Evan and Elle - By Rhys Bowen Page 0,56
the photograph’s not very good, but it looks like him, right enough.”
“Well, I’ll be . . .” Watkins began. He looked up at the woman. “Is there a way of printing this out?”
“You just click on Print.” She started to explain, then thought better and did it for them. A sheet of paper emerged from a printer in the corner. Evan took it. “This is wonderful. Thank you. You’ve been a big help.”
She gave him a very nonmotherly smile.
“Finally we’re getting somewhere,” Watkins said as they left the newspaper offices.
“Yes, but where?” Evan asked. “Frankly I’m more confused than when we started.”
“How about this—what if her husband didn’t really die in the boating accident?”
“You mean he faked his death?”
“People do, don’t they? Maybe he just wanted to get away from her and start a new life.”
“Or maybe someone really was after him, so he decided to vanish conveniently,” Evan suggested.
“But then, according to you, he shows up at the restaurant again. She wasn’t pleased to see him and she stabbed him.”
“There’s only one thing against that. I saw him come in. I’d swear she didn’t recognize him.”
“She might be a good actress.”
“Not that good.” Evan shook his head. “That had to be an Oscar-winning performance. She was at our table at the time. There was no feeling of tension, no flicker of reaction. If you were Yvette and your husband who had been missing for five years, showed up, you’d react, wouldn’t you?”
“Unless this was something they had planned between them. She might have been in contact with him, so she was expecting him that evening.” Watkins put the key in the car door. “Five years. That’s significant, don’t you think?”
“You mean he can now be declared legally dead?”
“Exactly. So if there’s a large insurance policy to collect on, this would be a good time to reappear.”
“But then why would she stab him?”
“Because she wanted the insurance money for herself.” Watkins slapped his hand against the car door as he opened it. “It’s all fitting together nicely now. All we need to do is get some proof that our body is really her missing husband—dental records would do nicely—and I think we’ve got ourselves a case.” They got into the car and Watkins started the engine. “I think this deserves a celebration, don’t you? That pub we ate at last night wasn’t bad. Let’s go and see if they do a good lunch.”
Half an hour later they were sitting over plowman’s platters, with crusty rolls, four kinds of cheese, and pickled onions, as well as pints of Whitbread Pale Ale.
“Ah, that’s better.” Watkins put down his glass. “I’m beginning to feel human again. I think I could even face talking to the D.I. Now what did we need to ask him?”
He got out a notebook.
“About the insurance policies, for one thing.”
Watkins nodded and scribbled. “And the fingerprints.”
“And if there’s been any news from France yet—about Philippe du Bois and who might have decided to apply for a passport in his name.”
“Right.” Watkins got up. “I think the D.I. will have to be impressed with the amount we’ve ferreted out in one morning, don’t you? Maybe it will prompt him to have another chat with Madame and see if she’s more forthcoming.”
“As long as he doesn’t scare her off with his usual heavy-handedness.”
He went to the phone on the pub wall. Evan finished his roll and double Gloucester and washed them down with the last of his pint.
Watkins was on the phone for a long while. Evan noticed him smiling and glancing in his direction. He was still smiling when he came back.
“That was young Glynis,” he said. “She sends her regards, by the way. I’ve asked her to send the fingerprints from the two threatening notes to the Sûreté in France to see if they can find a match. There’s nothing from the mental hospital yet. The D.I. is out working on Operation Armada—bloody silly name if you ask me. Still he always did fancy himself as Lord Nelson. . . .”
“The Armada was Drake,” Evan pointed out.
Watkins grinned again. “Bloody know-it-all. Anyway, I spoke to Constable Perkins. I gather they’ve removed various kitchen implements from the scene of the fire and they’re trying to determine the murder weapon and come up with prints. I asked him to check on the insurance policies and see who benefits.”
“So they’re no further along, really,” Evan said. “They haven’t identified the body or found the murder weapon.”
“I wouldn’t mind betting my paycheck that