The Score (11 page)

Cat moved away from the door and took a closer look. Teen idols of a few years ago, official signed prints from the record companies. They gave the game way. This had once been Kyle’s foster-daughter’s room. Cat touched the surface of one. There was no irregularity in the texture of the card, meaning that it had probably been signed by computer. Cat had heard of the singer. He had started his own band, was trying to shed his manufactured, teen-idol image, replace it with a new indie sound, something less clean-cut.

The dressing table itself held little of interest, just a small set of brushes and a comb on a china tray. Cat stood, moved over towards the desk. Again, it was tidy. The room lacked the claustrophobic clutter, the yelpingly chaotic identity of normal teenage rooms, just as Nia Hopkins’s and Esyllt Tilkian’s rooms had done.

Perhaps Kyle had blitzed the room after Tilly’s death, denuding it of the girls’s things, so that it could function as a guest room, at the same time as a keep-house for some of Tilly’s more precious things. Who could say? Only Kyle, and Cat certainly wasn’t going to ask her.

From the desk, Cat picked up a stylised musical quaver on a pale wood base. A small plaque revealed that the prize for 2005 South-West Wales Schools Best Soprano (15–18 category) had been won by Tilly Booth. The metal quaver held no tarnish. Kyle still polished her foster-daughter’s prizes, or more likely instructed a house-keeper to do so. Cat put the trophy back down, positioning it carefully so that it was in exactly the same place.

Cat thought about Nia’s YouTube performance, Delyth’s guitar, Esyllt’s Urdd Eisteddfod victory, now Tilly’s soprano
award.
There was too much music here. Too much music and too much dying.

Cat moved quietly out into the passage. Further down, a half-open door revealed a refectory table long enough to seat ten. She doubted Kyle had ever filled the table, she did not come across as the most gregarious type, the barn was her hideaway, not a drop-in pad. At the end of the room, high windows led onto a patio area. The cry came again, coming from that direction. This time she was sure: not a bird, not an animal of any sort. The cry was human and getting stronger.

The doors were closed. Cat pushed the lock in the handle down and slid the door open.

The patio covered an area separated from the garden by high fencing. An annexe – a small bungalow – had been built on the opposite side. A holiday let, most likely. This was where the sound had come from – was coming from. She could still hear it.

The annexe’s back door faced the patio. The door was shut, but not locked. Inside it was darker, much darker than the main house, and damp, as if the place had been shut up for too long. On the right a door opened onto a small room containing two worn armchairs and a three-seater. A bulky TV sat on the floor, its plug resting in a coil to the side.

Ahead there was a corridor with a light flickering faintly. The door at the end was ajar. She pushed it further open. Different colours washed over the walls, magenta, a deep blue, then flesh tones, accompanied by low moans. She stepped hesitantly forward, expecting to see somebody in the room, her shoulder bumping against a storage unit that jutted out into the entrance.

There was nobody in the room. Six shelves stretched to the back, packed with reels of film in canisters. A matching unit stood on the right, though this held mostly film equipment, old
cine
projectors, a couple of rolled-up screens, a battered slide projector. Another stack of canisters poked out over the rim above the top shelf. A screen hung from a heavy-duty eye hook in the ceiling, stretched out tight with the help of a crude wooden batten that was partially visible through it.

On screen, a woman was being pinned down on a bed by two men, one gripping her shoulders while the other seized her flailing legs. The decor was sumptuous, the king-sized bed laid with exotic materials in intense colours so bright they hurt the eyes. The two men wore some semblance of historical Arabian dress. The woman was wearing a costume that evoked the seraglio, auburn hair escaping from an elaborate headdress. Her skin was so white under the lights that it was almost translucent.

Still holding her legs with one hand, the man standing at the foot of the bed took out a scimitar, cut through her jewelled top. The tip of the knife scratched her skin, creating a tiny bead of blood that slid slowly down her stomach. The two men shook with laughter. The woman struggled more vigorously. Her nipples stood out, deep pink against the pallor of her skin. Her captors looked across her body at each other. The pair twisted their arms, flipping the woman onto her stomach, the dominant male, the one who had cut off her top, ripped off her elaborate harem pants. He slapped her backside hard, a deep pink imprint appearing almost immediately. Her cries seemed authentic, the struggles now stripped of their previous theatricality.

Straddling her on the bed, the man was roughly parting her buttocks. Although it was becoming edgy, Cat knew this wasn’t a filmed rape, because while the woman was struggling, there was something excessively dramatic in her resistance that signified she was an actress. But where was its audience? The film was playing to an empty room.

She found the power button for the projector and turned it
off.
The film died in a flicker of yellow light and warm celluloid. The room suddenly seemed quiet.

Too quiet. She spun around, but still started when she saw the figure standing behind her in the doorway. Probert. Kyle’s muscle man. The expression on his face matched the man on the screen’s: dispassionate, as if he was choosing a joint of beef at the butcher’s.

He was barefoot, naked except for a pair of worn jeans. What had attracted Kyle to him was also quite obvious to Cat. He wasn’t a bad height for a Welshman, maybe five ten, five eleven, and well proportioned, something she hadn’t been quite so aware of when she had seen him in the pub with Kyle. He held her gaze, his expression giving nothing away.

‘I got a text, telling me to come.’

He didn’t say anything, just stood there, the face as immovably sculpted as the body.

‘I looked around, couldn’t see anyone. Came out here.’

‘Heard you used to train at Walter’s dojo,’ he finally said, dropping into a fighter’s crouch. ‘In Shen Chuan.’

‘Not now, for fuck’s sake,’ said Cat, thinking of her headache, her multiple bruises.

But Probert ignored her. He grinned, then lunged forward, knees bent, right arm shooting out straight, large hand like a spade, the left arm pulled back parallel with the right. He was squaring up, challenging her.

Cat groaned inwardly. She didn’t want to play his game, didn’t want to fight, didn’t want to do anything other than get her shocked and battered muscles into a warm bath. Still, his behaviour was a threat. Instinctively, Cat stepped backwards to give herself room, to plant her stance, but pain seared through her leg. Some bruise she hadn’t yet found out about.

Her right shoulder knocked against the metal shelving. Reels
fell
over, their metal canisters clattering loudly, startling her further.

She looked back at Probert. He was smiling now, getting off on her discomfort. Cat leaned away from the storage area, keeping her centre of balance, moving closer to him. She was ready to pounce. His arm darted out. God, he was quick. He grabbed her. And he was strong too, stronger even than he looked. He pulled her into him backwards, one arm tight around her neck, the other gripping her body, a hand finding her breast. She hated him for that, almost as much as she hated him for being quicker than her. He laughed quietly, puffs of air tickling her neck. He pulled in closer, rubbing his crotch against her. Cat twisted violently, ramming her elbow into his stomach. He gasped, released her.

Probert noticed Kyle before Cat did. He pulled away from Cat panting heavily. She straightened her clothes, trying to morph quickly into good subordinate officer. She waited for Kyle to fly off the handle – with her, with Probert, she didn’t know. But Kyle said nothing. It was hard to read anything in her impassive face.

Cat coughed, rubbed her neck. ‘Ma’am,’ she said, as normally as she was able. ‘You asked for me.’

‘
Asked
?’ said Probert loadedly, emphasising that an order was an order.

Kyle flicked her head sideways in Probert’s direction, telling him to leave. He reacted immediately, showing Cat that rank marked their relationship, even at their holiday home. Probert sidled out of the room, careful not to brush against Kyle. Probert raised a hand to Cat, smiled boyishly, made his way down the passage.

Cat looked again at Kyle and Kyle implacably returned her gaze. Then the poker face cracked. It was a smile of sorts that came next to Kyle’s face. ‘Pick your battles, Price.’

It could have sounded like a warning, but to Cat it sounded
like
advice, sounded affectionate almost. It seemed that Kyle knew what Probert was and accepted it.

‘I wasn’t expecting that one,’ Cat said, with a half-grin.

Kyle nodded, but her expression had changed. She didn’t look invincible, impenetrable any more. She nodded at the room around them.

‘This used to be her den, you know. Tilly’s. Now Mo uses it for his film archive.’ Those last two words were swaddled in invisible inverted commas, disapproving but – just about – accepting.

‘Tilly’s den.’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Cat glanced, without meaning to, back in the direction of the room with its polished trophy and photographs. Then she stopped, forcing herself to look at something else, anything else, at the cabinet on the right. On one of the low shelves two film canisters were propped against the wall, both labelled:
Salo
. Cat wasn’t a connoisseur of porn, but she knew about this: an Italian art house porn movie, which used scenes of extreme sado-masochism as a way of commenting about Italian fascism. Either that, or as a way to create nasty fantasies for the middle-aged male mind.

‘Why do you put up with it?’ Cat said gently.

Kyle moved her jaw, but said only, ‘Let’s get coffee.’

They walked back out across the patio into the main house. Cat sat in the kitchen while Kyle made coffee, bending over one of those complex Italian devices, all polished chrome and hissing steam.

They hardly spoke. Cat didn’t nudge, just waited. Finally, the coffee was made and served. Cat didn’t particularly want any, but took it anyway.

‘I hear Esyllt Tilkian’s father spoke to you,’ said Kyle at last. ‘He mentioned to Thomas there was a boyfriend he was worried about,’ she added.

‘Not a boyfriend necessarily. Wrong sort of age, in theory. I’d guess he was someone she hung out with. Sex may not have been involved.’

Kyle raised her eyebrows and Cat went on to explain what she had: the information from Tilkian, the sighting in Tregaron, the search for the Rover, her own experience in the lanes outside town.

‘He tried to run you down?’

‘I can’t be sure, but it felt that way.’

‘You got the reg?’

‘It’s on the ANPR list. Bet he dumps the car though.’

‘You OK?’

Typical Kyle. Check the case first, then check the officer.

‘Would have been more OK if your boyfriend hadn’t decided he needed a workout.’

Kyle grimaced at the word ‘boyfriend’. Cat wondered about what kind of relationship they had, then decided she probably didn’t want to know. But she didn’t need to worry that Kyle would unburden herself.

‘You checked Esyllt Tilkian’s room?’

‘Yes. Exceptionally tidy. Musical interests. No computer. We haven’t found a computer for the Moses girl either. And – sorry, ma’am, but—’

‘I know. The music thing. It’s a connection, isn’t it?’

Cat nodded. Kyle’s grief was still present. You could feel it in the room, in the house. Maybe that’s what Probert was: a coping strategy.

‘Also,’ said Cat softly, ‘this is going to sound stupid, but did you hear about the graffiti found down in the cottage by the mine?’ Kyle nodded slowly. ‘The reference to Morgan as the killer. I know it doesn’t make any sense.’

‘No. No, it doesn’t.’ Kyle’s response, though, was thoughtful,
not
dismissive. ‘Some big-time prisoners find ways to get messages out. A lot of them still control networks from inside jail, so in principle he could still be paying someone to do his dirty work. But my understanding is that he was too closely monitored to communicate.’

Cat said nothing. Her fears and suspicions still felt too confused and half-formed to share.

Then Kyle again: ‘How well do you know Tilkian?’

‘Now? Hardly at all. Back when we were at school together, we were best mates.’ Cat stopped. Outside, the light was grey heading into dusk. It had stopped raining, but the wind was up and Cat could see the rowan trees on the drive thrash and bend under its force.

Kyle raised an eyebrow. ‘But he got in touch with you after all this time?’

‘I know.’ Cat hesitated, then added softly, ‘We were close once. Not boyfriend–girlfriend close, but – well, as a teen I once tried to harm myself. Was about to do it. He stopped me. Physically held me back. I’m sorry, Gwen.’ Cat let herself use Kyle’s first name. Anything else seemed inappropriate, given the context. For a moment, the two women just sat in the darkening room, remembering the past – what they might have done, and what had been done.

‘Are you going to be OK on the bike? I can get a lift for you.’

‘I’ll be fine.’

‘I want you back in Cardiff. We’ll handle this the right way. By the book, using local officers.’

Cat opened her mouth to object. Kyle herself wasn’t local, after all – not local in an official capacity, at any rate, and had seemed happy to get involved. But technically she knew Kyle was right. Cathays was part of the South Wales Police. Tregaron was deep inside Dyfed-Powys, where South Wales had no reach. Still
she
was Kyle’s subordinate, even off their territory, and so she would have to return.

‘Yes, ma’am. But I’ll stay in touch with DI Thomas. He’s an old …’ What? Friend? Colleague? He was more than the latter, but their relationship was too prickly to be the former. She opted for ‘colleague’; she didn’t need to explain herself here.