Sympathy for the Devil Read Free

he did tonight, it was like a self-fulfilling prophecy.’
    ‘Which lyrics?’
    ‘That one about the snow. I’ll walk across snow without leaving footprints .’
    ‘That could just be a reference to his anorexia.’
    ‘Anorexia? It’s an unusual condition for a man.’
    ‘Well, Face was an unusual man.’
    As they got closer to the water they passed several BBC vans down from Broadcasting House in Llandaff. Beside them Catrin recognised the Asian reporter from Sky News, his scarf the only point of colour among the columns of black-clad Goths silently filing past. On both sides of the road were more OB vans, their satellite dishes silhouetted in the dim light of the candles cupped in their hands by the crowd.
    As they neared the block where Face had lived the bodies tightened around the car. The headlights picked out a flash of feather boas and sequins, some girls rushing forward, their make-up smudged with tears. Locals from surrounding pubs were waving their arms at each other, bobbing forward in the quickening flows of the crowd. For a moment the road ahead appeared blocked by some form of queue. A man was standing in a doorway, letting in one person at a time. There was a glimpse of a stairway up to a flat, a view down onto Face’s street and the waterfront.
    ‘Typical. The guy’s only been gone five minutes and already someone’s making a few quid off him.’ Rhys held his warrant card out of the window, his hand on the horn. They passed a couple of uniforms standing beside some transparent evidence bags. Inside Catrin saw the limbs of a shop dummy, the type that would be light enough to float, a black leather jacket and wig. But no one seemed to be paying the find any attention. The crowd was pushing forward towards the end of the street. All eyes were focused now on a slim female figure standing on something raised behind the cordon.
    In the roped-off rectangle in front the press were gathered. The woman’s face was hidden by the mikes clustered around her. But Catrin already recognised the lean, taut figure and rod-straight black hair. It was Della Davies, the senior press officer from Area Headquarters.
    The woman rested one hand on the hip of her tight ski-pants, her patent jacket glinting in the lights. She looked like she was striking a pose at the end of a runway rather than briefing on a dead man.
    Catrin felt a sudden surge of anger. She’d heard the talk around the station, that Della had her eye on Rhys, that there was something between them. The call was that Della was the sort who always got what she wanted in the end, always got her man. Or woman: she walked both sides of the street. And at that moment Catrin didn’t want to look at Rhys. She didn’t want to see what his face might betray.
    Against the Dellas of the world she’d never stood a chance. She’d been brought up by a chaotic hippie mam, whose idea of beauty was henna, patchouli, tie-dye smocks. Scratch the surface, she was still gawky, childlike, that tomboy who never wore skirts, hid herself behind boys’ kit. Any man who stared at her too long, she thought there was something wrong with him, didn’t trust him. But Della – Della soaked up men’s gazes like it was her birthright, always looked like she’d just spent the last five hours in a day spa. Her effect was sleek as a doll, a perfect shiny shell but what was inside no one seemed to know.
    ‘Yes, for the last time, I can confirm Mr Face’s body has not yet been recovered.’ Through the freezing air Della’s throaty voice carried over the hushed crowd. The Sky reporter was jostling his way to the front, holding a mike up under her plumped-up lips.
    ‘So when the tides go out, where do you expect the body to be lying?’ he asked.
    ‘I can’t speculate on that. We’ve got some of the strongest tides in the world here. Sometimes it can take several months before bodies are found.’
    ‘Then why not let us through, what are you hiding back there?’ The voice was