The next morning the morning paper displayed a picture of Shannon Parkinson on the front page. HAVE YOU SEEN THIS GIRL? the caption read. Evan resigned himself to having breakfast with his mother at Mrs. Williams's house. It was either that or have his mother come to his place and complain about his lack of cooking equipment, his inadequate stove, and the grease spatters on his walls. He even resigned himself to eating the full Welsh breakfast without which his mother and former landlady both felt that a man shouldn't start his day.
Evan was just using the fried bread to soak up the last of his egg yolk when he stopped with food poised on his fork, listening in amazement. The radio had been going in the background, along with the chatter of the two women, throughout breakfast. It was the morning show that Mrs. Williams always liked: Bore Da North Walesâa light mixture of music, local news, interviews with local celebrities, and bad jokes from the compere, comedian Dewi Lewis.
“I hear there's a wedding coming up in the village of Llanfair,” Dewi said in conspiratorial tones. “Or at least so I'm told by the postcard that has been sent in, requesting some special music for the happy couple. So this is for Constable Evan Evans, of the North
Wales Police, and his lovely Bronwen. In honor of his upcoming nuptuals our listener has requested that we play a piece by Rimsky-Korsakovâand I hope I'm pronouncing that correctly, being one of those lowbrow types, you know. The piece requested for them is the Shipwreck sequence from
Sheherazade.
I don't know the piece myself, being more of a Beatles fan, but I'm sure it has special significance for the happy couple. So here's to you, Evan and Bronwen.
Iechyd da.
I'm raising my glass in a toast to your future life.”
“Well now, wasn't that nice?” Mrs. Williams was beaming.
“Funny piece to choose, though,” Evan's mother said. “Does it have a special meaning for you two? Did you meet on a boat?”
“I've never heard of the piece before in my life,” Evan said. “I've no idea what they're talking about.”
The music started, slow, ponderous chords of which Russian composers seem so fond.
“Dear me,” Evan's mother said, shaking her head. “What a dreadful gloomy choice of music for a happy occasion. Who on earth would have chosen that for you?”
“They didn't say the name, did they?” Evan asked. “Maybe it's a joke. One of the blokes in the force having a laughâyou know, like I'm sailing into dangerous waters, getting married.”
“That's not very nice,” Mrs. Williams said.
Evan got up. “I expect I'll be in for more teasing by the time the event takes place,” he said. “It's all in good fun, isn't it?”
“You haven't had your toast and marmalade yet,” Mrs. Evans complained.
“Sorry, Ma, can't stop any longer. I'm due at the station at eight.” Evan took his jacket from the back of his chair. “Thanks very much for the breakfast, Mrs. W. You do a lovely fried bread.”
“I expect she could teach it to your future wife, if you asked her nicely,” Mrs. Evans said, giving the other woman a knowing look.
As he went out he heard Mrs. Williams's soft high voice saying, in a stage whisper, “It's too bad he never really hit it off with our granddaughter I told you about. Lovely little homemaker she is.”
Evan shuddered as he closed the door, remembering the overbearing personality and annoying laugh of her lovely little granddaughter.
“I heard you mentioned on the radio this morning,” the receptionist greeted Evan as he pushed open the swing doors into the police station. “I didn't know you were a fan of classical music.”
“I'm not,” Evan said. “I suspect it was a joke. Probably one of the lads here.”
The receptionist grinned. “I'll keep my ear to the ground and let you know which one if you like.”
“Don't bother,” Evan said. “It could have been worse. It could have been the Funeral March.”
Inspector Watkins, Glynis, and the uniformed branch officers were already assembling in Watkins's office.
“Here he is, the household name,” Pritchard commented as Evan walked in.
“So you were really on the radio this morning?” Glynis asked.
“I wasn't. Dewi Lewis played a piece of music for me on Bore Da North Wales, that's all.”
“In honor of his upcoming nuptuals,” Dawson commented and giggled.
“How sweet,” Glynis said. “What was it?”
“Some classical piece,” Evan said. “Something about a shipwreck by some Russian composer.”
“A shipwreck. That's funny.” The uniform branch constables dug each other in the side and chuckled. “Sailing into disaster.”
“Are you sure that one of you didn't request it?” Evan asked.
“Look at them.” Glynis gave them a scornful glance. “As if they'd know the name of a Russian composer. They don't even know the name of a Russian football player.”
“Only because Russia doesn't produce any football players worth mentioning,” Prichard said. “Ask me the name of a Brazilian and I can tell you.”
“Right, everyone. Down to business.” Watkins stopped conversation
with one loud rap on his desk with his mug. “Let's get ourselves up to date. Still no sighting of the missing girl. I see they've run her picture in the paper as we requested. Sergeant Jones has put up flyers along the route she might have taken.”
“And the divers, sir? Have they come up with anything?” Evan asked.
“They're going to have another shot at it today. The weather was so bad yesterday that they said there was almost zero visibility. And the spot where she might have gone in shelves steeply down a hundred feet or more.”
“So we're no farther along?” Sergeant Jones asked.
“I have a list of psychiatric patients who have been treated at Ysbety Gwynneth over the past year or so,” Glynis said. “I suggest we follow up on some of them.”
“Any specific cases?” Watkins asked.
“I haven't had a chance to go through them yet. I've also talked to a local psychiatrist but he wasn't very cooperative. He kept mumbling about patient confidentiality, which I suppose is fair enough. I did ask him how he'd feel if a young girl was tortured and killed because he wouldn't share information with us. He then said he had no patients on his books at the moment who would pose that kind of threat.”
She looked around the room, waiting for a response.
“He'd be able to guarantee that, would he?” Evan asked.
“He seemed to think so. He also said that the type of person we want had probably never visited a shrink and may have led an exemplary life so far.”
“Which makes our job pretty damned impossible.” Evan sighed. “We can hardly go door to door.”
“If Glynis comes up with any possibles from her list, we can get them fingerprinted,” Watkins said.
“I thought you said the place was almost clean of prints?” Glynis said.
“The tech boys managed to lift a couple here and there, apart from the very distinct ones that didn't pan out.”
“So the bloke you brought in yesterday wasn't a possible suspect?” P.C. Pritchard asked.
“Negative. We've concluded he probably touched the tin when he was stocking shelves at Tesco.”
“Too bad. He'd have been conveniently easyâwith a prior woman-beating charge against him,” Sergeant Jones muttered. “Right, so where do we go from here?”
“We need a profile,” Glynis said. “We should have headquarters find a profiler for us and bring him to the scene. We need to know who we are looking for. Do you want me to send in the request, sir?”
“Hold on a minute,” Watkins said. “I'd have to justify something fancy like a profiler with headquarters. They'll say we have no evidence so far that a crime has been committed.”
“A young girl disappearing in broad daylight?” Glynis countered. “And a bunker with handcuffs in it? I'd say that sounded suspiciously like a crime to me.”
“But we found her glove, didn't we?” Watkins countered. “At the bottom of a slope that indicated she must have fallen. And the divers haven't managed to search the lake properly yet. We have to give them a chance to find her body.”
“Even if they do find her body, we have a duty to find the man who dug the bunker. If he hasn't kidnapped anyone yet, he will.” Glynis was insistent.
“We don't know it will be a girl,” Pritchard said suddenly. “He might go for boys.”
“He might have a grudge against someone. He might want to string up his mother-in-law,” Sergeant Jones said, producing a chuckle.
“True enough,” Watkins said. “We don't know. We don't seem to know anything much, except that this man is pretty damn slick if he has managed to kidnap her and spirit her off a mountainside full of people.”
“That's why a profiler is so important at this stage,” Glynis said. “We need to know who we're dealing with.”
Watkins nodded. “I'm not disagreeing with you. Just expecting a
fight when I ask HQ for something that's not usually done and is over budget. Knowing them, they'll probably say we overspent on our tea money this month.”
“And what about some kind of surveillance, sir?” Evan asked. “There is a possibility that the bloke who dug the bunker doesn't know we've found it. Or perhaps he feels he might have left something incriminating there. If we could leave it intact and set up some kind of camera or alarm system, we'd catch him going back there.”
“That's not a bad idea, either,” Watkins said, and Evan noted the general nods. “I'll ask the tech boys.”
“A camera would be useful.” Glynis agreed. “One of those security cameras like they have in car parks.”
“Of course, ten to one he does know we've found his hidey-hole,” Watkins said. “There was very little dust or mold down there, indicating that this had all been stocked recently. That's why the timing on this is so worrying. A girl vanishes the moment a bunker is ready? Has to be a connection, doesn't there?”
“He may have tossed the glove down that slope to throw us off the scent,” Glynis suggested.
“Good point.” Watkins nodded.
“And done it after the fact,” Evan added, “or else why didn't Paul Upwood notice it when he went back to look for her the day before? A red glove is a pretty obvious clue.”
“Which would mean he's got her somewhere close by.” Watkins sucked air through his teeth. “Let's hope she's still alive. And with any luck this profiler can suggest where we should be looking for him.” He looked around him. “Right. Assignments. Davies, you've got enough to do pursuing the leads you've already turned up. Sergeant Jones, can you still spare me some of your men?”
“What do you want done?” Jones asked. “I don't see any point in further searches at this stage on the mountain. We must have covered every inch of it.”
“I agree.”
“It might be useful to show that newspaper photograph around,” Evan said. “In the cafés and at the Snowdon Railway stationâand
even the mainline station in Bangor, on the unlikely chance that Shannon left the area and didn't tell anyone.”
“Right, Evans, I'll turn that over to you,” Watkins said.
“I thought that perhaps some of Sergeant Jones's boys could do that for us, sir,” Evan said, glancing across at the rotund sergeant. “It's routine stuff.”
“I can't keep my lads off regular patrol indefinitely,” Sergeant Jones said. “What did you have planned for yourself then, Evans? Using your little gray cells to come up with the villain single-handed while the rest of us poor suckers do the slog work?”
Evan chuckled with the rest of them. He knew only too well that there had been some resentment when he was selected for detective training, after he had been helpful in solving several big cases. “I didn't know if D.I. Watkins might need help with whatever he had planned for this morning,” he said.
“I'm going to see D.C.I. Hughes to ask him about procuring a profiler,” D.I. Watkins said. “Unless if you'd like to volunteer for that job instead of me?”
Evan maintained the smile. “No, that's all right, sir. I'll go and pound the beat.”
All in all it was a frustrating morning. The cafés and souvenir shops in Llanberis were so busy that those working had little chance to remember anybody. And Evan had to admit that Shannon probably looked a lot like a host of other young people. The Snowdon Railway station was equally busy and Evan had to wait until the next train set off up the mountain before the booking office clerk would even speak to him. He was a testy old Welshman and scowled at Evan. “Look you, boyo,” he said, “I'm run ragged handing out tickets to bloody tourists. You don't think I have time to see who might be strolling past, do you?”
“No, I can see that you're busy,” Evan agreed. “But another question. Earlier in the year, a couple of months ago, maybe. Did you ever happen to see someone going up the mountain carrying a shovel, or any building materials?”
“A shovel? Building materials?” He thought about this one. “I've seen National Parks workers driving up with tools in their vehicles when they have to do repairs to paths.”
“Right. Brilliant. You can't remember any particular vehicle you've noticed recently?”
“Can't say I have.”
That was all that Evan could get out of him, but at least he'd
come away with one slim lead. Of course National Parks workers would arouse no suspicion if they were seen driving over mountain tracks with tools or wood. Definitely one thing worth pursuing.
He repeated the question about tools and building materials at businesses and homes with gardens that backed onto the mountain, but got no other tips. He stood looking up at the start of the Llanberis path up Snowdon and at the woodland where the bunker had been discovered. How did anyone manage to grab Shannon without being noticed? he wondered. How did anyone manage to dig the bunker without being noticed, and then stock it? And if the girl wasn't still hidden away somewhere on the mountain, how could anyone have brought her down into this hubbub of activity? Evan stood, letting the tide of humanity sweep around him, then finally shook his head and made his way back to his car. He would just have enough time to drive into Bangor and show the picture at the mainline station.
“All these young people look alike to me, mate,” the sad-faced man at the ticket counter said. “We've got a constant stream of them coming through every day.”
Evan called in his findings to Inspector Watkins, who jumped at once on the possibility of a National Parks vehicle being involved.
“Those ranger types are often social misfits and loners, aren't they?” he said. “I want you to go and talk to them, right after the two o'clock briefing this afternoon.”
That gave Evan a precious hour of freedom. During his lunch break, he managed to visit a local car dealer and blanched at the price of a new four-wheel drive utility vehicle. Until he was made an inspector and Bronwen was a headmistress, it would definitely have to be secondhand. The dealer promised to keep his eyes open and Evan picked up a copy of the weekly free advertisements to study when he had a moment. He decided it might be wise to double-check what kind of payments they could expect on a car loan, glanced at his watch, and sprinted in the direction of the bank.
“I'm sorry, Mr. Shorecross isn't in his office. He's stepped out for a while,” the pleasant-faced young teller called to Evan. “Is it anything I can help you with?”
“No thanks, it's about a car loan,” Evan said. “Do you know when he'll be back?”
“He should be back soon. I think he's at a doctor's appointment,” she said.
Evan turned to go and noticed the other tellerâthe silent, sallow fellow with the heavy specs. Suddenly he remembered the conversation with Mr. Shorecross and his mention of the Peeping Tom. Wouldn't someone who watched young women from the shadows be the kind of person who might have dug the bunker? Evan turned back to the young teller. “I wonder if I might have a word with you in private, Miss?”
“Jones. Hillary Jones,” she said. “Isn't everyone called Jones around here?”
“Except for those who are called Evans, like me,” Evan said.
“Or Williams or Davies.” She smiled. “What's this about?”
“Nothing to do with banking. It's police business.”
She looked wary. “Okay. We can use Mr. Shorecross's office, I suppose.” She looked across. “Rhodri, can you handle things? I need to talk to this gentleman. Give me a call if you need me.”
Her tone was completely relaxed and friendly, making Evan rethink the suspicions that were hovering in his brain. Hillary Jones led the way into the bank manager's office. Evan closed the door behind them.
“Miss Jones,” he said, “Your manager mentioned that you'd had problems with a Peeping Tom.”
“That's right, I did. A few months ago. Nothing recently. He seems to have given up on me because I invested in heavy curtains.”
“Would you like to tell me about it?”
“Nothing much to tell, really. I have a ground-floor bedsitter. It faces the front of the house. There's quite a big front garden with a path up to the front door and laurel bushes on either side. I hadn't closed the curtains and one night I was watching telly and I got up to throw an apple core in the wastepaper basket and there was a man standing across the street. Just standing there. Not moving. When he saw me looking out, he took off. Then a few nights later I looked
out and I saw the shrubbery moving. I thought it was a cat or a dog, but then I realized it was a person. He dodged behind a bush when I got a glimpse of him and I called the police that time.”
“Did you see what he looked like?”
She shook her head. “Not really. Average height. He was wearing a long raincoat and some kind of cap on his head so I didn't have a chance to see his face or his hair color. The police came right away, but they were too late. They staked out the place for the next few nights but he didn't come back. And I went out and bought these really heavy curtains that you can't see through. So I suppose that solved that.”
“And you have no idea who might have wanted to spy on you? No secret admirers?”
“If they were secret, I wouldn't know about them, would I?” she asked with a grin. Then she shook her head. “Honestly, I've no idea.”
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
She nodded. “I've a very nice boyfriend.”
“Any disgruntled former boyfriends?”
“No, I've been going out with Jeff for two years now.”
“Any neighbors who have ever shown interest or acted strangely toward you?”
She shook her head. “I don't really know the neighbors much, but the ones I've met are nice enough.”
“What about co-workers?” Evan tried to make it appear that he was just tossing off the question. “Get along well with them, do you?”
“Oh yes. Everyone here is very nice. I don't hang out with them in my spare time or anything, but they're friendly.”
“The young man out there?”
“Rhodri?” She giggled. “I don't think he's the type who'd be interested in watching a young lady undressâif you know what I mean.”
Evan wondered if she meant that Rhodri was gay or just not interested in women.
“Anyway, he's really sweet. He bought me flowers on my birthday.”
“What's his last name?”
“Llewelyn. But he'd never do a thing like that.”
“You'd be surprised at the things people do. Sometimes the most harmless, inoffensive person can commit the most unspeakable crimes.”
He broke off and looked up as Mr. Shorecross came into his office. “What's this about, Miss Jones?” he asked in a clipped voice. Then he recognized Evan. “Constable Evans. It's you.” He smiled and crossed to his desk. “Mr. Llewelyn said you were meeting with a young man in my office. I didn't quite know what to expect.”
“Constable Evans wanted to question me about my prowler.”
Mr. Shorecross frowned. “But I thought that all stopped months ago. Don't tell me he's returned?”
“No, he hasn't. At least I have no idea if he's outside or not. He certainly can't see much since I put in those new curtains.”
“We still haven't located the girl who went missing on Mount Snowdon,” Evan said. “Since she hasn't turned up after an extensive search, we can't rule out foul play. And since your Miss Jones is another pretty young girl who was stalked, I thought it might be wise to see if she could share any insights with us.”
“But I'm afraid I couldn't be at all helpful,” Hillary Jones looked up at Evan. “It was really too dark to see him clearly.”
“Surely a prowler, a Peeping Tom, is usually a harmless kind of chap, isn't he?' Shorecross asked.”The type whose own life is boring and who seems to find watching young women take their clothes off exciting.”
“You're probably correct,” Evan said, “but we have to follow up any possible lead at the moment. Young girls don't just vanish in broad daylight on busy mountain paths.”
“I did offer my senior Scouts to help you,” Shorecross said in a slightly pained voice. “Maybe more people out searching on the mountain at an earlier stage might have been beneficial. My boys are well trained in rescue drills.”
“I did pass along your kind offer. Unfortunately I'm not the one
handling the search and frankly I don't think more manpower would have made any difference.”
“Well, if you still need us, just let me know,” Shorecross said. “Be Prepared is the scouting motto, after all. I can mobilize my troops fairly rapidly.”
“Thanks. That's good of you,” Evan said.
“Now, if you're finished with Miss Jones, I'd like her to get back to work. There was a line waiting at Mr. Llewelyn's counter and we hate to keep our customers waiting, don't we?”
“Very good, Mr. Shorecross.” Hillary gave Evan a beaming smile with just a hint of flirtation to it and left the room.
“A bad business then, Constable?” Shorecross asked. “I didn't like to say what I was thinking in front of Miss Jones, but if your girl hasn't been found by now, then the outcome is probably not going to be favorable.”
“I'm afraid you're right,” Evan said. “We're doing everything we can. But it's hard to know what to do next.”
“I don't envy you your job,” Shorecross said.
Evan glanced at his watch. “And I should be getting back to it. I came here to ask your advice on a car loan, but I see my lunch hour is almost over, so it will have to be some other time.”
“Very well then,” Shorecross said. “I'm always here. Bring your delightful fiancée with you. I did enjoy talking with her. Such a well-educated young woman.”
“She went to Cambridge.”
“Did she really? Good God.”
Evan read the thoughtsâthen why is she marrying a police constable and settling in a village? He occasionally had the same thoughts himself. It was still miraculous to him that anyone as bright and wonderful as Bronwen had chosen to share his life.
As he hurried out of the bank, he noticed the surly Rhodri Llewelyn watching him with apprehension. I'm definitely going to check on that one, Evan thought. He considered going back to Neville Shorecross and asking a few discreet questions there, but realized
that this line of investigation should probably go through his chief first. He'd been in trouble before now for being the maverick and not working through the appropriate channels. He was, after all, a relatively new D.C., assigned to D.I. Watkins. It was not his investigation.
As he walked back to the station he remembered that Hillary had reported the Peeping Tom incidents to the police. Surely Rhodri's name must have come up in the process of that investigation?
It appeared that D.I. Watkins had stepped out when Evan returned to the station so he used the time to hunt through records. He found Hillary's complaint from last February. Rhodri Llewelyn's name was among those mentioned in the report, along with Hillary's other co-workers. But he had obviously been dismissed with the brief annotation: “Interviewed co-workers. Alibis check out.”
“Hello, what are you up to?” Glynis's voice made Evan jump.
“Just searching through our records,” Evan said.
Glynis laughed. “You must be doing something unapproved, you look like a guilty schoolboy caught raiding the biscuit barrel.”
Evan grinned. “If you must know, I wanted to see what a previous investigation had turned up.” He told her about the Peeping Tom.
“And what makes you suspect this chap?” she asked.
“Nothing except that he looks nervous every time I see him. And he looks like a Peeping Tom.”
“He looks like a Peeping Tom? Evan, if everyone looked like the type of criminal they were, our job would be so much easier. We'd just have to say, âAll line up and the one who looks like a murderer probably did it.'”