Evan's Gate Read Free Page B

slowed to a halt beside the gate that led to the caravan park at Black Rock Sands. Porthmadog had been clogged with traffic and pedestrians, all of whom had emerged at the same moment to do their shopping the moment the rain stopped. There were patches of blue in the sky now, and steam rose from the wet surface of the narrow road as Evan left the sleepy coastal village of Borth-y-Gest behind. After Borth the landscape became wilder with green meadows leading to sand dunes and a windswept stretch of beach on one side and the heather-clad slopes of Moel-y-Gest on the other, rising to a rocky summit that dominated the landscape. As Evan got out of the car, the sun shone through a break in the clouds, turning the whole landscape into glorious Technicolor. The sweet smell of hawthorn flowers and sea tang greeted him, along with the cries of seagulls overhead. He stood, breathing deeply and enjoying the sun on his face, looking up with satisfaction at Moel-y-Gest, rising
on the other side of the road. It had been the first mountain he had climbed as a small boy, and he still remembered the triumph and the sense of wonder as he surveyed the scene below him.
    Then he turned his eyes away, shoved his hands in his pockets, and headed for the wooden gate. A sign outside said, HOLIDAY HAVEN. ON-SITE CARAVANS FOR RENT. TENTS WELCOME. HOT SHOWERS.
    On the other side of the hedge, he saw two white police vans parked. He spotted D.I. Watkins’s familiar fawn raincoat. The inspector was leaning against one of the vans, consulting his notes.
    “See, I told you thirty minutes, didn’t I?” Watkins looked up and grinned as Evan approached.
    “The traffic was horrible in Porthmadog. Sorry.”
    “Yeah. And I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have bawled you out like that on the phone. This job gets to me sometimes.”
    Evan thought Watkins looked tired and drawn. If that was what promotion did to you, maybe he should stay a constable for the rest of his career.
    “So what have we got here?” Evan asked. He fell into step beside the inspector as they walked across a broad expanse of meadow around which there were rows of caravans, ranging from impressive mobile homes to little two-wheelers that could be towed behind the family car.
    “Missing child. Little girl, five years old. Staying in one of the caravans. Last seen on the beach this morning.”
    “Isn’t that a job for the uniform branch? I seem to remember that a large part of my job up in Llanfair was finding lost kiddies.”
    “The uniform branch have been searching all morning,” Watkins said, striding out with purpose over the short grass, “and we’re here because the mother suspects foul play.”

Chapter 3
    A thin woman with bleached blonde hair was leaning against a white caravan, smoking a cigarette and staring out toward the ocean. She looked up as she heard them approaching and hastily stubbed out the cigarette under her heel. She was wearing jeans and a black imitation leather jacket tied tightly at the waist. She had a pale, pinched face, made paler by the blackness of the jacket, and her eyes darted nervously.
    “Mrs. Sholokhov?” Watkins asked. He pronounced it cautiously, as Show-lock-off.
    “Yeah? What do you want?”
    “We’re from the North Wales Police,” Watkins began.
    She grabbed at his sleeve, her eyes wild with fear. “Have you found her? Oh God, tell me she’s all right. Tell me it’s not bad news.”
    Watkins prized her hand from his sleeve and patted it. “No, it’s not bad news. We haven’t found her yet—”
    “Then what the hell are you doing back here again, worrying me?” she shouted. “You should be out there looking for her before it’s too late.” She spoke with a North of England accent, clipping the consonants and broadening the vowels.
    “Hang on a minute,” D.I. Watkins raised his hand to calm her.
“Our men are still out there looking. We’re doing everything we can to find her quickly, so just calm down.”
    “Sorry,”