like that? I don't speak the lingo. I wouldn't know what to say."

P.C. Davies sighed. "All right. I'll do it for you, if you like. Hold on while I find the number . . ."

"You speak French, too?" Watkins asked.

"Yes. Pretty well, actually. I did French A level and I spent a summer in France on an exchange. It was a lot of fun. I was in a little village in the Alps and then in Paris . . ."

"There's no end to the girl's talents," Watkins muttered to Evan with admiration in his voice. "How come you're wasting all this in a police station?"

She blushed again. "I've always been interested in police work. I'd like to be a detective someday. It must be very exciting."

"Most of the time it's just plain boring," Watkins said, "but it does have its moments."

"Like this drug stakeout they're doing at the moment?" She saw the horror on his face. "Oh, don't worry. I only know about it because D.I. Hughes asked me to check on some Internet addresses for him." She looked at the screen and smiled. "Ah, here we are. Phone number for the Hopital Bernard. Do you want me to dial it?"

She didn't wait for Watkins's answer but started punching numbers on the phone. After what seemed like a long wait Evan could hear a m.u.f.fled "Allo?" "Allo?" on the other end of the line. on the other end of the line.

"Bon soir. Ici le gendarmerie du pays de Galles. North Wales Police, yes. Je cherche un homme qui s'appelle Philippe du Bois Je cherche un homme qui s'appelle Philippe du Bois," Glynis said in correct, if Anglo-sounding French.

Evan watched her nod as a torrent of French escaped from the other end of the line. "C'est vrai?" "C'est vrai?" She covered the mouthpiece and turned to Watkins. "He's a patient in the hospital." She covered the mouthpiece and turned to Watkins. "He's a patient in the hospital."

"He's there? Right now? Ask if we can speak to him."

"Puis-je parlez avec lui?"

They waited while the voice at the other end of the line babbled and her expression changed from excited to puzzled. Then she said, "Ah, oui? Je comprends. Merci bien, madamoiselle. Au revoir," "Ah, oui? Je comprends. Merci bien, madamoiselle. Au revoir," and put down the phone. and put down the phone.

"Well?" Watkins demanded. "Was he there or not?"

"Oh yes. He's there, all right." She sounded shocked. "It's a mental hospital. He's been a patient there for ten years and he doesn't communicate with anyone."

"Back to square one," Watkins said. He lifted the heavy china mug and took a long gulp of tea.

He and Evan were sitting together in the station cafeteria, almost deserted at six o'clock, at a time when s.h.i.+fts changed and the day staff had gone home.

"Not exactly square one," Evan said.

"We still have no idea who our body is. I suppose it's safe to a.s.sume he's the same person who rented the car, but where do we go from here? We know he rented the car under a false name, and he had a credit card in that same false name-which must indicate he was going to considerable lengths not to be identified."

Evan poured a generous amount of sugar into his own tea. Somehow it helped to dilute the industrial strength of the police brew. "Also that he knew that the real Philippe du Bois was safely locked away in a mental inst.i.tution."

Watkins nodded. "Good point. So it must have been someone who knew the real Philippe well-either a relative or a close friend . . ."

"Or someone who had worked in the hospital."

"Either way, we should be able to track him down. I'm going to see if our little language and computer whiz can get back in touch with the hospital in . . . whatever that French place is called. They should be able to come up with a list of relatives, visitors, and hospital workers who have left within the past couple of years."

"Of course, we've no way of knowing how long he's been carrying on this scam," Evan pointed out. "It might have been working beautifully for years."

"But why? If you're disguising your true ident.i.ty you're on the run. Usually blokes on the run eventually slip up and get caught. My guess is he took the ident.i.ty to come over here and . . ." Watkins paused, searching for inspiration. "Do whatever he had to do."

He drained the mug of tea. "Filthy stuff," he said. "If a policeman ever dies of food poisoning, that tea urn should be the first thing tested."

They were just leaving the cafeteria when D.I. Hughes emerged from his office. "Ah, Watkins." His voice echoed down the vinyl hallway. "I was just about to send somebody to find you. Come into the briefing room. I've got Dr. Owens here. He's completed his findings." He noticed Evan for the first time and his eyes registered surprise. "What are you doing here, Evans?"

"Constable Evans located the car we've been looking for, sir," Watkins said. "We were just checking out details of its owner at the computer center."

"Were you? Good man. Find out anything?"

"Only that he rented the car under a false name-the name of a mental patient in a hospital in France."

"Most interesting. You can brief us on it after we've heard what Dr. Owens has to say." His gaze skimmed over Evan again. "You'd better come along, too, Evans, since you're looking into this car business and you're the one most familiar with the scenario."

He strode down the hall with Watkins and Evans in tow. Dr. Owens was standing at the front of the briefing room. The two detective constables were sitting with notebooks at the ready. They glanced at Evan with a certain amount of surprise as he followed the other officers into the room. Watkins sat near the back of the room. Evan perched on a chair behind him.

"Sorry to keep you, Doctor. Please go ahead." D.I. Hughes pulled out a chair beside the doctor, facing the other officers.

Dr. Owens cleared his throat. "I have completed an autopsy on an unidentified man whose partially burned remains were discovered early this morning in the ashes of a fire at the Chez Yvette restaurant, Llanberis Pa.s.s. Probable age of the victim between thirty and forty, based on bone density and tooth condition. I was not able to determine ethnicity because skin and hair were burned too badly. Height about five feet eleven to six foot.

"The internal organs were as I suspected-in fairly good condition, considering what they'd been subjected to. He hadn't eaten in a while, by the way, which probably indicates he wasn't a restaurant patron. A good amount of alcohol in the system, though. Also my examination of the lungs showed no evidence of smoke inhalation."

He paused at a gasp from someone in the audience. "I take it you all appreciate the significance of this. This man was dead before the fire started."

"Any idea how he died?" Hughes asked.

"I couldn't find any traces of toxic substances in the body. I examined the heart to see if he had, in fact, died of natural causes. The exterior of the heart was-um-pretty well cooked, but contained less blood than I would have expected. On closer examination of the wall of the heart, it appeared to have been punctured."

"Due to the heat of the fire?" Watkins asked.

"No. In my estimation, I'd say he was stabbed in the chest with a rather large knife."

Evan felt his own stomach lurch.

D.I. Hughes rose to his feet. "You realize the importance of these findings, don't you? We're not dealing with a victim caught in a tragic fire anymore. We're dealing with a homicide and a fire most probably set deliberately to cover it up."

Chapter 13.

"You see, I told you that b.l.o.o.d.y Frenchwoman had her answers down too pat," Inspector Hughes said. The meeting had just concluded but the D.I. had held Watkins and Evan back as the room cleared. "I thought she was a cool customer." He perched on the edge of the nearest desk. "I'd always wondered what would make a Frenchwoman-and an outstandingly good cook, so we understand-come to a place like this. Now we know. She had something to hide." He wagged his finger at Evan. "And the chappy you saw had obviously tracked her down. He looked up inquringly at Evan. "She said her husband was dead didn't she? Maybe this man had come to blackmail her, maybe to threaten her. In either case she was desperate. She grabbed a knife and killed him to shut him up. Then she panicked and set fire to the place. Only the fire didn't do its job."

"If she wanted the fire to burn up the body, why did she sound the alarm so soon?" Evan asked. "Why not slip out and wait until someone else called the fire brigade? One of the village boys told me that she had run to his mother and given the alarm."

Hughes nodded. "Of course, I'm just presenting one scenario. I'm not saying that she's guilty. But we have to go with the most likely suspect first, don't we? She claims she was the only person in a locked building." He paused, then sighed as he struck his fist against the palm of his hand. "d.a.m.n and blast. The last thing I need on my plate is a murder investigation right now. I'm supposed to be deploying maximum manpower for Operation Armada-a directive from the commissioner himself. He thinks it will be a feather in our cap if we manage to shut down a major point of entry in the drug trade, and I have to say I agree with him. But how can I stake out every possible landing point in our territory when we've got a homicide to solve? I just don't have the manpower." He slid off the desk and brushed off his hands. "You'll have to do the spadework, Watkins. Find out who the man was and what connection he had to Madame Whatshername."

"Very good, sir," Watkins said.

"Get Evans here to give you a full description of the man he saw in the restaurant," Hughes went on.

"Excuse me, sir, but didn't Dr. Owens say that the man probably wasn't a restaurant patron?" Watkins interrupted.

"I didn't notice him eating anything" Evan said thoughtfully, "only drinking red wine."

Hughes nodded. "It's still worth pursuing." "Get his description, and the dental charts that Dr. Owens has compiled for us, over to the French police ASAP. We may well find that he's wanted over there. It's not completely inconceivable that this is somehow tied in with the drug traffic. Who knows, maybe they selected her restaurant as a drop-off point."

"Maybe she set up shop there for that very reason, sir," Watkins suggested.

D.I. Hughes's face lit up. "Now, that's worth pursuing. Find out everything you can about her, Watkins. See if the French police have anything on her. And let's see what she's got to say for herself now."

"Do you want her brought in, sir?" Watkins asked.

"No, I think we'll wait awhile. We can't hold her on what we've got, and I don't want her getting the wind up and rus.h.i.+ng back to France. Let's see if we turn up any more concrete evidence first. I'm sending up a lab team right away to go through the rubble and bring in anything that could be a possible murder weapon. I don't think we've got much hope of fingerprints after a fire like that, but you never know."

"Excuse me, sir," Evan said cautiously, "but if she was the chef, wouldn't her fingerprints be on all the knives?"

"Precisely," Hughes said. He looked delighted that he had scored a point on Evan, whom he had never quite forgiven for solving a couple of murders. "We'd expect to find her prints there. It would be other prints that would be of interest to us. Our legal system does a.s.sume a person innocent until proven guilty, you know, Evans."

"Yes sir," Evan said, suitably squashed.

The inspector headed out of the door, with Watkins and Evan following at his heels, like young doctors in the wake of a famous surgeon.

He paused outside his office door. "You know, I've just changed my mind. I think I'll go and talk to her right now. Evans, you can come with me. It's your territory up there. We won't charge her with anything yet, but we'll fingerprint her. Let's see if we can rattle that composure when she finds what we know about the body. Watkins, get onto France. Come along, Evans. It's just possible we're onto something really big here."

He swept out like a s.h.i.+p in full sail. Evan had to break into a trot to keep up with him.

"It's treadful, just, Mr. Evans," said Mrs. Williams when Evan came home, weary and emotionally drained, shortly after eight o'clock.

Evan looked at her warily. Surely it wasn't possible that even Mrs. Williams and her spy network had managed to hear about the pathologist's findings and the evidence of murder that had been given in a closed room.

"What is, Mrs. Williams?" he asked, taking off his cap and hanging it on the hook in the hall.

"The way they make you miss your dinner all the time. There's Sunday joint in the oven for you and now it's spoiled. I've never heard of such a thing-making you work on the Sabbath like this and keeping you from your leg of lamb, too. I'm going to have a word with the chief inspector down in Caernarfon and tell him that he's working you too hard."

"I really don't mind, Mrs. Williams." Evan felt himself becoming hot around the collar as he visualized Mrs. Williams lecturing the D.C.I. He could imagine the old man's remarks only too clearly. "It's all part of the job, you know. If something comes up, then I have to be on duty."

"I suppose you're still looking into that poor man burned in the fire. Do they know who he was yet?"

"Not yet," Evan said.

"But I heard that Barry-the-Bucket found his car for you. A rental car, they say it was, not a local at all. Diolch am hynny Diolch am hynny for that. I mean, you expect foreigners to go around killing people, don't you?" for that. I mean, you expect foreigners to go around killing people, don't you?"

"Not usually," Evan muttered as he followed her into the kitchen. An appetizing smell of roast lamb and onions was coming from the oven. A less appetizing smell of overcooked cabbage wafted from the stovetop.

Evan sat and let Mrs. Williams put a heaped plate in front of him, but for once he didn't have much appet.i.te. The D.I.'s interview with Madame Yvette had left him upset and confused. He knew that everything pointed to her guilt, or at least to her involvement, but he didn't want to believe that she was capable of a crime. Would a woman who was contemplating a major crime actually invite intimacy with a policeman, he wondered. What if he'd taken her up on her offer and they'd become romantically involved?

Then another, more chilling, thought came into his head. It was possible that the entire seduction was deliberate. Maybe she was just testing the local police presence to see what she was up against and what chance she had of getting away with murder.

Mrs. Williams tut-tutted a lot as she took away his half-eaten meal. "I know it was overdone tonight, Mr. Evans, but I tried my best. Is there something else I could get you instead?"

"No, nothing, thank you, Mrs. Williams. It wasn't your food, I promise you. I've just got too much on my mind."

"Is there nothing else you fancy, then? A boiled egg or two? Some welsh rarebit? A slice of my bara brith?"

Evan smiled at her. "I'm not about to starve to death, Mrs. Williams."

But she was still shaking her head. "That's what comes of working you too hard. Look at you, so exhausted you can't even lift good food to your mouth. It's not right, that it isn't."

At that moment the phone rang.

"Dear me now, there it goes again. Not a moment's peace." She bustled down the hall to the telephone.

"Yes, he's here, but he's already had a long day and he needs his rest," Evan heard her saying before he managed to politely wrest the phone away from her.

"Evans here."

He heard a familiar chuckle on the other end of the line. "I'm glad to see you're being well taken care of, boyo," Watkins said. "Got you tucked up with a hot water bottle and a nice cup of cocoa, has she?"

"Give over, Sarge," Evan began but Watkins went on. "You wait until you're married, boyo. I pity the poor girl that gets you. Spoiled rotten, that's what you are."

"Did you call just to tell me that, or have you got something important to say?"

"First I wanted to hear how the D.I.'s interview went. Did he manage to make her break down and confess, then?"

"He didn't manage to get anywhere with her," Evan said. "She stuck to the same story. She swears that she was alone in the place and she woke to smell smoke. She's no idea who the man could have been. She also swears she never saw him before that night."

"It could all be true, of course," Watkins said. "If this is in some way connected to the importation of drugs, then she could have been instructed to open a restaurant and the bloke who got himself cremated could have been a contact whom she'd never seen before."

"And he could have run afoul of a rival gang," Evan suggested, he realized he was still trying to create scenarios in which Yvette was innocent of murder.

"You've got her prints and all her particulars now, haven't you? Well, that's a start. Bring them down first thing in the morning, will you? Our little computer whiz is going to scan them and send them across to the French police. They'll do a match-up on their computer and by the end of tomorrow, we'll know if she has a record."

"You'll probably find tomorrow is a public holiday in France," Evan commented dryly. "They seem to have at least one a week."

Watkins chuckled. "Lucky we discovered young Glynis speaks French. I thought I was going to have to use you."

"My French isn't so bad," Evan said. "I seem to remember I made myself understood all right with the barmaids in the French pubs."

"Oh well, you would, wouldn't you-I've noticed you and the ladies! The Don Juan of Snowdonia-that's what they call you."

"Cut it out, Sarge. You know very well I do nothing to encourage them."

"Then it must be that innocent boyish face-it makes them feel motherly." He chuckled again. "I'll see you down here in the morning then. I hope the French police are going to be helpful on this, although I'm not counting on it."

First thing on Monday morning Evan delivered his information and fingerprints to P.C. Glynis Davies at the computer center. Her face lit up when she saw him.