intending to see her, just out of curiosity, then OD’d in the meantime. But the likelihood was he hadn’t known she was back. Out on the streets he’d hardly be plugged into the police grapevine.
Pugh turned and took down something from the wall. ‘If he knew you were back, which I doubt, he’d have wanted money off you.’ He was smiling to himself at the thing from the wall. ‘He’d not have wanted to upset you turning up unannounced. He’d have called first, but you never heard from him.’
He glanced at her. He was looking at her kindly but with detachment. She thought she could read that look. He wanted to help with her grief but he didn’t want to encourage her to believe anything insubstantial. He knew that would just cause her more hurt. She looked at him and nodded, as if to signal she accepted there was nothing more to it.
‘It’s common for the bereaved to feel connected to what happened, that they could’ve prevented it, you know that,’ he said. ‘But Rhys was a junkie. Junkies die young, you just have to try to accept it.’ He’d taken down a photograph from the board. It was of a cottage with rolling hills and fields in the background.
‘It’s my holiday place up Monmouth way,’ he said, a hint of pride in his voice.
She took it, without looking at it. ‘Must be nice to have something like that. Not one home, two,’ she said.
The picture had fallen through her fingers onto the floor. She crouched down, reaching for it. She realised she was sobbing, warm fat tears dripping down on the linoleum, staining the picture. She struck the ground, with a sudden simple force. He was trying to stop her, but she wouldn’t let him, she kept hitting the ground, then abruptly she stopped.
She didn’t like to show emotion like this, not in front of someone she hardly knew any more. She stood up quickly, composed, like an actress who’d just finished her scene. He took her arm, guiding her out into the fresh air of the stairwell.
She looked up to see the Chief Constable, Geraint Rix, wearing a Hawaiian shirt. Some office clown had hung the poster there, almost life-size. Not Pugh, it wasn’t his style. A joke for the benefit of the coppers trooping through. All Rix’s time, she’d heard, was spent on the media circuit sharpening his image for a safe Liberal seat at the next election. Being head of the Gay Police Association had given him a national platform, but he was the straightest-looking gay man she’d ever seen. Being gay in the force did that, she guessed.
As she turned away from Rix’s blokey grin she felt Pugh press something into her hand. She looked down.
It was a bunch of keys, the ring a miniature silver copy of the cottage in the picture.
‘Stay as long as you like, you need a rest,’ he said gently.
Outside, she sat on her bike after he’d closed the door, not moving, staring out at the trees in the park. Then, after how long she didn’t know, she started the engine and pulled out into the traffic.
Catrin wasn’t paranoid. She knew dealers so wacked out they thought they were being followed by bendy-buses, the numbers on the buses sending them personal messages. Now that was paranoid, but working ten years in Drugs, most of it under, still does things to a mind.
Along City Hall Road, keeping a few cars behind her, she saw a dark van move out into the traffic. The same van had been there on her way in, parked up across the square. She noticed things like that. As she swung into North Road, it was still following four cars behind. She doubled back towards the public gardens. The van was keeping to the end of the dimly lit streets, not closing the space between them.
She checked her rearview: it looked like a woman at the wheel. Well-cut jacket, big bouffant hair, almost like a wig. But it wasn’t close enough, it was too dark for her to get the number.
She did a full circle, along Park Place down into City Hall Road. She waited but it didn’t reappear. She’d lost
Pugh turned and took down something from the wall. ‘If he knew you were back, which I doubt, he’d have wanted money off you.’ He was smiling to himself at the thing from the wall. ‘He’d not have wanted to upset you turning up unannounced. He’d have called first, but you never heard from him.’
He glanced at her. He was looking at her kindly but with detachment. She thought she could read that look. He wanted to help with her grief but he didn’t want to encourage her to believe anything insubstantial. He knew that would just cause her more hurt. She looked at him and nodded, as if to signal she accepted there was nothing more to it.
‘It’s common for the bereaved to feel connected to what happened, that they could’ve prevented it, you know that,’ he said. ‘But Rhys was a junkie. Junkies die young, you just have to try to accept it.’ He’d taken down a photograph from the board. It was of a cottage with rolling hills and fields in the background.
‘It’s my holiday place up Monmouth way,’ he said, a hint of pride in his voice.
She took it, without looking at it. ‘Must be nice to have something like that. Not one home, two,’ she said.
The picture had fallen through her fingers onto the floor. She crouched down, reaching for it. She realised she was sobbing, warm fat tears dripping down on the linoleum, staining the picture. She struck the ground, with a sudden simple force. He was trying to stop her, but she wouldn’t let him, she kept hitting the ground, then abruptly she stopped.
She didn’t like to show emotion like this, not in front of someone she hardly knew any more. She stood up quickly, composed, like an actress who’d just finished her scene. He took her arm, guiding her out into the fresh air of the stairwell.
She looked up to see the Chief Constable, Geraint Rix, wearing a Hawaiian shirt. Some office clown had hung the poster there, almost life-size. Not Pugh, it wasn’t his style. A joke for the benefit of the coppers trooping through. All Rix’s time, she’d heard, was spent on the media circuit sharpening his image for a safe Liberal seat at the next election. Being head of the Gay Police Association had given him a national platform, but he was the straightest-looking gay man she’d ever seen. Being gay in the force did that, she guessed.
As she turned away from Rix’s blokey grin she felt Pugh press something into her hand. She looked down.
It was a bunch of keys, the ring a miniature silver copy of the cottage in the picture.
‘Stay as long as you like, you need a rest,’ he said gently.
Outside, she sat on her bike after he’d closed the door, not moving, staring out at the trees in the park. Then, after how long she didn’t know, she started the engine and pulled out into the traffic.
Catrin wasn’t paranoid. She knew dealers so wacked out they thought they were being followed by bendy-buses, the numbers on the buses sending them personal messages. Now that was paranoid, but working ten years in Drugs, most of it under, still does things to a mind.
Along City Hall Road, keeping a few cars behind her, she saw a dark van move out into the traffic. The same van had been there on her way in, parked up across the square. She noticed things like that. As she swung into North Road, it was still following four cars behind. She doubled back towards the public gardens. The van was keeping to the end of the dimly lit streets, not closing the space between them.
She checked her rearview: it looked like a woman at the wheel. Well-cut jacket, big bouffant hair, almost like a wig. But it wasn’t close enough, it was too dark for her to get the number.
She did a full circle, along Park Place down into City Hall Road. She waited but it didn’t reappear. She’d lost
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