Evan and Elle - By Rhys Bowen Page 0,47
thinking. That should act as a deterrent for a while. And when I get back, we’ll pursue it further. If you could get me one of his school papers we can check his fingerprints against the note that we found.”
He shook his head again. “I could believe he’d go around starting fires, but writing the note? That’s the kind of thing that adults do, not kids.”
Bronwen went over to the dresser. “I’ve got some papers I brought home to mark. Here—Terry’s geography test. Nearly all right. He’s a bright boy. He just needs direction right now—a good positive male influence.” She looked at Evan.
“You’re suggesting that I take him under my wing?”
“He could do worse,” Bronwen said.
“You’re always saying that I’m too ready to volunteer for things and we never have enough time together,” Evan pointed out.
Bronwen shrugged. “I’d do a lot to make sure my kids turn out well.”
Evan came around the table and slipped his arms around her waist, drawing her to him. “Did I ever tell you you’re very sweet? Especially when you’ve got flour on your nose.”
He kissed her nose gently, then his lips moved down to her mouth, not so gently.
“Evan,” she protested after a long minute, “don’t distract me now. The soufflé will burn!”
She laughed as she bent to open the oven. “Not bad for a first attempt,” she said, bringing out a crusty brown mountain of soufflé. “Exactly like Madame Yvette’s looked, in fact.”
“I’m impressed,” Evan said.
“I’m rather impressed myself.” Bronwen’s face was pink. Then, before she could cut into it, the soufflé began to sink.
“Oh,” Bronwen said, her voice as flat as the soufflé had become. “I think I still have some practicing to do.”
Evan went over to her and wrapped her in his arms. “I’ll bet it still tastes good,” he said. “Let me pour you another glass of wine.”
She managed a weak smile. “All right. I might as well drown my failures.”
“You’re streets ahead of me,” he said. “I still can’t boil an egg.”
He picked up the bottle of wine, then stood with it poised in his hand, staring into space.
“Are you having a vision or something?” Bronwen asked.
“Something just struck me,” Evan said. “I’m no wine expert, but even I know that you don’t serve red wine with lobster. If that French bloke in the restaurant was planning to have lobster, he’d never have ordered a bottle of red wine.”
“Who knows, maybe he intended to drink the whole bottle before the main course came,” Bronwen suggested, then shook her head. “No, that would spoil his palette, wouldn’t it?”
“Which meant that we’ve caught Madame Yvette lying about one thing . . .”
“She might have been flustered and said the first stupid thing that came into her head,” Bronwen said. “I’m sure we’ve all done that in our lives.”
“You? You’ve never said a stupid thing in your life.”
Bronwen came over to him and snuggled against him. “You’re rather nice, too, did you know that? I wish I could come with you to Eastbourne tomorrow. Take care of yourself and don’t talk to any strange women, will you?”
Evan didn’t linger over his meal and went in searching of Terry Jenkins before it was completely dark. He made for the field where he had heard the boys playing earlier. The football game had ended and the boys were coming from the field, laughing and talking noisily. Evan looked for Terry among them, but he wasn’t there.
“Have you boys seen Terry Jenkins?” he asked.
“Off on his bike somewhere, poking his nose into something, I suppose,” one of the boys said.
“So he wasn’t playing football with you boys?”
“He didn’t want to be on our team,” a second boy agreed. “Off on his own, like Gwillum said.”
Evan came out to the street again and continued up the hill to the Jenkins cottage. He was about to go in, when he noticed a fleeting movement out of the corner of his eye. He sprinted across the street and found Terry crouching behind a garden wall.
“What are you doing, Terry?”
“Nothing, Constable Evans. I wasn’t doing nothin’,” Terry said, but his eyes darted nervously.
“You’re in someone else’s front garden, Terry. That’s called trespassing, so don’t tell me you weren’t doing anything. This is Mr. Hopkins’s cottage, Terry, isn’t it?”
Terry nodded. “I didn’t mean any harm, honest, I didn’t. It’s just that . . . Bryn’s here right now. You know, Bryn the fireman? I was just taking a look at his motorbike.”
“Then why try to hide? There’s nothing wrong