Free Sympathy for the Devil by Howard Marks

evidence, eh? Another loser’s staggered out of a pub, skinful of Brain’s Bitter, and had a close encounter with Face – this sort of nonsense has been going on for twelve years. Next you’ll be telling me Elvis is running the gift shop on Barry Island.’
    ‘I thought you were a fan?’
    ‘No, I was never a fan.’
    ‘No?’
    Catrin paused, her attention distracted by a spider’s web in the corner of the hall. ‘Rhys was a junkie. He fell in the water. It happens. Whatever he was working on, it’s not important.’
    ‘A bit strange, don’t you think. First time you’re back for twelve years, and he winds up dead. You were even there on the scene, I heard.’
    ‘What do you think you know, Del?’
    ‘Meet me, let’s talk about it.’
    ‘We never liked each other, Del. Why would I want to do that?’ Catrin sat down on the ledge, took a deep breath, then laughed dismissively. ‘It’s not possible anyway,’ she said, ‘even if I wanted to. I’m in the middle of nowhere.’
    There was a background rustling, like leather brushing over leather. ‘I know. You’re in the cottage near the top of the hill. I can see it from here.’
    Catrin felt a sudden clamminess.
    ‘Where are you, Del?’
    ‘I’m down in the village, at the Red Lion. I’ll be waiting for you.’
    Catrin put down the receiver, then bent down and pulled the wire from the wall socket. Sitting back on the cold floor, she ran it through her fingers.
    Outside the window she could just make out the track disappearing over the brow of the hill towards the village. The forms of the trees were barely visible through the rain, the lines of the hills lost in the low clouds.
    Catrin eased her old Laverda through the muddy track, and out along the lane. The bike was jittery at low revs. She had to hold on hard to stop it losing grip. It wasn’t more than a mile to the village. She could easily have walked, but the clouds had darkened, promising sleet, perhaps snow.
    Briefly she checked her reflection in the side mirror. Her jacket was fraying, her hair hung down limply, almost obscuring her face. Her T-shirt was stretched tight over her small breasts, the words THE BAD SEEDS faded to a blur.
    The hedges along the road were threadbare, wearing winter colours. The lane came down to a fork, then ran between some firs towards a solitary pub. Its narrow drive was empty apart from an ancient van and a black Range Rover with a Cardiff dealer’s plate. She parked her bike beside it.
    The pub’s interior was dark, the walls covered with the usual horse brasses and prints of hunting scenes. In front of the bar three men were standing. All were dressed in corduroy trousers, thick jumpers, green wellington boots. They’d been talking to the barman and stopped when they heard Catrin enter. She walked around the corner, into the snug. At first sight it seemed to be empty. The walls were covered with more hunting prints. Beyond the last of these, she saw a woman sitting in the corner. Her back was turned to the door, a Bloody Mary, half empty, on the table in front of her.
    In this light, she thought, Della looked younger. She was wearing a pair of white Diesel jeans that showed off her pared-down figure, and a skinny leather jacket, the sort that doesn’t come under a grand; a matching Chloé buckle bag took up the whole seat beside her.
    Della was standing now, her smile revealing ice-white veneers where once there had been gaps and angles. In close-up, her lips were plumper than Catrin remembered, her forehead smooth and free of wrinkles. When Catrin gripped her upper arms, partly to steady herself, partly to keep her distance, she could feel the muscles shifting beneath her hands.
    Della moved her phone and handbag, patting the seat beside her and waiting for Catrin to sit. Catrin remained standing, resting her hands on the table. She looked straight into Della’s eyes, which were narrowed, slightly bloodshot, tired. Nothing like she remembered. She was