‘Mam, really. I can’t tell—’
‘Glynis just rang. She’s got reporters asking questions.’
‘So?’ Ffion winces at her instinctive response. What is she, fourteen? She’ll be whining for a Juicy Couture tracksuit next, and refusing to tidy her room. ‘Tell her I’ll get uniform to send someone round.’
‘They’re banging on the door, Ffi. She’s really scared.’
Ffion sighs. ‘Okay, I’ll go now.’
‘Diolch, cariad.’
This is the trouble with living on your patch: you’re the go-to police officer for everything from lost property to murder. Not that the latter’s too common, so no wonder the press are sniffing about. And Rhys is – was – the golden boy, of course. Yesterday, his name trended on Twitter, fans sharing stories of when they saw him live.
@BigCSurvivor: #RhysLloyd sent this signed sheet music for our charity auction.
@WestEndFan68: I asked @RhysLloydSings for a cheeky backstage tour for my Mum’s birthday. He invited us to the after-show party!
@Nat_Strict: Here’s the amazing @RhysLloydSings when he surprised the children’s ward with a Christmas concert. RIP #RhysLloyd – you were one in a million.
If only they knew.
Ffion has read every tweet Rhys has received for the last two years. The tech team are all over this, she knows, but she wanted to see them for herself. She checks Twitter now, as she walks down the high street to Glynis’s hardware shop, scrolling back to the last abusive tweet Rhys received, on the morning of New Year’s Eve. It’s short and to the point.
@RhysLloyd5000: I WISH YOU WERE DEAD.
The location of Glynis’s shop would have been obvious, even if Ffion didn’t know it as well as her own home; even if she hadn’t spent most weekends dragging her heels on one of her dad’s missions to fix the lawnmower or fit a washing machine. She hasn’t been inside for years and as she draws nearer, her feet slow of their own accord.
Two men stand outside the shop, one in a three-quarter-length black wool coat and a striped scarf, the other wearing a thick fleece under a bodywarmer with pockets stuffed to bursting. The latter carries a camera on one shoulder, and a furry mic on a long pole.
‘We just want to ask a few questions, Mrs Lloyd.’ Striped Scarf is rapping on the door. ‘We’re very sorry for your loss,’ he shouts, as an afterthought.
‘Let’s do the headteacher,’ the cameraman says. ‘Come back later.’
Ffion crosses the road and points at the sign saying ar gau. ‘Shop’s closed today. As a mark of respect,’ she adds pointedly.
‘Did you know Rhys Lloyd?’ The reporter gets straight to the point, his colleague setting a readying hand on his camera.
‘Is that why you’re here?’ Ffion furrows her brow. ‘I’d have thought you’d be at the vigil.’
‘What vigil?’
‘Up Pen y Ddraig mountain. There’s a path leading up from the lake and, halfway up, there’s a little stone hut where Rhys used to sing, before he was discovered. Someone lit a candle in his memory and now there are hundreds there. They’re having a sort of service for him this morning so the children can sing in his memory.’ Ffion closes her eyes briefly, one hand flat against her heart. ‘It’s going to be so beautiful.’
For two men who don’t look in peak condition, they can’t half shift.
Ffion retraces her steps and heads back towards the lake, where Leo’s waiting for her. ‘Sorry, manic morning.’
‘Late night?’
Ffion spent last night watching re-runs of Call the Midwife, while Seren skulked in her room on YouTube and Mam did the accounts for the holiday cottages, but she finds herself giving Leo a lopsided smile; the sort of smile which says wouldn’t you like to know? It’s habit, this playing to type; the Ffion Wyllt of long ago. The comparison makes her feel cold.
‘Are you alright? You look as if you’re having a stroke.’ Leo nods towards the boathouse. ‘What’s the skinny on Steffan Edwards?’
‘The business has been here forever. Busy in the summer, dead in the winter, like most places around here. Steff took over from his dad a few years ago.’
‘Reliable?’
Ffion starts walking towards the boathouse. ‘Completely.’ She stoops to pick up an empty bottle of vodka from outside the workshop door. ‘Unless he’s had a drink.’
When Steffan Edwards senior died, young Steff went on a bender that lasted five days. The locals were largely sympathetic, but when he threw up in the font at Emyr Williams’ christening, enough was enough. An intervention was staged, and whatever was said was enough to make Steffan Edwards pack in the drink for good.