help. I’ve got to get home.”
“Anything more I can tell you?”
“No, you’ve already told me what I needed to know,” he said. “Sorry but I have to rush. I’ll let you know how if this turns out the way I think it will. We may be some help to you in solving your case. Oh, but I tell you what—can I use your phone?”
Dispatch in Caernarfon told Evan that D. C. Davies and D. S. Watkins were not available at the moment. If he liked to leave a message, she’d see that it was passed to them.
“This is Constable Evans,” Evan began.
“Oh, Constable Evans. I heard you got yourself badly burned last night. How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine. Listen, tell D. C. Davies to send someone down to the Sacred Grove to keep an eye on Betsy until I get back. I’ll explain everything. All right?”
“I’ll pass it on to her,” the dispatcher said. “And we think you were very brave to try to rescue that rabbit last night. Some people are savages, aren’t they?”
Evan hung up and rushed out to his car. He hadn’t eaten all day but he dared not stop now. His old clunker groaned and protested up the M6 and then along the A55 into Wales. Surely Betsy would be smart enough to stay around people, as he had instructed her. He felt a horrible sense of urgency.
He reached the Sacred Grove about twenty past four and rushed down the cobbled alleyways to the main building.
“Betsy? I think she must have gone home,” the girl at the reception desk said. “I saw her getting her coat, about half an hour ago.”
Evan hesitated. Should he drive up to Llanfair and see if Betsy had indeed gone home, or should he double- check the premises first? There was no point in phoning her house. Old Sam, her father, would probably be at the pub by now and he never answered phone calls anyway. And Betsy would take a while to get home if she was taking a bus. He started back to his car, then, on impulse, changed his mind, and ran back into the center. Nobody stopped or questioned him as he searched the spa building, startling an elderly guest as she emerged, clad only in a towel, from the sauna. He reached the meditation building. Rhiannon looked up in annoyance as he burst in. She was sitting, cross legged, with two other people, on the floor of the main room. The two people sitting with her looked as if they were finding the position uncomfortable.
“What is it now, Constable?” Rhiannon asked in clipped tones. “Any more dramatic rescues to be carried out today?”
“I hope not,” he said. “You haven’t seen Betsy recently, have you? Or Michael Hollister?”
“I saw Michael a while ago. He was down at the dock, rigging his sailboat.”
“Thanks. Look, if Betsy shows up, keep her with you. Don’t let her go anywhere.”
“What’s this about?”
“I’ll explain later. I’ve got to find Michael.”
He ran past the swimming pool, down the steps to the dock. There was no sign of Michael or a sailboat. Betsy had been seen putting on her coat but he hadn’t passed her on the road or at the bus stop. Of course, somebody could have given her a ride home, but it was also possible that she had gone out with Michael Hollister in the boat. She had admitted she was keen on him, after all. And Michael did come across as a harmless kind of chap. The panic was making it hard to breathe or think clearly. He had to get to her before it was too late. It might already be too late … .
He should call for help, call in reinforcements, get the police launch sent out from Porthmadog, but how long would that take? If Betsy had only been getting her coat half an hour ago, the sailboat couldn’t have gone too far. There wasn’t much wind this afternoon. It would take a while to sail clear of the estuary.
Then he noticed the dinghy bobbing at a mooring about a hundred yards offshore. And it had an outboard motor too. He tore off his jacket and swam out to it, gasping for breath as he hauled himself on board. Lucky that he’d just learned to ride a motorbike, he thought. This couldn’t be too different. He pulled the choke full out and then yanked hard on the cord. The engine popped, sputtered, and died. The saltwater was making his burned hands start to smart. He tried it again, then again with mounting frustration. On the fourth try it sprang to life with a satisfying roar. He put in the choke a little and untied the rope as the engine warmed up. He increased the speed to full throttle as he steered the dinghy out to sea. The sound echoed back from the banks of the estuary and wide ripples spread across the flat surface. He reached the point and met the first slap of waves from the open sea beyond. Still no sign of a sailboat. He hesitated, not sure whether to turn left or right. Which way would they have gone? Where would Michael be heading if he wanted to get rid of Betsy? Straight out to sea, obviously. Less risk of her body floating back in to shore. He shuddered as the thought crossed his mind.
“Dammit,” he shouted. Which way?
To his right he could see the channel markers indicating the channel into Porthmadog Harbor. It had been an important port once, during the time of the slate industry. The further—red—marker caught his eye. There was something on it. He turned the dinghy toward it. As he came closer, he saw that it was a person, clinging onto the buoy for dear life.
“This is lovely.” Betsy leaned out across the bow of the sailboat and trailed her hand in the spray. “I’m so glad you asked me, Michael.” She looked back at him and smiled. “To tell you the truth, I was getting jittery about staying at that place a minute longer. I keep wondering—do you think the person who killed Bethan meant to kill me as well?”
“I don’t know why you think somebody killed Bethan,” Michael said. “I told you we’ve had trouble with that door before. I suppose the wood swells when it gets hot and wet.”
“But the funny thing is that I managed to get it open,” Betsy said. “I had to pull hard, but then it came open for me. Bethan was a lot bigger and stronger than me. How come she didn’t have the strength to push it open from inside?”
Michael shrugged. “Maybe she passed out quickly. Panic makes people hyperventilate, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, but … I found this in the flower bed.” She put her hand into her pocket and produced the piece of wood. “Look, it’s a wedge, isn’t it? Not very big but it would have kept the door closed. I’m going to show it to Constable Evans tonight anyway. Maybe they can find fingerprints on it.” She turned back to him suddenly. “Your mum was furious with me when I found it. ‘Leave the grounds-keeping to the gardeners,’ she said.” She put her hand to her
