"So you should be," Watkins said, but he was half smiling. "I had a lovely relaxing weekend with the family. I get to work, raring to go on Monday morning and what does D.I. Hughes tell me? He says, 'Watkins, you're off the case.' "

"What case is that?" Evan asked.

"Only the juiciest thing to happen around here in a long while. You remember hearing about the yacht that was found off Abersoch with a b.l.o.o.d.y great hole in her side? Well, her ownership has been traced and it appears that she was one of a fleet used to import drugs from the continent, via Ireland. They'd been mainly coming in through Holyhead before, but the Anglesey division had put extra surveillance on there. So now it appears they're trying the mainland instead."

"Abersoch?" Evan mused. "That would be ideal, wouldn't it? Not many tourists on the Llyn Peninsula at this time of year."

"Ideal, as you say. I might have been in on a really big international drug bust. And instead what happens? The D.I. says 'I'm sending you up to Llanfair, Watkins, because you're familiar with the territory up there.' So I get sent to look into a cottage that burned down last night, probably because the owner was frying chips and watching telly at the same time."

"The owners weren't there, Sarge," Evan said. "The cottage was only recently sold to English people."

"Oh, is that a fact?" Watkins's face became serious. "Oh, I don't like the sound of that. I don't like the sound of that at all. Don't tell me it's all starting again?"

"But there hasn't been a holiday cottage burned up here for a long while, has there?" Evan asked. "Not since I've been here, anyway."

"No, there hasn't, but that's not to say it couldn't start up again. We've heard that there's a new group operating in the area. They call themselves Meibion Gwynedd-the Sons of Gwynedd-and they're pretty radical. They're not going to stop until they get complete Welsh independence."

"That's b.l.o.o.d.y daft," Evan exclaimed. "Welsh independence? Do they really think we could exist with no support from England?"

Watkins shook his head. "I don't suppose they've thought it through that far. What most extremists want is the best of both worlds, isn't it? Independence for Wales but full protection from Britain."

"So do we have any names?"

"We've got our hands on a couple of their newsletters and we know they've had meetings at a chapel in Bangor. I'd say they were pretty much the loony fringe-the kind of people who would burn down cottages to prove a point."

Evan was frowning. "Then someone up here must have told them about English people moving in recently . . ."

Watkins picked up on where this thought was going. "Which means someone up here is involved in the group in some way?"

Evan tried not to think of Evans-the-Meat, but he couldn't help it. He remembered the butcher muttering "Unless somebody makes them." He was so fiercely nationalistic, and hotheaded, too-just the type to be enticed into a radical fringe group like the Meibion Gwynedd. "It's certainly possible," he said.

"Maybe that's something you could look into on the quiet," Watkins said. "I know what it's like in a village. Everybody knows everybody else's business, don't they?"

Evan glanced across at the butcher's shop. "But you'd better come and take a look for yourself before we go jumping to conclusions. As you said, we might find that someone left a cigarette in the wastebasket and all this worry will have been for nothing." As he spoke a thought struck him. "Come to think of it, Sarge, I came right past the cottage myself, not too long before."

"And? Did you see anybody?"

"Only Farmer Owens. He came from the cottage to join me."

"Farmer Owens, eh? Is he known for his radical tendencies?"

Evan laughed. "On the contrary. He's very much live and let live, although . . ." Although he had certainly made it plain what he felt about English people buying the cottage, Evan thought. And he admitted having been there . . . Evan recalled the sudden tension and watchfulness he himself had felt. He shook his head. "I don't think it could have been Farmer Owens, but I'll have a word with him, if you like. He might have seen something useful."

The two men set off up the hillside. Morning mist had draped the valley like sheep's wool but as they climbed they came to clear blue sky and the sound of larks.

"My, but I could get used to this weather," Watkins said with a sigh. "They do say the world climate's changing, don't they. Maybe Wales is going to be the next Riviera."

"Don't tell Evans-the-Meat that," Evan laughed, then his smile drained as he saw Watkins staring at him. "You don't think he was involved in this? Not this time, Sarge-it's just not possible. He was in the pub with us when the alarm was sounded."

"There are ways of delaying a fire, you know. A good arsonist can be miles away by the time the thing goes up."

"I'm sure it wasn't him," Evan said. "He was being his usual self-loud, offensive but not at all nervous."

"Maybe he's a cool customer."

"You know he's not. Look how he went to pieces that time we hauled him in for questioning."

"But he could have been the tip-off man, you have to admit that."

"Yes, I do admit that," Evan said. "He's the kind of bloke who might well want to join the Meibion Gwynedd. He might know something. I'll try asking a few discreet questions."

They had reached the blackened remains of the cottage. Only the sh.e.l.l of four walls was still standing, the gray stone hidden under a layer of soot. Inside the walls they could make out the shape of a stove and a bathtub, but everything else was a blackened, soggy mess.

"b.l.o.o.d.y 'ell," Watkins muttered. "They certainly did a good job, didn't they? There's not much left to go on." They picked their way carefully around the perimeter of the cottage. "But I'd pretty much bet it was arson. Look how the ground is blackened here. That had to be some kind of flammable liquid." He looked up at Evan. "n.o.body thought of taking pictures, did they?"

"Pictures?"

"Yeah. Photos or videos. Either would do. It's a known fact that arsonists like to watch their handiwork, see? It would have been good to have a record of the crowd, just in case it happens again."

"I think I could tell you who was here," Evan said. "n.o.body from outside the village, anyway."

"That's worth thinking about," Watkins said.

A sc.r.a.p of white fluttering amid trampled bracken caught Evan's eye. He went to investigate and found it was a sc.r.a.p of paper, charred at the edges.

"Hey, look at this, Sergeant," he called. "I think this probably confirms your theory." He came back holding the paper cautiously with two fingers and handed it to the sergeant. Watkins read it and looked up. 'You're not wanted here'?" He let out a big sigh. "You know what this means, don't you? It means we're in for Peter Potter and his wonder dog Champ."

"Come again, Sarge?" Evan grinned.

"Oh, you won't be smiling when he gets here, boyo. He's our new arson expert-trained at Scotland Yard, no less."

"North Wales Police has imported an English arson expert?" Evan was impressed.

"Not exactly. His wife got a job up here with a posh hotel in Llandudno, so he asked for a transfer. It just happened that he was an arson expert complete with sniffing dog. It seems it was his own dog he was using and the dog came, too."

"Well, that's good news, isn't it?"

"If you happen to want people like Peter Potter around. He's a b.l.o.o.d.y know-it-all. I've only had one encounter with him so far but he almost patted me on the head and said, "Run along and play, sonny."

"He'll learn," Evan said.

Watkins peered in through one of the former windows. Shards of gla.s.s had twisted and melted onto the stone, running down like tears. "I think we'd better keep well away from doing any more here. I don't want to be accused of c.o.c.king-up the evidence." He paused and stared thoughtfully. "We are sure there was n.o.body in here, are we?"

"They went home hours earlier," Evan said. "Besides, it's not a big place. Anyone could have got out and sounded the alarm before the fire took over."

"Unless the person was drugged, drunk, or in some way unconscious."

Evan peered in the other window. "But you'd see a body, wouldn't you?"

"Not if the fire was hot enough. What do you think crematoriums do? Ashes to ashes, dust to dust."

"And this fire was certainly hot."

"Have the owners been contacted yet?"

"Not by me. I filed a report last night and gave their names and addresses. Apart from that I'm only-"

"I know-a humble village bobby. I've heard that one before." Watkins turned away and started down the mountain. "But if you want my advice, that's the part you should play when you're dealing with Peter Potter and his wonder dog."

As soon as Sergeant Watkins had gone, Evan went up to find Farmer Owens. He caught him coming from an upper pasture on his motorbike, a dog on either side of him. He shook his head slowly. No, he couldn't remember having seen anything unusual the night before . . .

"Too bad I didn't have my dogs with me. They'd have spotted right away if anything was wrong. Sharper than humans they are, aren't you, girls?"

Two black-and-white heads looked up at him and tails wagged furiously. "Whoever wanted to burn Rhodri's cottage made a d.a.m.ned good job of it," he commented. "Not much left of their antiques or their French bathroom."

"Any idea who might have wanted to do a thing like that?" Evan asked cautiously.

"Someone with an ax to grind, obvious, isn't it? Spiteful thing to do, if you ask me."

Evan didn't point out that Farmer Owens himself had an ax to grind-the Englishman had almost killed his dog. But he just didn't think that the kindly farmer would go around setting buildings on fire.

His next visit should be to the butcher, although Evan wasn't looking forward to it. Evans-the-Meat was noted for his quick temper and his belligerence. Extra tact would be needed if Evan was going to get anything out of him.

"Bore da, Evans-the-Law," the butcher greeted him as he sliced a lamb's liver with a murderous-looking knife. "I take it this isn't just a social visit."

"No, it's not, Gareth. Look you, I know you've got strong feelings about foreigners so-"

"So you think I sprinted up the mountain and set fire to their cottage last night? Are you out of your b.l.o.o.d.y mind?"

"I wasn't suggesting you did, Gareth. You were in the pub when I got there, so you could hardly have been up on the mountain starting fires, could you now? But it's possible that you might know the kind of people who were involved . . ."

The butcher's face flushed red with anger. "And if I did, do you think I'd turn them in to you?"

"Not for a minute," Evan said. "But I wish you would, if you do know anything. One day these people may go too far far. The next cottage they burn might have a baby sleeping inside. Think about that, eh?"

Evans-the-Meat went back to his liver slicing. "Well, thanks for the lecture, Evans-the-Law. If I come across any arsonists, I'll let you know, then, shall I?"

Evan walked toward the door, then turned back. "We've got an arson expert coming. If I were you, I'd keep my opinions to myself for a while."

"I can't pretend I'm sorry that their place burned down. Good riddance is what I say, Constable Evans," the butcher called after him.

All in all, it was a pretty unsuccessful interview. But then it's not up to me, Evan decided. I'm supposed to get along with the locals. I'll leave the interrogation to the CID.

He glanced at his watch and saw that it was almost two. Mrs. Williams would have his lunch ready and be upset that it was spoiling. He went back to the station to check his messages, then hurried down the street to his landlady's house. It was one of two semidetached houses, opposite the row of terraced cottages, and Mrs. Williams therefore felt herself very superior. It even boasted a small front garden, complete with rosebush and, at this time of year, chrysanthemums.

"Is that you, Mr. Evans?" The high voice greeted him as it always did as he let himself in.

"Yes, it's me, Mrs. Williams. Sorry I'm late. I got held up."

"Oh well. It can't be helped. A policeman's life isn't easy, is it?" She bustled over to the stove as she spoke, opened the oven and produced an earthenware ca.s.serole with the same flourish as a conjurer bringing a rabbit out of a hat. "Luckily I made your favorite"-she hesitated for a second while Evan tried to guess which dish was supposed to be his favorite today-"lamb cawl."

She took the lid of a bubbling pot of the traditional welsh lamb stew. Carrots, turnips, and big succulent chunks of lamb lay in a deep brown gravy that smelled of herbs. She reached into the oven again and produced an enormous baked potato.

"Get that inside you and you won't do too badly," she said, putting it on his plate.

Evan sat down, his mouth watering in antic.i.p.ation.

"You make a beautiful lamb cawl, Mrs. Williams," he said.

"I'm a fair enough cook, I'll grant you that, Mr. Evans," she agreed modestly. "Plain food, though. Nothing fancy. That's why I'm thinking of taking this course."

"Course?"

"Yes, there was a letter come in the post today from that new French restaurant. It seems this Madame Yvette is going to be giving cooking lessons. Charlie Hopkins's wife wants me to take the course with her, so I said I would."

"You're going to take French cooking?" Evan looked up in astonishment.

Mrs. Williams blushed pink. "I'd like to know how to make some fancy stuff. Our Sharon did that cooking course-remember I told you? And now she's a lovely little cook. She'll make some man a wonderful wife someday." She looked at Evan wistfully. Unfortunately Evan had met her granddaughter-a large girl inclined to giggle.

"I'm sure she will, Mrs. Williams," he said on hastily returning to his plate of stew.

He had only taken a couple of bites when there was a knock at the front door.

"Now who can that be?" Mrs. Williams was completely reliable in her responses. "Don't move. I'll go."

Evan heard her opening the door. "I'm sorry, he's having his dinner, just," Evan heard her say in English.

"Well, tell him to stop having his dinner and get himself back to work," a voice barked. "I haven't got all day."

Evan put down his fork and went to the front door. The man outside was thirtyish, dark haired, with the kind of very short haircut favored by football players. He was dressed in an oversize navy sweater and faded blue jeans. Evan took him to be a hiker or climber. "h.e.l.lo. What can I do for you?"

"You can jump to it and take me to the cottage that burned down, laddie." The man barked out the words with a decidedly Home Counties whine.

"Oh, you must be Peter Potter," Evan said. He held out his hand to the newcomer.

"Sergeant Potter to you, son. I suppose you've got used to taking long lunch hours where there's n.o.body to keep an eye on you."

"Actually I didn't get off duty until ten minutes ago," Evan said, "and quite often I get no lunch hour at all, and no weekend off either if something important's going on."

"Important, up here?" Peter Potter chuckled. "Like car keys dropped in the gra.s.s, you mean?"

"We've had our share of crimes," Evan said, determined not to let this man annoy him, "and it looks like we've got another one now."

"Oh, so you're the arson expert, are you?"

"No, but I was the one who found the note that said 'Go home.' " Evan pointed to the track. "It's up here."

Instead of following, the sergeant walked back to a parked car. He opened the back door and a large Alsatian dog jumped out.