The Score Read Online Free Page B

need to. You just have to nurture your talent, look after yourself, take care of your voice, your vocal chords, and trust that the rest will come
.
    And of course it will. That’s important too. Important enough that she writes it down, writing the word on a sheet of paper, surrounded by an ever-widening net of doodles
. Trust.
That’s what you need
.
    And when she checks her Twitter account, she’s gone from two followers to three. She clicks through to see who’s following her. She hopes it’s someone exciting
.

 
    3
    SO MUCH FOR the tourist season.
    Cat had only passed three people in the last five miles as the road curved between the barren, moor-like hills towards Tregaron. So much for her road trip. It was drizzling, fine soggy curtains of it drifting in from the hills. There was little oil on the road to slick, and as she gunned the Laverda the way narrowed. Hedgerows pushed in and tented over. Closer they came, and darker, forming bleak tunnels around her. She felt claustrophobic, but then her bike crested an incline and suddenly she was gazing down onto a hill-ringed view. The town was spread out like a piece of embroidery between wooded inclines.
    Cat crunched to a stop in a layer of gravel off a bend. She flipped up her rain-smeared visor and pulled a pouch of Drum out of the pocket of her leathers. Drizzle persisted down in the valley, but here and there the clouds were pierced by brash arms of sun, so that although the place was mottled light and dark, she could see Tregaron well.
    The west side looked genteel enough, the odd gingham tea place and café, and hopeful knick-knack shops trying to lure in the slender tourist trade. An architect’s eye might have noted the stout neo-Gothic of the town hall, but Cat’s cop’s eye rested on the trouble spots: the dishevelled housing stock on the town’s east side, and the pubs and slender alleys. That, she knew from a glance, was where the police work was done in this town: the minor domestics and post-pub tiffs, the small-time dealers hawking weed to bored mates.
    The police station was just visible at the northernmost point. Even from this distance it didn’t look much of a place, a small, boxy structure jockeying for room amongst the terraces. Except for the patrol car in front, it could have been a corner shop that had seen better days.
    Cat flipped her visor back down. She could imagine why a bereaved husband might seek the safety of a town like this to bring up his precious only daughter. But that didn’t explain the messages, the desperation. Perhaps Tregaron was not as innocuous as it seemed at first glance. She would need to be careful. The straightforward thing would be to drive straight to Tilkian’s house, using the address he’d given her, but as a rule Cat distrusted the straightforward. Gather all the facts you can, then act. That’s what Kyle had done down on the marina that night. That’s what every cop worth their salt would always do. She clicked the Laverda into gear and coasted down into the valley.
    She parked around the back of the police station and walked in by the holding cells to the rear. Magnolia paint was peeling off the walls. She flashed her warrant card at the baby-faced custody sergeant. The sergeant betrayed no interest. He nodded to her, motioning towards the swing doors before returning his attention to the
Western Mail
crossword.
    The corridor on the other side was no more than a few metres long, with two doors on either side. Windows on the left side of the corridor peered into a small internal yard. Three uniforms stood in the wet outside, two with steaming plastic cups, the third, somewhat younger, brandishing a cigarette while providing the punchline to a tall tale.
    ‘So I said, “I can fart Calon bloody Lân but that don’t make me Pavarotti!”’
    All three laughed, the teller of the tale more loudly than his small audience.
    Inside, there didn’t seem to be anyone around. One of the doors on the side of