He followed her into the kitchen, where warm, inviting smells were coming from the stove. He sat musing, with the cup cradled in his hands. What Watkins said was probably true. There was little likelihood of catching Madame Yvette. She had probably fled back to France-in which case it was out of their hands. It was frustrating not to be able to see it through. Maybe he'd never know whether she killed Jean Bouchard and maybe even started the fire that killed the real Yvette, too. Funny-but she still hadn't seemed like a murderer to him.

Well, he was up and awake now, so he'd better get on with his day, back to the old routine and probably a pile of complaints from Mrs. Powell-Jones about the van. He showered and put on his uniform, then decided he might have time to see Bronwen before school started.

As he walked up the village street, Llanfair was coming to life. Evans-the-Milk was heading toward a doorstep, milk bottles rattling in his hands. " 'ello, Evan bach, bach," he called. "Back from your jaunt to the South then, are you?"

Evans-the-Post came out of the post office, extracted a postcard from his mail bag and stood in the middle of the street, studying it. He jumped guiltily when he saw Evan.

"It's from Mrs. Jones, Number 24's sister," he said, waving the postcard in Evan's face. "She's on holiday in Bournemouth. Look, see the picture? That's the pier. They say you went down south, too. Did you go on the pier when you were down there, Mr. Evans?"

"Your snooping is going to get you in trouble one day," Evan said. "That's personal stuff you're reading there."

"I don't do no harm," Evans-the-Post protested. "I don't read letters from the income tax or the pensions, do I?"

"Only because you can't open them," Evan said with a grin. Evans-the-Post grinned too and loped off down the street.

Evan moved on. Even Evans-the-Post, with his limited brainpower, knew of his secret mission. No wonder Madame Yvette had heard about it and fled.

He was deep in thought as he continued up the street. Maybe Madame Yvette had even heard somehow that he'd gone to France. Nothing seemed to escape the Llanfair spies. Suddenly he looked up and found himself confronted with a large green bus. It was parked outside Chapel Beulah and painted on its side were the words CELESTIAL OMNIBUS. CHAPEL BEULAH. LLANFAIR.

And in smaller letters underneath, We pray in Welsh, we sing in Welsh, we preach in Welsh! We pray in Welsh, we sing in Welsh, we preach in Welsh!

It completely dwarfed the plain gray van parked across the street outside Chapel Bethel.

Evan started to laugh. What next? Would Rev. Parry Davies have to indulge in a helicopter? A fleet of limousines? He looked forward to having a good chuckle with Bronwen about it. He felt a sudden thrill of antic.i.p.ation about seeing her again. He had only been away three days, but he had missed her. That was a sign that he must be serious about her, wasn't it?

But as he put his hand on the playground gate and looked across at the schoolhouse with the smoke curling from its chimney, he felt suddenly hesitant. She'd obviously be busy preparing for the school day and probably wouldn't have time to talk to him. And it was absurd to be missing her when he'd only been gone such a short time. He'd come back when school was over this afternoon.

He turned and began to walk away, half hoping that he'd hear his name called and see her standing there. But he reached the police station door without being stopped.

Inside, the green light was blinking on his answering machine and a pile of letters lay on the mat. He picked up the letters and noted the top one. It was on good stationary paper, headed Grantley, Straughan and Grantley, Solicitors Grantley, Straughan and Grantley, Solicitors in Buxton, Derbyshire. He couldn't make a connection until he began to read. The letter was written on behalf of Mr. and Mrs. Paxton-Smith, owners of cottage Ty Bryn. Evan nodded to himself. The English couple-so that was their name. He'd bet it wasn't really hyphenated, but just plain Smith. Obnoxious prigs! Mr. and Mrs. Paxton-Smith were not satisfied with the original police report . . . possible negligence . . . understood he was the officer on duty . . . wanted his firsthand account of the handling of the fire . . . in Buxton, Derbyshire. He couldn't make a connection until he began to read. The letter was written on behalf of Mr. and Mrs. Paxton-Smith, owners of cottage Ty Bryn. Evan nodded to himself. The English couple-so that was their name. He'd bet it wasn't really hyphenated, but just plain Smith. Obnoxious prigs! Mr. and Mrs. Paxton-Smith were not satisfied with the original police report . . . possible negligence . . . understood he was the officer on duty . . . wanted his firsthand account of the handling of the fire . . .

Evan put it down in disgust. They'd collect on the insurance but it sounded as if they were preparing to sue somebody as well. He'd pa.s.s it on to HQ and let them handle it. He put on the electric kettle for tea, then sat at his desk and punched Replay on the answering machine.

"Constable Evans?" The voice was soft and Welsh. "This is Mrs. Parry Davies at Chapel Bethel. There is a large bus blocking the entire street. It's creating quite a traffic hazard. Please have it moved immediately."

Evan grinned.

The next message made his pulse quicken. "Constable Evans, this is P.C. Glynis Davies from headquarters. I just thought you'd like to know that Forensics have found the murder weapon and they're attempting to get a good set of prints from it. Oh, and there's no answer from the French police yet to any of our inquiries so we're not much the wiser-bye."

Evan smiled to himself as an image of Glynis's stylish, elfin face swam into his mind. Would finding out about the prints on the murder weapon give him a good excuse to go down to HQ and maybe see her again? Wait a second, he reminded himself severely. A few minutes ago you were pining for Bronwen. What's wrong with you, boyo?

"Evans!" Sergeant Potter's voice barked from the speaker, instantly banishing any thoughts of Bronwen or Glynis from his mind. "I want to see you in my office right away. I think we may have the answer to our serial arsonist. I need you to make the identification."

Short, sweet, and to the point, Evan thought. At least now he had his excuse to drive down to HQ. It was strange, but he'd pushed the whole arson aspect of the case aside the moment they started to focus on Madame Yvette and the murder. Obviously there was still a serial arsonist out there, even if he might not have torched the restaurant. Evan wondered if it would turn out to be the Meibion Gywnedd extremists who were responsible for the fires after all. It would be nice to solve at least one aspect of this case.

Chapter 20.

As luck would have it, Evan literally b.u.mped into P.C. Davies as he came through the swing doors.

Oh, I'm sorry," he exclaimed as she staggered backward, then realized whom he was steadying and felt doubly stupid.

"Oh, Constable Evans, it's you," she said, not looking at all fl.u.s.tered. "Welcome back. How was Paris?"

"All I saw was one street, one metro station, and a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower," Evan answered.

"Too bad. And too bad that the Frenchwoman got away after all your efforts. I bet you were amazed when you found out she wasn't the real Madame Yvette, weren't you? The D.I. couldn't believe it when he heard."

"I still haven't got the whole thing straight," Evan said. "It got more complicated by the minute. And now that Janine's disappeared I wonder if we'll ever know the truth. By the way, thanks for keeping me updated on the murder weapon."

"I thought you'd like to know and I didn't imagine anyone else here would remember to tell you," she said, glancing around with a guilty smile. "I'm escaping to get my coffee fix again. I don't suppose you've got time to join me?"

"I've been summoned to the presence of Sergeant Potter," Evan said.

"That awful Englishman? Talk about G.o.d's gift to the world of forensics!" She grinned. "Good luck."

"Thanks, I'll need it," Evan said.

"I'll bring you back an espresso if you like. I think strong coffee is in order after you've been in with him."

"Thanks, Glynis," he said. She really was very nice, as well as being pretty and clever. Close to perfect, actually. He still couldn't tell whether she really did fancy him, or if she was just friendly to everyone. Better to keep it strictly on a professional level, just in case, he reminded himself. No more calling her by her first name . . .

"Only don't let on to Sergeant Potter that I'm bringing you back a coffee," she murmured, leaning close enough to him that he got a whiff of a very nice spicy perfume. "He asked me to get him a cup of tea the other day and I told him not to expect maid service just because I was a woman."

Evan laughed. "I'll remember. So what's the latest on the murder weapon-did they find any prints?"

"Yes, two sets. One belonging to Madame Yvette, or whatever her real name is-which makes sense because it was her biggest kitchen knife, but a thumbprint that doesn't belong to her. And it doesn't match any print that we've looked at so far.

"Man's or woman's? Can they tell?"

"It was bigger than hers but not necessarily a man's. I'll keep you posted if I hear any more, okay?"

He nodded. "Brilliant."

"Although her sudden disappearance must point to her guilt, don't you think?" Glynis asked. "You don't run away if you've got nothing to hide." She looked up at him. "Do you think they'll ever catch her?"

"I hope so, but I wouldn't bet on it."

"I wonder who tipped her off that you'd gone to France and were checking into her background?"

Evan smiled. "You don't know how the local bush telegraph works in places like Llanfair. It would have been around the whole district in seconds."

"Doesn't it drive you mad, trying to work in a little village like that?" she asked. "Why don't you ask for a transfer to headquarters?"

"I'm sort of used to it now," Evan said. "It's my own little niche up there."

"You're too young to get stuck in a rut, Constable Evans," she said. "It's about time you thought about getting ahead." Then she realized what she had said and blushed. "I'll bring you back that coffee."

Evan went in search of Sergeant Watkins but couldn't find him. The D.I. was out, too. He was met with blank faces when he inquired where everyone might be, which must mean that Operation Armada was in full swing and they were out on the coast somewhere. The whole building had an empty, deserted feel to it and more than ever he felt like an outsider.

All right. He'd get the interview with Potter over as quickly as possible. He knocked on the office door and went in.

"Ah Evans, you finally got here. Took your time, didn't you?" Sergeant Potter looked up from his desk.

"Sorry. I was with Sergeant Watkins over in France-didn't they tell you?"

"No, they didn't b.l.o.o.d.y tell me," Potter growled. "b.l.o.o.d.y half-a.r.s.ed operation here. The right hand doesn't know what the effing left hand is doing. No wonder nothing gets solved. But they've got Peter Potter now. Things will change. At least I'll show them how I solve my cases."

"So you think you've found the serial arsonist?" Evan asked.

"I know we have, son." Potter looked smug. "It's all a question of profiling. I took a look at your lists of names and I talked to the fire brigade and only one person fits the bill. He was there in the thick of it, all three times. Cla.s.sic serial arsonist-does it because he likes fires and he likes to help putting them out, too. I took photos at the restaurant fire. Here, take a look at this." He handed Evan a blown-up photo. "See that young chap?"

"That's Terry Jenkins," Evan said. "He's only a little kid."

"You'd be amazed what an eleven-year-old boy can do if he sets his mind to it." Potter was still looking smug. "He's the perfect candidate for my profile-wild kid, not much supervision, loner so they say, and the fire captain said he was always there in the thick of it, trying to help-at all three fires. You know him, do you?"

"Yes, he lives in our village."

"See? I knew it had to be a local. Okay, go and bring him in, Evans. I'm looking forward to a chat with him. I'll make the little b.u.g.g.e.r confess."

"Hold on a minute, Sarge." There was a sinking feeling in his stomach at the thought of bringing Terry to meet Sergeant Potter. "What about the note? Would a little kid get it into his head to write a note like the one we found?"

"They watch the news on the telly, don't they?" Potter said with scorn. "He probably saw a report on Welsh extremists burning cottages and that gave him the idea in the first place. Like I said, kids are sharp. They don't miss much."

"I got a sample of his handwriting," Evan said. "Shouldn't we run that through a check before we pick him up?"

"Match it to the note, you mean? Yes, we can do that. And I'll get his medical records checked, too-ten to one he's seeing a shrink. He's probably talked about arson fantasies-they do, you know-but the stupid doctors never think of getting in touch with us, do they? But I still want to see the little b.u.g.g.e.r. He won't put anything past me."

"I'll bring him in after school, then, shall I?" Evan asked, hoping to forestall Potter from bursting into Bronwen's cla.s.sroom, probably waving a weapon or an arrest warrant into the bargain. "We don't want to upset the rest of the children, do we?"

"If you ask me, everyone panders to kids too much these days," Potter said. "But I can wait until school's over, I suppose. Just bring him in. I'll be waiting."

Evan still felt slightly sick as he drove back up the pa.s.s. The strong espresso hadn't agreed with his lack of sleep and gnawed at his stomach. He wasn't used to drinking it like that, without milk, but he wasn't going to admit such a failing to Glynis. Maybe the sour feeling in his stomach had to do with bringing in Terry. He hadn't told Potter that he'd also suspected the boy. Poor kid. Unfortunately Terry did fit the profile . . .

On impulse he stopped at Roberts-the-Pump's petrol station.

"Off jaunting again?" The garage owner, asked. "Where is it this time-the Monte Carlo pally?"

"I don't need petrol. I just want to ask you something," Evan said, beckoning the man closer. "Have you sold any petrol to young Terry Jenkins recently?"

Roberts frowned as he thought. Then he nodded. "Yes, I have, as a matter of fact. He came in here about a week or so ago with a can. He said his mother wanted it for the lawn mower." Realization dawned as he picked up Evan's train of thought. "Wait a minute-they only have a pocket handkerchief square of lawn, don't they? Why would they need a motor mower?"

"Exactly," Evan agreed. "Oh dear. It looks like young Terry's in for it."

"Only a matter of time, wasn't it? I thought as much when we caught the boy busting into my chocolate machines. Sometimes they're born with criminal tendencies, aren't they?"

Yes, but not Terry, Evan wanted to say. Terry was just a bright, angry boy who needed a father. With heavy heart he waited at the police station until it was time to walk over to the school. A group of boys pushed through the gate but Terry wasn't among them. Then Evan saw him climbing the fence and leaping nimbly down-a typically Terry thing to do. Evan intercepted him as he landed. The boy's face lit up.

"Constable Evans! You're back? Did you catch the killer yet? Was it that creepy guy with the gun that I saw? I bet he was a Mafia bloke, wasn't he? International crime and all that."

Evan put a hand on the boy's thin shoulder. "Terry, you and I have to go and talk."

"What about?" The boy's face was still alight with antic.i.p.ation. "You want my report on what went on while you were away?"

"It's a little more serious than that, Terry," Evan said. "Sergeant Potter in Caernarfon wants to talk to you about the fires."

"He does?" Terry still looked excited. "You're going to take me down to Caernarfon?"

"We should tell your mother first," Evan said.

Terry shook his head. "She's out at work, isn't she? We'll be back before her."

"We have to call her, Terry," Evan said. "She has to know."

Terry opened his mouth to protest.

"You don't want her to worry, do you?" Evan asked.

Terry shrugged and followed Evan down to the station to make the call.

"Does Sergeant Potter want me to be a witness?" Terry asked as he climbed in to Evan's Car. "I didn't see anybody light the fires, you know."

"Didn't you?" Evan asked. He started the engine and moved away from the curb.

"What do you mean?" For the first time the young face looked troubled.

"What did you buy petrol for, Terry?" Evan asked. "You don't need a motor mower for your little lawn."

Terry's face flushed. "No, I know," he said. "I thought I might get a job, see-mowing lawns. We've got a motor mower in the shed. But n.o.body around here has a big enough lawn, do they?"

Evan looked at him, wishing he could see inside the boy's head. "Petrol was used to start two of those fires, Terry. You were the first person to spot the fire at the Everest Inn, weren't you?"

"I was out on my bike," Terry said.

"You must be feeling pretty angry that your dad walked out," Evan said.

"Yeah, I suppose so. What's that got to do with anything?"

"Angry enough to start some fires?" Evan asked.

Terry looked shocked. "I didn't start those fires-why would I want to start fires? I told you-I want to be a fireman like Bryn and put them out." He turned to stare out of the car window. Evan tried to think what to say next. When Terry looked back at him, his face was a blank mask, and Evan felt a terrible sense of having betrayed the boy.

"I can prove I didn't start the first fire, anyway, because Dai Mathias saw me climbing out of my window and he said, 'You're going to get it, Terry Jenkins,' and I told him I'd beat him up if he told on me."