mother.”
“Don’t worry, this Madame Yvette won’t last long,” Evans-the-Meat said.
“Oh, why not?” Evan’s ears pricked up.
Evans-the-Meat looked flustered. “Stands to reason, doesn’t it? Nobody wants that kind of food around here. And have you heard what she’s charging? You can get a whole serving of fish and chips for what she charges for a bit of lettuce and a couple of spring onions. No, she’ll be out of here by Christmas, you mark my words.”
“You wouldn’t be thinking about helping her to make up her mind, would you, Gareth?” Evan asked quietly.
“Meaning what?”
“Someone sent her a threatening note.”
“Well, it wasn’t me. More likely to be Mr. Parry Davies, if you ask me. I gather his sermon about her was a real scorcher. He called her a Jezebel and worse.”
Evan decided it might not be a bad idea to get a sample of printing from the minister in the morning—and one from the butcher as well.
The next day Evan collected samples of printing from most of the villagers. Evans-the-Meat gave his, complaining all the time about duress and the police barking up the wrong tree as usual. Rev. Parry Davies sighed and gave a good impression of a Christian martyr. His wife complained more vocally than either her husband or the butcher, and Mrs. Powell-Jones flatly refused, threatening to contact her MP and the commissioner about defamation of character.
Evan duly sent the samples down to headquarters. Hewaited expectantly but heard nothing more. It wasn’t until the next morning that Sergeant Watkins appeared as he was making himself a cup of tea.
“Slacking off again? Sergeant Potter wouldn’t like that.” Watkins put his head around the station door.
“Oh, morning Sarge. How’s the inquiry going?
Watkins sighed. “Going nowhere, if you ask me.” He came into Evan’s office and pulled out a chair. “I can’t say it’s their number-one priority at HQ right now. All D.I. Hughes can talk about is this Operation Armada, as he calls it.”
“Operation Armada?”
Watkins made a face. “The drug sting. Sinking all the boats. Rule Britannia, you know . . .”
Evan grinned. “So it’s just you and Peter Potter working on this case. I’d help if I was allowed to.”
“I wish you bloody would.” Watkins sank onto the chair. “Tell me honestly, Evans, have you really got no clue about these fires? I mean, you’re normally the one who gets the hunch that puts us on the right lines. We’ve done everything we can—we’ve fingerprinted any known Welsh extremist—anyone who has written a nationalistic letter to the newspaper, anyone who belongs to a club like your butcher up here. But we can’t match the prints to either note.”
He sighed and leaned against the door of his car. “I tell you one thing—I’ve had it up to here with Peter-bloody-Potter. He’s been breathing down our necks, calling us incompetent provincials and worse. Apparently he normally has this kind of thing wrapped up in a day or so. He says the method used was the same for both fires, in both casesquite efficient and professional. This was someone who knew a thing or two about starting fires. But the prints don’t match to anyone who’s known for burning down cottages. So this is a new bloke and I’m damned if I know how to find him. I’m thinking we may have to plant a spy in this extremist group—these Sons of Gwynedd. I was wondering . . .”
“Don’t look at me, Sarge,” Evan said quickly.
“No, not you. Of course everyone knows who you are. I was thinking of your butcher. He’d be a useful man, if you could persuade him to do his part for law and justice.”
Evan chuckled. “The police dragged him into jail kicking and screaming not too long ago—do you really think he’d want to help?”
“You get on with all the locals. We thought that maybe you could persuade him.”
“I don’t think I’ve got a hope in hell,” Evan said. “In fact I suspect that he knows more
“Don’t worry, this Madame Yvette won’t last long,” Evans-the-Meat said.
“Oh, why not?” Evan’s ears pricked up.
Evans-the-Meat looked flustered. “Stands to reason, doesn’t it? Nobody wants that kind of food around here. And have you heard what she’s charging? You can get a whole serving of fish and chips for what she charges for a bit of lettuce and a couple of spring onions. No, she’ll be out of here by Christmas, you mark my words.”
“You wouldn’t be thinking about helping her to make up her mind, would you, Gareth?” Evan asked quietly.
“Meaning what?”
“Someone sent her a threatening note.”
“Well, it wasn’t me. More likely to be Mr. Parry Davies, if you ask me. I gather his sermon about her was a real scorcher. He called her a Jezebel and worse.”
Evan decided it might not be a bad idea to get a sample of printing from the minister in the morning—and one from the butcher as well.
The next day Evan collected samples of printing from most of the villagers. Evans-the-Meat gave his, complaining all the time about duress and the police barking up the wrong tree as usual. Rev. Parry Davies sighed and gave a good impression of a Christian martyr. His wife complained more vocally than either her husband or the butcher, and Mrs. Powell-Jones flatly refused, threatening to contact her MP and the commissioner about defamation of character.
Evan duly sent the samples down to headquarters. Hewaited expectantly but heard nothing more. It wasn’t until the next morning that Sergeant Watkins appeared as he was making himself a cup of tea.
“Slacking off again? Sergeant Potter wouldn’t like that.” Watkins put his head around the station door.
“Oh, morning Sarge. How’s the inquiry going?
Watkins sighed. “Going nowhere, if you ask me.” He came into Evan’s office and pulled out a chair. “I can’t say it’s their number-one priority at HQ right now. All D.I. Hughes can talk about is this Operation Armada, as he calls it.”
“Operation Armada?”
Watkins made a face. “The drug sting. Sinking all the boats. Rule Britannia, you know . . .”
Evan grinned. “So it’s just you and Peter Potter working on this case. I’d help if I was allowed to.”
“I wish you bloody would.” Watkins sank onto the chair. “Tell me honestly, Evans, have you really got no clue about these fires? I mean, you’re normally the one who gets the hunch that puts us on the right lines. We’ve done everything we can—we’ve fingerprinted any known Welsh extremist—anyone who has written a nationalistic letter to the newspaper, anyone who belongs to a club like your butcher up here. But we can’t match the prints to either note.”
He sighed and leaned against the door of his car. “I tell you one thing—I’ve had it up to here with Peter-bloody-Potter. He’s been breathing down our necks, calling us incompetent provincials and worse. Apparently he normally has this kind of thing wrapped up in a day or so. He says the method used was the same for both fires, in both casesquite efficient and professional. This was someone who knew a thing or two about starting fires. But the prints don’t match to anyone who’s known for burning down cottages. So this is a new bloke and I’m damned if I know how to find him. I’m thinking we may have to plant a spy in this extremist group—these Sons of Gwynedd. I was wondering . . .”
“Don’t look at me, Sarge,” Evan said quickly.
“No, not you. Of course everyone knows who you are. I was thinking of your butcher. He’d be a useful man, if you could persuade him to do his part for law and justice.”
Evan chuckled. “The police dragged him into jail kicking and screaming not too long ago—do you really think he’d want to help?”
“You get on with all the locals. We thought that maybe you could persuade him.”
“I don’t think I’ve got a hope in hell,” Evan said. “In fact I suspect that he knows more
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