Constable Evans 03: Evanly Choirs by Rhys Bowen

Author:Rhys Bowen [Bowen, Rhys]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Press
Published: 1999-03-15T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 13

By midmorning, crowd control had become a necessity and even Jim Abbott was having to work hard. Several TV vans with crews trailed cables across the Powell-Jones driveway. Humbler journalists got out of cars almost as old as Mostyn’s, and the foreign media had arrived, talking noisily into mikes with a lot of arm waving.

Evan stood in the street, directing traffic while the other two policemen fielded questions and kept inquisitive journalists away from the house. The inhabitants of Llanfair hung around, hoping to be interviewed for the telly or the front page of a London daily. Evan listened to several exaggerated accounts of how the speaker and Ifor had been best mates and shared pints in the pub.

“I’ve called Austin Mostyn,” Evans-the-Meat announced as he wormed his way back into the crowd. “I’ve told him how we feel about honoring Ifor’s memory so he’s agreed that we should sing tonight. But he says please excuse him if he doesn’t come up to the village today. It’s too upsetting for him.”

“I can understand that, seeing that he found the body and all,” Charlie Hopkins agreed.

“Poor man. What a shock for him. His best friend, too,” Mair added.

Reporters from the international press stood, perplexed and frowning, as the conversation went on around them in Welsh.

“Could you translate for us, Constable?” an elegant young man from the Daily Express asked Evan. “We’re rather at a loss here, you know. It’s very inconsiderate of people to speak Welsh when they know we don’t understand it.”

“Why shouldn’t we speak Welsh?” Evans-the-Meat demanded in English. “It’s our language, isn’t it—and the finest, oldest language in Europe, too. If I had my way every schoolchild in England would learn Welsh instead of French or Latin.”

He frowned as he saw the smile on the Daily Express’s face. “If you care to ask us a question in English, we’ll be happy to answer it,” he said. “We are perfectly bilingual, you know, which is more than any of you so-called educated types are.”

Evan noticed that Harry-the-Pub had now disappeared, obviously opening early today with the hope of doing a good trade. Journalists were known for putting away the beer. As he turned to look at the pub he saw Betsy come running out, her tiny lace apron flapping in the breeze, her arms waving distraughtly.

“Tell me it’s not true!” she yelled as she ran up the street. Her face was tear stained. Her mascara was running. She was not looking her best.

“They said he’s dead,” she gasped as she neared Evan. “I was sleeping in late because it’s Saturday. I’ve only just heard. Please tell me it’s not true!”

“I’m afraid it is, love,” Evan said.

“Oh, no. Not him. He was so alive, so sexy,” Betsy wailed and flung herself into Evan’s arms. “Hold me, Evan. Hold me tight,” she gasped. Evan stood there, feeling embarrassed and awkward, conscious of all those eyes on him and realizing that these outsiders hadn’t understood a word of Betsy’s outburst in Welsh.

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