Sympathy for the Devil

by Howard Marks

  ‘So what about this Butcher character, the photographer, any leads there?’

  ‘Nothing. As I said, Butcher may not even have known he had the film.’ Powell reached over to an envelope that lay on the table. ‘He just hung around the band a lot, maybe filched things now and then that he thought might later have value as memorabilia.’ He pulled out a sheaf of photographs and handed them to her. ‘He took these photos just before Face’s apparent suicide. They were for a spread in one of the glossy music monthlies.’

  Catrin had seen the pictures, they’d been shown on all the news channels the night Face had disappeared. Face was sitting on an old sofa, hands folded in his lap, his posture prim as a debutante at a charm school. He was wearing a pair of striped pyjamas, all his hair shaved off apart from a thin stubble on his pale cheeks.

  ‘Two weeks after these were taken Face gave his final gig,’ Powell said. ‘A couple of hours later his car was found at the services near the Severn Bridge. The rest is history.’

  ‘What made Face do it? Assuming he topped himself, that is.’

  Powell thrust his hands in his pockets, raised his shoulders.

  ‘The most common theory is that it was an unrequited love affair with Leigh Nails. But don’t let all the frocks and kohl fool you. There’s no evidence either of them were the slightest bit gay. The band just flirted with a bi image on stage – camped it up – smart move if you’re attracting an army of teenage girls. They love all that gender-bending stuff.’

  He switched off the DVD.

  ‘As you can imagine, there are plenty of other theories out on the fanzine sites. Most along the “he didn’t jump, he was pushed” lines.’

  From the desk he took out a wafer-thin laptop. Catrin stood behind him as he clicked to the bookmarked ‘Official Seerland Fan Club’ portal. On the site was a photographic collage of Seerland throughout their history. He scrolled down to the chatroom icon.

  ‘The hardcore fans who were there from the beginning have their own theory about Face’s disappearance. A lot of them sound like men in their thirties who’ve knocked about a bit, know something of the music business. Most of them seem to believe that Face was taken out because of some internal band rivalry.’

  ‘Isn’t that a bit extreme?’

  Powell nodded.

  ‘Sure, they argued from time to time like any band. But saying that one of the others would have considered offing Face is not supported by any evidence whatsoever.’

  ‘There were differences within the band, though?’

  ‘Not really. Only minor ones, and only ever artistic. In reality they all got on well. If you look closely at the interviews at the time you see that Face never took much of a position on musical issues. He seems to have been careful to avoid conflict. The band rivalry theory put about by the older fans just doesn’t stack up.’

  He had scrolled down the chatroom page so that he could point out the thumbnail pictures posted by the regulars. Some were hairy, roadie types, but others looked like sharp-suited businessmen.

  ‘Then there’s the predictable conspiracy theories about evil record companies.’ He laughed, a sharp, derisive sound.

  She could see he wasn’t taking this line of inquiry at all seriously. ‘So who were Seerland signed to then?’

  ‘They were signed to Euphoric, this small independent label. But they were snapped up by Sony, just before they hit the big time. The word on the street was that the boys at Euphoric were less than pleased.’

  ‘You sound sceptical?’

  ‘The music business is pretty cut-throat. I know for sure Seerland wasn’t the first band to bail out on Euphoric just before they made it big. And feeling vengeful enough to murder one of the band members? I don’t think so.’

  ‘But it’s grounds for a grudge?’

  ‘Except that Face had nothing to do with the decision to sign with Sony, and Euphoric would have known that.’

  ‘How come? Face was the front man.’

  ‘But Face was completely indifferent to financial issues. Everyone knew that. He was an unworldly figure, distant, as I said. He didn’t have many interests outside the band, and even there his role was rather a vague one.’

  ‘So no real suspects then?’

  ‘None at all. The truth is, Face’s life was quiet, almost solitary. It’s difficult to see how he could have made any enemies.’

  Powell picked up his pipe again. ‘All these theories have one thing in common,’ he said. ‘They all assume Owen Face is dead.’

  ‘You don’t believe that?’ Catrin saw he was rolling the pipe along the desktop, trapping it under his hand just as it came to the edge.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ he said. ‘But I’m pretty sure that if he is, he didn’t die jumping off the Severn Bridge.’

  7

  Powell wanted to leave immediately for the bridge, but Catrin told him she needed an hour alone first. She asked him to meet her at a café she’d passed on the seafront. It had looked empty on the drive in.

  She told him curtly not to bring his dope box, that she’d do the driving. He said nothing, only smiled. He didn’t seem to mind her giving him instructions or if he did, he hid it well.

  She asked him then if he was bringing his bodyguards.

  ‘You’re trained in close protection, advanced level. I’ll take my chances.’ He was showing off a bit, she thought, showing he still had access to internal police files. It wasn’t a surprise that he still had friends in the force, she let it pass. ‘And call me Huw from now on,’ he said.

  She did a drive-by. The café was still empty. She parked the Laverda back at Powell’s office, took an indirect route through side streets to the seafront. No one was visibly following.

  She sat at the rear, away from the window and the counter. The first thing she did was to call a number in the west, the number of the photographic shop whose sticker had been on Rhys’s photographs.

  The answerphone message told her the shop only ran an automatic, drop and pick-up service in the winter months. This didn’t surprise her. The towns in the far west were quiet enough even in the summer. In the winter, they were ghost towns. But if there was a drop-off service, someone must be coming in to check the machine.

  She ran a Google map on her phone, found the shop opposite, some kind of olde-worlde arts and crafts place. She called the number. After an age, a gentle Pembrokeshire voice answered in Welsh. The line was bad, perhaps it was the storms.

  Catrin explained she’d had a problem with some wedding photos. She asked for the home number of the owners of the photographic shop. The voice told her they were away on holiday for another week. They came down to the shop on Saturdays to empty the machine.

  She scrolled down, put the date in her diary. Looking up, on the next table she saw Della’s face, staring back at her.

  Someone had left a copy of the Echo open at Della’s celebrity column. Either Della didn’t have much to write that week, or her vanity had got the better of her. The entire top third of the page was taken up by a picture of the columnist.

  Della was lying on a lounger in a large Victorian-style conservatory. She was dressed in a flimsy trouser suit which looked as if it was made of silk. The jacket was short, the trousers cut low. The deep tanned flesh between revealed a belly stud. It was an old picture, Catrin guessed, probably airbrushed too.

  The image triggered a half-unconscious memory, a connection with something she’d seen in a different context. But for the moment she couldn’t place it. The piece beneath was a thin story about a married female marathon runner who’d been suspected of an affair with her trainer, a former Olympian and well-known lesbian. No loyalty, not even to the sisterhood. There was a picture of both women on a sunlit racetrack, arms round each other’s broad shoulders.

  Then a short article inset into the column at the bottom of the page caught her eye. Face Photos Are Fakes. It was a single paragraph only, the sort of thing most readers wouldn’t even notice before they turned the page. It
said little, only that some photographs that had come to the attention of Della’s agency had been dismissed as fakes. There was a small reproduction of one of the photos Della had already given her. Three men in robes standing in a wood. The details were barely visible. It was a space filler, nothing more. The article didn’t even give reasons for dismissing the photos as fakes. Nor did it state the source of the photos.

  Usually in pieces about fake sightings, the picture took centre stage. The alien, the Loch Ness Monster, the missing star. But here the image was barely reproduced at all. She wondered why Della had even bothered. The pictures had come to her from Powell. He was potentially a dream client for her, a cash cow. This kind of casual, unsupported dismissal of his evidence would only irritate him.

  Catrin looked up and saw an old woman standing over her, waiting to take her order. She asked for a coffee, glanced out at the street as the woman went to get it. No sign of Powell yet, he was taking his time. She felt a faint tingle of anxiety. She hadn’t seen anyone in the streets between his office and the front, but it had been misty. Five minutes more, then she’d go back looking for him.

  In the background on the radio a local talk jock was going on about how soft it was in prison. ‘There are so many drugs inside, lads are coming to the nick to score like,’ the raised voice said.

  ‘Right, and call girls are getting in, pizza deliveries, you name it.’ His guest sounded croaky, as if he had a cold. ‘Costs more to keep the buggers inside than in the bloody Ritz.’

  ‘And when they get released, the paedos, the child killers, they give them a brand new life. For their own protection, saves them from the lynch mob like.’ He laughed as if it caused him pain. ‘New name, makeover, nice new pad, the works.’

  ‘Wouldn’t mind that myself,’ the guest said, ‘a new life.’

  ‘Except for them it isn’t a new life, is it? More of a new disguise. Underneath they’re just waiting to come out to play again. Some even get plastic surgery from one of them top Harley Street surgeons, all on the taxpayer, you couldn’t make it up.’

  She’d heard all these stories before, knew them for what they were, urban myths, bar talk. It was true that a few notorious criminals, like the Jamie Bulger murderers, were released secretly, given new National Insurance numbers and identities. She didn’t approve but she saw why it was necessary. But the rest was just Chinese Whispers, unsubstantiated rumours, paranoid fantasies.

  Outside she could hear a horn, and some music blaring. Through the mist, she saw a Lexus saloon, long and silver, parked at an angle half up on the pavement. It was next year’s model, she’d seen them in the ads but not on the road before. Powell had driven alone despite her earlier instructions. She could barely see him for the thick smoke filling the car. Jesus, she thought, the man is a complete stoner. Either that, or he’s done this to piss me off. He’s showing me he doesn’t take orders.

  She tapped on the window. ‘Move over, big shot,’ she said, ‘I’m driving.’

  By the time they reached the Bristol Channel the sleet had eased. They had hardly spoken on the journey. Ahead now Catrin could see the orange glow of the warehouses with access roads to the motorway, and in the distance the lights around the Severn Estuary.

  ‘Which way, Mr Powell?’ she asked.

  ‘Didn’t I tell you to call me Huw,’ he said. He asked her to pull in at the services. The place was deserted now the traffic went over the new bridge.

  At the far end of the empty parking lot she saw a raised viewing platform. Huw – she thought of him as Huw already she had to admit – was pointing towards it without speaking. Through the curtain of drizzle, the bridge behind them was barely visible. The platform had been built at the edge of the cliff and the drop was immediate and sheer. The railings would have stopped a toddler from getting too close to the edge, but not an adult. Huw was gesturing at a low wall under the platform.

  In the half-light at the base of the wall, there was just visible the remains of a small shrine. Several sprays of drooping flowers, handwritten poems in plastic covers. Among them was a rain-soaked bear with a Cardiff City scarf around its neck, looking out towards the estuary.

  Huw showed her the empty tarmac by the wall.

  ‘Face’s Honda Civic was found along here after the last gig.’

  ‘Not your typical rock star’s vehicle.’

  Huw was looking at her as if she’d missed the point. She remembered what he’d said about Face’s unworldliness; here was another sign of it. Perhaps for Face a car was just a car, a means of getting places.

  ‘How was the car parked?’

  ‘Square up to the wall, very tidily.’

  She knew there was nothing odd in that. It was usual for cars to be left that way by suicides. It was very rare for jumpers to leave their cars badly parked.

  A gust of wind through the window caught the collar of her jacket, batted it against her face. Huw took out a tissue, passed it to her. ‘Face’s car was found here only two hours after he left the gig.’

  She vaguely remembered there’d been witnesses who’d seen Face driving. A couple had sold their stories at the time about seeing him wandering near the edge but she couldn’t recall the details.

  Huw seemed to have read her mind. ‘Two pump cashiers saw him, also some roadside workers. There’s no doubt Face was the driver, no doubt he came here alone. There was also his blood on the seat. Not a lot, but consistent with the self-inflicted bleeding on stage. That positively places Face in the car after the gig, as photographic evidence showed he wasn’t bleeding prior to it.’

  ‘And the witnesses saw him walking by the edge, right?’

  ‘Correct. They did.’

  ‘So all the evidence seems to support the suicide hypothesis. Face announces his intention at the gig, self-harms there dramatically, then drives alone to the bridge. No one ever saw him leave here alive. The simplest explanation is usually the correct one.’

  Over to the right Catrin saw a man leaning against the barrier at the edge of the viewing platform. He seemed to be gazing down at them intently for a moment. His face was covered by the hood of his anorak.

  She tried to make out more details, his height, his build, but couldn’t see much through the drizzle. Then abruptly, as if sensing her eyes on him, he bowed his head. He strolled slowly away until lost from sight.

  She looked back at Huw. ‘You’ve checked the forensics report on the car carefully, I imagine.’

  Huw looked a little sheepish. He didn’t have to tell her nothing had been turned up. If anything interesting had been found she knew it would have been raised at the inquest, which had been detailed and thorough. The same went for the whole investigation into Face’s presumed suicide. Catrin knew they were going over fallow ground.

  ‘And the car went where?’

  ‘To Face’s mother.’ He pushed his hands into his pockets, stared through the half-light. ‘I tried to buy it via her lawyer, she wouldn’t sell. It went to the band after she died.’

  At the end of the car park the man in the anorak was getting into a dirty grey van. The vehicle remained stationary, no lights from it behind the railings.

  Huw got back into the car, in the driving seat this time. She didn’t try to stop him. He reversed across the empty forecourt, spun the car round into a narrower lane to the right.

  It cut through a steep wooded outcrop, out onto a promontory about fifty metres above the estuary. They passed the driveway to a building with faded paintwork, a sign outside advertising pub food.

  Huw got out, and she walked alongside him to the edge. The wind was stronger here than it had been at the services, the gusts pushing at their backs. She watched as he picked up a stone and threw it out over the edge.

  Beneath them the waves were a deep mauve, the colour of the sky reflected in the water. She heard a distant splash as the stone hit the waters and disappeared. The horizon was already growing dark.

  Huw was hunching his shoulders inside his coat.

&n
bsp; ‘Did you know that the tides in the Severn Estuary are the second highest in the world? Only the tides in the Bay of Fundy off Nova Scotia are higher. So we’re talking about some very strong currents here.’

  ‘So bodies get carried off some distance?’

  ‘It’s not unheard of for bodies to end up as far away as Ireland – several local misper cases in the past have been closed with the help of the Garda.’

  He still used the police shorthand for missing person. Once a copper, always a copper it seemed. ‘In that case it’s not so surprising the body was never found,’ she said.

  Huw screwed up his eyes, still focusing on some point in the distance. ‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ he said. ‘The sea always gives up its dead.’

  ‘So the bodies usually return whole, then?’

  ‘Not always. There was a case of a builder who got thrown over the bridge by loan sharks. A few years later he started to reappear down on the mud flats, one piece at a time. First a tibia, then a femur, then a few ribs.’

  A seagull skimmed the tops of their heads, making a squawking sound that seemed too loud for its size.

  ‘Then a while back they found that skeletal foot in a trainer in Caswell Bay. Everyone thought it was Face. The press were all over it, but it turned out the foot belonged to some sixty-year-old alkie who’d jumped a year previously.’

  ‘So what are you saying? No body, no suicide?’

  ‘The laws of probability are against it. This would be almost the only case in twenty years where the body hasn’t returned in some form.’

  ‘Unless the body has already been recovered, by some hardcore fans perhaps, and buried secretly.’

  Huw was already shaking his head.