Evan Only Knows: A Constable Evans Mystery
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Against his own wishes, and ignoring his superiors, Evan believes the boy’s claim of innocence and decides to investigate, at potential peril to his career. But is his instinct correct, or is Mancini just trying to save himself? And how will he reconcile his actions with his memory of his father’s murder, which has haunted him for so long? Evan Evans is up to the challenge, to be sure, and faces it all with characteristic good humor and the Welsh charm that sets Rhys Bowen’s successful cozy series apart.
windscreen at the gray mist. “Funny, this is how I always think of Swansea,” Evan said. “It always seemed to rain a lot. Especially when we were playing rugby.” “Let’s go and visit your old rugby club. That will be fun.” Bronwen rested her hand on his shoulder. “I’m really looking forward to hearing tales of your misspent youth.” The outskirts of the city came into view—large, uniform housing estates sprawling over hillsides. Evan was beginning to have serious second thoughts about the
the shout from downstairs. “What’s taking you so long up there? Leave Miss Price in peace.” When Bronwen came downstairs a little later she found a full breakfast being cooked. Rashers of bacon were sizzling in a pan. Sausages, tomatoes, and mushrooms were under the grill, and eggs were waiting to be fried. “Oh heavens,” Bronwen exclaimed. “You didn’t have to go to all this trouble for me. I’m quite happy with toast or cereal.” Mrs. Evans gave her a disapproving look. “Neither my husband nor
appreciation in her eyes. “Exactly. It’s good to talk to someone else who has been through it. Other people are well meaning, but they just don’t understand. I even had one stupid woman tell me I was still young enough to have another child. As if another child could replace Alison!” “Tell me about Alison,” he said. Her face lit up for a moment. “She was a lovely girl. She was going to be a great beauty, you know. Completely unconscious of her good looks, of course — still at that shy and gawky
sport—that’s every bloke’s dream, isn’t it? You say you moved up to North Wales?” Evan nodded. “What the bloody hell for? A lot of rabid nationalists up there, going around singing songs in Welsh from what you see on the telly.” Evan smiled. “Oh, it’s not such a bad life, especially if you love the outdoors, like me.” “What do you do up there? I always thought there were no jobs anymore.” “That’s true enough. The slate mines have all closed. Farming and tourism—that’s about it, really. And
it back on time. His parents would know if he’d kept the van out for the night.” “They may not want to tell if he did.” Bronwen sighed. “Either way it’s none of our business anymore,” she said. “You’ve been ordered off the case.” “I know.” Evan stopped walking and stood, staring out to sea. Seagulls wheeled and mewed above their heads. From farther down on the beach came the shrieks of children, playing at the water’s edge. A perfect summer’s afternoon at the seaside, reminding him of his own