of South Wales – celebrities, crime, politics. She’s always involved somewhere.’
‘Did Rhys ever work for her?’
‘Unlikely. She only uses the best, pays top dollar – and she only ever uses women, fine ones preferably.’
She heard Thomas’s yawn turning into a light burping noise. He was sniffling, he still had a cold. Jesus, Thomas, she thought, for a good-looking bloke you’ve certainly got some unattractive ways about you.
‘Any chance Della could’ve kept up with Rhys?’
‘No. He hadn’t been in touch with her for years.’ She nodded to herself, let him go on. ‘About seven years back, Rhys went round once pestering her for money. She slapped a restraining order on him. He never went anywhere near her after that.’
Catrin smiled grimly. She was learning about Thomas: he was an arrogant, lazy sod, but he had a good memory. He rarely made mistakes, that was how he kept out of trouble, and got away with doing as little as he did.
‘Any signs Rhys went out west recently or owned a camera?’ she asked.
‘Not that I know of.’
‘Nothing photography-related in Rhys’s room. Rolls of film, negatives. Old cameras?’
‘No. Nothing. Anything of value like that he’d have sold years ago to buy his shit.’
She heard a bleeping noise. Thomas had started playing something on his hand console. It was his tactful way of telling her time was up.
‘That second man in the CCTV film, any sign of him yet?’ she asked.
‘No.’
‘You didn’t want to talk to him before you closed the file?’
The bleeping increased in volume, there were some crashing noises. Probably Grand Theft Auto, just about Thomas’s cultural level.
‘Well, he wasn’t going to be much of a witness, was he?’ He was sniffling again. ‘The one thing we can say for sure about him is he didn’t see a damn thing.’
Catrin hung up. She knew Thomas was right. The second man was a dead end. Everyone was right, the death had been an accident. She had to accept that now. If she carried on like this her reputation would be in tatters.
She’d have to find another way of honouring Rhys’s memory. She shifted the file back into her PGP key and sent it off to an anonymous server in South Africa. Then she deleted all trace of it from her Mac. She wouldn’t want to look at it again for a while. It wasn’t how she wanted to remember him.
There were only four days left of her leave. She’d be wise to keep her head down from now on, stop calling Thomas; he might even begin to think she liked him. She had to build a life for herself back in the city, and that wasn’t going to be easy with half the force probably thinking she was a few cards short of a full deck. The dead junkie’s ex, it was hardly the best introduction.
Pugh was probably her safest starting point. He was a decent sort, even if he seemed to have turned in on himself. She could begin playing tennis again. She could check out the gyms and clubs, begin making new social contacts removed from the gossip in Cathays Park.
She remembered Pugh’s words to her on the phone. ‘There’s one thing I’ve learnt from doing this job and that’s to take care of the living. We can mourn the dead, but we should never let them pull us down into their graves.’ He didn’t know though, did he, he didn’t know how much Rhys had been for her.
She took out her box, her papers, rolled a cigarette with a pinch of kanna in it. She put on ‘Fire and Rain’, the original Taylor version, the volume full up, the languid notes weaving with her smoke through the room.
It wasn’t a song Rhys had liked, he’d said it was self-indulgent. Too close to the bone, maybe. She took down Pugh’s guitar and strummed along to the deceptively simple chords. The music was haunting, pure still, but now she felt she’d moved on to a place beyond its reach. She closed her eyes, felt herself trying to drift gradually back into a period when it had still held some magic for her.
Over the
‘Did Rhys ever work for her?’
‘Unlikely. She only uses the best, pays top dollar – and she only ever uses women, fine ones preferably.’
She heard Thomas’s yawn turning into a light burping noise. He was sniffling, he still had a cold. Jesus, Thomas, she thought, for a good-looking bloke you’ve certainly got some unattractive ways about you.
‘Any chance Della could’ve kept up with Rhys?’
‘No. He hadn’t been in touch with her for years.’ She nodded to herself, let him go on. ‘About seven years back, Rhys went round once pestering her for money. She slapped a restraining order on him. He never went anywhere near her after that.’
Catrin smiled grimly. She was learning about Thomas: he was an arrogant, lazy sod, but he had a good memory. He rarely made mistakes, that was how he kept out of trouble, and got away with doing as little as he did.
‘Any signs Rhys went out west recently or owned a camera?’ she asked.
‘Not that I know of.’
‘Nothing photography-related in Rhys’s room. Rolls of film, negatives. Old cameras?’
‘No. Nothing. Anything of value like that he’d have sold years ago to buy his shit.’
She heard a bleeping noise. Thomas had started playing something on his hand console. It was his tactful way of telling her time was up.
‘That second man in the CCTV film, any sign of him yet?’ she asked.
‘No.’
‘You didn’t want to talk to him before you closed the file?’
The bleeping increased in volume, there were some crashing noises. Probably Grand Theft Auto, just about Thomas’s cultural level.
‘Well, he wasn’t going to be much of a witness, was he?’ He was sniffling again. ‘The one thing we can say for sure about him is he didn’t see a damn thing.’
Catrin hung up. She knew Thomas was right. The second man was a dead end. Everyone was right, the death had been an accident. She had to accept that now. If she carried on like this her reputation would be in tatters.
She’d have to find another way of honouring Rhys’s memory. She shifted the file back into her PGP key and sent it off to an anonymous server in South Africa. Then she deleted all trace of it from her Mac. She wouldn’t want to look at it again for a while. It wasn’t how she wanted to remember him.
There were only four days left of her leave. She’d be wise to keep her head down from now on, stop calling Thomas; he might even begin to think she liked him. She had to build a life for herself back in the city, and that wasn’t going to be easy with half the force probably thinking she was a few cards short of a full deck. The dead junkie’s ex, it was hardly the best introduction.
Pugh was probably her safest starting point. He was a decent sort, even if he seemed to have turned in on himself. She could begin playing tennis again. She could check out the gyms and clubs, begin making new social contacts removed from the gossip in Cathays Park.
She remembered Pugh’s words to her on the phone. ‘There’s one thing I’ve learnt from doing this job and that’s to take care of the living. We can mourn the dead, but we should never let them pull us down into their graves.’ He didn’t know though, did he, he didn’t know how much Rhys had been for her.
She took out her box, her papers, rolled a cigarette with a pinch of kanna in it. She put on ‘Fire and Rain’, the original Taylor version, the volume full up, the languid notes weaving with her smoke through the room.
It wasn’t a song Rhys had liked, he’d said it was self-indulgent. Too close to the bone, maybe. She took down Pugh’s guitar and strummed along to the deceptively simple chords. The music was haunting, pure still, but now she felt she’d moved on to a place beyond its reach. She closed her eyes, felt herself trying to drift gradually back into a period when it had still held some magic for her.
Over the
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