music she heard the door buzzer going. She ignored it at first, but it carried on. She went to the window, peered through the nets. There was a car parked in the lane, a black Range Rover.
In the glow from the headlights she saw that Della was wearing a long, dark coat. Her high boots caught the glare. Her face looked very pale, no make-up.
What does the witch really want with me, Catrin wondered. She waited, silent, still as a statue, hoping Della would go away.
The buzzer went again, the noise building like a drilling in her head.
Catrin opened the door. Della’s hair was soaked through, hanging down limply over her face.
‘I just wanted to apologise for last night,’ Della said. Her voice was weak, slightly tremulous.
Catrin watched Della reach into her pocket, but leave her hand there. Her coat was soaked through. Catrin blocked her way.
‘If this is another job offer, Del, you’re wasting your time.’
‘No, it’s not.’
Della was leaning back on the windowsill, looking slightly unsteady on her feet. Her eyes were bloodshot, tired-looking. There was a hint of fear there.
‘I shouldn’t have lied to you about Rhys,’ she said. ‘It was wrong.’
‘You hadn’t seen him for years, had you?’
‘No.’
Catrin moved forward to the door, held it open. The wind and rain were running down Della’s face. ‘Just keep away from now on.’ You sleazy crazy bitch was what she really wanted to say, shout right into Della’s face, then knock her to the ground.
Della made no move away from the windowsill.
‘Look, what I told you about the photos,’ Della said slowly. ‘It’s possible Rhys did have something to do with them.’
Catrin waited, saying nothing, her hand still holding open the door. Della was staring out into the rain.
‘They came to me via that documentary maker, the one who’s obsessed with the Owen Face mystery.’
‘So what?’
‘He told me he’d got them from an ex-copper, someone down on his luck.’
‘That doesn’t narrow it down much.’
‘Someone who’d just died, he said.’
‘He wouldn’t say who.’
‘No.’
Catrin took this in. Even if it was true it offered no real indication Rhys had been involved.
‘That’s all,’ she said.
‘That’s all.’
Della was tapping her boots lightly on the floor. They came up above the knee, tucked into cashmere leggings that were a few shades lighter than the cashmere of her drenched Versace coat. All the rich tart’s gear, she’s sending me the same message as last night, Catrin thought. You come work for me, you can spend like I spend.
At last Della seemed about to leave. Catrin turned away, hoping the disgust showed on her face.
‘So why bother to tell me this?’ she said.
‘I thought you’d find it interesting.’ Della had begun to turn towards the door.
‘The film-maker,’ Catrin said. ‘What’s his name?’
Della just stood there with her back to her. Catrin waited, didn’t really expect Della to answer. More than likely this has all just been another nasty little power game, she thought, leading nowhere.
‘Huw Powell,’ Della said.
The name rang a vague bell, but Catrin couldn’t place it. Not at first, then it came to her. ‘He was a copper himself, wasn’t he?’
‘Once, long ago.’
‘In Drugs. Didn’t he leave under a cloud?’
Della didn’t answer, began walking back towards her car. Briefly through Catrin’s mind had flickered the ghost of an idea, it wasn’t more than that, just a ghost. She felt her pulse quicken, not with fear this time, but with something more like hope, and with it came an anger deeper than she had felt for many years.
‘It was before my time,’ Della called back.
‘Corruption, wasn’t it, something like that?’
Her words were lost in the wind. Della had started the engine. For a moment the air was filled with strains of some retro disco beat. Then the car was gone, and Catrin was left looking out at the rain and the night.
5
As Catrin
In the glow from the headlights she saw that Della was wearing a long, dark coat. Her high boots caught the glare. Her face looked very pale, no make-up.
What does the witch really want with me, Catrin wondered. She waited, silent, still as a statue, hoping Della would go away.
The buzzer went again, the noise building like a drilling in her head.
Catrin opened the door. Della’s hair was soaked through, hanging down limply over her face.
‘I just wanted to apologise for last night,’ Della said. Her voice was weak, slightly tremulous.
Catrin watched Della reach into her pocket, but leave her hand there. Her coat was soaked through. Catrin blocked her way.
‘If this is another job offer, Del, you’re wasting your time.’
‘No, it’s not.’
Della was leaning back on the windowsill, looking slightly unsteady on her feet. Her eyes were bloodshot, tired-looking. There was a hint of fear there.
‘I shouldn’t have lied to you about Rhys,’ she said. ‘It was wrong.’
‘You hadn’t seen him for years, had you?’
‘No.’
Catrin moved forward to the door, held it open. The wind and rain were running down Della’s face. ‘Just keep away from now on.’ You sleazy crazy bitch was what she really wanted to say, shout right into Della’s face, then knock her to the ground.
Della made no move away from the windowsill.
‘Look, what I told you about the photos,’ Della said slowly. ‘It’s possible Rhys did have something to do with them.’
Catrin waited, saying nothing, her hand still holding open the door. Della was staring out into the rain.
‘They came to me via that documentary maker, the one who’s obsessed with the Owen Face mystery.’
‘So what?’
‘He told me he’d got them from an ex-copper, someone down on his luck.’
‘That doesn’t narrow it down much.’
‘Someone who’d just died, he said.’
‘He wouldn’t say who.’
‘No.’
Catrin took this in. Even if it was true it offered no real indication Rhys had been involved.
‘That’s all,’ she said.
‘That’s all.’
Della was tapping her boots lightly on the floor. They came up above the knee, tucked into cashmere leggings that were a few shades lighter than the cashmere of her drenched Versace coat. All the rich tart’s gear, she’s sending me the same message as last night, Catrin thought. You come work for me, you can spend like I spend.
At last Della seemed about to leave. Catrin turned away, hoping the disgust showed on her face.
‘So why bother to tell me this?’ she said.
‘I thought you’d find it interesting.’ Della had begun to turn towards the door.
‘The film-maker,’ Catrin said. ‘What’s his name?’
Della just stood there with her back to her. Catrin waited, didn’t really expect Della to answer. More than likely this has all just been another nasty little power game, she thought, leading nowhere.
‘Huw Powell,’ Della said.
The name rang a vague bell, but Catrin couldn’t place it. Not at first, then it came to her. ‘He was a copper himself, wasn’t he?’
‘Once, long ago.’
‘In Drugs. Didn’t he leave under a cloud?’
Della didn’t answer, began walking back towards her car. Briefly through Catrin’s mind had flickered the ghost of an idea, it wasn’t more than that, just a ghost. She felt her pulse quicken, not with fear this time, but with something more like hope, and with it came an anger deeper than she had felt for many years.
‘It was before my time,’ Della called back.
‘Corruption, wasn’t it, something like that?’
Her words were lost in the wind. Della had started the engine. For a moment the air was filled with strains of some retro disco beat. Then the car was gone, and Catrin was left looking out at the rain and the night.
5
As Catrin
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