Free Constable Evans 03: Evanly Choirs by Rhys Bowen Page B

celebrity to carpool.”
    This remark made the choir members smile. Inside the tent they could hear another Côr Meibion going through its paces. The strains of “Men of Harlech” competed with the tooting of car horns and the hammering of scaffolding.
    Mostyn consulted his watch. “I hope they know they have to vacate the stage by seven,” he said. “Our practice time is from seven to seven-thirty. I’m going in there on the dot of seven. I’m not sacrificing our practice time. Let’s just hope that Ifor shows up right away.”
    As they entered the huge tent the choir on the stage finished their rehearsal and began to file off the stage. “The Ffestiniog Choir,” Mostyn said with a disapproving sniff. “I see they didn’t persuade Ifor to join them yet.”
    “’Ello, Mostyn, old friend,” the director called out as he came down the steps from the stage. “Going to give us a run for our money then, are you? I hear you’ve found yourselves a secret weapon.”
    “No thanks to you,” Mostyn said coldly.
    “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “You know very well,” Mostyn said. He passed the other man as if he didn’t exist and started arranging his music on the stand. The choir director looked long and hard at Mostyn then shrugged and walked away. The Llanfair choir took up their positions.
    “Five past seven,” Mostyn said, checking his watch again, “and Ifor still isn’t here. What did I tell him? I said seven o’clock sharp, didn’t I? He really has no idea of time. We only have half an hour.”
    “He’ll be here,” Evans-the-Meat said. “We heard him warming up when we stopped to pick up Harry.”
    “He better get a move on,” Mostyn said. “Warming up indeed. This isn’t Covent Garden. What does he need to warm up for?”
    Ten minutes later Ifor still hadn’t arrived. Mostyn took them through their three songs, but it was only a half-hearted attempt as the men all had one eye on the door. Mostyn was getting angrier by the second. He yelled at the men who were setting up chairs and told them to go away until he’d finished. At last he threw down his baton. “Oh, this is hopeless. Hopeless. He’s ruined everything. How could I be so stupid to think that he’d help us? When did he ever help me? Ifor was always for himself and nobody else.” He started packing music mechanically into his briefcase. “I know what he’s doing, of course. He’s realized how bad we sound and he doesn’t want to lose face by singing with us. Understandable I suppose, but why did he say he’d do it, when he knew what we sounded like?”
    “He’ll be alright on the night,” Harry-the-Pub said. “He’s a professional. He knows what to do.”
    “That’s right, Mostyn,” Evans-the-Meat added. “Stars like Ifor don’t need rehearsals. He’ll be fine tomorrow.”
    “I wish I could believe that,” Mostyn said. “If he doesn’t show up tomorrow, we’ll all look like fools standing up there with no soloist.” He stalked down the steps and out of the pavilion ahead of the choir members, his eyes darting left then right, still searching for Ifor. He paused beside his Mini. “I’ve decided. I’m going to give him a piece of my mind,” he said. “He’s a professional and this is inexcusable.”
    “Don’t go and upset him, Mostyn,” Harry-the-Pub warned. “Then he might decide not to sing with us at all. As he said, he’s not under a contract, is he? He’s only doing us a favor.”
    Mostyn sighed. “You’ve got a point, Harry. But I still want to talk to him. He has to know how we all feel about being let down like this. It’s just not right. It’s not fair.” His gaze fastened on Evan. “You come with me, Constable Evans. You know about handling people and saying the right thing. You can keep an eye on me and make sure I don’t say something I’ll regret. I know I have a tendency to fly off the handle.”
    “Alright, I suppose,” Evan said hesitantly. He really had no wish to