And that’s when Rhys knows he’s about to die.
FIVE
NEW YEAR’S DAY | LEO
Leo scrolls through Wikipedia as he walks from the mortuary towards his car. Rhys Lloyd had been well respected in the music business. He hadn’t charted in a while – the top ten seemingly a constant stream of manufactured bands and ‘fresh talent’ – but a few years back the guy could do no wrong. Awards left, right and centre, and charity work, too: playing for laughs in a spoof version of The Pirates of Penzance for Children in Need. Lloyd was working class – which everybody loves nowadays – and even though he’d apparently lost his accent, he spoke glowingly in interviews about his ‘idyllic’ upbringing in north Wales.
Lloyd was a rags-to-riches poster boy, plucked from obscurity when Lesley Garrett’s agent was on holiday in Llangollen, and had popped into the Eisteddfod arts festival to find a loo. In the years that followed, Lloyd had released numerous albums, including a Christmas hit with Leona Lewis, crossing the bridge from light opera and musical theatre into something Leo is more likely to listen to. In fact, Leo realises, as he scans the list of tracks, he has listened to some of these. Liked them, even.
The brown rust-bucket Leo saw when he arrived belongs to Ffion. She’s sitting in the driver’s seat, staring into space. Leo raps on the glass and Ffion spends a few seconds trying to wind down the window, before giving up and getting out.
‘Feeling any better?’
Ffion frowns at him.
‘Some people put Vicks VapoRub around their nostrils,’ Leo says. ‘For the smell.’
‘Thanks, Columbo, but this isn’t my first rodeo.’
‘I thought maybe . . . I mean . . .’ Leo thrusts his hands into his pockets. Why is Ffion being like this? She’d been fun last night, they’d had a laugh. ‘I guess you don’t get a lot of crime out here, that’s all.’
Ffion is nodding sagely. ‘Yup, it’s all pretty low-key in north Wales. Mostly sheep, as you’d expect. If we’re not shagging them, ha ha, we’re rustling them!’
‘You’re taking the piss.’
‘No, you’re taking the piss, mate, resorting to lazy stereotypes. For your information, I was here last week for a PM on a woman who’d shot herself in the face. The rest of the week I was in court with an armed robbery. So enough of the big I am, yeah?’
Leo has a sudden thought. Is this because he didn’t message her? He’d asked for her number after they had drunkenly agreed that going to Alton Towers together would be oh my God so funny! and she’d punched it into his phone. This morning, after Ffion left his flat and driven home, she had no doubt expected a text from him. Sorry I was asleep when you left . . . had a great time . . . when are you free again? That sort of thing.
Leo takes a deep breath. ‘Look, I think we need to clear the air. Last night was . . .’ He stops. The right word is important. Not dismissive, but not meaningful, either. ‘Fun,’ he settles on. The corner of Ffion’s mouth lifts in a half-smile. Shit, is ‘fun’ too meaningful? He doesn’t want to lead her on.
‘Yeah, it was.’
Ffion’s spikiness softens and, despite himself, Leo feels the same heat he experienced when he first saw her on the dance floor last night. There’d been a sort of electricity about her, as though your hair might stand on end if you got too close. Ffion hadn’t played games, either; just returned his gaze with a cool, even stare, then stopped dancing and walked right up to him. ‘Hot, isn’t it?’
‘Very,’ Leo had replied. ‘Fancy some air?’
‘The thing is,’ he says now, ‘I mean, it’s not that you’re not – it’s just that . . .’ Leo falters. Ffion’s face has gone all crooked. Is she going to cry? Fuck. ‘I’m not really looking for a relationship.’ He finishes too quickly, the words gaining volume, so he practically shouts the last few.
‘Me neither.’ Ffion gives a brusque nod, as though concluding a business meeting. ‘That’s that sorted, then.’ She gestures to the mortuary. ‘Any hints on cause of death?’
Leo doesn’t know whether Ffion’s genuinely okay with this, or just sparing his feelings, but either way he’s grateful to be back on more comfortable territory. ‘You know what pathologists are like,’ he says. ‘There could be a knife sticking out of the bloke’s back and they’d still hedge their bets till the inquest.’