I don’t suppose you’ve had a decent meal in days if you’ve been in France. I’ve got some veal and ham pie downstairs . . .”
Evan put out a hand to stop her from going downstairs.
“No thanks. I don’t need anything except a good night’s sleep, Mrs. Williams. Go on back to bed. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“You’re sure you don’t want a nice cup of cocoa?”
“Nothing, thanks. I’ve been driving for twelve hours straight. All I need is sleep.”
“Well, I hope it was worth it,” she said. “I hope you found out who set fire to poor Madame Yvette’s restaurant and killed that man.”
“I think we might have done, Mrs. Williams. We’ll just have to see in the morning if we were right,” Evan said.
He continued down the hallway and collapsed onto his bed, falling asleep before he had time to undress.
In his dream he was in a dark place—he wasn’t sure if it was a coffin or a tunnel, but he could sense the roof pressing down on him and feel the sweat trickling down his back. Whatever it was, there was no way out. Then a bell started to ring. “My funeral bell,” he said to himself. But funeral bells were usually slower and more somber.
He opened his eyes and realized that it was the telephone. The morning sun was painting stripes of light on his wall. Heart still pounding, he ran downstairs and got to the phone before Mrs. Williams could emerge from the kitchen.
“Did I wake you?” Watkins demanded.
“Of course you bloody woke me.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s only just seven, isn’t it, and I didn’t get to bed until after two.”
“Well, the D.I. woke me and I saw no reason why you shouldn’t share the news.”
“What is it?”
“Madame Yvette has vanished. She left the pub two days ago without telling anyone where she was going.”
“Damn,” Evan muttered. “So we were right. She did get the wind up.”
“The D.I.’s got an all points bulletin out for her but she could have slipped across the channel, or taken the ferry to Ireland. She could be anywhere by now. I blame myself. We should have taken her into custody before we left.”
“On what grounds, Sarge? You know very well we had no good reason to bring her in before we went to France. She could just as easily have been the victim as the criminal.”
“Well, I suppose it’s not up to us any longer,” Watkins said. “There’s nothing more we can do until they catch her—which I don’t think is very likely, if you want my opinion. You can go back to working on your serial arsonist and I can see if they’ll let me come aboard onto Operation Armada again. But thanks for all your help, boyo. You win some and you lose some, I suppose.”
Evan put the phone down and stood there in the dark, narrow front hall, staring at the flowery wallpaper.
“Damn,” he muttered again.
“Mr. Evans! Such language! It’s not like you.” Mrs. Williams’s head poked disapprovingly from the kitchen.
Evan grinned sheepishly. “Sorry, Mrs. Williams.”
“You’re obviously overtired. A nice cup of tea will set you right.”
He followed her into the kitchen, where warm, inviting smells were coming from the stove. He sat musing, with the cup cradled in his hands. What Watkins said was probably true. There was little likelihood of catching Madame Yvette. She had probably fled back to France—in which case it was out of their hands. It was frustrating not to be able to see it through. Maybe he’d never know whether she killed Jean Bouchard and maybe even started the fire that killed the real Yvette, too. Funny—but she still hadn’t seemed like a murderer to him.
Well, he was up and awake now, so he’d better get on with his day, back to the old routine and probably a pile of complaints from Mrs. Powell-Jones about the van. He showered and put on his uniform, then decided he might have time to see Bronwen before school started.
As he walked up the village street, Llanfair was coming to life. Evans-the-Milk was heading toward a doorstep, milk bottles rattling in his hands. “ ’ello, Evan bach,” he called. “Back from your jaunt to the South then, are you?”
Evans-the-Post came out of the post office, extracted a postcard from his mail bag and stood in the middle of the street, studying it. He jumped guiltily when he saw Evan.
“It’s from Mrs. Jones, Number 24’s sister,” he said, waving the postcard