Sympathy for the Devil (15 page)

‘What was that then?’ she asked softly.

‘The truth is, I don’t know what it was. Over the years I’ve placed a lot of small ads in the local papers, offering money for any Owen Face related material. The guy who sold it to me said he found it at a house-clearance sale. I pressed him and he said that the house had belonged to a photographer who’d recently died, name of Gerard Butcher.’

‘So you think this photographer might have been behind the camera?’

‘Doubtful. I looked into this Gerard Butcher, it turned out he wouldn’t have known the band at that age. He didn’t even live in Wales then.’

‘So how would he have acquired the film?’

Powell shrugged. He was looking ashen, a little unsteady on his feet, though she imagined he must have watched the film many times before. ‘Butcher was an early fan, collected memorabilia. He was involved with the band through much of their career. Maybe he picked up the film among some other memorabilia, not knowing what he’d found. It’s impossible to know now he’s dead.’

‘Those shapes on the ground,’ Catrin said, taking a deep breath, ‘the limbs and the head. What are they? Animal parts?’

As Powell ran the sequence again, he was half looking away, she noticed. He paused at the frame of pale limbs, the head shape on the floor.

‘I had a specialist lab, the best there is, go over it,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s just too dark, impossible to see.’

He left the picture frozen on the image of the muddy path barely visible through the thick trees.

‘Could you make me a copy?’ she asked. ‘I’d like to have a closer look at the woodland, compare it to what we can see in Rhys’s photos. Try to get some matches on the vegetation types.’

Powell was staring grimly down at her. ‘That was the first thing I did when I saw them,’ he said. ‘I had the botanical specialist from the university in. He said both scenes show a similar type of deep woodland, all the plant forms consistent with the types in the national park in West Wales. We’re talking of hundreds of square miles of some of the most inaccessible terrain in the British Isles. He couldn’t even be sure the photos had been taken within Wales, the woodland appeared almost too virgin, as he put it. What he meant was there are no foreign species of plants in either scene. Apparently that’s quite unusual, like seeing a glimpse of the woodland as it used to be hundreds of years ago. There are still a few pockets of deep woodland that remain. But with the dimness, the poor picture quality, he couldn’t be more exact about the location.’

‘What about the specific plant types, couldn’t that narrow it down?’

There was a light slapping sound, as Powell dropped a copy of the botanist’s report beside her chair. ‘He identified the same plant types in the background of both scenes. Rowans, goat willow, downy birches, among the larger trees silver birches, sessile oaks.’

‘Any symbolism there? Those trees in conjunction?’

‘Plenty. From Celtic lore, from Anglo-Saxon lore, Wicca, you name it. But all very contradictory. Some to do with warding off evil spirits, some with conjuring them up.’

‘So the places in the woods weren’t just random, they were chosen.’

‘Or they had associations before the scenes were shot there. But when my botanist did checks with Cadw and the Forestry Commission, he drew a blank on the location. All the ancient woodland is monitored fairly closely, all plant types charted, particularly those areas with past religious or cultic significance. But none of the existing databases had matches for these plant types in this combination in any known woods. It looks like the place has never actually been mapped, or like he said, as if we’re looking at snapshots of an environment that doesn’t exist in that form any more.’

‘So what about this Butcher character, the photographer, any leads there?’

‘Nothing. As I said, Butcher may not even have known he had the film.’ Powell reached over to an envelope that lay on the table. ‘He just hung around the band a lot, maybe filched things now and then that he thought might later have value as memorabilia.’ He pulled out a sheaf of photographs and handed them to her. ‘He took these photos just before Face’s apparent suicide. They were for a spread in one of the glossy music monthlies.’

Catrin had seen the pictures, they’d been shown on all the news channels the night Face had disappeared. Face was sitting on an old sofa, hands folded in his lap, his posture prim as a debutante at a charm school. He was wearing a pair of striped pyjamas, all his hair shaved off apart from a thin stubble on his pale cheeks.

‘Two weeks after these were taken Face gave his final gig,’ Powell said. ‘A couple of hours later his car was found at the services near the Severn Bridge. The rest is history.’

‘What made Face do it? Assuming he topped himself, that is.’

Powell thrust his hands in his pockets, raised his shoulders.

‘The most common theory is that it was an unrequited love affair with Leigh Nails. But don’t let all the frocks and kohl fool you. There’s no evidence either of them were the slightest bit gay. The band just flirted with a bi image on stage – camped it up – smart move if you’re attracting an army of teenage girls. They love all that gender-bending stuff.’

He switched off the DVD.

‘As you can imagine, there are plenty of other theories out on the fanzine sites. Most along the “he didn’t jump, he was pushed” lines.’

From the desk he took out a wafer-thin laptop. Catrin stood behind him as he clicked to the bookmarked ‘Official Seerland Fan Club’ portal. On the site was a photographic collage of Seerland throughout their history. He scrolled down to the chatroom icon.

‘The hardcore fans who were there from the beginning have their own theory about Face’s disappearance. A lot of them sound like men in their thirties who’ve knocked about a bit, know something of the music business. Most of them seem to believe that Face was taken out because of some internal band rivalry.’

‘Isn’t that a bit extreme?’

Powell nodded.

‘Sure, they argued from time to time like any band. But saying that one of the others would have considered offing Face is not supported by any evidence whatsoever.’

‘There
were
differences within the band, though?’

‘Not really. Only minor ones, and only ever artistic. In reality they all got on well. If you look closely at the interviews at the time you see that Face never took much of a position on musical issues. He seems to have been careful to avoid conflict. The band rivalry theory put about by the older fans just doesn’t stack up.’

He had scrolled down the chatroom page so that he could point out the thumbnail pictures posted by the regulars. Some were hairy, roadie types, but others looked like sharp-suited businessmen.

‘Then there’s the predictable conspiracy theories about evil record companies.’ He laughed, a sharp, derisive sound.

She could see he wasn’t taking this line of inquiry at all seriously. ‘So who were Seerland signed to then?’

‘They were signed to Euphoric, this small independent label. But they were snapped up by Sony, just before they hit the big time. The word on the street was that the boys at Euphoric were less than pleased.’

‘You sound sceptical?’

‘The music business is pretty cut-throat. I know for sure Seerland wasn’t the first band to bail out on Euphoric just before they made it big. And feeling vengeful enough to murder one of the band members? I don’t think so.’

‘But it’s grounds for a grudge?’

‘Except that Face had nothing to do with the decision to sign with Sony, and Euphoric would have known that.’

‘How come? Face was the front man.’

‘But Face was completely indifferent to financial issues. Everyone knew that. He was an unworldly figure, distant, as I said. He didn’t have many interests outside the band, and even there his role was rather a vague one.’

‘So no real suspects then?’

‘None at all. The truth is, Face’s life was quiet, almost solitary. It’s difficult to see how he could have made any enemies.’

Powell picked up his pipe again. ‘All these theories have one thing in common,’ he said. ‘They all assume Owen Face is dead.’

‘You don’t believe that?’ Catrin saw he was rolling the pipe along the desktop, trapping it under his hand just as it came to the edge.

‘I’m not sure,’ he said. ‘But I’m pretty sure that if he is, he didn’t die jumping off the Severn Bridge.’

7

Powell wanted to leave immediately for the bridge, but Catrin told him she needed an hour alone first. She asked him to meet her at a café she’d passed on the seafront. It had looked empty on the drive in.

She told him curtly not to bring his dope box, that she’d do the driving. He said nothing, only smiled. He didn’t seem to mind her giving him instructions or if he did, he hid it well.

She asked him then if he was bringing his bodyguards.

‘You’re trained in close protection, advanced level. I’ll take my chances.’ He was showing off a bit, she thought, showing he still had access to internal police files. It wasn’t a surprise that he still had friends in the force, she let it pass. ‘And call me Huw from now on,’ he said.

She did a drive-by. The café was still empty. She parked the Laverda back at Powell’s office, took an indirect route through side streets to the seafront. No one was visibly following.

She sat at the rear, away from the window and the counter. The first thing she did was to call a number in the west, the number of the photographic shop whose sticker had been on Rhys’s photographs.

The answerphone message told her the shop only ran an automatic, drop and pick-up service in the winter months. This didn’t surprise her. The towns in the far west were quiet enough even in the summer. In the winter, they were ghost towns. But if there was a drop-off service, someone must be coming in to check the machine.

She ran a Google map on her phone, found the shop opposite, some kind of olde-worlde arts and crafts place. She called the number. After an age, a gentle Pembrokeshire voice answered in Welsh. The line was bad, perhaps it was the storms.

Catrin explained she’d had a problem with some wedding photos. She asked for the home number of the owners of the photographic shop. The voice told her they were away on holiday for another week. They came down to the shop on Saturdays to empty the machine.

She scrolled down, put the date in her diary. Looking up, on the next table she saw Della’s face, staring back at her.

Someone had left a copy of the
Echo
open at Della’s celebrity column. Either Della didn’t have much to write that week, or her vanity had got the better of her. The entire top third of the page was taken up by a picture of the columnist.

Della was lying on a lounger in a large Victorian-style conservatory. She was dressed in a flimsy trouser suit which looked as if it was made of silk. The jacket was short, the trousers cut low. The deep tanned flesh between revealed a belly stud. It was an old picture, Catrin guessed, probably airbrushed too.

The image triggered a half-unconscious memory, a connection with something she’d seen in a different context. But for the moment she couldn’t place it. The piece beneath was a thin story about a married female marathon runner who’d been suspected of an affair with her trainer, a former Olympian and well-known lesbian. No loyalty, not even to the sisterhood. There was a picture of both women on a sunlit racetrack, arms round each other’s broad shoulders.

Then a short article inset into the column at the bottom of the page caught her eye.
Face Photos Are Fakes
. It was a single paragraph only, the sort of thing most readers wouldn’t even notice before they turned the page. It said little, only that some photographs that had come to the attention of Della’s agency had been dismissed as fakes. There was a small reproduction of one of the photos Della had already given her. Three men in robes standing in a wood. The details were barely visible. It was a space filler, nothing more. The article didn’t even give reasons for dismissing the photos as fakes. Nor did it state the source of the photos.

Usually in pieces about fake sightings, the picture took centre stage. The alien, the Loch Ness Monster, the missing star. But here the image was barely reproduced at all. She wondered why Della had even bothered. The pictures had come to her from Powell. He was potentially a dream client for her, a cash cow. This kind of casual, unsupported dismissal of his evidence would only irritate him.

Catrin looked up and saw an old woman standing over her, waiting to take her order. She asked for a coffee, glanced out at the street as the woman went to get it. No sign of Powell yet, he was taking his time. She felt a faint tingle of anxiety. She hadn’t seen anyone in the streets between his office and the front, but it had been misty. Five minutes more, then she’d go back looking for him.

In the background on the radio a local talk jock was going on about how soft it was in prison. ‘There are so many drugs inside, lads are coming to the nick to score like,’ the raised voice said.

‘Right, and call girls are getting in, pizza deliveries, you name it.’ His guest sounded croaky, as if he had a cold. ‘Costs more to keep the buggers inside than in the bloody Ritz.’

‘And when they get released, the paedos, the child killers, they give them a brand new life. For their own protection, saves them from the lynch mob like.’ He laughed as if it caused him pain. ‘New name, makeover, nice new pad, the works.’

‘Wouldn’t mind that myself,’ the guest said, ‘a new life.’

‘Except for them it isn’t a new life, is it? More of a new disguise. Underneath they’re just waiting to come out to play again. Some even get plastic surgery from one of them top Harley Street surgeons, all on the taxpayer, you couldn’t make it up.’

She’d heard all these stories before, knew them for what they were, urban myths, bar talk. It was true that a few notorious criminals, like the Jamie Bulger murderers, were released secretly, given new National Insurance numbers and identities. She didn’t approve but she saw why it was necessary. But the rest was just Chinese Whispers, unsubstantiated rumours, paranoid fantasies.