Evan and Elle - By Rhys Bowen Page 0,9
the tip-off man, you have to admit that.”
“Yes, I do admit that,” Evan said. “He’s the kind of bloke who might well want to join the Meibion Gwynedd. He might know something. I’ll try asking a few discreet questions.”
They had reached the blackened remains of the cottage. Only the shell of four walls was still standing, the gray stone hidden under a layer of soot. Inside the walls they could make out the shape of a stove and a bathtub, but everything else was a blackened, soggy mess.
“Bloody ’ell,” Watkins muttered. “They certainly did a good job, didn’t they? There’s not much left to go on.” They picked their way carefully around the perimeter of the cottage. “But I’d pretty much bet it was arson. Look how the ground is blackened here. That had to be some kind of flammable liquid.” He looked up at Evan. “Nobody thought of taking pictures, did they?”
“Pictures?”
“Yeah. Photos or videos. Either would do. It’s a known fact that arsonists like to watch their handiwork, see? It would have been good to have a record of the crowd, just in case it happens again.”
“I think I could tell you who was here,” Evan said. “Nobody from outside the village, anyway.”
“That’s worth thinking about,” Watkins said.
A scrap of white fluttering amid trampled bracken caught Evan’s eye. He went to investigate and found it was a scrap of paper, charred at the edges.
“Hey, look at this, Sergeant,” he called. “I think this probably confirms your theory.” He came back holding the paper cautiously with two fingers and handed it to the sergeant. Watkins read it and looked up. ‘You’re not wanted here’?” He let out a big sigh. “You know what this means, don’t you? It means we’re in for Peter Potter and his wonder dog Champ.”
“Come again, Sarge?” Evan grinned.
“Oh, you won’t be smiling when he gets here, boyo. He’s our new arson expert—trained at Scotland Yard, no less.”
“North Wales Police has imported an English arson expert?” Evan was impressed.
“Not exactly. His wife got a job up here with a posh hotel in Llandudno, so he asked for a transfer. It just happened that he was an arson expert complete with sniffing dog. It seems it was his own dog he was using and the dog came, too.”
“Well, that’s good news, isn’t it?”
“If you happen to want people like Peter Potter around. He’s a bloody know-it-all. I’ve only had one encounter with him so far but he almost patted me on the head and said, “Run along and play, sonny.”
“He’ll learn,” Evan said.
Watkins peered in through one of the former windows. Shards of glass had twisted and melted onto the stone, running down like tears. “I think we’d better keep well away from doing any more here. I don’t want to be accused of cocking-up the evidence.” He paused and stared thoughtfully. “We are sure there was nobody in here, are we?”
“They went home hours earlier,” Evan said. “Besides, it’s not a big place. Anyone could have got out and sounded the alarm before the fire took over.”
“Unless the person was drugged, drunk, or in some way unconscious.”
Evan peered in the other window. “But you’d see a body, wouldn’t you?”
“Not if the fire was hot enough. What do you think crematoriums do? Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”
“And this fire was certainly hot.”
“Have the owners been contacted yet?”
“Not by me. I filed a report last night and gave their names and addresses. Apart from that I’m only—”
“I know—a humble village bobby. I’ve heard that one before.” Watkins turned away and started down the mountain. “But if you want my advice, that’s the part you should play when you’re dealing with Peter Potter and his wonder dog.”
As soon as Sergeant Watkins had gone, Evan went up to find Farmer Owens. He caught him coming from an upper pasture on his motorbike, a dog on either side of him. He shook his head slowly. No, he couldn’t remember having seen anything unusual the night before . . .
“Too bad I didn’t have my dogs with me. They’d have spotted right away if anything was wrong. Sharper than humans they are, aren’t you, girls?”
Two black-and-white heads looked up at him and tails wagged furiously. “Whoever wanted to burn Rhodri’s cottage made a damned good job of it,” he commented. “Not much left of their antiques or their French bathroom.”
“Any idea who might have wanted to do a thing like that?” Evan asked cautiously.
“Someone with an ax to grind, obvious,