Evan and Elle - By Rhys Bowen Page 0,59
well?” Watkins asked.
“I wouldn’t say well. We didn’t go out together socially or anything—not that either of us had time for socializing, especially after her husband died. She was running herself ragged trying to keep that place going. Hire someone to help you, I told her, but she said she couldn’t afford it at the moment.”
“Did she ever talk to you about her husband’s death? Did she seem very upset by it?”
“Oh yes. Very upset—well, you’d expect it, wouldn’t you? She thought the world of him. She said she didn’t see how she was going to manage without him. And it was worrying for her, too, not knowing. They never found the body, see.”
“Did she ever seem afraid to you? Did she ever hint that her husband’s death might not have been an accident?” Evan asked.
Brenda looked shocked. “Oh no. Nothing like that. She was surprised, I think, because he was such a good sailor. She said it wasn’t like Jean to go taking risks. He knew the sea too well. His family had been fishermen, so I understand. He used to go to Hastings and buy fresh fish from the boats for their restaurant. I never ate there personally. I wanted to go but my hubby flat refused. He’s very finicky about his food.”
“So you don’t know if she’d had any threatening letters? You never saw any strange visitors?”
Brenda shook her head. “I don’t know anything about that. But like I said, we didn’t know each other well—not well enough to tell me that kind of personal thing. Are you saying that someone burned down that restaurant on purpose?”
“It’s possible,” Evan said. “We’re trying to find out if anyone might have had a grudge against her. Did she ever talk to you about her life in France before she came here?”
“She told me about the cooking school,” the woman said. “And about meeting her husband in Paris.”
“Did she come from Paris?” Watkins asked.
A puzzled look crossed her face. “She wasn’t really French, was she? I always thought she was English.”
Chapter 18
“Well, that’s a turn-up for the books,” Sergeant Watkins muttered as they drove back to East-bourne. “Not really French, eh?”
Evan stared out of the windscreen at the rolling hills. “I can’t believe that, Sarge. I’ve spoken to her several times. There was no hint that she wasn’t French.”
“Like I said before, she might be a bloody good actress.”
Evan shook his head. “But even the best actress would slip up. You know when they’re doing dialects on telly. Every now and then you hear a word that’s wrong and you think, She’s not really Scottish or Yorkshire. Madame Yvette never slipped up. She even put in French words when she couldn’t think of English ones. I’d swear that she was really French.”
“Then what made Brenda think she was really English? Certainly not if she spoke with an accent like that.”
Evan shook his head. “I’ve no idea, but this whole thing is getting more and more confusing. Brenda said she idolized her husband and Yvette told me that he was a bastard. That doesn’t make sense either. Get onto HQ and see if they can get her date and place of birth verified. Then we can check that out as well when we’re in France tomorrow.”
“I’d say we have a busy day ahead,” Watkins said. “I just hope we come up with enough useful information to justify the chunnel crossing, or else the chief’s going to blow his top.”
A heavy sea fog draped the South Coast as they arrived at the Channel tunnel early on Thursday morning. The terminal building loomed ominously from the swirling whiteness and added to the surreal quality as they drove their car onto a train.
Half an hour later they emerged into a similar sea fog on the French side.
“Phew, I’m glad I’m not claustrophobic,” Watkins said as Evan drove out of the terminal and onto a French motorway. “It doesn’t bear thinking about—all that water over our heads. I wouldn’t like to think what a breakdown would be like in that tunnel.” He glanced at Evan, then looked at him critically. “You’re sweating like a pig,” he said. “Don’t tell me that you—”
“I’m a mountain man, aren’t I?” Evan demanded, taking out a handkerchief and wiping his forehead. “I’m not designed to go burrowing into the earth like a bloody Rhondda Valley coal miner.” He smiled sheepishly. “I never could stand being shut in. When I was a little lad the teacher shut me in the