Evan and Elle - By Rhys Bowen Page 0,70
swing and they were out on the coast somewhere. The whole building had an empty, deserted feel to it and more than ever he felt like an outsider.
All right. He’d get the interview with Potter over as quickly as possible. He knocked on the office door and went in.
“Ah Evans, you finally got here. Took your time, didn’t you?” Sergeant Potter looked up from his desk.
“Sorry. I was with Sergeant Watkins over in France—didn’t they tell you?”
“No, they didn’t bloody tell me,” Potter growled. “Bloody half-arsed operation here. The right hand doesn’t know what the effing left hand is doing. No wonder nothing gets solved. But they’ve got Peter Potter now. Things will change. At least I’ll show them how I solve my cases.”
“So you think you’ve found the serial arsonist?” Evan asked.
“I know we have, son.” Potter looked smug. “It’s all a question of profiling. I took a look at your lists of names and I talked to the fire brigade and only one person fits the bill. He was there in the thick of it, all three times. Classic serial arsonist—does it because he likes fires and he likes to help putting them out, too. I took photos at the restaurant fire. Here, take a look at this.” He handed Evan a blown-up photo. “See that young chap?”
“That’s Terry Jenkins,” Evan said. “He’s only a little kid.”
“You’d be amazed what an eleven-year-old boy can do if he sets his mind to it.” Potter was still looking smug. “He’s the perfect candidate for my profile—wild kid, not much supervision, loner so they say, and the fire captain said he was always there in the thick of it, trying to help—at all three fires. You know him, do you?”
“Yes, he lives in our village.”
“See? I knew it had to be a local. Okay, go and bring him in, Evans. I’m looking forward to a chat with him. I’ll make the little bugger confess.”
“Hold on a minute, Sarge.” There was a sinking feeling in his stomach at the thought of bringing Terry to meet Sergeant Potter. “What about the note? Would a little kid get it into his head to write a note like the one we found?”
“They watch the news on the telly, don’t they?” Potter said with scorn. “He probably saw a report on Welsh extremists burning cottages and that gave him the idea in the first place. Like I said, kids are sharp. They don’t miss much.”
“I got a sample of his handwriting,” Evan said. “Shouldn’t we run that through a check before we pick him up?”
“Match it to the note, you mean? Yes, we can do that. And I’ll get his medical records checked, too—ten to one he’s seeing a shrink. He’s probably talked about arson fantasies—they do, you know—but the stupid doctors never think of getting in touch with us, do they? But I still want to see the little bugger. He won’t put anything past me.”
“I’ll bring him in after school, then, shall I?” Evan asked, hoping to forestall Potter from bursting into Bronwen’s classroom, probably waving a weapon or an arrest warrant into the bargain. “We don’t want to upset the rest of the children, do we?”
“If you ask me, everyone panders to kids too much these days,” Potter said. “But I can wait until school’s over, I suppose. Just bring him in. I’ll be waiting.”
Evan still felt slightly sick as he drove back up the pass. The strong espresso hadn’t agreed with his lack of sleep and gnawed at his stomach. He wasn’t used to drinking it like that, without milk, but he wasn’t going to admit such a failing to Glynis. Maybe the sour feeling in his stomach had to do with bringing in Terry. He hadn’t told Potter that he’d also suspected the boy. Poor kid. Unfortunately Terry did fit the profile . . .
On impulse he stopped at Roberts-the-Pump’s petrol station.
“Off jaunting again?” The garage owner, asked. “Where is it this time—the Monte Carlo pally?”
“I don’t need petrol. I just want to ask you something,” Evan said, beckoning the man closer. “Have you sold any petrol to young Terry Jenkins recently?”
Roberts frowned as he thought. Then he nodded. “Yes, I have, as a matter of fact. He came in here about a week or so ago with a can. He said his mother wanted it for the lawn mower.” Realization dawned as he picked up Evan’s train of thought. “Wait a minute—they only have a pocket handkerchief square of lawn,