by Howard Marks
At the car park, she got into Thomas’s Audi, let him drive the rest of the way into town. She could tell it was a mistake from the start. She’d chosen an outfit that said she wouldn’t be messed with. Her hardest biker boots, a short combat jacket over an army-issue T-shirt. But his eyes were all over her. Everywhere except her face. He smelt heavily of strong cologne, never a good sign.
He played his fingers through the wires to her earpieces, following them down to the unit on her belt. He scrolled down the tracks silently for a minute, then just passed it back to her without a word but laughing to himself.
‘Okay, so what have you got on yours?’ She put it in her pocket, feeling angry already. ‘Top Gear’s all-time greatest tracks to take a dump to?’
Thomas said nothing, stared out at a few drunks walking past carrying bin bags towards an all-night burger bar across the street. He revved hard, pulling out fast and almost knocking over some of the drunks. To cool him down, clip his attitude, Catrin told him to take the street behind the station and to pull up outside a terraced house there. It looked like all the other houses in the street, but for her it had a special significance.
Whenever she’d had doubts about Rhys, she’d come to this house or pictured it in her mind. It was the scene of his greatest triumph, a place where he’d been brave and pure. That was how she always wanted to remember him, not as that low degraded figure in the CCTV.
‘Know what happened in there?’ she said. Thomas was playing dumb, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. He knew exactly what had happened there. She pointed down towards the cellar floor.
‘That was Angel Jones’s dungeon.’ It was beneath them in cells below street level that Jones had kept the girls he’d raped and mutilated. The media at the time had played it as the city’s greatest shame. He’d kept his victims there for years drugged out of their minds, then left them for dead in the woods, and it was Rhys who’d busted him, and he’d done it alone.
‘But that was just a fluke. Everyone says that.’
She knew this was partially true, the bust had been a stroke of luck but in her eyes it didn’t take away from the bravery of what Rhys had done. She noticed Thomas was smiling to himself.
‘Rhys never made a big deal of it, did he.’ He glanced at her knowingly. ‘That’s cos Rhys was shaking down the guy who sold Jones the drugs he used to spike the girls. Then he tailed Jones’s van from there, blundered into Jones’s house without back-up. Probably thought he was going to shake some other little guy.’
‘Rhys still collared Jones, got cut doing it. That took balls, more than you’ll ever have.’
Thomas was still looking his usual laid-back self, he didn’t seem to have risen to the bait. She felt relieved. As they pulled away he slowly turned to her, caught her eye.
‘But didn’t Della have a thing with Angel Jones?’ he said quietly.
‘Come off it.’ Catrin had to laugh, this was definitely a wind-up, his comeback for the detour. ‘Della’s shameless and twisted, but she’s not suicidal.’
‘No, for real,’ he said in the same quiet tone. ‘I heard Rhys might’ve busted Jones before when he went with Della, to get Jones out of the way like.’
She didn’t believe any of this for a moment, didn’t even bother to reply. She wondered how reliable the rest of Thomas’s information was going to be if this was the kind of number he was trying on her already.
Thomas circled for a couple of minutes until he found a parking place. The building across the small, empty square had once housed the all-night club where she used to meet Rhys before she got to work in the mornings. In those days it had been patronised by hardened drinkers looking for a place to escape their troubles, a low place with threadbare carpets and beer-stained tables.
Now she could see the building housed another club on the ground floor, its lights raking over the pavements. Inside the place was dimly lit, the warmth due more to poor ventilation than to any heating system. At the back of the room the dance floor was empty apart for one couple moving slowly in a tight clinch. A bow-tied attendant, dressed like a relic from a Sixties Soho sex club, showed them to a table in the corner. Catrin ordered a beer. Thomas asked for whisky, a double. He was looking around him as if only just aware of their surroundings.
‘This place has gone upmarket.’ He was still speaking quietly, she noticed, though there was no one else in earshot.
She glanced over at the couple on the dance floor. It was impossible to know whether the pair were amorous or just clinging together to stay upright. Thomas had closed his eyes, his head swaying back in rhythm to the trippy beat. She wondered looking at him how much he’d been drinking already that evening.
‘Your father,’ she said. ‘He ever tell you much about his time on the force?’
He sat back in his seat, an exaggeratedly wounded expression on his face. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I get this. Another pumping session.’
She was leaning back, out of his warm breath, trying to see what his eyes were doing in the dimness. ‘Huw Powell,’ she said. ‘Your father ever talk about him?’
‘Not much.’
‘But he must have said something about him?’
‘Powell was a career copper. A graduate, fast-tracked up the ranks.’
‘Career cop doesn’t mean good cop.’
‘He was that also, apparently. A good officer, one of the best.’
Thomas was rubbing his palms together, shrugging. She took a sip from her drink, keeping her eyes on his. ‘So what went wrong? There’s been a cloud over Powell’s name for years.’
‘Just envy most probably. Powell leaves the force, does well for himself. Money always breeds envy.’
She could see from his face that Thomas knew more, but he wasn’t going to spill without something back from her. What could she give him, apart from the obvious?
‘Della Davies,’ she said. ‘I’ve got tight with her. I know she usually hires women, but she can also use a male investigator. She’s a payer, as you know.’
It wasn’t subtle, but it seemed to have worked. She saw his eyes narrow, his mouth resolve itself into a brief grin.
‘I don’t know that much,’ he said.
‘Give me what you’ve got.’
‘Powell was a specialist,’ he said. ‘A watcher. Surveillance, hidden microphones, long-distance lenses, that kind of thing.’
She smiled to herself. ‘I get it. So that’s the link to those hidden camera and CCTV shows he does.’
‘That was much later. In his day he used his surveillance skills on drugs gangs, on acid gangs using labs hidden way out in the country.’
‘Which parts?’
‘The far west, the wilds. Powell was from there originally, used his local knowledge. His family were yokels, from the back of beyond.’
Catrin waited for a moment; something Thomas had just said sounded potentially interesting. ‘These labs Powell busted way out in the west country. Hidden in remote, dense woodland, would they have been?’
He was shaking his head. ‘Doubtful, mostly they operated from out-of-the-way farms with track access for the equipment. This is all from way back, the pre-computer period. It’s unlikely the details will have been retained except in court documents. Why do you ask?’
‘It’s only that among the materials Powell has on Face’s disappearance there’s a strange home movie set in remote woodland. I’m just wondering if there could be any connection between something Powell might’ve stumbled on all those years ago and his interest in Face.’
‘Unlikely,’ Thomas said. ‘If he’d stumbled on something other than the labs out there, why wouldn’t he have taken action at the time? Why wait several decades before following up on it? Doesn’t make any sense.’
She nodded, took his point. He was right, it didn’t really make sense. ‘No suggestion Powell ever turned a blind eye, took hush money from the crews behind the labs?’
‘No, Powell always played it by the book, he was methodical. He co
uld conceal cameras and mikes in almost anything. He knew how to track chemicals and equipment up and down the underground supply chains. His skills took down some of the biggest illegal labs operating then.’
‘So he’d have made enemies, rivals in the force?’
‘Not really, he was more of a back-room boy. A nerd, a techie, kept his head down. He didn’t get up anyone’s nose.’ Thomas had shifted a little closer to her and was staring down at the floor.
Catrin waited, but he didn’t raise his head again. ‘So how does all this connect to Powell’s resignation?’
‘Two or three years before he left, Drugs stumbled on a big lab in Heath Park, near the university.’
He was glancing at her lap, then lowered his eyes. ‘An acid lab?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know all the details. Just that it was a highly professional set-up, everything state-of-the-art. They had twenty-kilo Rotorvaps, the latest freeze dryers, self-cleaning vac-pumps, the works. The kit there was more sophisticated even than in the university’s research labs. There was a long sting operation to catch the people behind it, and costs spiralled. At the time it was one of the biggest ops of the kind. The budget even needed special Home Office approval.’
‘Who did the sting net in the end? Someone big?’
‘No one, that was the problem. It ended up a very expensive failure.’ He took a piece of paper from his pocket, a newspaper clipping now yellowed with age. Gently he unfolded it, and laid it on the table between them. Catrin could see a picture of a small nondescript building near the university, its few windows covered with closed black louvre blinds. Inset into the picture was a photo of a younger Huw Powell. His hair longer, his eyes brighter, filled with something that looked almost like inspiration.
She picked the paper up, looked hard at Thomas. ‘What’s this? You a mind reader now? How the hell did you know I’d be asking about Powell?’
She thought she saw a small glint of triumph in Thomas’s eyes. He wants to please me maybe, but for all the worst reasons. ‘It’s a small town,’ he said quietly. ‘Word’s already out you’re working some gig on the side for Powell. It doesn’t take a psychic to guess you’d be wanting to talk about him.’
She quickly read the article below the picture of the small, almost windowless building. The details were sketchy but the basic thrust of the piece was clear. An illegal lab busted near the university had triggered the longest and most expensive sting operation ever mounted by the South Wales Drugs Squad. When questioned, the press office at Cathays Park had refused to comment on whether the operation had justified the time and resources put into it. Next to this section appeared another small photo, of the new Chief Constable, a younger Geraint Rix. He was pictured walking down some steps, alone, his eyes down, looking into the distance. He seemed to be in a hurry, the shot was blurred. The article ended with unnamed police sources quoted as admitting the operation had proved a highly costly failure.
She looked up at Thomas. ‘And you think Powell walked away with some of that money, used it to start his TV business.’
‘No. I think that’s unlikely.’
‘How come?’
‘Because my old man said he remembered Powell living in some bedsit down in the docks after he resigned, surviving on baked beans.’
‘Powell could just have been playing it long, making it look as if he had come away with nothing.’
‘Doubtful. He was broke for several years. His business started small, grew slowly.’
‘So you’re saying Powell was clean. It just looked bad. His resignation just happened to coincide with this huge spend by the unit?’
‘Exactly. He left the force because he had a good business idea. No other reason. It was the dawn of reality TV. He had his surveillance know-how, got in on the ground floor. It was all hard work, there was no mystery cash injection.’
‘Simple as that?’
‘Well, you know what they say. Every surveillance man is a frustrated film-maker.’ Thomas laughed quietly, said nothing more. He knew more, she suspected. Or maybe he was just stringing her along, hoping she’d put out.
She stared at him, prepared to wait him out. He let his hand rest lightly on her upper thigh. With a surge of anger she pushed it away. Then he arched his other hand to her shoulder, his mouth suddenly hard up against hers, his tongue trying to force its way into her mouth. She pushed him back, his chair fell against the pillar behind in the dark.
He put his hand up to his head. There had been something sharp on the side of the pillar, a nail perhaps. Blood was dripping through his fingers. He turned away from her and fumbled in his pocket for a tissue. She got up to help him, but he waved her away.
‘You were always afraid to let go,’ he said quietly.
He held the tissue to his head, and gestured her to come closer again. She shook her head; his smile appeared slightly pained now.
‘You’ve got a top memory,’ she said. ‘All the time you’ve been pretending you’d forgotten me, I knew that was an act.’
‘Perhaps you’ve changed?’ he said slowly.
She glanced at him, then away towards the couple dancing.
‘It wasn’t me that needed to change,’ she said.
He was looking straight into her eyes.
‘That’s not how I remember it. I was just a normal bloke, you suddenly turned on me.’
‘That’s crap. You got me drunk, then you took advantage of me.’
He was looking at her wide-eyed now, as if what she was saying was self-evidently absurd. The truth was she couldn’t even remember that clearly. She’d only been used to Rhys then, only really known Rhys. Any other man touching her had felt like an act of violation.
Thomas was letting her keep her distance, his body slumping back in mock defeat. He reached across, through the struts of the chair, and touched her softly on her knee. In a tender way, not threatening.
‘Hey,’ he said. ‘It was a long time ago. We have to work together. Let’s not worry about it too much, eh?’
‘You haven’t given me anything on Powell,’ she said.
He leant his head back against the pillar, his shoulders drooping, as if surrendering to her cold reasoning. ‘Listen. Powell had always been a good officer, very diligent, quiet. But then apparently at the end he just freaked out a bit.’
‘In what way?’
‘Began smoking dope, not even bothering to be discreet about it.’
‘He still smokes, big time. So that was the reason he resigned?’
‘By then he was going to resign anyway, to start his TV business. If he left under a cloud, it was just a cloud of his own smoke.’
‘Like a pupil who knows he’s leaving flaunting the rules.’
‘Exactly. He’d his big idea, knew he was leaving, didn’t give a monkey’s.’
She stood up now, concentrated on slowing her breathing. Thomas was staring at her, an expression of concern on his face.
He took out another tissue, dipped it in the whisky and held it against his head.
‘Powell’s a decent guy by all accounts,’ he said. ‘A head, sure, but solid.’
‘Yes, I think he is too. In fact, I know he is. But I’d like to know more about that sting op.’
Thomas flicked the ball of tissue. It hit her jacket, bounced off onto the floor.
‘I can look into it,’ he said. He hesitated, smiling slowly. ‘But I want you to treat me like the normal man I am, that’s all.’
She jerked her knee away from his hand. ‘That means something like you want me to give you head whenever you fancy some. But we behave the rest of the time like nothing’s happening?’
It came back to her, but broken and blurred like a bad dream, something she’d always preferred not to remember: how when she’d been half senseless with drink he’d jammed her head under the steering wheel. What he’d done then, there hadn’t been much gentleness to it.
‘I should’ve reported you for assault,’ she said quietly.
&n
bsp; Abruptly he stood up, the action tipping his chair back, and moved towards her, his hands clenched into fists. The waiter was standing in front of the table but Thomas was still staring across at her.
The drunken pair on the dance floor stumbled apart as Catrin walked away along the edge of the floor. The place seemed suddenly much brighter. The colours of the neon pictures on the walls were merging with the blue light. A man further back was bowing his head, as if to hide his face, like the figure they’d seen on the platform above the estuary. The man in the van. Was it the same man? In the shaking light she couldn’t be sure.
At the bottom of the steps she turned left. The sleet had stopped, the streets behind her were silent. She could hear no footsteps following.
Catrin glanced at the terraced houses on either side, some newly painted, others boarded up with faint lights behind the dark hoardings. Behind her now she could hear a light squelching sound. She recognised it immediately. The sound of high-soled trainers moving over damp pavements. She turned round. The street behind her was well-lit and appeared empty.
She moved on again, taking faster steps. Around one corner, then another. She stopped and listened. The sound was there again, nearer this time, just the other side of a row of high hoardings overgrown with ivy.
She waited, her eyes on the corner behind her. There, some way back from the road was a man in an anorak, his hood up. He looked very much like the man she’d seen at the service station, but in the half-light it was impossible to be sure.
Now she had her eyes on him, he paused, hesitated, neither moving towards her nor away towards the terrace of houses. She thought she glimpsed the flicker of something in his right hand, maybe a blade.
She turned, moved on to a gate that led through a small fenced area of public gardens. Once through the gate she began to run.
The ground beneath her feet was uneven, covered with broken paving and roots, and several times she lost her footing. She could hear nothing behind her, only the surge of her breathing and the blood singing in her ears.