Evan and Elle - By Rhys Bowen Page 0,57

the body is her vanished husband,” Watkins said.

“And you think she killed him?”

“It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it? She thought she’d got rid of him five years earlier and was annoyed to find him turning up again, still alive.”

A memory was beginning to stir in Evan’s mind. He had been so preoccupied with making a graceful escape from her sofa that he’d forgotten until now. “She did say that he was a bastard and a monster and it was her happiest day when she escaped from him.”

“Well, there you are, then. Perfect motive. We’ll get this case sewn up in no time at all. Now all we need is positive identification of the body.”

“Got any thoughts on how we’re going to do that?” Evan asked.

“A wedding photo of the happy couple? That might shake her composure, wouldn’t you say?”

“So we prove she was married to him. That doesn’t prove that she killed him. And if they really were on the run and hiding from someone, maybe this proves they were found.”

Watkins nodded. “Okay, so what do you think we should do?”

Evan stared out of the pub’s bay window to the seafront beyond. The wind had sprung up, making flags stand out stiffly and awnings flap wildly. “I think we have to find out more about their life in France. We need to know what happened to them and why they came to England.”

“And how do you propose doing that?”

Evan pointed to the copy of the obituary. “This mentions the town where he was born and we know she went to the Cordon Bleu school in Paris. Two known facts. We can work from there.”

“Go to France, you mean?” Watkins laughed.

“Why not? I told you it’s only half an hour through the chunnel these days. We could go over there for the day.”

Watkins grinned uneasily. “I’m not too hot at driving on the proper side of the road. And I don’t speak Froggy.”

“We’ll manage,” Evan said. “I don’t mind driving. I think we should do this if we want to solve this case, Sarge. We’re not going to get too much help in a hurry from the French police—that’s pretty obvious, isn’t it? Let’s find a map of France and see where his birthplace is.”

There was a W. H. Smith’s on the corner and they found a map of France. “Port St. Valéry—how do you spell it?” Watkins asked, looking at the index.

“Here it is on the coast, not far from Calais.” Evan pointed at the entry. “The sort of place where you’d expect a man to be interested in boats.”

He studied the map, his finger on St. Valéry, tracing the line from the Channel crossing. Then he tapped the page excitedly. “And look here, Sarge. It’s only a few miles from Abbeville, where Philippe du Bois is in the mental hospital. Another coincidence, do you think?”

Watkins grabbed the book. “All right. Let’s buy the map. But we can’t just go jaunting off to France without permission, you know. They weren’t even too keen about letting us come to Eastbourne. And D.I. Hughes is out playing at drug wars.”

“So call the old man.”

“Call the D.C.I.?” Watkins’s eyebrow twitched. “Oh, I don’t know about that, boyo. He’d say I was overstepping the bounds of my authority and getting too big for my boots.”

“It’s only a day trip we’re talking about—it’s not as if we’re going on our holidays at their expense!” Evan paused. Watkins stood clutching the Michelin guide, still undecided.

“Tell him we’re in the middle of a murder investigation and if we wait for the French authorities to come through, it might be too late. It’s possible that Madame Yvette’s life is still in danger, you know.”

“You could be right there,” Watkins agreed. “I’ll ask the D.C.I. to put surveillance on her. That would be a good way to start the conversation, wouldn’t it? Make him realize this is important.” Evan nodded. Watkins swallowed hard. “All right. I’ll call him.”

They paid for the map and then found the nearest phone booth. Evan waited outside on the busy pavement. He saw Watkins’s face twitch as he started speaking. Evan heard him say, “I’m only talking about going over there for a day trip, sir, not for my summer holidays.” Then, “No sir. I wasn’t trying to be funny. I was just pointing out that it’s only half an hour through the chunnel.”

Finally he hung up and came out of the booth.

“Well?” Evan asked. “Did he chew you out?”

A smile spread across Watkins’s face.