Morton climbed down some steps to talk to a fellow smoker while Holder stayed on the patio, watching. To the left, a cylindrical metal refuse bin stood against the wall, its lid open to the elements and filled with sand. A dozen stubbed-out cigarette butts were already buried end on. Holder stood, watching a young kid practise putting, merrily vaping up his apple-flavoured concoction, pretending to contemplate the golfing world at his feet and taking very little notice of the players who sauntered up to the putting green. Seeing, but not registering, the man in the lime-green golf sweater, Nike hat and sunglasses with his back towards him who seemed preoccupied with his set-up over the ball in readiness for a putt.
Morton smoked aggressively, occasionally laughing at something said or possibly his own joke, the laugh segueing into a thick, chesty cough. The other smoker walked off. Six minutes after walking out, Morton took one long, final drag, blew out the smoke, exchanged a quip with one of the players on the putting green and stubbed out the cigarette. Holder noted its position, trying not to stare. There was a brief moment when Morton’s eyes and his met, but it was fleeting and meaningless. Holder waited until Morton had gone inside, then he stepped down off the patio and turned towards the litter bin, only to find the man in the lime-green sweater and sunglasses already there, leaning over it, peering at the butts.
‘Excuse me,’ said Holder in a harsh whisper.
The man looked up and over his shoulder, smiling. He was wearing golf gloves and had a plastic evidence bag in his hand. At the bottom of the bag was a cigarette stub. Holder looked from the bag to the face, confusion rendering him momentarily speechless. He felt a hand on his elbow and the man walked him away from the patio.
‘Good round?’
‘What?’
Three steps and his elbow released, Holder watched as the sunglasses were whipped off to reveal Woakes under the hat.
‘Sarge?’ Holder stepped away, blinking, befuddled.
‘Sorry, Justin, mate. You won’t believe it but an old mate of mine plays up here. So I thought, why not? Help out, you know. Borrowed the kit and, Robert’s your father’s brother.’
Holder looked at the evidence bag. ‘You’re sure you’ve got the right one?’
‘Of course. I was watching him all the time.’
Holder exhaled. ‘Sorry, it’s just that DI Gwynne said—’
‘I know. I didn’t want to steal your thunder, Justin. Not trying to pull rank either. It was too good a chance to miss, is all.’
Holder looked distinctly unconvinced.
‘Look, I’m not trying to make you look a mug, honest. At the end of the day we’ve got a result, yeah? Bish bosh. And Gwynne would have wanted me to make sure, you know?’
Holder blinked. He didn’t know.
‘Great, now, come on. Where’s Ryia?’
‘She’s inside waiting for me.’
‘Right. It’s my round. We should do shots?’
Holder’s face was a picture.
‘Only kidding, Justin. Come on, let’s give her the good news.’
Eight
That evening, Kate dragged Anna into the Milk Thistle. At a little after eight, it was still early for a Saturday night and the cocktails weren’t cheap, two good reasons why they succeeded in grabbing a corner table in the first-floor bar with low, opulent, green leather chairs. The crowd was noisy, young and not bothered by the prices. Oak-panelled walls, weird rabbit portraits and a speakeasy vibe, by ten it would be heaving. But for now, it was still manageable and they could at least hear each other speak.
They’d met for a rare afternoon out. Rare in that no children were involved and it was as much an indulgence for Kate as it was a ‘treat’ for Anna. Rob, Kate’s husband, now running the family haulage business, was over networking at a commercial vehicle shindig and they’d caught the train. Rob had gone to play with trucks, and Kate, having offloaded both of her children with their grandmother back in Wales, met Anna in town for an afternoon of shopping, which usually meant Kate daring Anna to try on clothes she’d never consider for herself normally and then telling her how fantastic she looked in them. Some shoes, a cocktail dress and a sale handbag were the result. Kate had come away with plenty more swag, none of which was from a sale. Rob was doing well.
They’d dined at the bar in the Riverstation on Harbourside early. Kate wasn’t staying overnight – that would have been too much to ask of their mother – and Rob had arranged to meet her at ten to nine at Temple Meads to catch the return to Cardiff.
‘We’ve got ages, yet, babe,’ Kate said as they taxied back into town. Anna knew there’d be no point arguing. Kate was nothing if not determined when it came to having a good time.
The Milk Thistle’s daisy fizz was a heady mix of pear syrup, Tanqueray gin and some sort of bubbly. And even though there’d been wine with the meal, these were slipping down way too easily. Kate looked totally at ease, as if she did this sort of thing regularly. Anna knew she didn’t unless she had a doppelg?nger who looked after her two toddlers while the real Kate hit the town. But this was Kate’s sort of place, not Anna’s. If asked, Anna would be hard pressed to tell anyone where her sort of place truly was.
Anna glanced around. The bar sparkled with groups of people. Some couples, but mainly groups. Young women dressed – barely – in whatever fashion the current crop of reality show vixens were sponsored to wear, seated at the tables. The men, all gym-trimmed, tanned, white shirts and too tight jackets at the bar. This was how the evening courtship ritual started. Both groups ever hopeful.
‘Anything there you fancy? You’ve got to get back on that ’orse, girl.’ Kate delivered the statement in an exaggerated valleys, dropped ‘h’s accent that drew a few looks from the nearest group of men.
‘Stop it,’ Anna warned. Kate’s teasing barbs about Anna’s paltry dating history were a running theme. Whereas Kate, married with two children and still drawing stares, thrived in these environments, Anna found them barely tolerable, and then for only short periods. Relationships were not on Anna’s current agenda. People in general, come to that.
Kate giggled. ‘Oh, God, remember when we sneaked out to Simon’s eighteenth at the rugby club?’
‘You sneaked out. I had an invite.’
‘Yeah, but we were both underage.’
‘I was underage by six months; you were only fifteen.’
‘Dad went ballistic.’
Anna smiled. Ballistic, as applied to their father, was hyperbole of the nth degree. It had not been in Tom Gwynne’s nature to be ballistic. From what Anna could remember, he’d given them both a stern talking to, despite the fact that Anna’s only motivation had been to see and hear a local band that Simon had hired for the gig. Their mother, on the other hand, launched into a vehement and sustained dressing-down, ending up with the dread and dire warning that they would not be welcome in the house if they ever got pregnant.
‘Mum was the one who went ballistic,’ Anna corrected her.
‘Mum was always going ballistic. What about that time I lost a flip-flop out of the window of the car in north Wales. I thought she was going to have a stroke.’ Kate began giggling.
‘You were twenty-two at the time,’ Anna said.
‘Shut up. I was seven.’
‘She made Dad turn the car around and fetch it.’
Kate doubled up. After several intakes of breath and in between groans she managed to say, ‘She was such a witch.’
Is such a witch.
‘It’s a wonder she didn’t take a wand out and shout “Accio flip-flop”.’
Kate’s laughter erupted, loud and sustained. Anna watched her and joined in. Subdued but genuine. Kate caught it. ‘It’s so good to see you smile, Anna. We really should do more of this.’
Anna nodded. She was right. It had been a long slog after her attack. And though she got some relief from imagining that the pink rubber thing she kept in the bottom drawer of her bedside table might actually belong to one of several hot bodies she could see on screen in any of her favourite films, it wasn’t quite enough.
‘Hey, Anna, I wasn’t expecting to see you here.’
The voice came from behind her. She saw Kate’s eyes flick up and then down, her eyebrows raised in puzzled surprise. The club chair made it awkward to swivel but then the man who’d spoken walked around to Anna’s line of sight.
Woakes held a glass in his hand. Fizzy water, Anna guessed.
‘Dave? What are you doing here?’
Woakes shrugged. ‘I’ve arranged to meet an old mate.’
‘Oh, this is Kate, my sister. Dave Woakes, our new detective sergeant.’
He leaned over to shake Kate’s hand. An aroma oozed off him. Notes of leather and bergamot.