Evan and Elle - By Rhys Bowen Page 0,8

would be ideal, wouldn’t it? Not many tourists on the Llyn Peninsula at this time of year.”

“Ideal, as you say. I might have been in on a really big international drug bust. And instead what happens? The D.I. says ‘I’m sending you up to Llanfair, Watkins, because you’re familiar with the territory up there.’ So I get sent to look into a cottage that burned down last night, probably because the owner was frying chips and watching telly at the same time.”

“The owners weren’t there, Sarge,” Evan said. “The cottage was only recently sold to English people.”

“Oh, is that a fact?” Watkins’s face became serious. “Oh, I don’t like the sound of that. I don’t like the sound of that at all. Don’t tell me it’s all starting again?”

“But there hasn’t been a holiday cottage burned up here for a long while, has there?” Evan asked. “Not since I’ve been here, anyway.”

“No, there hasn’t, but that’s not to say it couldn’t start up again. We’ve heard that there’s a new group operating in the area. They call themselves Meibion Gwynedd—the Sons of Gwynedd—and they’re pretty radical. They’re not going to stop until they get complete Welsh independence.”

“That’s bloody daft,” Evan exclaimed. “Welsh independence? Do they really think we could exist with no support from England?”

Watkins shook his head. “I don’t suppose they’ve thought it through that far. What most extremists want is the best of both worlds, isn’t it? Independence for Wales but full protection from Britain.”

“So do we have any names?”

“We’ve got our hands on a couple of their newsletters and we know they’ve had meetings at a chapel in Bangor. I’d say they were pretty much the loony fringe—the kind of people who would burn down cottages to prove a point.”

Evan was frowning. “Then someone up here must have told them about English people moving in recently . . .”

Watkins picked up on where this thought was going. “Which means someone up here is involved in the group in some way?”

Evan tried not to think of Evans-the-Meat, but he couldn’t help it. He remembered the butcher muttering “Unless somebody makes them.” He was so fiercely nationalistic, and hotheaded, too—just the type to be enticed into a radical fringe group like the Meibion Gwynedd. “It’s certainly possible,” he said.

“Maybe that’s something you could look into on the quiet,” Watkins said. “I know what it’s like in a village. Everybody knows everybody else’s business, don’t they?”

Evan glanced across at the butcher’s shop. “But you’d better come and take a look for yourself before we go jumping to conclusions. As you said, we might find that someone left a cigarette in the wastebasket and all this worry will have been for nothing.” As he spoke a thought struck him. “Come to think of it, Sarge, I came right past the cottage myself, not too long before.”

“And? Did you see anybody?”

“Only Farmer Owens. He came from the cottage to join me.”

“Farmer Owens, eh? Is he known for his radical tendencies?”

Evan laughed. “On the contrary. He’s very much live and let live, although . . .” Although he had certainly made it plain what he felt about English people buying the cottage, Evan thought. And he admitted having been there . . . Evan recalled the sudden tension and watchfulness he himself had felt. He shook his head. “I don’t think it could have been Farmer Owens, but I’ll have a word with him, if you like. He might have seen something useful.”

The two men set off up the hillside. Morning mist had draped the valley like sheep’s wool but as they climbed they came to clear blue sky and the sound of larks.

“My, but I could get used to this weather,” Watkins said with a sigh. “They do say the world climate’s changing, don’t they. Maybe Wales is going to be the next Riviera.”

“Don’t tell Evans-the-Meat that,” Evan laughed, then his smile drained as he saw Watkins staring at him. “You don’t think he was involved in this? Not this time, Sarge—it’s just not possible. He was in the pub with us when the alarm was sounded.”

“There are ways of delaying a fire, you know. A good arsonist can be miles away by the time the thing goes up.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t him,” Evan said. “He was being his usual self—loud, offensive but not at all nervous.”

“Maybe he’s a cool customer.”

“You know he’s not. Look how he went to pieces that time we hauled him in for questioning.”

“But he could have been