and call them?” Glynis Davies suggested. “I can find you the number easily.”
“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 Hôpital 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 muffled “Allô?” 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,” 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?” 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,” 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 shifts 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 assume 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 institution.”
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 identity you’re on the run. Usually blokes on the run eventually slip up and get caught. My guess is he took the identity 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