Deep in thought, she approached the darkened charity shop and paused for a moment to study the window display. It was filled with the best the shop had on offer, but everything in it, from a small milk jug to a souvenir bell marking the wedding of Prince Charles and Lady Diana Spencer, was a castoff, no longer wanted or needed. She liked the idea that people could donate unwanted articles to help fund a good cause and that everything in the window had been kept out of the landfill. As she turned to go, a small artificial Christmas tree, tilted a little to one side, caught her attention. Its little red and green lights winked cheerfully on and off, illuminating its small ornaments. Her eyes moved upward, expecting to see an angel at the top. But, instead, she saw what looked like a six-point snowflake and as her heart began to beat faster, she realized with a flush of joy that she was looking at her snowflake brooch. She tried the door, but it was locked, and the sign listing the shop’s opening and closing hours indicated it closed at four on Saturdays. She banged on the door, hoping one of the women who ran the shop might still be on the premises, but when no one came to see who was knocking, she accepted that the shop was empty.
She fumbled about in her bag for her mobile and was disappointed to get Detective Inspector Gareth Davies’ voice mail.
“I think I’ve just spotted my brooch,” she said. “Call me.”
A few minutes later she let herself into her cottage and once again, finding nothing in the refrigerator that looked as if it might make a decent dinner, pulled a ready-made meal out of the freezer, telling herself as it heated in the microwave that she really needed to do a better job of getting in proper food.
After looking over a few documents Victoria had asked her to check, she switched on the television and waited for the news. At the sight of a familiar face on the first news clip leading off the broadcast, she set down her mug and leaned forward.
Wearing a dark overcoat and standing outside the floodlit walls of Conwy Castle, Detective Inspector Gareth Davies conveyed sincerity and concern as he spoke directly into the camera.
“The case of Harry Saunders remains a complex, unexplained death inquiry,” he began. “We are appealing to anyone who may have seen or had contact with Mr. Saunders, in the period between about the first of December until his death, to come forward and speak with us. We believe he was an American and we’d like to know if he has family in the area or what business dealings might have brought him here. We are asking for swift public help in 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.