‘Yes,’ Jonty says drily. ‘Your bloody marquee is going to bankrupt us.’
Blythe lets out an outraged squeak. ‘My marquee? You were the one who didn’t want riff-raff traipsing through the house.’
‘And look how that turned out,’ Jonty says. ‘The world and his wife rocked up.’ He turns to Leo, ignoring Ffion. ‘Have you found out what happened to Rhys?’
‘The investigation is still ongoing,’ Leo says. He’s like one of those spokespeople you see on the news, Ffion thinks, giving an update without actually saying anything new. Men are especially good at it, she’s noticed; it must be all that practice talking bollocks.
She glances towards the lake, although the water can barely be seen through the marquee. ‘Where are the boats?’
‘Boats?’ Jonty says, as though he’s surprised to find himself near water at all.
‘There were several here in the summer.’ Ffion saw them, tugging at their moorings. A small sailing dinghy, two rowing boats.
‘We store them at the boathouse over winter. They’d get damaged in bad weather, otherwise. Too close to the rocks.’
‘Blythe Spirit is ours.’ Blythe beams. ‘I was named after the play – by No?l Coward, you know? Only my name’s with a “y”， so—’
‘PC Morton doesn’t want to hear all that, darling.’
‘DC Morgan,’ Ffion mutters. He’s doing it deliberately, she’d swear it.
‘Here she is.’ Jonty walks over to a small desk, where there’s a framed picture of a small sailing boat. Jonty’s at the helm, his son and daughter in bright red lifejackets, nestled under their mother’s arms. ‘One of Rhys’s girls took that – she’s quite the photographer.’
‘And the other boats?’ Leo says.
‘They’re just rowing boats,’ Jonty says dismissively. ‘I don’t think I’ve even seen Dee Huxley out on hers – the Northcotes hogged it all summer, from what I could see.’
‘That’s Clemence and her son Caleb?’ Leo clarifies. ‘Number four?’
‘Correct. Then of course Rhys has the green boat on the end. Had. Christ. Sorry. The guy from the boathouse – what’s his name?’
‘Steffan Edwards,’ Ffion says.
‘Correct,’ Jonty says, as though she’d passed his test. ‘He did it up as a present for Rhys’s girls in the summer hols.’
Ffion frowns. It seems a curious thing for Steffan to have done, given his animosity towards Rhys now.
‘When was the last time you used your boat?’ Leo asks.
‘Not since half-term. It’s hardly the weather for sailing.’
‘Not New Year’s Eve?’ Ffion says.
‘I spent the entire day getting ready for the party, PC Morton.’
Ffion bites her tongue.
‘My beloved wife took it upon herself to create a lake-themed indoor-outdoor room.’ Jonty waggles his fingers around the term. ‘I’m only relieved I managed to talk her out of the two tonnes of beach sand she wanted brought in from Abersoch.’
‘It would have looked incredible,’ Blythe sighs.
‘It was bloody hard work as it was.’
‘Did the other owners not help?’ Leo asks. ‘I got the impression it was a joint effort.’
‘Yasmin was here all day,’ Blythe says. ‘Rhys conveniently disappeared the second there was work to be done. We were all done by around five o’clock, and everyone went off to get ready.’
‘What time did the party start?’ Ffion says, although she knows the answer. The invite had been a proper thick-card affair, with black embossed lettering and a dedicated email address for replies.
The residents of The Shore warmly invite the neighbours for drinks and canapés.
RSVP: [email protected]
‘It was supposed to be half-seven,’ Blythe says. ‘But a few people drifted in before then.’ She looks at her husband. ‘The Lloyds got here just as you were putting the children to bed, do you remember? What time was that?’
‘Six-thirty?’ Jonty says. ‘Seven?’
Blythe sighs. ‘He’s a marvel with them. Bedtime used to be my job, but they were absolute horrors for me. Jonty has the magic touch, don’t you, darling?’
‘And how did Rhys seem, when he arrived?’ Leo says. It’s too hot in the lodge, and Ffion has an overwhelming urge to throw open the doors and let in the cold lake air.