square. In the corner was a wardrobe made out of plywood and a dressing table with a pink plush seat. This was the only furniture as far as she could see; the place smelt of beer and industrial detergent.
Then it came back to her. She had refused Thomas’s loaded offer to stay over and buzzed up to The Lion, a pub in town with rooms. The light outside told her it was already dawn and she had overslept.
Cat cursed and clicked into her messages. There was only one, from Thomas, telling her the dog search of the vicinity of the mine had been completed and nothing else had been turned up. He added that all the items found in the tunnel and the cottage had been bagged for prints and DNA. Some items had been confirmed by her employer at the café as belonging to Delyth Moses, others as Nia’s. He had been unable to get hold of Martin Tilkian, but one of the DCs had seen Esyllt wearing a similar T-shirt around town; as no other locals were students in Cardiff it was a fair bet that the T-shirt was hers. His voice sounded bored, as if he would rather have stayed in bed. Although he’d been shaken the night before on finding the bodies, it seemed that his compassion had passed.
She tried Martin’s number but his phone was still switched off. She left a quick message telling him to call. He had probably not slept, she thought, maybe he’d knocked himself out with pills. She went looking for a bathroom, found one and showered quickly. Downstairs no one was up. She made herself a quick breakfast in the kitchen. She felt shaky, her balance slightly out of kilter, but she knew it was the withdrawal from the tranks and tried to ignore it. She made herself a roll-up and sprinkled it with canna, already feeling she’d find it hard to keep it level through the day ahead. When standing in the kitchen, she kept one hand on the counter for balance.
At the police station she found the street silent, the two-storey terrace with its Chinese takeaway under morning mist. The station looked as quiet as the neighbourhood. The entrance to the holding cells at the back was locked behind a pull-down metal flap.
She tried the front door: locked, a small glass panel revealing only a faint light that appeared to be coming from somewhere deep inside. She knocked but there was no reply. She couldn’t see a bell. Finally, feeling along the chipped paintwork of the doorjamb she found a small bump. She pressed it without any particular hope.
The door was solid, so the buzzer was barely audible, but there was the sound of the door swinging open. Ahead she could see the reception desk. Behind it slouched the PC she had seen the previous night, the one who had yakked his lunch into the grass at the sight of the dead waitress. He seemed to have recovered his appetite by now, though: a small piece of escaped breakfast dangled from a frond of his moustache. He looked half-asleep still.
In front of him was an old magazine, the pages yellowed, the spine broken; some true-crime publication, one that had already done the rounds, by the look of it. She noticed how his hair was tousled at the back. He suppressed a yawn as he turned to face her.
‘DI Thomas?’
His face contorted as he lost the battle with a second, more powerful yawn, glanced down at the magazine, his attention focused on a black-and-white image of a woman sprawled on a grassy bank. She was young and attractive, wearing only underpants and bra.
He flapped his hand in the direction of the door she had just entered. ‘He’s at the Hopkins place.’
His posture relaxed, now he knew that Cat wasn’t looking for him, and he turned his attention back to the magazine. She pulled her phone from her jacket, clicked through to a map of the area. Thrust it across the desk. ‘Where is it?’
He took it from her, screwed up his eyes. First he held the phone right up to his face, then he extended his hand as far as it would stretch. Seconds passed.
Tapping the screen he pointed to an area roughly in
Then it came back to her. She had refused Thomas’s loaded offer to stay over and buzzed up to The Lion, a pub in town with rooms. The light outside told her it was already dawn and she had overslept.
Cat cursed and clicked into her messages. There was only one, from Thomas, telling her the dog search of the vicinity of the mine had been completed and nothing else had been turned up. He added that all the items found in the tunnel and the cottage had been bagged for prints and DNA. Some items had been confirmed by her employer at the café as belonging to Delyth Moses, others as Nia’s. He had been unable to get hold of Martin Tilkian, but one of the DCs had seen Esyllt wearing a similar T-shirt around town; as no other locals were students in Cardiff it was a fair bet that the T-shirt was hers. His voice sounded bored, as if he would rather have stayed in bed. Although he’d been shaken the night before on finding the bodies, it seemed that his compassion had passed.
She tried Martin’s number but his phone was still switched off. She left a quick message telling him to call. He had probably not slept, she thought, maybe he’d knocked himself out with pills. She went looking for a bathroom, found one and showered quickly. Downstairs no one was up. She made herself a quick breakfast in the kitchen. She felt shaky, her balance slightly out of kilter, but she knew it was the withdrawal from the tranks and tried to ignore it. She made herself a roll-up and sprinkled it with canna, already feeling she’d find it hard to keep it level through the day ahead. When standing in the kitchen, she kept one hand on the counter for balance.
At the police station she found the street silent, the two-storey terrace with its Chinese takeaway under morning mist. The station looked as quiet as the neighbourhood. The entrance to the holding cells at the back was locked behind a pull-down metal flap.
She tried the front door: locked, a small glass panel revealing only a faint light that appeared to be coming from somewhere deep inside. She knocked but there was no reply. She couldn’t see a bell. Finally, feeling along the chipped paintwork of the doorjamb she found a small bump. She pressed it without any particular hope.
The door was solid, so the buzzer was barely audible, but there was the sound of the door swinging open. Ahead she could see the reception desk. Behind it slouched the PC she had seen the previous night, the one who had yakked his lunch into the grass at the sight of the dead waitress. He seemed to have recovered his appetite by now, though: a small piece of escaped breakfast dangled from a frond of his moustache. He looked half-asleep still.
In front of him was an old magazine, the pages yellowed, the spine broken; some true-crime publication, one that had already done the rounds, by the look of it. She noticed how his hair was tousled at the back. He suppressed a yawn as he turned to face her.
‘DI Thomas?’
His face contorted as he lost the battle with a second, more powerful yawn, glanced down at the magazine, his attention focused on a black-and-white image of a woman sprawled on a grassy bank. She was young and attractive, wearing only underpants and bra.
He flapped his hand in the direction of the door she had just entered. ‘He’s at the Hopkins place.’
His posture relaxed, now he knew that Cat wasn’t looking for him, and he turned his attention back to the magazine. She pulled her phone from her jacket, clicked through to a map of the area. Thrust it across the desk. ‘Where is it?’
He took it from her, screwed up his eyes. First he held the phone right up to his face, then he extended his hand as far as it would stretch. Seconds passed.
Tapping the screen he pointed to an area roughly in
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