reconstructing events leading to his death.”
Penny was impressed by his apparent ease in front of the camera and then remembered he had mentioned that all senior officers had been sent on a media training course. It’s paying off, she thought. He’s confident someone’s going to come forward, and I won’t be the least bit surprised when someone does.
A few moments after he went off the air he rang her.
The police will try to contact the store manager in the morning, he said, and told her to keep the evaluation handy.
Twenty
Of all the police stations in North Wales, the grey, two-storey pebbledash Victorian building in Conwy was Detective Chief Inspector Gareth Davies’ favourite. He liked its location overlooking Lancaster Square, the way it seemed to keep a benevolent watch on the town, and he especially liked its bright red door. If you ignored for a moment the signage on the front of the building advising visitors to ring for assistance, or if you somehow failed to notice the police cars parked alongside, you might think it the home of a prosperous businessman or solicitor.
On Sunday afternoon Penny sat on a bench to one side of the police station and made a few simple sketches that she would work with later. From years spent drawing she intuitively understood the importance of getting the proportion and perspective absolutely right. The deepening shadows added depth and interest to her drawing, and when she was satisfied that she had captured the feel of the building, she tucked her papers and pencils into her carrier bag and rang the bell of the police station. A few moments later the door opened.
“Penny? Hi, please come in. I’m Chris Jones, the local beat manager.”
Penny smiled at him. “Didn’t you used to be known as the local bobby? Is it just me or…”
Jones gave her a little sheepish grin. “I think a lot of people round here agree with you. But come through.”
While the outside of the building suggested gentility, its interior was completely given over to police business. Penny entered a reception area whose walls were covered in posters of missing persons. High-visibility vests hung on a row of hooks and a teetering pile of bright orange traffic cones leaned into the corner. Jones led her down a long hall painted a pale, institutional yellow and past a darkened room filled with high-tech electronic equipment, including sophisticated computers and scanners. A couple of officers looked up as Penny passed and then turned their attention back to their keyboards.
Davies was waiting for her at the end of the hall, holding his coat over his arm. He nodded his thanks at Jones, who gave Penny a friendly wave and then disappeared through a door marked COMMUNICATIONS.
“Hello,” Davies said.
“Hello, yourself,” Penny replied. They smiled at each other as Davies put his coat on and then reached behind him to switch off the light.
“I am so sorry about the brooch,” Penny began, but Davies held up both hands.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Davies said. “We knew there’d been no attempt to sell it and now we know where it is. We tried to contact the store manager today but weren’t able to reach her. We’ll be there first thing tomorrow morning.”
He put his arm around her. “We’ll get the paperwork sorted, and you’ll have it back in a day or two. You’ll just have to sign something saying you agree to produce it if it’s needed as an exhibit in a court case.” Seeing her skeptical look, he repeated, “You will have it back in a day or two. I can make that happen.” They walked down the hall together, their footsteps making soft padding noises on the tiled floor.
“Good-bye, sir,” called a voice. Davies raised his hand and a few moments later they entered the reception area. He opened the door, and Penny brushed past him into the cold evening air. Together, they walked silently down the stairs into the square.
They’d agreed to have dinner in a cheerful bistro that Davies liked for its good food and easy walk from the police station. Noted for its uncomplicated meals, made from fresh, local ingredients, the small restaurant was at the height of dinner service when Penny and Davies arrived. They hung up their coats and then wedged their way through the dining room to a table for two at the back of the room. After they squeezed into their chairs and accepted menus from the server, Davies raised an eyebrow and Penny smiled at him.
“Soup!” they both said at the same time.
The server returned and they ordered. They talked about their Christmas plans, how the spa was doing, and other small matters until their starter arrived. As they tucked into steaming bowls of a delicate mushroom soup, their talk lightly turned to murder.
“I couldn’t really get it out of him,” Penny said. “I know Brian Kenley took photos at Conwy Castle the day Saunders died, but I wasn’t sure if he had passed them on to you. I’ve been meaning to mention that.”
“No, he didn’t,” Davies said. “I wonder why not.” He thought for a moment and then consulted his watch. “Sorry, I hope I’m not too late to catch her. I’ll call Bethan and send her round for a word with him.” He spoke quickly to his sergeant, then, in response to a question from her, inclined his head toward Penny and asked if she remembered Kenley’s address. She told him and he repeated it back to Bethan.
“Right,” he said, ending the call. “Let’s hope she comes up with something.” Penny held her spoon carefully and pushed it away from her through the soup. “This is delicious.”
Davies pulled a bread roll apart. “We heard from a woman in response to the appeal last night,” he said. “Lives in Chester. Apparently she and Saunders had been courting, as she put it. She was wondering why she hadn’t heard from him lately.” He added a dab of butter to the bit of bread roll in his hand. “She was pretty upset.”
“Harry’d been putting himself about, then,” said Penny. “Why am I not surprised?”
“It always amazes me when intelligent women fall for a guy like that,” Davies agreed. “And they usually pay a very steep price. A smart, independent woman meets a man on holiday, a waiter, in Tangiers or Morocco or some such place. She’s at least twenty years older than he is, and you’d think she’d hear those alarm bells ringing, but-” From his pocket came the sound of a a buzzing cell phone. He glanced at it, then pointed at it and said, “Bethan. Sorry, better take it. She knows I’m with you and she’d only be ringing if it’s important.”
He pressed the green button.
“Yes, Bethan.”
He listened for a moment, his gaze slowly leaving Penny’s face until he was looking at the sugar bowl. Although he displayed no emotion, Penny’s stomach began to churn and she felt her appetite disappearing.
“Right. On our way.” He ended the call.
“What’s happened?
“It’s Brian Kenley. He’s dead.”
Davies pulled a few bills out of his wallet and set them down on the table. “Sorry, love, looks like our dinner’s over.” He signaled to the waiter, who hurried over. “Sorry, but we have to leave. I’ve left enough here to cover it, I think,” he said.
The waiter looked flustered for a moment and then, looking from one to the other, asked, “Would you like us to wrap it up for you? It’s ready and I was just about to bring it to you.”
As Davies hesitated, Penny replied, “Yes, but hurry.” The waiter turned immediately and headed toward the kitchen while Davies called the station. He spoke to the duty sergeant and then led Penny to the front of the restaurant. As they scrambled into their coats, the waiter held out a paper takeaway bag to her.
She smiled her thanks, and she and Davies opened the door to find a police car waiting for them. Davies helped her into the backseat and then went round and eased himself into the front passenger seat.
“Llanelen, is it, sir?” Davies nodded and gave him Kenley’s address. “But first we’ll be dropping this lady off at her home. It’s on the way.”
“Like hell!” came a determined voice from the backseat.
