Next to him, Leo feels Ffion tense. ‘What did you do?’
‘Got the fuck out of there, of course.’
‘That must have been upsetting,’ Ffion says, her voice level. ‘It must have brought everything back: all the bullying at school, all that emotion, all that anger.’
Ceri holds Ffion’s gaze. ‘I didn’t kill him.’
‘Who did, then?’ Ffion says.
The solicitor interjects. ‘Officer, you’re not seriously asking my client to do your job for you?’
But Ceri shrugs. ‘Spoiled for choice, aren’t you? Yasmin’s a money-grabbing bitch, for a start. It wouldn’t surprise me if she killed him for his money. Do you know what she gave me as a Christmas tip? A used Primark card with three pounds forty-nine left on it.’
‘If bad tipping makes you a murderer, half the population would be in prison,’ Leo says, earning himself a frown from Ceri’s solicitor.
‘Chuck a stone in the lake,’ Ceri says, ‘and the splash’ll hit someone who’s glad Rhys Lloyd is dead. I don’t care what they said when he was alive. Even Steffan was mouthing off about him, and he was sucking up to Rhys something chronic all last year.’
‘Mouthing off?’ Ffion says. ‘When was this?’
‘It was the day Rhys gave me the party invites to hand out – like I was his personal butler, for fuck’s sake.’ She screws up her face. ‘Day after Boxing Day, I think. I left them in the pub and Steff was off on one about Rhys.’
Leo leans forward. ‘Saying what?’
‘He was talking to Huw. Ellis. Ffi’s—’
‘Huw Ellis,’ Leo says quickly. ‘The builder, right?’
‘They were saying something about instructors, and boat hire. I wasn’t really listening, I just wanted to get home and start painting, but I remember thinking Steff sounded really pissed off.’ Ceri leans back in her chair. ‘You want my advice? You need to look closer at Steffan Edwards.’
FORTY-THREE
CHRISTMAS EVE | FELICIA
This is going to be the worst Christmas ever. Last year Mum said they were too young to go to the pub with their mates, even though everyone was going, and Barnaby in Year Eleven had sorted them all out with fake IDs.
‘Next year,’ Yasmin said. ‘Sixteen isn’t so bad.’
But where are they? At the bloody Shore. A fat lot of good Barnaby’s ID is now.
‘Seren says we could go to the pub in the village.’ Tabby looks at the message on her phone, sounding out the Welsh. ‘Y Llew . . . how do you say the double “l” again?’
‘Who the fuck cares?’ Felicia thumps her pillow. ‘Esme’s dad’s put five hundred quid behind the bar in a private room at the Frog & Hammer, and the whole of Year Eleven’s going.’
‘You hate Esme.’
‘That’s not the point!’
Yasmin pops her head around the door. ‘Darling, where’s that Primark card Auntie Laura sent you for your birthday? The post lady’s here.’
Felicia picks it out of the mess on her bedside table. ‘Here. Why?’
‘Can I have it? I’ll pay you back.’
‘I don’t know what’s left on it.’
‘It’ll do.’ Yasmin grabs the card and runs downstairs.
‘Let’s hang out with Seren,’ Tabby says. ‘We can ask Caleb too.’
Felicia gives her sister a sly grin. ‘That’s literally the only reason you want to go, isn’t it? Because you want to shag Caleb.’
‘I do not want to shag Caleb.’
‘You do.’
Tabby grins. ‘Well, maybe a bit. Come on, let’s get ready. We can flirt with the Young Farmers.’ They shriek with laughter at the idea. There’s less talent in Cwm Coed than there is in their school, and that’s saying something. ‘I’ll tell Seren she has to dress up.’ Tabby’s fingers fly over the keyboard.
‘You know she won’t.’ Seren spent the whole summer in the same pair of shorts, and half-term in the same pair of jeans. ‘She only puts make-up on when she’s working for Dad.’ Felicia flutters her eyelashes and Tabby screams.
‘Rank! God, I feel sick, now.’
Two hours later, they’re ready and they look fucking fantastic. They’ve straightened their hair, so it falls in shiny curtains either side of their contoured cheeks, and outlined their lips into perfect pouts. They’ve posted a million selfies on Instagram and muted Esme’s Story tagging the Frog & Hammer.