Chapter 12

Later that Sunday evening Evan was watching the TV news when he saw Sergeant Watkins’s car draw up. He hurried outside.

“Been doing some nifty pieces of detective work again, have you, boyo?” Watkins asked as he got out of the car.

“I just passed on information given to me,” Evan said. “Was any of it any use?”

“Quite possibly,” Watkins said. “Oh, we’ve found your missing man, by the way. Your farmer.”

“You have? Where?”

Watkins grinned. “Asleep at someone’s house in Porthmadog. He was too drunk to drive home last night so a fellow club member took pity on him and let him sleep on his couch. He didn’t wake until midday.”

Evan let out a sigh of relief. “Well, that’s good. I didn’t really think that the body we found could have been him. For one thing if he was a farmer, he’d be too smart to get caught in his own blaze. I bet his wife was pleased to see him.”

“You wouldn’t think so by the way she yelled and shoved him into the house.”

“And what about the car?”

“I’m coming to it.” Watkins paused and leaned against his open car door. “That could prove to be what we’re looking for. I’ve been on the phone to Hertz and it was rented at Dover by a Philippe du Bois. We’ve got his name, address, and credit card number. I looked up the town on the map and it’s just across the Channel, about twenty miles from Calais. It should be easy enough to locate his dental records and make a positive identification.”

“Philippe du Bois,” Evan said thoughtfully. “I wonder if she knew him.”

“She’d have to, wouldn’t she? If a Frenchman dies in a Frenchwoman’s restaurant in a remote part of Wales, it would be an amazing coincidence if they didn’t knew each other.”

“Unless he was a customer who got himself trapped somehow, or he was up to no good in there.”

“Came to torch the place and couldn’t get out?” Watkins shook his head. “Nah. She has to be in on it. She knows something she’s not telling us.”

“Are you going to ask her?”

“I’m going to wait until we’ve got more details about him. It’s a small town. It shouldn’t be too hard to find out exactly who he was. Someone might even know what he was doing here. I’ve got young P.C. Davies in our new computer center working on it right now—have you met her yet? She’s a right little stunner, only don’t tell her I said that. She’s also the type who’d probably report me for sexual harassment if I mentioned that she’s got great legs.” He grinned.

“So she’s going to contact France for us, is she?”

“She’s looking up the address on the Internet, so she tells me. Thank heaven it gets me out of phoning France. You know how the French always pretend that they can’t understand you? At least that’s how it seemed the only time I went over there. Have you ever been there yourself?”

“A couple of times. Once on a school trip to Paris and then once with a touring Rugby side.”

Watkins had his hand on the open car door. “I’m going to drop in at HQ on my way home and see if P.C. Davies has got anywhere yet.”

Evan nodded. “Well, thanks for stopping by, Sarge. It was good of you.”

“What’s the matter with you tonight?” Watkins asked. “You’re very subdued. Woman trouble?”

Evan smiled. “No, nothing like that. I’m feeling frustrated that I’m sitting up here and the investigation’s going on without me, if you really want to know.”

“I told you to apply for plainclothes training, didn’t I?” Watkins said. “You’ve only got yourself to blame, boyo. I knew all this peace and quiet would get to you in the end. It’s not healthy.”

Evan managed a smile.

Watkins started to get into the car, looked at Evan, then seemed to change his mind. “All right. Get in.” He nodded toward his car. “You can come down to the station with me and see what our Glynis has turned up, if you’re curious.”

“Won’t they think I’m poking my nose in where it’s not wanted?”

“Of course not. You’re keeping up with the future, that’s what you’re doing. We’re all going to be computerized one day soon, if the D.C.I. gets his way. We won’t need to talk to each other at all. We’ll just sit in our offices and e-mail back and forth.” He chuckled as Evan climbed in beside him. “I’d like to see them trying to teach me to use a computer. Our Tiffany tried and she said I was hopeless and that I’d never get it because I was too old.”

Watkins maneuvered the car through the zigzag bends until they passed the burned-out shell of the restaurant. “I wonder what Madame will do now? Rebuild, do you think?” he asked Evan.

“I suppose that all depends on what we find out, and what her insurance coverage was like,” Evan said. “I can’t help feeling sorry for her—a woman all alone, in a strange country. I’d imagine her life’s been a struggle since her husband died, and now this.”

“You always were too soft where women are concerned. What if we find out that she’s a serial killer who lures men to their death and then torches their bodies?”

“I don’t want to believe that she killed anybody,” Evan said, “but I imagine we’ll know more when we find out who Philippe du Bois was and what he was doing here.”

“Thank God it’s Sunday and we don’t have to fight the traffic,” Watkins commented as they negotiated the round-about before the police station. Evan smiled. A traffic jam in Caernarfon meant five cars at the traffic light. Watkins drove into the police station car park and parked in an Officer on Duty space.

The grandly named computer center was a smallish windowless room with two computers in it. It had, in fact, been a holding cell until quite recently. A young P.C. looked up and gave Watkins and Evan a dazzling smile. Evan had to agree with Watkins’s assessment of her. She was startlingly attractive with an elfin face, long, copper-colored hair and large brown eyes.

“I just paged you, Sergeant,” she said in cultured English with barely a trace of Welsh accent. Most business was done in English at the Caernarfon police station, where not everyone came from Welsh-speaking Snowdonia. “I think I’ve located your Frenchman for you.”

“Already? Glynis, you’re brilliant.”

Her fair skin flushed red. “Oh, it’s quite simple, really. They have a website that pinpoints any address on a map,” she said. “Do you want to see it?”

She punched several keys and zoomed in on a succession of maps until a street map appeared. “I think you’re going to find this interesting,” she said. The final screen was a detailed street map of a small town. “This is it, isn’t it? Abbeville, Seine et Oise? And there’s the street number you want,” she said, pointing at it.

Watkins leaned closer and stared at the screen. “Hôspital? Does that mean the same thing as hospital in English?”

“I’m sure it does. That’s why I thought you’d be interested.” “The address Philippe du Bois put on his Hertz rental agreement’s a hospital,” Watkins said turning to Evan. “Oh, this is Constable Evan Evans by the way. I don’t know if you two have met. W.P.C. Glynis Davies, Evans.”

P.C. Davies flashed him another dazzling smile. “I’ve heard about you, of course,” she said.

“Nothing good if it was from the sergeant here,” Evan quipped to hide his embarrassment. He didn’t think he’d ever learn to handle praise or admiration.

“They say you’re a whiz at solving tough cases,” she went on. “Have you got this one figured out yet?”

“We don’t even know if we’re dealing with a crime,” Evan said. “It could turn out to be a tragic accident—an innocent person trapped in an accidental fire.”

“But you don’t really think so?” She turned her large brown eyes on him.

“The restaurant owner swears she was the only person in the place and she cleaned up before she went to bed. She does smoke, so it’s possible she left a cigarette burning somewhere, but—”

“But you don’t think so?”

“I’d just like to know what the body was doing in the building.”

“So how are we going to find out why Mr. du Bois gave his address as a hospital?” Watkins asked.

“He could work there,” Evan suggested. “Maybe he’s a resident doctor.”

“Why don’t you just pick up the phone and call them?” Glynis Davies suggested. “I can find you the number easily.”

“Call France?” Watkins looked horrified. “Just like that? I don’t speak the lingo. I wouldn’t know what to say.”

P.C. Davies sighed. “All right. I’ll do it for you, if you like. Hold on while I find the number . . .”

“You speak French, too?” Watkins asked.

“Yes. Pretty well, actually. I did French A level and I spent a summer in France on an exchange. It was a lot of fun. I was in a little village in the Alps and then in Paris . . .”

“There’s no end to the girl’s talents,” Watkins muttered to Evan with admiration in his voice. “How come you’re wasting all this in a police station?”

She blushed again. “I’ve always been interested in police work. I’d like to be a detective someday. It must be very exciting.”

“Most of the time it’s just plain boring,” Watkins said, “but it does have its moments.”

“Like this drug stakeout they’re doing at the moment?” She saw the horror on his face. “Oh, don’t worry. I only know about it because D.I. Hughes asked me to check on some Internet addresses for him.” She looked at the screen and smiled. “Ah, here we are. Phone number for the Hôpital Bernard. Do you want me to dial it?”

She didn’t wait for Watkins’s answer but started punching numbers on the phone. After what seemed like a long wait Evan could hear a muffled “Allô?” on the other end of the line.

“Bon soir. Ici le gendarmerie du pays de Galles. North Wales Police, yes. Je cherche un homme qui s’appelle Philippe du Bois,” Glynis said in correct, if Anglo-sounding French.

Evan watched her nod as a torrent of French escaped from the other end of the line. “C’est vrai?” She covered the mouthpiece and turned to Watkins. “He’s a patient in the hospital.”

“He’s there? Right now? Ask if we can speak to him.”

“Puis-je parlez avec lui?”

They waited while the voice at the other end of the line babbled and her expression changed from excited to puzzled. Then she said, “Ah, oui? Je comprends. Merci bien, madamoiselle. Au revoir,” and put down the phone.

“Well?” Watkins demanded. “Was he there or not?”

“Oh yes. He’s there, all right.” She sounded shocked. “It’s a mental hospital. He’s been a patient there for ten years and he doesn’t communicate with anyone.”

“Back to square one,” Watkins said. He lifted the heavy china mug and took a long gulp of tea.

He and Evan were sitting together in the station cafeteria, almost deserted at six o’clock, at a time when shifts changed and the day staff had gone home.

“Not exactly square one,” Evan said.

“We still have no idea who our body is. I suppose it’s safe to assume he’s the same person who rented the car, but where do we go from here? We know he rented the car under a false name, and he had a credit card in that same false name—which must indicate he was going to considerable lengths not to be identified.”

Evan poured a generous amount of sugar into his own tea. Somehow it helped to dilute the industrial strength of the police brew. “Also that he knew that the real Philippe du Bois was safely locked away in a mental institution.”

Watkins nodded. “Good point. So it must have been someone who knew the real Philippe well—either a relative or a close friend . . .”

“Or someone who had worked in the hospital.”

“Either way, we should be able to track him down. I’m going to see if our little language and computer whiz can get back in touch with the hospital in . . . whatever that French place is called. They should be able to come up with a list of relatives, visitors, and hospital workers who have left within the past couple of years.”

“Of course, we’ve no way of knowing how long he’s been carrying on this scam,” Evan pointed out. “It might have been working beautifully for years.”

“But why? If you’re disguising your true identity you’re on the run. Usually blokes on the run eventually slip up and get caught. My guess is he took the identity to come over here and . . .” Watkins paused, searching for inspiration. “Do whatever he had to do.”

He drained the mug of tea. “Filthy stuff,” he said. “If a policeman ever dies of food poisoning, that tea urn should be the first thing tested.”

They were just leaving the cafeteria when D.I. Hughes emerged from his office. “Ah, Watkins.” His voice echoed down the vinyl hallway. “I was just about to send somebody to find you. Come into the briefing room. I’ve got Dr. Owens here. He’s completed his findings.” He noticed Evan for the first time and his eyes registered surprise. “What are you doing here, Evans?”

“Constable Evans located the car we’ve been looking for, sir,” Watkins said. “We were just checking out details of its owner at the computer center.”

“Were you? Good man. Find out anything?”

“Only that he rented the car under a false name—the name of a mental patient in a hospital in France.”

“Most interesting. You can brief us on it after we’ve heard what Dr. Owens has to say.” His gaze skimmed over Evan again. “You’d better come along, too, Evans, since you’re looking into this car business and you’re the one most familiar with the scenario.”

He strode down the hall with Watkins and Evans in tow. Dr. Owens was standing at the front of the briefing room. The two detective constables were sitting with notebooks at the ready. They glanced at Evan with a certain amount of surprise as he followed the other officers into the room. Watkins sat near the back of the room. Evan perched on a chair behind him.

“Sorry to keep you, Doctor. Please go ahead.” D.I. Hughes pulled out a chair beside the doctor, facing the other officers.

Dr. Owens cleared his throat. “I have completed an autopsy on an unidentified man whose partially burned remains were discovered early this morning in the ashes of a fire at the Chez Yvette restaurant, Llanberis Pass. Probable age of the victim between thirty and forty, based on bone density and tooth condition. I was not able to determine ethnicity because skin and hair were burned too badly. Height about five feet eleven to six foot.

“The internal organs were as I suspected—in fairly good condition, considering what they’d been subjected to. He hadn’t eaten in a while, by the way, which probably indicates he wasn’t a restaurant patron. A good amount of alcohol in the system, though. Also my examination of the lungs showed no evidence of smoke inhalation.”

He paused at a gasp from someone in the audience. “I take it you all appreciate the significance of this. This man was dead before the fire started.”

“Any idea how he died?” Hughes asked.

“I couldn’t find any traces of toxic substances in the body. I examined the heart to see if he had, in fact, died of natural causes. The exterior of the heart was—um—pretty well cooked, but contained less blood than I would have expected. On closer examination of the wall of the heart, it appeared to have been punctured.”

“Due to the heat of the fire?” Watkins asked.

“No. In my estimation, I’d say he was stabbed in the chest with a rather large knife.”

Evan felt his own stomach lurch.

D.I. Hughes rose to his feet. “You realize the importance of these findings, don’t you? We’re not dealing with a victim caught in a tragic fire anymore. We’re dealing with a homicide and a fire most probably set deliberately to cover it up.”