Ashleigh’s mouth drops open, and Leo heads for the lodge next door.
Clemence Northcote, at number four, has short hair streaked with pink and purple. She wears a dress which forms a triangle, like the Ladies’ sign on a loo door.
‘Do you need to speak to us both? Only, Caleb – that’s my son – is still in bed.’ She gives Leo a conspiratorial grimace. ‘Teenagers! I managed to stay awake to see in the new year, but that’s still early when you’re sixteen, isn’t it? No idea what time he got to bed. I was dead to the world.’ As she realises what she’s said, a look of horror passes over her face. ‘Ouch. Sorry.’
‘We’ll speak to him tomorrow, if that’s alright? Sounds like it was quite the party.’
‘It was wonderful.’ She winces again. ‘God. Awful to say that, after what happened to Rhys, but of course we didn’t know he was missing until this morning, let alone . . .’ She shudders. ‘Do you think there’s any risk to the rest of us? Is it okay for us to stay here? Only—’ Clemence cuts herself off, taking a steadying breath. ‘Sorry. I’m all over the place. It’s all such a shock.’
‘We’d prefer you to stay at least until you’ve given a statement, please, Mrs Northcote.’
‘Please, call me Clemmie. Of course. Gosh, it’s just awful, isn’t it?’ She moves to the hob and stirs the contents of a large pot. ‘Soup. For Yasmin and the girls.’
In place of the long metal table Leo had seen in the Lloyds’ and the Staffords’ lodges, Clemence Northcote has a small wooden one with two folding chairs. Against the wall, Leo recognises an Ikea bookshelf he has in his own flat. On the other side of the glass doors is a clothes horse with a wetsuit dripping gently on to the deck.
‘It must have been cold,’ Leo says, nodding towards the wetsuit.
‘Sorry, what?’ Clemmie is opening and closing drawers with dizzying inefficiency.
‘The New Year’s Day swim. A village tradition, I hear.’
‘Oh, that. Yes. I’m used to it, though – I swim all year round.’
‘Were you there when the body was found?’
Clemmie presses her hands either side of her face. ‘I left right away. Came back to The Shore. It seemed intrusive. And . . .’ She seems reluctant to finish. Leo waits. ‘The locals are a bit funny about us,’ Clemmie says eventually.
‘About The Shore?’
Clemmie nods. ‘I’ve tried – believe me, I’ve tried. I organised a litter-pick, volunteered to help at the library . . . People are polite enough, but it’s . . .’ She sighs. ‘It’s very them and us, you know? Did you see the massive letters at the bottom of the drive?’
‘You can’t miss them.’
‘Well, quite. Before The Shore opened, someone spray-painted letters on the o and the r, so it read The Shite. They had to sandblast them to get it off.’
Leo laughs. ‘The locals aren’t keen on the development, then?’
‘They’re not keen on us. There’s an assumption that we’re all rolling in it; that we’re up ourselves, as my son would say, just because we’ve bought lodges.’
‘I imagine a place here isn’t cheap.’ Leo speaks neutrally. He’s already checked out The Shore’s website, where a three-bedroomed lodge starts at ￡550,000. In tiny font, at the bottom of the page, the annual maintenance fee is listed at an eye-watering ten grand a year.
‘It is a lot of money, I know, but . . .’ Clemmie stretches an arm towards the lake ‘。 . . look at it.’
Leo can think of better things to spend half a million quid on than a view.
‘The trouble is, they think we’re all living in mansions the rest of the year.’
‘You mean you’re not?’
‘Some of the others are.’ Clemmie sighs. ‘Well, all of them, I suppose. The Staffords have staff and a swimming pool, and the Charltons live in Kensington and have a place in the Cotswolds. And of course the Lloyds’ family home is beautiful.’
‘You’ve seen it?’
‘In magazines.’
‘So where do you and your son live?’
‘London.’ Clemmie colours. ‘A one-bedroom flat in Zone Five, where I sleep on the sofa and have the bad back to prove it.’
‘But how . . .’ Leo breaks off, not wanting to be rude.
‘How did I afford this?’ Clemmie flushes again. ‘It’s on a private repayment plan. Although the others don’t know I didn’t buy it outright, so I’d be grateful if you’d keep that to yourself.’