Evan's Gate by Rhys Bowen Page A

came out into the hallway. “I haven’t a clue how to start.”
    “Don’t ask me, I’m already doing nine-tenths of the work,” she said. “Check the Yellow Pages. Look up newspapers, call the radio and TV companies. That should do it.”
    “Right.” Evan went to find a telephone with a sinking feeling in his stomach. He had never had a good relationship with phones—probably a phobia inherited from his mother, who still held a phone six inches from her head and yelled into it. He started off with the news desk at BBC Wales. The person who took the information spoke Welsh and seemed so interested and concerned that Evan then felt confident enough to tackle the English television channels and major newspapers. All promised to run something on their regional news and on national if they could fit it in. It was a good start, and Evan felt rather pleased with himself. This was such new territory for him.
    He located the D.I. in the cafeteria, finishing up a cheese-and-tomato roll and a cup of what might have been either tea or coffee. It was hard to tell in the cafeteria. Evan was tempted to make a quip about relaxing on the job but decided against it. He and Watkins had developed a good working relationship and even a friendship when Watkins had been a sergeant. Now he was an inspector, and Evan had to remind himself that the dynamics had changed. He got himself a cup of tea and a beef-and-pickle sandwich and brought them to Watkins’s table.
    “If you say anything about me slacking off while you’re run off your feet, you’re fired,” Watkins said cheerfully.
    “The thought never crossed my mind,” Evan said, pulling out a chair beside the inspector. “I just wanted to tell you that I’ve pretty much covered the media. Channel Pedwar C is going to do a piece on it tonight. They’re sending up a cameraman and a reporter, and they’d like you to call them and let them know when they can meet you at the caravan park.”
    “Excellent,” Watkins said. “Local television exposure. Couldn’t be better.”

    “And I’ve got promises from all the big boys in London that they’ll try and squeeze it into their newscasts—at least the regional ones.”
    “Well done. We’ll have you as our media consultant before you know it.”
    “If I’m your media consultant, do you want me to come along for your TV spot today?”
    “To coach me on what to say?”
    “To check your makeup.” Evan grinned.
    “Cheeky bugger. I’ll have you search that mountain again if you’re not careful.”
    “So what would you like me to do now?” Evan asked.
    “I don’t suppose you can give Glynis a hand, can you?”
    Evan made a face as he took a sip of his tea. “You know my computer skills are about as good as yours. I’d be more of a hindrance than a help, I think.”
    “You’re going to have to learn how to do it sometime,” Watkins said, “but I agree this isn’t the moment. Speed is of the essence, isn’t it? We want this bloke found and brought in before he finds a way to skip the country.”
    “Remember to ask the mother for details of Ashley’s medication when you see her today,” Evan said.
    Watkins nodded. “Good point. And that’s something else you can ask them to mention on the TV broadcasts, isn’t it? They like the human drama angle, don’t they? Little transplant victim’s life could be in danger unless she’s found straightaway. Makes it more newsworthy somehow. You can give the media that tidbit when I’ve got the facts straight from the mother.”
    “Right,” Evan said, not relishing the prospect of repeating all those phone calls.
    Watkins took a last bite of roll, scattering grated cheese over his plate, then got to his feet, brushing crumbs from his raincoat. “I’m off then for my TV spot and my next grilling of Mrs. S.” He paused and looked back at Evan. “Was this supposed to be one of your days off, too?”

    Evan nodded.
    “Why don’t you take a couple of hours to yourself