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abduction. It’s all rather strange and rather vague. I’ll tell you later. I just wanted to warn you in case I’m not back until late this evening.”

    “All right. I’ll see you when I see you then, and you can give me all the news. Take care of yourself.”
    Evan smiled as he pressed the off button. That was what he liked about Bronwen—never a fuss, always understanding. She was going to make a great policeman’s wife. He reacted as the words passed through his brain. It was still rather amazing to him that anybody was about to become his wife, that he was about to settle down with one woman for the rest of his life. At times he still went through momentary panic at the thought. But on the whole he couldn’t think of anything he wanted more than to spend the rest of his life with Bronwen. He shoved the phone back in its holder and went back to his task.

Chapter 5
    Evan had just taken the lid off a dustbin and was peering inside when a hand grabbed his shoulder.
    “All right then. Let’s take a look at you!” a voice said in his ear.
    Evan spun to defend himself and found himself staring at Constable Roberts. The latter’s face fell when he saw whom he had nabbed.
    “Oh, it’s only you, Evans. I thought I’d got him. Suspicious-looking character and all that.” Then a grin spread across his face. “They’ve got you on dustbin patrol then, is it?”
    Evan was only too aware that Roberts had never liked him and always been jealous of him, even more so now that he had made the plainclothes squad.
    “You never know where a little kid could decide to hide, do you?” he answered evenly. “And I’ve just checked all this area, so there’s nothing much more for you to do around here. Especially not when they’ve got dog teams out who’ve got better noses.” And he gave Roberts a friendly grin.
    He felt decidedly better as Roberts stomped off.
    To reach the next caravan he had to climb over piles of rusty pipes and dustbin lids.

    There was music coming from this one— Worker’s Playtime on the radio, by the sound of it. He tapped on the door, then rapped louder. The door was flung open by a big fellow wearing a spattered undershirt and torn jeans.
    “Yeah, what do you want?” he demanded aggressively.
    “North Wales Police, sir,” Evan said. “Just asking a few questions about a missing child.”
    “I already spoke to one of your blokes and to the kid’s mother,” he said, about to close the door in Evan’s face.
    “Well, I’m sorry to trouble you again, but I’d just like to go over what you told them,” Evan said. “I’m Detective Constable Evans and you are?”
    “Richard Gwynne,” he said.
    Evan remembered what Shirley Sholokhov had said about aged hippies. Richard Gwynne must have been in his forties or fifties and wore his gray hair tied back in a long ponytail. He had tattoos on both massive forearms and a peace symbol on a leather thong around his neck.
    “You live here year-round, do you?” Evan asked.
    “Have done for the past couple of years, but I may be moving on if that old cow won’t let me do my artwork anymore.”
    “What kind of artwork do you do?” Evan asked, although he glanced back at the pile of rusty pipes and remembered what Shirley Sholokhov had said about the junk sculptures.
    “I combine art with recycling,” Gwynne said. “Too much stuff goes into landfills, doesn’t it? I rescue it and turn it into art. I’ve got pieces displayed at all the major art galleries, you know.”
    Evan tried to picture mounds of rusty pipes lying next to Rembrandts at the National Gallery. “Good for you,” he said.
    “Yeah. I’m making quite a name for myself,” the man went on, “only the park owner doesn’t have an eye for modern art. She had the nerve to call it an eyesore. Told me I’d be evicted if I left my sculptures outside. So I imagine I’ll be looking for a new place to park myself. Pity, because this suits me well. Quiet most of the
year and