"That would mean you'd have to drive me all the way to Colwyn Bay, and I've no idea what time I'll finish up so I'd have to call you to come and get me."

"I know," she said, "but I really wanted a chance to go to Jamila's school and talk to her friends for myself. I could do that on my lunch hour if I had a car."

"You're taking over from the police now, are you?"

"I just thought that maybe I'd look less threatening to teenage girls. When they find out that I'm Jamila's friend, they may tell me something they'd promised to keep secret from the police."

"That's true enough," Evan said. "It's at times like this that two cars would be useful, wouldn't they?"

"Won't they let you check out a police car at headquarters? You surely don't have to use your own car when you're out on a case."

"Not officially," Evan said. "But if I'm in a squad car, it's usually with DI Bragg these days. And if I wanted to slip away and do a little investigating on my own, I'd need transportation."

Bronwen sighed. "Well, then you'd better take the car after all. I can't hold you up on your job. Maybe one of the other teachers would lend me her car during the lunch break. That's the one good thing about this new school so far-I don't have to be in charge of the children during the breaks. I can actually eat my lunch in the quiet of the staff dining room."

Evan thought about this as he made his way down the steep slope to the village. If eating lunch without having to supervise children was the one good thing about her new school, then Bronwen wasn't enjoying herself much. She had hardly complained, but then Evan had been so wrapped up with his own new assignment that he hadn't given her much chance to complain. Getting so upset over the Khans wasn't like her. It had to be her own frustrations coming out. Evan resolved to let her talk about it when they finally had time for a meal together. He felt guilty about taking the car now, but it really would be too awkward to find himself without transportation if he suddenly needed it. He reminded himself that Jamila's case was now in the hands of other officers. He also knew that he would find it hard to stay uninvolved until she was found again.

The village street was just springing to life. Evans-the-Milk's electric milk float hummed pleasantly as he made his way up the street, delivering the morning pints to doorsteps. The sound of children's voices came from the bus stop where they waited for the school bus to take them down to the valley. Some of the older women were already out sweeping and washing their front steps, as women in the village had done since the dawn of time. The younger ones hadn't picked up this habit, much to the dismay of Mrs. Williams and Mair Hopkins. If a house didn't have a spotless front step and polished brass door knocker, what hope was there for tidiness inside?

Evan was about to get into his car when he changed his mind. He knew that Inspector Watkins would have his own people on the job, but Evan couldn't just drive away. He went up to the children at the bus stop.

"Hello, kids," he said, smiling at them. "How's the new school then?"

"Horrible," one boy said. "Not as nice as Miss Price. The teachers are mean."

"It's all right," a little girl said. "They have a lovely art room and a beautiful library full of books. There's more to do."

"More work, you mean," the boy growled.

"Tell me, kids," Evan went on. "You know the new family at the grocer's shop?"

"The Paki's, you mean?"

"Pakistani, Alud," Evan said firmly. "We don't call people nicknames. Did any of you happen to see their daughter yesterday? You know her? About fifteen years old with a long plait down her back?"

They looked at each other, then shook their heads. Nobody had seen her.

Evan then went up the street, stopping the women on their front steps, the younger women and men leaving for work and asking them if they had seen Jamila. They all vaguely knew who Jamila was, but nobody could remember seeing her the day before. Some of them had been to chapel in the morning. After that they'd either been indoors watching football on the telly or out doing the big weekly shop.

Evan wandered on aimlessly, looking up above the village to the top of the pass where the giant Swiss chalet outline of the swank Everest Inn dominated the skyline. He supposed he could ask up there. He could even check out the various hiking trails up Mount Snowdon. If Rashid had taken Jamila somewhere, he'd have had so many choices. There were mountains and deep lakes and pine forests and even mine shafts in the area. Too many places to hide a body if that was what he had in mind. But he'd have to have carried her somewhere, and Jamila would have put up a good fight, Evan was sure. She wouldn't have left the house willingly with Rashid. That was his only hope. And if Rashid had killed her first, someone must have seen him loading her body into his car. The villagers of Llanfair didn't usually miss much.

Evan paused as he reached the two chapels at the top of the village. As usual there was a biblical text on each of their billboards. Although he was now in a hurry, Evan couldn't help glancing at Capel Bethel. The text read: "Honor thy father and mother, that thy days may be long in the land of the living." Expectantly he turned to Capel Beulah and was not disappointed. Their quotation was, "For I have come to set a man against his father and a daughter against her mother. Matthew 10, 35." Thus did the ministers of Capel Bethel and Capel Beulah wage polite and Christian warfare. Only this time Evan didn't smile. He knew they couldn't know about Jamila, but the text was too close to home.

Evan got into his car and drove away. When he came to the junction at the bottom of the pass, with the A55 going to Caernarfon in one direction and toward Colwyn Bay, Chester, and England in the other, Evan changed his mind at the last second and put his foot down, heading toward Caernarfon. He parked in the police station lot and sprinted toward the building.

"Any news yet on the missing girl?" he asked the duty sergeant.

"What missing girl is this? First I've heard of it," the sergeant replied.

"I reported her missing last night. We had men up at their place in Llanfair. Jamila Khan."

"Sounds like a good Welsh name," the sergeant commented. "I've not heard anything about it."

"Is DI Watkins in yet? Or DC Davies?"

"I've not seen either of them. They may be out on a case."

Of course, Evan thought. They'd probably be at Jamila's school, interviewing the students about her, seeing if she was going to show up there this morning. And he felt annoyed that he had to report to headquarters and not be able to join them. All the way down the A55 he was plagued with doubt. Why hadn't the duty sergeant heard anything about the missing girl? Were they going to consider this like they would any other runaway teen-in which case Jamila wouldn't be considered a runaway for at least twenty-four hours. Evan had a sinking feeling that even though it was Watkins and Gly-nis, they might not do enough, and it occurred to him to ask Bragg for permission to help look for Jamila.

That morning Mrs. Williams tucked her basket over her arm and made her way up the street to the shops. It was true that the new grocer's prices couldn't compete with Tesco's or Safeway's, but by the time you added in the cost of a busfare and the added annoyance of waiting for buses, she was definitely prepared to spend a few pen nies more at the local store. She had felt rather strange about dealing with such different people, but both Mr. and Mrs. Khan seemed polite and helpful.

So she was annoyed to find the CLOSED sign hanging in the window at ten minutes past nine. Shopkeepers weren't supposed to oversleep. She went up to the door and tapped on it. By this time she had been joined by several other women.

"Well, that's not much good," Elsie Davies muttered. "Open for a couple of weeks and then closed again."

"Perhaps it's some kind of religious holiday," Mair Hopkins suggested.

"If they are going to close on all sorts of strange religious holidays, I'm taking my custom elsewhere," Elsie Davies said.

"I thought maybe they just overslept," Mrs. Williams said.

"Bang on the door again."

She stepped forward and banged, more forcefully this time. There was no sign of life, either in the shop or the flat above.

"That's the trouble with foreigners. They're just not reliable," Elsie Davies said, "and me needing eggs to make a Yorkshire pudding tonight. Now I'll have to take the bus down the hill after all."

One by one they trickled back to their homes.

The Monday morning traffic was bad between Caernarfon and Col-wyn Bay. The A55 was choked, with lorries from the Irish ferries added to the local delivery vans. Evan had to sprint across the car park and up the stairs at headqarters. Even so he came into the room to find he was the last one to arrive.

"We've got the ballistics report," Bragg was saying, as Evan opened the door. "Oh, you've chosen to grace us with your presence, have you, Evans?"

"Sorry, sir. The traffic was terrible." Evan pulled up a chair beside Pritchard. "It's a long drive, you know."

"Then plan accordingly. Leave at the crack of dawn if you have to. It's all right today; you haven't missed anything." He waved the piece of paper again. "The ballistics report. Three bullets were fired from the same weapon as in the Rogers's case. No obvious finger prints that we can't identify in that kitchen. Restaurant staff all check out okay. So somebody please tell me where the hell we go from here?"

"It seems to me that the only link we've got between the two homicides at the moment is the gun," Evan said. "Two men killed with the same weapon. That's important."

"We know it's bloody important, Evans," Bragg snapped.

"Hold on a second," Evan continued. "You say the weapon was probably Japanese from WWII. There must be collectors who deal with such things. Maybe this is a rarity, and the person would have had to buy specialized bullets only from a certain dealer. Maybe he's had it serviced recently to make sure it still fires."

"That's not a bad thought, Evans," Bragg agreed. "Can I put you onto that? How are you with computers?"

"Slow, and not very comfortable," Evan said. "We had one officer who was a computer whiz, and we let her handle all the complicated stuff."

"Glynis Davies, you mean?" Pritchard said. "Yes, we've heard about her. Not a bad looker either. Is she seeing someone at the moment?"

"Pritchard, I'm not running a dating service here," Bragg snapped. "Whether Detective Constable Davies is or is not a whiz with computers has no relevance. Nor whether she's dating someone. We've got two homicides, two men shot with the same gun, and no leads at all. We're going to look like bloody fools when I have to make a report to the powers that be."

"Sorry, sir," Pritchard said. "We're all doing our best, you know. We want this new unit to succeed as much as you do. We're all putting up with ragging from our old units about being selected for this detail. We'd never hear the last of it if we had to call for backup."

"He's right," Wingate said. 'It's not a comfortable position to be in."

"Tell me about it," Bragg said. "If I had a pound for the number of times somebody asked why they had selected me of all people, I'd be able to retire tomorrow."

"Then we have to prove them wrong," Wingate said.

"Right." Bragg sat up, suddenly alert. "Evans, you're doing the gun search."

"Don't you mean weapon, sir?" Pritchard asked sweetly.

"Pritchard, you're asking to be kicked off this team," Bragg said, "but maybe that's what you're angling for. Maybe I'm just not working you hard enough. I want everything you can come up with on protection rackets within a ten-mile radius of that pizza parlor. Wingate, I want reports on any crime involving a weapon on the north coast within the past five years. If someone's owned that gun since World War II, then it's quite possible they've used it before."

"Right, sir." All three men rose to their feet. Bragg stayed sitting at the table until they had gone out.

"Grasping at straws, I'd say," Pritchard muttered. "Anything to keep us busy."

"It's not as if we have better ideas," Wingate said. "And frankly I'd rather be busy on my own than sitting at a table with him."

Evan went off in search of the computer room, hoping he might run into a kind and able young girl who would whisk him through Internet searches. He didn't. There were two other officers staring at computer screens when he entered, both fully engrossed in their own tasks. Evan chose a machine and prayed that he wouldn't crash the whole system. After an hour he was feeling discouraged. The pistol had turned out to be more common than they thought. Almost every dealer could get his hands on one. Most of them were merely curios these days and had been disabled. Not too many people actually fired them, Evan was told. The bullets were just too expensive.

Evan jotted down names of dealers who had sold bullets for that particular pistol recently. One to a member of a gun club in greater London. One to a collector in Newport, South Wales. Both men licensed. And Newport was close enough to be promising. Evan was about to follow up when Wingate's head came around the computer room door.

"Bragg wants you on the double," he hissed.

"What now? Has he actually turned up something?" Evan hastened to his feet.

"More than that," Wingate said. "There's been another murder."