Evans to Betsy by Rhys Bowen Page B

up. It was Evans-the-Post, his large mailbag still over his shoulder. “You blithering idiot!” Evan yelled. “What did you think you were doing?”
    Evans-the-Post staggered to his feet and started brushing himself off. “Is the bike wrecked?” he asked. “I bloody well hope so.”
    “You hope my bike is wrecked? Are you out of your mind, man?”
    “I told them I wouldn’t be able to handle it, didn’t I?” Evans-the-Post
went on, his large, mournful eyes staring at the prone motorbike. “I kept telling them. ‘I’m not good with mechanical things,’ I kept on saying, but they wouldn’t listen. ‘Directive from the postmaster general,’—that’s what they told me. ‘Rural postmen have to be motorized.’”
    Evan was beginning to get the gist of what the postman was saying. “Wait a minute—are you saying that this is your bike?”
    “Not mine. No, indeed. Belongs to the post office, doesn’t it? And they’re welcome to it. Telling me I’m not productive enough just delivering the letters to this village. Been doing it for twelve years now, haven’t I? Never missed a day sick and they’re not satisfied. And they think I should be taking the mail out to all the farms too—and right over to Capel Curig. The nerve of it.”
    Evan went ahead of him, picked up the bike, and switched off the engine. “You’re lucky,” he said. “It doesn’t seem much the worse for wear. You’d have been in big trouble if you’d wrecked their bike, wouldn’t you?”
    “Do you think they’d have fired me?” The basset-hound eyes fixed on Evan. “They wouldn’t fire me, would they?”
    “They could,” Evan said. “You’re just going to have to get used to that thing, you know. I’ve been given one too, and I’m not too thrilled about it either.”
    “Ah, but it will help you catch crooks, won’t it?” He grinned like a ten-year-old. “Tell you what—I’ll learn to ride mine better and we’ll have a race someday.”
    “You’d better start off going up hill.” Evan helped him onto the saddle and adjusted his mailbag for him. “That way you won’t go so fast.”
    “Or gore, plisman,” Evans-the-Post said. “All right. If you say so. I think I’ll go up to the youth hostel first. They always get a lot of letters with interesting foreign stamps on them. There’s one from America today. It’s from this girl’s boyfriend. He says he’s coming out to join her. Won’t she be surprised, eh?”
    “Dilwyn—how many times have I told you you’re not supposed to read the mail?” Evan said.
    “There’s no harm to it. Not when it’s postcards.” Evans-the-Post
sounded hurt. “Postcards are meant for everyone to read, or they’d be in an envelope, like letters.”
    Evan turned for home, then checked himself. “I’ve just had an idea,” he said, touching the postman’s shoulder. “How would you like to help the police? If you have to deliver any mail to a girl called Rebecca Riesen, will you come and tell me about it?”
    “Is she a crook on the run?” Evans-the-Post’s long, lugubrious face lit up.
    “No, she’s a missing American student. I’ve been around all the youth hostels to see if she’s stayed there. So far no luck.”
    “Rebecca Riesen. Right you are,” Evans-the-Post said importantly. “Off I go then.” And he set off up the hill, the bike still wobbling dangerously under its heavy load.
    Evan went back to cold tea and cold toast, then went to open up the police station. His bike was where he left it the night before and he chuckled when he thought of his encounter with Evans-the-Post. If only all postmen read every piece of mail like Dilwyn Evans, maybe they’d have tracked down the missing girl by now, and solved a few crimes too!
    As he came out of the lean-to, a white Ford Fiesta drove past, slowed, and honked at Evan. Betsy wound down the window and put her head out. “Guess what, Evan—I’ve got the job! Emmy called them this morning and they said they