Evan and Elle - By Rhys Bowen Page 0,18
sighed and gave a good impression of a Christian martyr. His wife complained more vocally than either her husband or the butcher, and Mrs. Powell-Jones flatly refused, threatening to contact her MP and the commissioner about defamation of character.
Evan duly sent the samples down to headquarters. He waited expectantly but heard nothing more. It wasn’t until the next morning that Sergeant Watkins appeared as he was making himself a cup of tea.
“Slacking off again? Sergeant Potter wouldn’t like that.” Watkins put his head around the station door.
“Oh, morning Sarge. How’s the inquiry going?
Watkins sighed. “Going nowhere, if you ask me.” He came into Evan’s office and pulled out a chair. “I can’t say it’s their number-one priority at HQ right now. All D.I. Hughes can talk about is this Operation Armada, as he calls it.”
“Operation Armada?”
Watkins made a face. “The drug sting. Sinking all the boats. Rule Britannia, you know . . .”
Evan grinned. “So it’s just you and Peter Potter working on this case. I’d help if I was allowed to.”
“I wish you bloody would.” Watkins sank onto the chair. “Tell me honestly, Evans, have you really got no clue about these fires? I mean, you’re normally the one who gets the hunch that puts us on the right lines. We’ve done everything we can—we’ve fingerprinted any known Welsh extremist—anyone who has written a nationalistic letter to the newspaper, anyone who belongs to a club like your butcher up here. But we can’t match the prints to either note.”
He sighed and leaned against the door of his car. “I tell you one thing—I’ve had it up to here with Peter-bloody-Potter. He’s been breathing down our necks, calling us incompetent provincials and worse. Apparently he normally has this kind of thing wrapped up in a day or so. He says the method used was the same for both fires, in both cases quite efficient and professional. This was someone who knew a thing or two about starting fires. But the prints don’t match to anyone who’s known for burning down cottages. So this is a new bloke and I’m damned if I know how to find him. I’m thinking we may have to plant a spy in this extremist group—these Sons of Gwynedd. I was wondering . . .”
“Don’t look at me, Sarge,” Evan said quickly.
“No, not you. Of course everyone knows who you are. I was thinking of your butcher. He’d be a useful man, if you could persuade him to do his part for law and justice.”
Evan chuckled. “The police dragged him into jail kicking and screaming not too long ago—do you really think he’d want to help?”
“You get on with all the locals. We thought that maybe you could persuade him.”
“I don’t think I’ve got a hope in hell,” Evan said. “In fact I suspect that he knows more than he’s letting on. But I’ll make the suggestion if you want me to.”
“What I’d really like you to do is solve this bloody case for us, so I can get back to Operation Armada and see a little action for once.”
“They haven’t caught anyone yet?”
“Nah—they’ve been lying low, probably waiting for us to lose interest, or pull off our men. But it’s only a matter of time. We think they’ll be using several small boats and running them into different harbors at the same time—on the theory that the police can’t be everywhere at once.”
“They’re right about that,” Evan agreed.
“Criminals are getting too bloody smart these days,” Watkins growled. “Do what you can, won’t you, boyo? Or I might have to suggest to HQ that you’d be great as Potter’s full-time assistant.”
When he’d gone Evan locked up and walked slowly up the street, deep in thought. Watkins wanted the impossible. There was no way he’d get Evans-the-Meat to cooperate with the police to nab Welsh extremists. And he had no bright ideas himself. Madame Yvette hadn’t called him again with any more trouble. And being stuck on duty in a village hardly gave him the scope to track down terrorists. . . . He felt annoyed and powerless. What he needed now was luck. If a serial arsonist was at work, then it was only a matter of time before he struck again, and maybe the third time might be lucky. Eventually the arsonist would make a mistake or leave a traceable clue.
That night Evan was getting ready for bed when there was a tap on his bedroom door.
“Mr. Evans? Are you in there?” Mrs. Williams asked,