than he’s letting on. But I’ll make the suggestion if you want me to.”
“What I’d really like you to do is solve this bloody case for us, so I can get back to Operation Armada and see a little action for once.”
“They haven’t caught anyone yet?”
“Nah—they’ve been lying low, probably waiting for us to lose interest, or pull off our men. But it’s only a matter of time. We think they’ll be using several small boats and running them into different harbors at the same time—on the theory that the police can’t be everywhere at once.”
“They’re right about that,” Evan agreed.
“Criminals are getting too bloody smart these days,”Watkins growled. “Do what you can, won’t you, boyo? Or I might have to suggest to HQ that you’d be great as Potter’s full-time assistant.”
When he’d gone Evan locked up and walked slowly up the street, deep in thought. Watkins wanted the impossible. There was no way he’d get Evans-the-Meat to cooperate with the police to nab Welsh extremists. And he had no bright ideas himself. Madame Yvette hadn’t called him again with any more trouble. And being stuck on duty in a village hardly gave him the scope to track down terrorists. . . . He felt annoyed and powerless. What he needed now was luck. If a serial arsonist was at work, then it was only a matter of time before he struck again, and maybe the third time might be lucky. Eventually the arsonist would make a mistake or leave a traceable clue.
That night Evan was getting ready for bed when there was a tap on his bedroom door.
“Mr. Evans? Are you in there?” Mrs. Williams asked, although she had seen him go up the stairs half an hour earlier. “Telephone for you—she says it’s an emergency.”
Evan reached for his dressing gown and ran down the stairs.
“Ees zat Constable Evans?” The voice was tight and breathless. “I am so sorry to disturb you but anozzer note has come . . . just a few minutes ago I see it. I am worried zat zee man ees still outside my ’ouse.”
“Keep the door locked and watch out for me,” Evan said. “I’ll be down there in a few minutes.”
He scrambled back into his clothes, grabbed his torch and drove as fast as he dared down the pass, his headlightscutting crazy curves through the darkness as he negotiated the bends. He parked and switched on the torch. It felt heavy in his hand and comforting in the absence of a weapon as he got out of the car.
He had just completed a tour of the outside of the building when he sensed someone standing behind him. He turned to see Madame Yvette standing at her door, wearing a white satin dressing gown with feathery trim at the neck and matching slippers.
“Oh, you ’ave come. Sank you so much. I am so afraid when I sink zis man might still be zere, watching me.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve checked all around the place. If anyone was here, he’s gone now.” He followed her into the restaurant. What had once been a chapel now contained six tables covered in red-and-white checked cloths. There were curtains at the windows and Impressionist prints on the walls. Evan nodded with approval.
“You say you just got the note?”
“I found it when I went to check zat zee doors were locked for zee night and I call you right away. It was not zere when zee restaurant was open or my customers would have seen it.”
Evan looked around at the tables laid with polished silver and white linen napkins, unsure where to sit. It was as if Madame Yvette read his mind.
“I start small,” she said. “Only six tables. That way 1 can do wizout ’elp until it gets going. And I live ’ere—upstairs, where zee old balcony used to be. It ees small but how you say”—she spread her hands in a very French gesture—“cozy enough for one person,
non?
”
She crossed the restaurant and pushed open a swing door into a kitchen. Gleaming pots and pans hung above a big stove. Strings of garlic, onions, and bunches of herbs hung over a
“What I’d really like you to do is solve this bloody case for us, so I can get back to Operation Armada and see a little action for once.”
“They haven’t caught anyone yet?”
“Nah—they’ve been lying low, probably waiting for us to lose interest, or pull off our men. But it’s only a matter of time. We think they’ll be using several small boats and running them into different harbors at the same time—on the theory that the police can’t be everywhere at once.”
“They’re right about that,” Evan agreed.
“Criminals are getting too bloody smart these days,”Watkins growled. “Do what you can, won’t you, boyo? Or I might have to suggest to HQ that you’d be great as Potter’s full-time assistant.”
When he’d gone Evan locked up and walked slowly up the street, deep in thought. Watkins wanted the impossible. There was no way he’d get Evans-the-Meat to cooperate with the police to nab Welsh extremists. And he had no bright ideas himself. Madame Yvette hadn’t called him again with any more trouble. And being stuck on duty in a village hardly gave him the scope to track down terrorists. . . . He felt annoyed and powerless. What he needed now was luck. If a serial arsonist was at work, then it was only a matter of time before he struck again, and maybe the third time might be lucky. Eventually the arsonist would make a mistake or leave a traceable clue.
That night Evan was getting ready for bed when there was a tap on his bedroom door.
“Mr. Evans? Are you in there?” Mrs. Williams asked, although she had seen him go up the stairs half an hour earlier. “Telephone for you—she says it’s an emergency.”
Evan reached for his dressing gown and ran down the stairs.
“Ees zat Constable Evans?” The voice was tight and breathless. “I am so sorry to disturb you but anozzer note has come . . . just a few minutes ago I see it. I am worried zat zee man ees still outside my ’ouse.”
“Keep the door locked and watch out for me,” Evan said. “I’ll be down there in a few minutes.”
He scrambled back into his clothes, grabbed his torch and drove as fast as he dared down the pass, his headlightscutting crazy curves through the darkness as he negotiated the bends. He parked and switched on the torch. It felt heavy in his hand and comforting in the absence of a weapon as he got out of the car.
He had just completed a tour of the outside of the building when he sensed someone standing behind him. He turned to see Madame Yvette standing at her door, wearing a white satin dressing gown with feathery trim at the neck and matching slippers.
“Oh, you ’ave come. Sank you so much. I am so afraid when I sink zis man might still be zere, watching me.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve checked all around the place. If anyone was here, he’s gone now.” He followed her into the restaurant. What had once been a chapel now contained six tables covered in red-and-white checked cloths. There were curtains at the windows and Impressionist prints on the walls. Evan nodded with approval.
“You say you just got the note?”
“I found it when I went to check zat zee doors were locked for zee night and I call you right away. It was not zere when zee restaurant was open or my customers would have seen it.”
Evan looked around at the tables laid with polished silver and white linen napkins, unsure where to sit. It was as if Madame Yvette read his mind.
“I start small,” she said. “Only six tables. That way 1 can do wizout ’elp until it gets going. And I live ’ere—upstairs, where zee old balcony used to be. It ees small but how you say”—she spread her hands in a very French gesture—“cozy enough for one person,
non?
”
She crossed the restaurant and pushed open a swing door into a kitchen. Gleaming pots and pans hung above a big stove. Strings of garlic, onions, and bunches of herbs hung over a
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