associates interviewed, as there weren’t any. Played like this, the coroner’s verdict was a foregone conclusion. Category One, Death by Drug Dependence, Solitary.
The rest of the notes took up less than a page. The wallet found on the body had led to a room in a derelict council block in Riverside, the place Rhys had called home in his final weeks. There were some photos included, a list of contents. It was a short list. A life come down to nothing, just a backpack full of Oxfam clothes and three battered books of poetry. And a single origami bird they’d found in the fireplace. She stared at it, couldn’t even make out what type of bird it was.
She felt the warm tears beading her cheeks, gathering against her collar. But she was wearing her visor still, the place was empty, no one could see the tears.
3
It was the first time she’d heard the sound in over a week. Somewhere at the edge of her consciousness a phone was ringing. Catrin pushed her head further down under the cold pillow, but the sound didn’t let up.
The ringing was coming from under the pile of dirty clothes in the corner. Shuffling unsteadily across the room, she reached down, felt through the pockets and, without looking at it, switched the handset off.
She’d woken late at Pugh’s cottage. It was almost ten, the light outside was the ash grey typical of a Welsh winter. She went through a shortened version of her morning routine. First, a glass of tap water. Then she stretched through the twelve sun salutations from the Hatha, the only habit she’d kept up from her mam and her hippie hangers-on. Then half an hour of tae kwon do on an empty stomach, kicks and jabs. Krav maga, wing chun ending with regular squats and crunches.
She worked up a sweat, tried to push some of the anger and sickly guilt out, but found she couldn’t. At the end the sweat stung her eyes and tears still blurred them. She hated herself when she cried, it was something she thought she’d trained herself not to do any more. She took a long cold shower, focusing on a square of tile, nothing else, trying to make her mind go blank. Only a single image was left there. Floating up over the tile. Rhys’s face at the window of the dojo where she’d trained as a girl. His eyes watching her as she practised alone. He’d thought the tinted glass hid his face. He hadn’t known she could see him there. Of all the images of him this was the one which came back to her.
She went down to the kitchen for yoghurt, oats and frozen berries, then through to the living room. She didn’t pull back the curtains, made for the worn sofa.
She curled up a strip of card, adding a paper and some tobacco. Feeling through the pockets of her joggers, she found her bag of kanna and crumbled a pinch in. She’d switched to it from weed like others in the force since the new random testing had come in. An African herb used by Khoi tribesmen for hunting, it didn’t show up. It had much the same effect. The floor around the sofa was covered with empty smoothie bottles and all her notes. It took her a couple of minutes to find the remote.
Out of the darkness emerged the image of the alley. She saw the lights in the broken, lower window again. The two figures standing there, Rhys and the woman.
There was the struggle, Rhys pushing the woman back against the wall. Then he was hurrying away out of shot, down towards the water.
She ran it slowly, three more times, then frame by frame. She’d done this many times already, and as she closed her eyes she could see each frame as clearly as if it was still flickering in front of her.
She switched the remote to the next sequence, the shelters on the beach. Again she ran it slowly, then frame by frame.
Rhys approaching the man at the hut. The man passing over the bag of drugs. Rhys giving him the twenties, still clasped in his right hand.
Then Rhys hesitating, backing away, holding the broken bottle.
The man turning, Rhys moving in behind him, pushing
The rest of the notes took up less than a page. The wallet found on the body had led to a room in a derelict council block in Riverside, the place Rhys had called home in his final weeks. There were some photos included, a list of contents. It was a short list. A life come down to nothing, just a backpack full of Oxfam clothes and three battered books of poetry. And a single origami bird they’d found in the fireplace. She stared at it, couldn’t even make out what type of bird it was.
She felt the warm tears beading her cheeks, gathering against her collar. But she was wearing her visor still, the place was empty, no one could see the tears.
3
It was the first time she’d heard the sound in over a week. Somewhere at the edge of her consciousness a phone was ringing. Catrin pushed her head further down under the cold pillow, but the sound didn’t let up.
The ringing was coming from under the pile of dirty clothes in the corner. Shuffling unsteadily across the room, she reached down, felt through the pockets and, without looking at it, switched the handset off.
She’d woken late at Pugh’s cottage. It was almost ten, the light outside was the ash grey typical of a Welsh winter. She went through a shortened version of her morning routine. First, a glass of tap water. Then she stretched through the twelve sun salutations from the Hatha, the only habit she’d kept up from her mam and her hippie hangers-on. Then half an hour of tae kwon do on an empty stomach, kicks and jabs. Krav maga, wing chun ending with regular squats and crunches.
She worked up a sweat, tried to push some of the anger and sickly guilt out, but found she couldn’t. At the end the sweat stung her eyes and tears still blurred them. She hated herself when she cried, it was something she thought she’d trained herself not to do any more. She took a long cold shower, focusing on a square of tile, nothing else, trying to make her mind go blank. Only a single image was left there. Floating up over the tile. Rhys’s face at the window of the dojo where she’d trained as a girl. His eyes watching her as she practised alone. He’d thought the tinted glass hid his face. He hadn’t known she could see him there. Of all the images of him this was the one which came back to her.
She went down to the kitchen for yoghurt, oats and frozen berries, then through to the living room. She didn’t pull back the curtains, made for the worn sofa.
She curled up a strip of card, adding a paper and some tobacco. Feeling through the pockets of her joggers, she found her bag of kanna and crumbled a pinch in. She’d switched to it from weed like others in the force since the new random testing had come in. An African herb used by Khoi tribesmen for hunting, it didn’t show up. It had much the same effect. The floor around the sofa was covered with empty smoothie bottles and all her notes. It took her a couple of minutes to find the remote.
Out of the darkness emerged the image of the alley. She saw the lights in the broken, lower window again. The two figures standing there, Rhys and the woman.
There was the struggle, Rhys pushing the woman back against the wall. Then he was hurrying away out of shot, down towards the water.
She ran it slowly, three more times, then frame by frame. She’d done this many times already, and as she closed her eyes she could see each frame as clearly as if it was still flickering in front of her.
She switched the remote to the next sequence, the shelters on the beach. Again she ran it slowly, then frame by frame.
Rhys approaching the man at the hut. The man passing over the bag of drugs. Rhys giving him the twenties, still clasped in his right hand.
Then Rhys hesitating, backing away, holding the broken bottle.
The man turning, Rhys moving in behind him, pushing
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