Bronwen put a plate of food in front of Evan. “It seems to me the
most obvious clue you've got is that Deb and Dad are dead. Known facts.”
“We're working on that. So far I've only been able to come up with one missing girl called Debbie, and she was a fifteen-year-old who vanished hitchhiking on her way home from the pictures in Birmingham. She seems to be a possible runaway. It doesn't seem a likely tie-in.”
“No, it doesn't,” Bronwen said. “If we believe the music, then the father and Deb were punished because they did something to displease the music writer. I wonder, whose dad? His own?”
“No way of finding that out,” Evan said. “We can't look into the sons of every older man killed in the past twenty years.”
Bronwen watched him eat. “He expects you to solve it, Evan,” she said. “Otherwise he'd never have sent you the clue. It must be solvable. Somewhere around Britain there must be a missing Deborah, unless, of course, he means the other kind of debâyou know, a debutante.”
Evan looked up from his food. “A debutante? I thought they stopped doing that years ago, didn't they? When was the last time girls were presented at court? Before I was born, I think.”
“I know they're not officially presented anymore, but there are still upper-class girls who have a season and who meet the queen at a royal garden party, so I suppose you could still call them debs. I went to school with a couple of girls like that, so I know they still exist. The Honorable Amanda Fanshaw-Everingham was one.”
“You're making that name up.” Evan laughed.
“I'm not. She was definitely a real person. And God, was she thick. Penny Mowbray was the other one who moved in royal circles and had a coming-out ball. Awfully well connected. Her father played polo with Prince Charles and her elder sister was dating a minor royal. But she was fun. One of my best friends, in fact.” Bronwen grinned at the memory. “She almost got me expelled.”
“Doing what?” Evan was intrigued. He knew almost nothing of that stage of Bronwen's life. He knew she'd been to a girls' boarding
school while her parents were abroad, but he hadn't realized it was the kind of exclusive school where the girls dated minor royals.
Bronwen was still smiling. “When we were in the sixth form we borrowed the games mistress's car to go and meet some boys from the nearby boys' school. Penny assured me that she'd learned to drive, you see, and that we could borrow the car and nobody would ever catch us. Only she didn't confide until too late that she'd only driven on a disused airfield. She wasn't used to traffic and she'd never driven in the dark. We didn't dare turn on the headlights in case someone noticed us. We actually knocked some poor man off his bike and the police were called. There was an awful fuss.”
“I'm sure there would have been.”
“Luckily, it wasn't too bad. The chap wasn't badly hurt and his motorbike wasn't damaged and Penny's family was so influential that the school didn't want to lose her, so they let us both stay. But we were terrified for a while. It taught me a lesson. Not Penny, though. She just thought it was a lark.”
“Have you stayed in touch? You could invite her to the wedding.”
Bronwen shook her head. “You tend to lose touch with schoolfriends when you go to university. And now I've lost touch with most of the uni crowd too.”
Evan reached out and took her hand. “Bronwen, I don't want you to feel that you're cut off in a backwater, you know. If you want to go and visit friends, or have friends to stay hereâit's fine with me. If there are people you want to have to the wedding ⦔
She leaned over and planted a kiss on his forehead. “You're very sweet, you know,” she said. “But strangely enough I'm perfectly content with where I am and who I am. When will you get that into your head?”
Evan gave her a long hard look before he went back to his food.
“But now we're speaking of weddings,” Bronwen said cautiously, “now I have you trappedâI would like to find out when you might possibly be free.”
“Bron, I leave the choosing of brass bedsteads in your capable hands,” Evan said.
“It's not just that, Evanâalthough I am going into town tomorrow to see if my wonderful antiques dealer has come through on his promise. My parents will be arriving in a couple of days and there are still so many things up in the air. How many people have you invited from the village, for example? Have you just issued a general invitation? How many are likely to show up? I need to know because Mummy would be furious if so many locals showed up that her friends and relatives didn't get enough to eat and drink. And we still haven't told the caterer exactly what we want in the way of food and drink. I know we discussed a possible menu, but ⦔
“Whatever you think is best,” Evan said.
“Evan, that's not good enough. It's your wedding too.” She stood over him, arms folded defiantly.
“Bronwen, you knew when you agreed to marry me that I'm a policeman, and when I'm on a case, that case has to come first. I don't know when I'll get a day off. Maybe not until the wedding. I'm sorry, but that's just the way it is.”
“But at least you can take the time to discuss things with me.” Bronwen still sounded aggrieved. “The caterer has to know our menu very soon.”
He reached out and drew her to him. “Bron, listen. I know nothing about the kind of food and drink your parents like. You've met my mother. If she was catering the wedding, it would be dainty sandwiches with the crusts cut off, Welsh cakes and wedding cake, and tea. She might allow one glass of champagne each for the toast.”
“Which reminds me,” Bronwen added. “Your mother did mention that Mrs. Williams was very put out that she hadn't been invited to do the eats. Apparently she always does the eats for local weddings. It's a tradition.”
“Oh dear.” Evan looked up, half smiling. “You know she really does cook well, and she was very good to me when I first came here.”
“Good to you? She tried to fatten you up like a prize turkeyâand marry you off to her awful granddaughter.”
Evan laughed. “She was good to me, Bron, and I don't like to upset
her. Don't you think we could ask her to make some of her fabulous cakes?”
“I suppose we could,” Bronwen said.
“And so that we don't tread on any more local toes, why don't we buy a whole lamb from Evans-the-Meat? I'm sure the caterer can arrange for a barbecue spit.”
Bronwen's face lit up. “Perfect. See I knew I only had to discuss it with you. We'll order assorted hors d'oeuvres, salads to go with the lamb, and the wedding cake, accompanied by various small delicacies baked by Mrs. Williams. That should satisfy everyone.”
“See how easy that was. I knew there was no reason to get in a tizzy about something as simple as a wedding.”
Bronwen smiled. “I suppose I'm pushing my luck if I want answers on the music to be played at the ceremony?”
“So long as it's not the Shipwreck from
Sheherazade,”
Evans said, “or music that spells out anything, I don't care.”
He sat at his computer and called up Finale, his music composition program. His fingers, poised above the keyboard, trembled in anticipation. He knew exactly what the notes were going to spell out this time and he almost salivated in anticipation. But he mustn't rush things. Give them timeâtime to search and to fail. And thenâthen he'd strike. Everything was prepared. Even though the secret room on the mountain had been discovered, he really had to congratulate himself how quickly and smoothly he had made alternative arrangements. More convenient really. And definitely more of a challenge. He loved challenges. But he must stay calm and not be too eager. There would only be one opportunity. He couldn't risk making a mistake.
Evan had risen with the sun, his head buzzing with things that had to be done that day. The moment he'd discovered the musical clue, everything changed. Until then he'd half believed that Shannon Parkinson had met with an unfortunate accident on the mountain and her body would be discovered in a disused mine shaft or deep in the lake. Now he was sure that all the pieces belonged together. The man who left no fingerprints in the bunker was the same man who had sent the strange musical threat. They were dealing with the kind
of twisted mind that enjoyed playing games and staying one step ahead of the police. This kind of thing was completely outside Evan's sphere of experience and he felt cold chills every time he remembered that he had been singled out as the recipient of the letter. Why had the man chosen him? There had to be a good reason. Was he the one charged with finding the girl before it was too late?
He made himself a cup of tea, then scrambled into his clothes and drove down the hill. He passed Mrs. Williams's house just in time to see his former landlady bringing in the milk bottles. She waved and called out to him. He waved back. At least he'd been spared breakfast with his mother.
A half hour's drive brought him to the seaside resort of Llandudno, favored by genteel English holidaymakers in the eighteen hundreds. The bygone elegance still lingered in the design of the long promenade and some of the faded seafront hotels. Evan drove past the main shopping center and located the radio station by its transmission tower. He went inside to find a hive of activity. Bore Da North Wales started at seven o'clock and it was seven-ten when Evan walked in.
“Are you our talk show guest?” the receptionist asked as he stood looking around at the bright mural on the reception area walls. It was a stylized rendition of Llandudno with the Snowdon range behind it.
Evan told her his business and was soon shaking hands with Dewi Lewis while the Beatles strummed their way through “I Want to Hold Your Hand.”
“Constable Evan Evans?” the small, sprightly man said. He had been a well-known former comedian in his younger days and retained his stage presence and his chirpily bright voice. “I remember playing the request a couple of days ago. Getting married, eh? Rather you than me, mate. Tried it three times. Ended up a pauper.”
Evan explained about the musical clue and the sinister coincidence that a strange piece of music had been requested for him.
“I thought it was an odd choice for a wedding,” Dewi Lewis said.
“Something about a shipwreck, wasn't it? Frankly I thought someone was having a good laugh at your expense.”
“I hope you'll be able to help us catch him,” Evan said. “So what I need to know was how the request came in?”
“We get them all ways. Phoned in, postcards, and of course via e-mail these days. Siannaid, our program coordinator, will be able to help you. Down the hall, to the right. WhoopsâBeatles ending, gotta run.” He darted back to his seat, put on his headphones, and addressed the mike with a bright smile.
“He wants to hold your hand, Noreen. How about that? I'd keep this one. Most of them want something quite different these days, don't they?”
Evan left him to seek out Siannaid. “We log all requests in a big book,” she said. “That way we can check if someone is trying to get on the air all the time, or is bugging someone. See, here's this week's. The one for you came by postcard.”
“Do you think you still have it?”
“Probably.” She got up, rummaged in a file, then waved it triumphantly. “See, here it is.”
Evan took it. It was posted in Bangor. The words on both sides were printed, not written. “Signed, âA well-wisher.' No name,” he said. “I'd like to take this with me. We'll need to test it for fingerprints.”
“Be my guest,” she said.
“Oh, and Siannaid,” Evan hesitated at the doorway. “If you get any more requests for me, or for Inspector Watkins or D.C. Glynis Davies, will you call the Caernarfon police station right away and let us know?”
“Be happy to,” she said. “I've always wanted to help solve a crime.” She scribbled down the request on a notepad and pinned it to the corkboard behind her.
If only all the public was that keen on helping the police, Evan thought, as he swing the ear in the direction of Colwyn Bay and police headquarters. In the forensics lab he had the postcard tested for
fingerprints. The problem this time was too many, as opposed to too few. The postcard would have been sorted, handled by a postman, then by various people at the radio station. Evan knew that he could probably track down the various postal and radio employees to match their fingerprints, but his gut told him this was a waste of time. The sender would have left no fingerprints. He would have taken no chances this time, either.
He glanced at his watch and saw that he'd better put his foot down if he wanted to make it back to Caernarfon for the eight o'clock briefing.
As Evan came into the room on the dot of eight, he was startled to see D.C.I. Hughes standing by the white board like an impatient teacher. Two uniform branch sergeants and Glynis Davies sat staring at him in silence.
“Ah, there you are, Evans,” Hughes said in a way that always seemed to imply that Evans had been out somewhere enjoying himself when he should have been working.
“Yes, sir,” Evan said. “Did you want to see D.I. Watkins? He should be here any minute.”
“I should hope so.” Hughes glanced pointedly at the clock on the wall, “since it's one minute past eight. Standards appear to be getting very lax around here.”
“No, sir, but we've all been putting in really long days on this case,” Evan said. “D.I. Watkins and I didn't go home until ten last night.”
“And yet apparently with precious little to show for your efforts,” Hughes said in his clipped, annoying voice. Unlike Watkins, who looked like a policeman caricature in his fawn raincoat and well-scuffed shoes, D.C.I. Hughes, who had recently been promoted to the supervisory rank in Caernarfon, would have been taken for an assistant in an upscale gents' clothing storeâalways immaculately turned out in dark suit, silk handkerchief in his top pocket, starched shirt, highly polished shoes, a slim line of mustache on his upper lip, dark hair graying in a distinguished way at the sides. Fastidious and annoying, Evan thought, as he watched him brush an imaginary
speck from his sleeve. He had a way of speaking that always managed to be condescending and hinted that every other member of the force was a bumbling idiot. Since he had little talent for detective work, the feeling was reciprocated.
“Sorry I'm late, everyone,” Watkins breezed into the room, then froze when he saw the D.C.I. standing at the front. “Oh, good morning, sir. I didn't expect to see you. Thanks for your help on procuring the profiler. I'm sure he's going to prove most helpful. We expect his report today.”
“Take a seat please, Watkins.” D.C.I. Hughes motioned to a chair in the front row. “I have some concerns that need to be addressed about this Shannon Parkinson case.”
Watkins sat, giving Evan a swift glance of inquiry. Evan shrugged.
“Last night I received a phone call from the chief constable of Merseyside Police,” Hughes said. “It seems that Mrs. Parkinson, Shannon's mother, has become frustrated that we haven't managed to find her daughter. She wants the Liverpool police to ascertain what has been done so far and what should have been done. Their chief constable commented that he knew we were a small force and perhaps we lacked adequate manpower to conduct a full-scale search. He offered to lend us some of his top men to make sure the task is carried out properly.”
Hughes paused and looked around the faces that stared blankly at him. “Needless to say, I took this as rather insulting. Under the cloak of an offer to help was the insinuation that we were not up to the job. I told him that he could rest assured that every possible lead was being investigated and that outsiders with no experience in the Welsh mountain terrain would be of little use.”
Another dramatic pause. Hughes cracked his knuckles, making Evan wince. “But having said that, I find that I have my own concerns about this case. I am wondering if perhaps too much has been left to officers who are well meaning but definitely lacking in experience.” His gaze moved from Evan to Glynis. “We may be too late to remedy any harm done through inexperience. If indeed we do have
a sex offender involved and he has managed to slip through our grasp with the girl, then we may no longer be able to save her. But I can't sit by and risk the reputation of the North Wales Police. As of now I am taking personal control of this case.”
There was a collective intake of breath. If Hughes noticed it, he didn't betray the fact.
Watkins got to his feet. “With all respect, sir, we have been working exhaustively since the girl disappeared. Other than the fact that we thought we were simply looking for a lost hiker when the first search was conducted, before the bunker was found, I can't think of anything that should have been done differently.”
Hughes inclined his head slightly. “With all respect to you, Watkins, I see that inquiries in the field, questioning possible witnesses in Llanberis and at the National Parks Service, were left to a very junior member of your teamâone only just out of training and still on probation. This kind of thing requires someone with tact and experience. And you should have called in a profiler the minute the bunker was discovered.”
“May I state, sir,” Watkins glared at him and Evan noticed his clenched fist, “that I have complete confidence in all members of my team. And may I remind you that you were the one who pointed out to me that we didn't actually have a crime? Maybe we still don't, until divers can give us a negative report from Lake Glaslyn and we have teams to check out every accessible mine shaft on the mountain.”
A flicker of annoyance crossed Hughes's face. “I made that remark at a time when I fully expected the girl to be found. We all did. I'm going to take a look at that bunker for myself, as soon as I have given out today's assignments, so that I can make my own assessment of the situation. And I want to see reports on the various lines of inquiry so farâConstable Davies?”
“Yes, sir?” Glynis eyed him with a cool stare.
“I understand that you were given the task of compiling a list of possible sex offenders, those on parole, and local mental patients.”
Glynis winced. “I have managed to compile a list of those treated
in local psychiatric facilities,” she said. “I don't think we call them mental patients these days, sir. Not very PC.”
Evan glanced at Glynis's composed, confident expression with admiration and decided that none of the men present would have had the balls to give the D.C.I. a public dressing down in front of the troops. He held his breath for the explosion. Instead, Hughes gave an embarrassed half-cough. “Ah yes, Davies, you're right, of course. Psychiatric patients. Would that be PC enough for you?”
If there was sarcasm in the remark, Glynis didn't seem to notice it. She grinned. “Yes, sir. That would be most appropriate. Would you like to see the list?”
“It's not the list I'm interested in, Constable, it's your deductions from the list. A trained eye can pick out those who warrant further investigation.”
“I've already checked on those who would have had the right sort of psychological profile, the means to build a bunker, and the time to be on the mountain that afternoon,” Glynis said, “and the results have been negative.”
“You've double-checked their alibis for that particular afternoon?”
“Yes, sir.”
Hughes waited for further explanation. Hearing none he said, “Right. Good work.” Hughes cleared his throat. He hated being one-upped.
“And Evansâyou were detailed to investigate possible sightings of the girl, both in Llanberis and among National Parks Service employees? Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir.” Evan's flat tone matched Glynis Davies's.
“And yet you turned up nobody who recalled seeing her?”
“If you go to Llanberis you'll find the place teeming with holidaymakers,” Evan said. “A large portion of them are young hikers who look just like Shannon Parkinson. The shop and café owners are so overworked that there is no way they'd recall anything unless it was completely out of the ordinary. If a man had come down the mountain with an unconscious girl over his shoulder, then maybe they'd have noticed.”