Evan and Elle - By Rhys Bowen Page 0,20
prints on it match.”
“Prints?”
“Fingerprints. There were some clear fingerprints on the last note. I presume this came from the same person.”
She shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe everybody wants me to go away. I thought it would be a good place. My friend takes zee ’oliday and says Yvette, zere are no French restaurants up in North Wales. Why don’t you open one up zere? But now I’m not so sure. I nevair expect zis kind of thing.”
“It’s only a few extremists,” Evan said. “And the Welsh take their time to accept newcomers—especially anyone foreign. But we like to eat. If you serve good food you’ll win people over.”
“Zat ees what I hoped,” she said. “I needed to buy a place where property was not so expensive.”
“Did you come here straight from France? Did you have a restaurant over there?”
“No, I once had a restaurant wiz my husband on zee coast in Sussex, but we had nozzink but bad luck. My husband died and I was in zee hospital for a while. I didn’t have zee ’eart to start again down there.”
Evan nodded in sympathy. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You must miss your husband.”
“My ’usband? Pah! He was ’ow you say—zee bastard! Zee monster!” she said with great venom. “It was the ’appiest day in my life when I escape from ’im.” She paused, reached for the brandy glass and took a gulp. “I mean, when he die.” She slid down to the sofa beside him. “So now I’m all alone,” she said. “It ees not easy for a woman alone.”
“No, I’d imagine not.” He was beginning to feel uncomfortable. The sofa was rather snug for two people.
“Maybe I expect too much,” she went on, her brandy glass poised just below her lips. “I sink I will make zee success because I know how to cook. And everysing starts so well too—zee newspaper come to interview me and take my picture. Zee Taste of Wales people come and eat ’ere last weekend. You know about zee Taste of Wales?”
“They give out awards for good cooking, right?”
“Zay say zay might nominate me for Best New Restaurant—pas mat, non? I cook for zem zee Welsh foods, you see. My rack of lamb wiz rosemary and my purée of leeks. Zay were impressed, I could see . . .” Her eyes had been alight as she spoke, but then her face fell again. “But now zis! What good ees to win zee award if people don’t want me ’ere?”
“I’m sure most people want you here,” Evan said.
“You sink so?” She put down the glass but the cigarette still rested between the fingers of her left hand. “I’m ’appy someone want me ’ere.”
He felt the silk of her dressing gown brush against his hand and made to get up. “I suppose I’d better be going. There’s not much more we can do before the morning.”
“You sink not?”
Evan cleared his throat and went on. “I imagine Sergeant Watkins or one of the detectives will want to talk to you about the note tomorrow and then we’ll try and match the prints.”
She put out her hand and rested it lightly on his arm. “Don’t go,” she said quietly. “I don’t want to be alone tonight.”
Evan had an idea of what she was hinting at, but just in case he said, with great professional detachment, “I can understand you’d feel a bit nervous after what happened. I could telephone HQ and see if they could send up a female officer to be with you if you like.”
There was amusement in her dark eyes. “You Englishmen—toujours le ‘gentleman,’ n’est-ce pas? It ees not zee woman P.C. zat I want to keep me company . . .”
“I’m not an Englishman. I’m a Cymro—a Welshman,” Evan said, “and we’re even more reserved, I’m afraid.”
“But the same fire burns underneath, I sink?” She crossed her legs and the tip of one bare toe touched his leg.
“I really should go,” he said. He was finding the room uncomfortably warm.
He tried to stand up, but her hand put pressure on his arm. “Why do you deny that you would like to stay ’ere wiz me tonight? I can see in your eyes zat you desire me—and what is wrong with zat? You are a healthy young man and I—I am a woman of experience. And we are both alone and unattached. It would be very good, I assure you.”
“I’m sure it would . . .” Evan managed to extricate himself from her grip. “But I’m