by Howard Marks
She picked up her phone, dialled DS Thomas’s number.
‘The man in the hut, the street junkie,’ she said. She didn’t bother with greetings. He’d know what she was talking about straight off.
‘Yes? What about him?’
‘Has he been seen since the attack?’
‘No, nothing.’ He wasn’t showing any signs of caring she’d seen the tapes. He sounded relaxed, slightly bored with the topic. ‘We’re not seeing him as a suspect, if that’s why you’re asking.’
‘No?’
‘We have officers who saw him lying in exactly the position you see in the film. And that was after Rhys’s body had been found.’
‘They didn’t try to rouse him, call for an ambulance?’
‘They didn’t see signs of injury. Just thought he was a dosser sleeping it off.’
She pondered this for a few moments. ‘So he can’t have been that badly hurt, if he then got up and made off?’
‘I guess not.’ He was yawning now, not trying to hide it either. There was a tinny bleeping noise. It sounded as if it was coming from a computer game.
She thought she saw why Thomas wasn’t interested: if the man had been badly hurt he’d have turned up in an A&E somewhere along the coast by now. Most likely he was just lying low, not wanting to get involved in something he’d had nothing to do with.
‘No one seems to care that much,’ she said.
There was silence, he’d switched the game off.
‘It doesn’t alter what happened to Rhys, does it,’ he said. ‘Rhys may have committed an assault before he died. But his death was still an accident.’
It was difficult to argue with this logic. That was the problem with Thomas, he was detestable but he was logical.
‘So you don’t want to know why Rhys assaulted the man?’
Thomas was sighing, it was obvious the matter didn’t interest him in the least.
‘Rhys was a street junkie,’ he said, ‘assault is what street junkies do.’ He paused. ‘Rhys committing an assault before he dies, it’s about as significant as an average bloke having a couple of pints.’
She hung up. Though she hated to admit it, she knew he had a point. It was probably a routine enough act for Rhys. Not pretty, but not significant. She had been letting long-obsolete images of the man cloud her judgement.
There was an old telly in the corner. She switched it on, flicked the channels until she found tennis. A tournament somewhere hot, where the palm trees were casting shadows over the clay.
She’d played when she was younger, still played in her head sometimes. They’d said she could’ve been a champion, but tennis had been thought soft at her school. She’d had to play on the sly, in a park at the far end of town where no one had seen her. She didn’t follow the game closely now, but liked to watch when she could, found it therapeutic, a physical version of chess. Like the drink and the kanna, it helped to take the edge off things.
The taller player was serving. He was using a slice technique, hitting the ball into the outer corners, throwing the receiver way off the court.
Once he’d served, the taller man rushed the net, volleyed the return down into the opposite corner. It was a crude but effective tactic. At least it appeared so at first. The receiver was small, agile, but he couldn’t get back in time to reach the ball. When he did the shots went wide or were easy prey for the taller figure at the net.
She clicked into iTunes on her Mac, the tick-tock lilt of the Velvets’ ‘Sunday Morning’ filling the room as the tennis players moved in and out of time to the beat.
She watched three games go with serve, each player using the same basic tactic. It was now five games all. The taller man was serving. He whipped the ball down into the left corner, as before. This time, however, the receiver was already off court, waiting. His return was low and fast, down the line, passing the man rushing to the net.
The next serve was an ace. She found herself rooting for the smaller man. But not passionately so. She preferred to watch the game for the artistry, the tactics. It was never a matter of supporting one player blindly for her.
The receiver seemed to fret about at the far end, as if waiting for something from the crowd, but what she couldn’t understand. The server was in position, tossing the ball into the air.
But then, as if from nowhere the receiver was back at the place where the serve fell. It had been a feint, he had pretended to look unprepared. But he had known where the serve would land and was waiting for it. His return was low, precise, brutal. The server did not even reach it.
In the final game the shorter man won every point, the taller one’s fight seemed to have gone out of him. In a couple of minutes it was all over. The coverage on the channel changed abruptly to bowls.
She lit another cigarette. Everything can turn on a single point, she thought. The other player was the stronger, had all the natural advantages, but he hadn’t had the moral fibre to accept his own moment of weakness, and so he’d lost.
As she switched off the set, she noticed how pale her hands were. She hadn’t intended to become a recluse, but the weather had been so foul she hadn’t even walked out to the farmhouse down the hill.
The cottage was geared for summer renters. There wasn’t much in the way of home entertainment, just a row of paperbacks on the shelf, a couple of games, the old television under the window. On the sill was a picture of Rix, smaller this time, in the loud Hawaiian shirt. She turned it over: there was nothing on the other side. She wondered why Pugh had it, laddish humour wasn’t his style. She drew back the curtains. Outside was a long barn. Its doors were closed, but on previous evenings as the light faded she’d seen the farmer come that way on his muddy tractor.
All along the track, the dull sky hung low over shallow puddles where cows had trodden the grass into the earth. It could have been anywhere. The place wasn’t familiar to her, and so it didn’t feel like a homecoming – it felt like unknown territory, and all the better for that.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a loud clanging noise coming from the empty hall. She hadn’t realised there was a landline in the house. But now she saw the phone, a black Bakelite up in a niche by the door, covered in dust.
‘Catrin?’
She recognised the voice at once, though it had been many years since she’d last heard it. Catrin said nothing at first, she’d been caught off guard. But somewhere at the back of her mind she’d known all along this moment would come. She’d been waiting for it ever since her return.
‘It’s been a while – hasn’t it?’
The words came out in one of those Welsh purrs that could make the most innocent comment sound like an indecent proposal. Catrin still said nothing. She heard her heart beating but it sounded remote.
‘It’s Della, dear. Della Davies, remember me?’
‘How did you get this number, Della?’
In the background Catrin could hear bracelets jangling. Then silence. She’d never liked Della. And not just for the obvious reasons. She was the type people probably imagined first when they thought of a successful media operator: no cracks showing through her hard shell, all side. She’d heard Della had done well for herself. She had her own press agency now, and a celebrity column in the Echo.
‘You sound well, Cat?’ the soft voice said at last.
Catrin was aware she’d hardly spoken yet.
‘Anyone say I wasn’t?’
‘Right as rain – that’s what I heard.’
Slowly Catrin leant back against the wall. ‘So why do I feel you’re about to tell me something that’ll stop me feeling that way?’
‘Still the sharp one, eh Cat?’
Catrin could hear faint music now, as if playing on a car stereo.
‘I don’t think I want to talk to you,’ she said.
The music stopped. Down the line came a low rustling sound.
‘It’s about Rhys.’
The gentle purr again. It was still a voice that sounded as if it wa
s used to getting what it wanted.
‘Oh.’
‘We both knew him, I thought you’d want to talk about it. That’s all.’
Della held the pause a moment. Catrin kept her silence, hoped Della would just hang up. But she didn’t.
Catrin was intrigued, she had to admit it. Why was this woman calling her after all these years? It certainly wasn’t for sentimental reasons.
‘They’ve closed his file, I suppose?’ the soft voice said.
‘Yes.’
‘Accidental Death no doubt they called it.’
‘They did, yes.’ Catrin held the phone a hand’s length from her ear; she could hardly bear to hear the voice, its gentle, wheedling sound.
‘What if I told you Rhys was working a case when he died.’
Catrin laughed. She couldn’t help herself. There was no joy in it though.
‘Working a case? He wasn’t working anything except a needle into his arm.’
‘Yes,’ said Della, ‘he was doing that all right. But it didn’t mean he didn’t have a brain. Did you ever know anyone smarter?’
‘No,’ said Catrin, her voice suddenly weaker, ‘no, I didn’t.’
‘Well he didn’t lose that, no matter how much shit he took. And he was working a case.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Cause he was working with me on it, that’s how. You want to know what it was?’
Catrin kept the phone raised, and waited.
‘It was the Owen Face case. Remember, the bloke from Seerland?’
Catrin let out a humourless bark. ‘Oh for fuck’s sake. That’s just junkie bullshit. That’s not a case.’
‘There’d been a new sighting.’
Catrin gave another dry laugh. ‘But that’s just a tabloid myth, like Lucan. No one actually takes that stuff seriously.’
There was another pause, longer this time. For a moment she thought the line had cleared.
‘What if I told you that I’d seen something that would make you change your mind?’ the voice said at last.
There was a metallic scraping sound in the background Catrin couldn’t place, then a sharp intake of breath.
‘Rhys had some photos, some new evidence.’
She noticed Della spoke more quietly now.
‘New evidence, eh? Another loser’s staggered out of a pub, skinful of Brain’s Bitter, and had a close encounter with Face – this sort of nonsense has been going on for twelve years. Next you’ll be telling me Elvis is running the gift shop on Barry Island.’
‘I thought you were a fan?’
‘No, I was never a fan.’
‘No?’
Catrin paused, her attention distracted by a spider’s web in the corner of the hall. ‘Rhys was a junkie. He fell in the water. It happens. Whatever he was working on, it’s not important.’
‘A bit strange, don’t you think. First time you’re back for twelve years, and he winds up dead. You were even there on the scene, I heard.’
‘What do you think you know, Del?’
‘Meet me, let’s talk about it.’
‘We never liked each other, Del. Why would I want to do that?’ Catrin sat down on the ledge, took a deep breath, then laughed dismissively. ‘It’s not possible anyway,’ she said, ‘even if I wanted to. I’m in the middle of nowhere.’
There was a background rustling, like leather brushing over leather. ‘I know. You’re in the cottage near the top of the hill. I can see it from here.’
Catrin felt a sudden clamminess.
‘Where are you, Del?’
‘I’m down in the village, at the Red Lion. I’ll be waiting for you.’
Catrin put down the receiver, then bent down and pulled the wire from the wall socket. Sitting back on the cold floor, she ran it through her fingers.
Outside the window she could just make out the track disappearing over the brow of the hill towards the village. The forms of the trees were barely visible through the rain, the lines of the hills lost in the low clouds.
Catrin eased her old Laverda through the muddy track, and out along the lane. The bike was jittery at low revs. She had to hold on hard to stop it losing grip. It wasn’t more than a mile to the village. She could easily have walked, but the clouds had darkened, promising sleet, perhaps snow.
Briefly she checked her reflection in the side mirror. Her jacket was fraying, her hair hung down limply, almost obscuring her face. Her T-shirt was stretched tight over her small breasts, the words THE BAD SEEDS faded to a blur.
The hedges along the road were threadbare, wearing winter colours. The lane came down to a fork, then ran between some firs towards a solitary pub. Its narrow drive was empty apart from an ancient van and a black Range Rover with a Cardiff dealer’s plate. She parked her bike beside it.
The pub’s interior was dark, the walls covered with the usual horse brasses and prints of hunting scenes. In front of the bar three men were standing. All were dressed in corduroy trousers, thick jumpers, green wellington boots. They’d been talking to the barman and stopped when they heard Catrin enter. She walked around the corner, into the snug. At first sight it seemed to be empty. The walls were covered with more hunting prints. Beyond the last of these, she saw a woman sitting in the corner. Her back was turned to the door, a Bloody Mary, half empty, on the table in front of her.
In this light, she thought, Della looked younger. She was wearing a pair of white Diesel jeans that showed off her pared-down figure, and a skinny leather jacket, the sort that doesn’t come under a grand; a matching Chloé buckle bag took up the whole seat beside her.
Della was standing now, her smile revealing ice-white veneers where once there had been gaps and angles. In close-up, her lips were plumper than Catrin remembered, her forehead smooth and free of wrinkles. When Catrin gripped her upper arms, partly to steady herself, partly to keep her distance, she could feel the muscles shifting beneath her hands.
Della moved her phone and handbag, patting the seat beside her and waiting for Catrin to sit. Catrin remained standing, resting her hands on the table. She looked straight into Della’s eyes, which were narrowed, slightly bloodshot, tired. Nothing like she remembered. She was looking at an entirely different woman from the one who’d taken Rhys from her all those years before.
‘Did you love him?’
‘Jesus, Catrin!’
‘Did you kiss him behind the ear, that sweet spot he had there?’
She saw that Della was staring at her like she was looking at a madwoman, and maybe she was.
‘Yes,’ she said softly, ‘yes I did.’
‘Yeah?’ She was sitting down now, still looking Della right in the eye. ‘And after he came, when he was lying on top of you, did he cry just a little bit?’
Della shook her head imperceptibly, broke eye contact.
‘You fucking bitch.’
Catrin felt a moment’s triumph then a giddying swing down into pure self-loathing.
‘Yeah well,’ Della said, ‘I stole him from you, didn’t I?’ She stood up. ‘I’ll get you a drink.’
Catrin nodded and sat back. In the background, Nick Drake was singing ‘Time of No Reply’. She still couldn’t believe that Nick Drake was a popular act and not the secret treasure he’d been half her life, the discovery she’d made, hidden at the back of her mum’s stack of old vinyl. She’d always thought Rhys looked a bit like Nick Drake, a bit too sensitive for this world. She’d never told him that, wished she had now.
Della put two brandies on the table, large ones. Then she sat down beside her on the bench, closer than before.
‘There was something you didn’t let me get to on the phone,’ she said quietly.
Della was lifting a manila envelope out of her bag, placing it on the table.
‘The day after Rhys died this arrived in the post.’ Della had opened the envelope just enough to reveal some black-and-white photographs. As she pushed the envelope closer, Catrin smelt her perfume. Rive Gauche, a clean but not especially f
eminine scent. Della spread the photographs out on the table.
They looked blurred. The light was too low to make out anything more than a series of tree-like shapes over on the right side. Catrin turned over the first photo and saw a sticker with the address of a photographic shop near Fishguard way out west, in the wilds.
In the next picture she was able to make out a little more. There were figures in hooded robes dancing around a fire.
‘Looks like a bunch of location stills from Blair Witch.’
‘Keep going,’ said Della.
When Catrin came to the sixth or seventh photo she stopped, held it up to the light and scrutinised it carefully. The shot appeared to have been taken with a telephoto lens. A man stood in a cloak and hood, but his head was turned to the right, as though he half suspected he was being watched. The figure had the same hollow cheekbones and gaunt features as the late Owen Face. The resemblance was undeniable even to the most sceptical eye.
‘Oh,’ she said.
‘Yeah,’ said Della, ‘that’s the one got me going as well.’
‘But what’s to prove it wasn’t taken years ago? Could be a still from one of those old videos Seerland used to do.’
‘Could be,’ said Della, ‘only they were developed last week, according to the camera shop stamp.’
Catrin put down the photos, pushed them back towards the middle of the table.
‘But it could just be an old roll of film someone passed off on Rhys?’
‘Yes,’ said Della, ‘the thought occurred to me too. Only thing is, Rhys called me two weeks ago, said he’d tracked down Owen Face and was sending proof.’
Catrin sat back. The whole thing had the smell of a scam about it, but who was working who? That she couldn’t get a handle on yet. If it was a scam it was a slick one and it had taken money and organisation, more than Rhys would have had.
But looking again at the picture, she wasn’t sure. Something about it was drawing her in; it looked and felt right. She’d developed a sense over the years, knowing what was real and what wasn’t. The truth was she couldn’t understand any of it yet, and wasn’t sure she even wanted to.
