*
Outside number three, The Shore, the reporter Ffion chased away from Glynis’s shop is talking to Ashleigh Stafford, who wears a floor-length dress more suited to the red carpet than Llyn Drych.
‘We will all miss him so very, very much.’ Ashleigh wipes away a tear.
Striped Scarf turns to face the camera. ‘And that concludes our special report into the death of musician Rhys Lloyd. I’ve been speaking with Ashleigh Stafford, whose latest reality TV show, Stuff with the Staffords, airs later this year.’ He holds a rictus smile for three seconds, then mimes a swift cut across his throat. The cameraman swings the heavy camera from his shoulder.
‘And that’ll be on tonight?’ Ashleigh’s make-up and hair are immaculate.
‘Should be.’
‘Great!’ She turns to Bobby. ‘Isn’t that brilliant, babes? Such perfect timing.’ She pulls her husband back into the house, but not before Ffion sees the embarrassment on his face. She gets the impression Bobby Stafford is a nice guy. What does he see in someone like Ashleigh?
Stupid question, she thinks, as the woman’s perfectly peach-shaped behind disappears.
Leo walks towards the reporter. ‘This is private property.’
Striped Scarf stares past him, to Ffion. ‘You! Thanks for the wild goose chase. My shoes are wrecked, and Gav’s pulled a hamstring.’
‘Is that Gav?’ Ffion looks at the cameraman, whose forehead is glistening with the effort of packing away his kit. ‘He doesn’t look as though he could pull a cracker, never mind a hamstring. Now, as my colleague said, this is private property.’
‘Yeah? Call the police, then.’
‘Nee nah nee nah.’ Ffion pulls out her warrant card. ‘How’s that for a response time?’
They walk around to the rear of The Shore. Each lodge has its own deck, stretching the full width of the property. A near-invisible glass balustrade runs along the edges of each deck. Beneath it, the water is shallow, jagged rocks just visible beneath the surface.
A narrow balcony on the first floor of each lodge provides shelter on the deck below, the first few feet screened on either side to give privacy from the neighbours. Several of the owners have dining sets in these undercover areas, the rest of the deck dedicated to sun loungers and more sociable seating arrangements.
There are no curtains on any of the windows. The glass is tinted, and reflections of the lake ripple across each set of sliding doors. In return, the lodges shimmer in the water below, the resulting loop unsettling to Ffion. Each deck is separated by a gap of around four feet, ladders leading down to floating pontoons shared between neighbouring lodges.
There are two men in the marquee at number one, unfastening the swathes of material. Ffion pushes her way inside. ‘Stop right there.’
‘Please!’ Leo has followed her in. Ffion shoots him a look, then turns to the men. They’re in navy work trousers and polo shirts; a company logo embroidered on their chests. Markham Events.
‘DC Morgan, North Wales CID,’ Ffion says, snapping open her warrant card. ‘This resort is subject to an active police investigation and could well be a crime scene. That marquee’s going nowhere.’
‘Can I help you?’ Jonty Charlton opens the doors on to his deck. He frowns at Ffion. ‘Oh, it’s you. What can I do for you, PC Morton?’
‘DC Morgan. I’m just telling the lads we’ll be needing the marquee in situ for a while longer. Just in case.’
‘At seventy quid a day?’ Jonty says. ‘I don’t think so.’ He jerks his head towards the navy-clad men, who glance nervously at Ffion.
‘It’s that or you get nicked for interfering with a crime scene.’ Ffion smiles at him. ‘Would you like to decide now, or phone a friend?’
‘We’ll, uh . . .’ One of the men gestures vaguely towards the road. ‘Let the office know when it’s okay to come back, yeah?’
When they’ve gone, Jonty Charlton folds his arms across his chest and glares at Ffion. ‘I assume North Wales Police will be compensating me for the additional cost.’
‘I suppose it depends on what we find,’ Ffion says cheerfully. ‘This is my colleague, DC Brady, from Cheshire Major Crime.’
‘Major Crime? Good grief. Is that really necessary?’
‘Jonty, darling, close the door, it’s freezing in— Oh, hello!’ Blythe appears behind her husband, shivering dramatically. ‘Come in, come in!’ She ushers Ffion and Leo inside. ‘Is there any news?’