blood.
‘Anyone else in town a student at that college?’
Thomas shook his head. ‘Not that I know of.’
‘Looks like Esyllt was here too,’ she said. ‘All three of them, seems like.’
‘This will all need going over by the SOCOs,’ Thomas said, looking out of the window beyond the garden. The dogs were standing on the edge, shuffling, their breath clouding the air.
On the table, there was an A3 sheet of paper. Cat picked it up by the corner. Under it were several ‘Free Morgan’ T-shirts. The face was instantly familiar from the YouTube footage at the marina. Familiar from newspaper photographs. Familiar from student posters and cartoons.
The portrait showed Griff Morgan as he was that day of the bust. Simultaneously dangerous and alluring. It had all the glamour of sin.
The image was predictable enough in the setting. Morgan was a popular icon, especially so with the counter-cultural young. But then as she moved away, she felt Thomas tap her shoulder and saw he was pointing to the inner wall. The whole central section had been covered with scarlet graffiti. It looked as if it had been done hastily, with no interest in its artistic merit. There was a Kilroy figure staring morosely over a wall, with the typical droopy nose and wide peeping eyes. The words underneath read:
Griff Morgan was here and he did the girls. Chwith
.
Thomas stared at it wide-eyed.
‘Fuck you make of that?’ she said.
Thomas’s face twisted, though his expression was hard to read. ‘Looks like someone’s trying to yank our chain. Matthews said Nia has been dead over two days, and the other girl definitely has. That rules out Morgan. Morgan was still in a maximum-security prison at the time these girls died. Probably the second most guarded man in Britain after the Yorkshire Ripper. Not the most likely murder suspect, is he?’
‘No, not exactly.’
Cat palmed her phone and waited for a signal. The online version of the
Echo
article about Morgan’s release flickered over her small screen. His movements were described hour by hour and fully accounted for. Morgan had been released the previous day at noon, a pack of journalists had been waiting for him and followed him down in convoy to the film set, then back to his house to Hampstead. It was inconceivable that he had made the five-hour round trip to Tregaron, and even if he had, it would have been after the girls had died.
Thomas was right, of course. A celebrated prisoner in a maximum-security prison was not a likely murder suspect. But the house they stood in looked as if it had been used by the dead girls, Nia and Delyth. If the grey T-shirt matched back to Esyllt, then the house had been used by two dead girls and one missing one. And someone in the house had named Morgan as the killer. It made no sense, but Cat knew that life often didn’t.
One of the things you learn early: music is never only about music
.
That’s what they don’t tell you when you start. You think it’s about the purity of your voice. The ability to hit a note and hold it. The ability to find the heart of the song and let yourself dissolve into the song, let the song merge with you
.
And then, slowly, you figure out that music is about more than that. It’s an industry. Men in suits who want things from you. Men in suits who smile at you with their teeth just as they’re still doing sums in their head
.
You don’t have to be a genius to do the maths on that particular combination. But she’s no fool. You don’t get anywhere by hiding. You just have to keep your wits about you, know what you want
.
She looks back at that Twitter message
.
@purevoice94: Saw your YouTube film. You have REAL talent
.
How do these things start? Answer: you never know. It could start any way at all. A song in a nightclub. A YouTube video. A message on Twitter
.
It could start right now
.
5
CAT WOKE. THE room was narrow, one wall taken up by a window with a view between thin curtains onto an empty
‘Anyone else in town a student at that college?’
Thomas shook his head. ‘Not that I know of.’
‘Looks like Esyllt was here too,’ she said. ‘All three of them, seems like.’
‘This will all need going over by the SOCOs,’ Thomas said, looking out of the window beyond the garden. The dogs were standing on the edge, shuffling, their breath clouding the air.
On the table, there was an A3 sheet of paper. Cat picked it up by the corner. Under it were several ‘Free Morgan’ T-shirts. The face was instantly familiar from the YouTube footage at the marina. Familiar from newspaper photographs. Familiar from student posters and cartoons.
The portrait showed Griff Morgan as he was that day of the bust. Simultaneously dangerous and alluring. It had all the glamour of sin.
The image was predictable enough in the setting. Morgan was a popular icon, especially so with the counter-cultural young. But then as she moved away, she felt Thomas tap her shoulder and saw he was pointing to the inner wall. The whole central section had been covered with scarlet graffiti. It looked as if it had been done hastily, with no interest in its artistic merit. There was a Kilroy figure staring morosely over a wall, with the typical droopy nose and wide peeping eyes. The words underneath read:
Griff Morgan was here and he did the girls. Chwith
.
Thomas stared at it wide-eyed.
‘Fuck you make of that?’ she said.
Thomas’s face twisted, though his expression was hard to read. ‘Looks like someone’s trying to yank our chain. Matthews said Nia has been dead over two days, and the other girl definitely has. That rules out Morgan. Morgan was still in a maximum-security prison at the time these girls died. Probably the second most guarded man in Britain after the Yorkshire Ripper. Not the most likely murder suspect, is he?’
‘No, not exactly.’
Cat palmed her phone and waited for a signal. The online version of the
Echo
article about Morgan’s release flickered over her small screen. His movements were described hour by hour and fully accounted for. Morgan had been released the previous day at noon, a pack of journalists had been waiting for him and followed him down in convoy to the film set, then back to his house to Hampstead. It was inconceivable that he had made the five-hour round trip to Tregaron, and even if he had, it would have been after the girls had died.
Thomas was right, of course. A celebrated prisoner in a maximum-security prison was not a likely murder suspect. But the house they stood in looked as if it had been used by the dead girls, Nia and Delyth. If the grey T-shirt matched back to Esyllt, then the house had been used by two dead girls and one missing one. And someone in the house had named Morgan as the killer. It made no sense, but Cat knew that life often didn’t.
One of the things you learn early: music is never only about music
.
That’s what they don’t tell you when you start. You think it’s about the purity of your voice. The ability to hit a note and hold it. The ability to find the heart of the song and let yourself dissolve into the song, let the song merge with you
.
And then, slowly, you figure out that music is about more than that. It’s an industry. Men in suits who want things from you. Men in suits who smile at you with their teeth just as they’re still doing sums in their head
.
You don’t have to be a genius to do the maths on that particular combination. But she’s no fool. You don’t get anywhere by hiding. You just have to keep your wits about you, know what you want
.
She looks back at that Twitter message
.
@purevoice94: Saw your YouTube film. You have REAL talent
.
How do these things start? Answer: you never know. It could start any way at all. A song in a nightclub. A YouTube video. A message on Twitter
.
It could start right now
.
5
CAT WOKE. THE room was narrow, one wall taken up by a window with a view between thin curtains onto an empty
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