Farrell looked at Cat, almost smiled when he saw her gawping at the photos. His expression said, Go ahead, take your time. Cat moved in closer, took a good look. One in particular made her think of the girls in the ‘Street Spirit’ videos. A woman in a long, flowing white robe moving through an immaculately manicured garden, arms outstretched, a beatific expression on her face, as if in the throes of some religious – or erotic – trance. Her mouth was parted, her face hinted that she was looking at the world for the first time and liked what she saw.
‘This is her?’ Cat asked, but it was a stupid question.
‘Yes. That’s her.’
Hetty Moon, a singer. At the chapel, the stage set was intended to evoke – or more precisely, to replicate – a nightclub, a smoky jazz singer’s dive. The poster on the castle wall had been the tell. If you want to evoke a castle, paint a castle. If you want to evoke a set pretending to be a castle, then insert something, in this case an advertising poster, that makes the pretence clear.
The lead Cat had worked with initially was that ‘Café Moon’ sign. She’d searched for nightclubs of that name. First in London, then nationwide, then internationally. When that search had become too frustrating, she switched tack and started searching for female singers, with the surname Moon. Five minutes and she had her: a minor club singer from the Nineties. Her stage name, Hetty Moon. Jimmy Farrell had once been her manager, was still her brother.
Cat’s eyes became more accustomed to the light. She noticed the three paintings on the wall. Two were traditional head-and-shoulders portraits. The third was a version of the garden scene in oils. In between the portraits Farrell had hung half a dozen prints of medieval paintings, all pietas.
Farrell coughed, the sudden noise startling Cat. It was his signal that her gazing was now over, that the visitor needed to talk.
‘Beautiful girl, your sister,’ Cat said.
He looked up at her, his fist clenched in front of his face as though suppressing another cough. He was weak, but his eyes looked canny and stubborn. She sensed a wounded awkwardness. She’d got this interview pretending to be a journalist for an obscure jazz magazine. She’d probably have to continue with that charade now.
For a few minutes she asked conventional questions about Moon’s singing career. She adopted a reverential tone, as if she were talking about someone whose importance the world had yet to see. Throughout Farrell murmured approvingly.
Cat sensed she’d done enough. ‘I heard she took up with a rich bloke,’ she said.
Farrell made another noise. Not a cough this time. A sudden cry of pain. He hunched over in his seat, bent down towards his lap. Revealed a bald patch on the top of his head, haloed by badly cut, greying hair. Cat moved over to him, put a hand on his shoulder. Her hand vibrated as his body shook. She waited for him to regain control.
‘He used to come and watch her every time she was on. Never missed a show, wherever she was singing.’
She leaned forward, squeezed his shoulder gently. ‘So who was he?’
He made a choking noise. ‘A big player, a high roller. She thought he was the love of her life. He took her all over the world. The Far East, South America.’
‘Very nice.’
‘Not so nice in the end. There was a yacht fire off Uruguay, Punta del Este, and her body came back in a box.’ Farrell pulled a crumpled handkerchief out of his pocket, used it to mop his eyes. ‘The man disappeared into thin air.’
‘Maybe not as thin as all that.’
She crouched on the floor next to Farrell’s chair, studied his face. Close up she saw traces of the same gene pool that had made his sister beautiful, but in her older brother these features looked distorted, as if drawn by a vicious cartoonist. He was too thin and his face was deeply wrinkled, tears still tracking down the runnels.
‘There must have been an investigation?’
‘The boat went down in disputed waters. Argies, Uruguyans, Brazilians, they all think they have a claim there. No one wanted to know. You’ve seen her sing, I assume? That’s why you’re here?’
‘No. Recordings, but not—’
The man groped around beneath his chair for a remote, aimed it at the TV.
Almost immediately the screen was filled with a close-up of Hetty Moon. Her face was so pale in the spotlight that it glowed, her eyes wide as she emitted a luminous smile. The camera pulled back to reveal a stage framed with black velvet curtains. At the front gaslights flared. Hetty Moon was dressed in a white dress that flowed down to the stage. In the background there were the battlements of the fairy-tale castle, the poster on top of the boulders that made the castle’s walls. It was the stage set she had seen in the chapel, only this was the original version, the real fake-castle not the reconstruction.
Hetty’s eyes closed. She moved to the mic, started to sing ‘Help Me Make It Through the Night’, her voice clear and true as a choirgirl’s. There was no sign of any jazz intonation, nor any accompaniment. At first she stood still, hands down at her sides. Then, at the beginning of the second verse, she raised them almost to shoulder height, made a series of fluttering movements.
Cat kept her eyes on the singer’s face, noticed how its mood was gradually changing. The transition from the joyous, ecstatic expression at the beginning of the song to her sombre demeanour at the end was subtle, perfectly timed. By the time she had finished her hands were back at her sides, her head bowed. Then there was silence for a few seconds.
The spotlight cropped her more closely.
Then slowly it started, the Devil’s Song: the version of it – Hetty’s version – which had bewitched the killer, made him find and coach girls to copy it. Hetty lifted her head, took a breath, moved into ‘Street Spirit’. She barely made it through the first ten bars before her tears started. She sang gently, the brutal words transformed into a dark, sad lullaby. Beautiful enough for angels; dark enough for Riley’s devil.
Cat listened intently, felt herself going too, felt the strain, the dark thoughts, the isolation, felt moved by Hetty Moon’s version of the song in a way that she had not with the other girls. For the first time she understood what Rhys had meant all those years ago when he’d said the song could have been written by God about the devil. She understood how Riley could have got transfixed by the song far beyond the point of ordinary journalistic professionalism. It was unremittingly hopeless, but intoxicatingly so.
Cat felt it too. Felt it here in the presence of Hetty’s version. She heard the same strange vocal tic in the mid-section of the song, the one she had first heard with Esyllt and the other girls. Hetty kept her hands by her sides. They had gradually clenched into fists by the end of the performance. Had he been there in the crowd, the killer, watching this very performance, cannibalising the experience into his own dark mythology? Moon held the last note, long enough for the spotlight to fade to black. The gaslights flickered to extinction.
Cat found she was rubbing her eye sockets with her fingers, her throat and eyes burning with unreleased tears. She looked round at Farrell. He was sitting on the edge of his chair, his expression rapt like a religious convert receiving his first communion.
‘Go now,’ he said, unable to bring himself to look at her. ‘Just go.’
He seemed too moved, too locked into the pains of his past to be with anybody. She wanted to comfort him, but she saw it was useless. She left the house and drove over to Hampstead Heath.
22
WHEN CAT ARRIVED, Thomas was stood by his un-marked car, cigarette in mouth, door open, listening to ‘Satisfaction’ on the car stereo. He was trying his best to look unflustered, but he must have started early to get here from Camarthen, must be itching to know why Cat had brought him here.
She parked, climbed out, walked towards him. Cat was rattled and knew they had to move fast, but she couldn’t resist a tussle with Thomas. ‘Cock rock, is it?’ she said, nodding towards the stereo.
‘It’s class, that’s what that is.’ He paused, wanting to needle her.
Wanting to pour cold water on her theories, but also too intrigued to see what Cat was intending.
She smiled. ‘You don’t believe me now, Thomas, but you bloody well will.’
They chose to drive the short distance to Morgan’s house. The mood changed. Neither of them spoke.
Nearing the house, Cat noticed that there were fewer journalists. She saw only a couple sitting on the pub terrace, smoking. She glanced at the windows of the hostel where no lenses glinted. It seemed that most of the media vultures had waited too long for their Morgan death shot and moved on, to circle a different imminent corpse perhaps.
‘Drive right up to the door,’ Cat told Thomas.
‘We going to do a ram raid, are we?’
‘Something like that. Trust me.’
They neared the house. Off to the side, the gate to Morgan’s private parking area was closed as before. The house still had an air of mourning. Nothing stirred. The blackness of the shutters and the paintwork glinted faintly, as if sheltering something ancient and implacable.
She didn’t have time to mess about. She was going straight in the front.
‘Stay in the car.’
Cat got out, walked quickly towards the house, swung the low black gate open, entered the small front garden and looked at the imposing front door. It was strange, just to be able to do that, walk right up and stand at Morgan’s door. But she knew it would no longer be that easy.
Cat pushed the polished brass bell. It gave a slow bass ring, but there was no response to the sound from within. She pushed again, could feel the eyes of the two remaining journalists behind her boring into her. Asking themselves why they hadn’t thought of that, just knocking on the door: maybe Morgan would open it in his dressing gown, give them an exclusive, make them a bacon sarnie. But that didn’t happen. No answer; the sound of the bell intoning in the cavernous silence of Morgan’s house made Cat feel lonely. She stepped away, tried the gate which led to the private parking area. It was locked, but there was an intercom on the gate post. She put her face to the intercom and buzzed. First there was nothing, then the line opened, although no sound came out. ‘It’s Hetty Moon,’ said Cat. ‘Back from the dead.’
There was a long pause then a rumbling. The big gate was slowly rolling open.
Cat turned, faced the car, registered the look of disbelief on Thomas’s face, tried to keep a look of triumph from her own. She nodded Thomas to drive in, and he edged the car through the now fully open gate into Morgan’s private parking area. Cat walked through. She stood now in a yard, lined with tidy bay trees. There was no one about. Thomas parked beside the row of three black BMW seven series, climbed out, walked over to Cat.
‘How the fuck?’ Thomas asked.
‘Friends in low places.’
To the side, French windows were closed and curtained. Ahead, an old trellis rose grew behind creepers which looked untended and dying. Cat nudged Thomas and pointed at the rose. Through its elaborate, maze-like shapes was just visible the livery of a Parcelforce Yamaha laying on its side. They looked at each other in silence, stepped towards it. As it came into view, they saw that someone had ploughed the bike straight through the window. Shards of glass and splinters of broken timber lay all about.
Cat felt the engine. ‘Still hot.’ There were keys in the ignition. She raised her eyebrows at Thomas. ‘We could bring in the locals?’
He hesitated, half-cautious, half-mischievous. Then said softly, ‘Cachau bant, Price. The locals can kiss my hairy Welsh arse.’ Cachau bant: fuck off.
Cat smiled her agreement, but they were both nervous. Even knowing what Cat knew, the bike wasn’t meant to be here. It was a rogue factor, dangerous.
Thomas stepped cautiously through the broken window, glass crunching underfoot. Cat followed. Inside, they waited until her eyes adjusted to the curtained half-light.
The ground-floor space was larger than it appeared from outside. It was decorated as a formal eighteenth-century drawing room. A rocaille mirror hung over an imposing fireplace, and at the other end what looked like a Canaletto took pride of place. The room smelt musty, as if it had not been aired for many years. Every surface she touched was thick with dust.
They moved towards the staircase. Her heart was thrashing inside her, but she felt calm, had felt no withdrawal symptoms for several hours. She felt like a robot of justice; but whether that justice complied with the laws of the land or not remained to be seen. From above there were no sounds. They came up into another large room. Between the curtains thin bars of light fell. What looked like a pool table lay under dust cloths. The leaves of a long dining table that could have seated several dozen were stacked against the wall. All this unused opulence waiting on the whim of a dying drug lord.
Cat continued upwards, aware of Thomas beside her. On the floor above, the gaps between the three curtains gave a clearer view of things. The internal walls had been removed to create a large study. At the far end of the room, a man was sitting in a swivel chair with his back to them in front of a television. The TV’s sound was off and the walls swam with its whirring light. To the right a small stairway led to the next floor. Cat listened but there were no sounds from above them.
‘Morgan,’ Thomas whispered, his expression unreadable.
He approached the figure. Cat sidled round laterally, keeping an eye on the door they’d come through. There was something about the silence of the room and the stillness of the figure that peopled the room with ghosts.
Nia Hopkins: tortured to death.
Delyth Moses: the same.
Esyllt Tilkian: missing and now, surely, to be presumed dead.
Katie Tana: dead, also tortured. A Croat girl who ended her life dumped in an Essex landfill.
Katie Marr and Sara Armitage: both missing. Both known to have been alive for some time after their first disappearance. But now? What, really, were their chances now?
And Rhiannon Powell: found dead and fox-bitten in her Blackheath garden.
‘Morgan,’ said Thomas again, this time louder, to the back of the man’s head. He didn’t move, didn’t reply.
‘It’s not Morgan,’ Cat said softly.
The door was clear, the room empty, the house silent. Cat felt secure enough to step right up to the chair, knowing that this moment would teach her about herself. Slowly, deliberately, she span the chair round.
The seated figure was naked, bound to the chair. His head was slumped down on his chest. This was the man known to the world as Griff Morgan: the man who’d been released from prison, who’d come home to die. But he’d never intended to die like this. Cat stepped back, taking in more clearly what her eyes had seen with their first glimpse. Every part of the man’s body was bruised. Around the genitals she could see deep serrations and burn marks. He had been tortured, just like the girls. Same technique. Same pitiless violence.
Cat checked his pulse. Nothing. But when she touched his neck there was still a faint warmth there.
‘Same MO as the girls,’ Thomas said, sounding composed. Cat pulled the curtains to and turned on a lamp. Thomas gestured towards the scorch marks and missing nails. The damage was almost identical to that visited on the girls. The body had the look of a baroque painting of a martyred saint.
‘Same routine,’ Thomas said. ‘Tortured until his heart gave out.’ He sounded almost too calm, too professional. Cat wondered about her demeanour: how she looked to an outsider.
Thomas straightened, looked at Cat.
‘What did you mean it’s not Morgan? That’s fucking Morgan, all right. Or was.’
Cat opened her mouth to answer, but the answer came from elsewhere.
‘Two stupid coppers. One more stupid than the other.’
Cat span around. She’d been too busy with the corpse to keep her eyes and ears open. A man was walking towards them from the foot of the stairway that ran to the upper floor. He was moving quickly, wearing the Parcelforce livery, and in the visor of his bike helmet she could see her wide eyes reflected. H
e lunged at her but she backed away, raising herself on to the balls of her feet, her fighting stance, ready for him now.
But the helmeted man had turned his attention to Thomas. He had a firearm in his hand and pulled the trigger. Across the room there was a flashing like miniature lightning. Thomas dropped to the floor racked in agony.
She did not have time to react, to check if Thomas was alive, because now the man was coming back at her, aiming the thing at her face. It was a taser, she saw. She moved back to the window, grabbed a curtain, ripped it down and pulled it across her in one movement. The lightning pulsed towards her, was dissipated by the swish of material. Groggily, she threw the curtain to the floor, heard Thomas groaning a few feet away. In the recharge lag she ran at the man, but glimpsed the flicker of a blade.
She grasped his wrist and kicked his legs from under him. The blade spun away. He fell, legs splayed on the floor. She kicked him in the balls, bent down and pushed the lower edge of his helmet onto his windpipe. The man lurched forward. Thomas was up now and staggering over to hold him. Thomas took the taser off the man and brought it down on the man’s chest in a crunching blow.
Cat roughly pulled his helmet off. It was Hywel Small, the mid-range wholesaler who’d led them to Morgan’s house. She looked in his eyes. Although he was wounded and vulnerable, he was still defiant. He winked and spat in Thomas’s face. Thomas punched him a couple of times until Small settled down.
Cat cuffed his hands behind his back. Thomas used his own cuffs to link the man’s bound wrists to the radiator behind.
‘There,’ he said, ‘this is nice, isn’t it?’
Small remained expressionless. Thomas seemed to consider his options briefly, then gave his prisoner another punch and a kick for good measure. ‘That’s for tasering me, you prick.’ Small just smiled back, said nothing.