‘So he was dead when he went into the water?’
‘Correct. The lake was merely a method of disposal.’
Leo looks at Rhys Lloyd’s mutilated body. The man had a squeaky-clean image. He’d gone to London to seek his fortune, then returned with a stunning wife and two beautiful daughters. He had given his time to charity concerts, had hundreds of thousands of fans. Yet someone had hated him enough to kill him.
‘What now?’ Ffion says. They’re standing in the mortuary car park, both having a cigarette. Leo has washed his hands and divested himself of his PPE, but the stench of death still clings to him, and tobacco feels like the lesser of two evils.
‘Crime scene.’ Leo blows a smoke ring. ‘Scenes.’ He ticks them off on his fingers. ‘The location of the assault to the head, the boat – assuming he was in a boat – and wherever it entered the water. And potentially at least one other, given we don’t actually know what killed him.’
Izzy Weaver refuses to commit on the precise cause of death – toxicology and tissue samples will tell them more – but she has made the most important call. Rhys Lloyd did not die of natural causes. Crouch can press Go on the incident room.
Leo’s phone rings. ‘Guess who?’ He shows Ffion the screen.
Ffion shrugs. ‘Don’t answer it.’
‘He’ll keep ringing.’
‘I’m not going to the fucking briefing, alright? They bore the shit out of me.’
‘They bore the shit out of everyone. We still have to go.’
‘I work better alone.’ Ffion grinds out her roll-up. ‘I do my own thing and I get results.’ The ringing stops as Leo’s voicemail cuts in. Seconds later, it starts again, Crouch’s name flashing on the screen. ‘This whole team stuff – it’s not me. I’m like . . .’ Ffion fishes for the thought, then snaps her fingers. ‘The Lone Ranger.’
‘Right.’
‘Just tell him I’m not coming. I’ll tell him myself, if you’re not man enough.’
The phone rings again. This time, Leo answers it, speaking before Crouch can get a word in. ‘Boss, I’m just finishing something up, but DC Morgan’s right here, I’ll pass you over.’ He hands the phone to Ffion, who glares at him.
‘Hi.’
Leo doesn’t know what Crouch is saying, but a deep crimson flush creeps across Ffion’s face.
‘Yes, sir. Five o’clock? No problem. I’ll see you there.’
Leo takes back his phone and grins. ‘Shall I saddle up your horse?’
TEN
NEW YEAR’S EVE | 9 P.M. | JONTY
‘Darling, please do something about that awful drunk man – he’s just poured red wine all over the sofa.’
Jonty is perched on the arm of the sofa, from where he has an excellent view of Ashleigh Stafford’s cleavage. Reluctantly, he tears himself away from it to speak to his wife.
‘It’s a party, Blythe. Everyone’s drunk.’ Everyone except for Jonty. Jonty drinks a lot, but he rarely gets drunk. He enjoys the power that accompanies being the only one to precisely remember the events of an evening.
‘Jonty, he’s ranting at Dee. She’s seventy-two, it isn’t right.’
‘Okay, okay!’ Jonty gives a last, lingering look at Ashleigh. ‘Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be back in a jiffy.’
‘I’ll hold you to that, babe.’
Jonty is prepared to overlook Ashleigh’s Essex accent, given what else is on offer. They had been about to retreat to somewhere a little more private when Blythe rudely interrupted them. He half-wonders if his wife did it intentionally.
‘Which awful drunk man?’ he asks her. The room is full of drunk people. Ceri the postwoman is limbo-dancing under a broom held at either end by Clemmie Northcote and some woman who arrived with four cans of Stella and a bottle of Lambrini. You shouldn’t have, Blythe had responded smoothly, swifting them away and passing champagne around. Jonty wouldn’t have wasted Bolly on the chavs, but Blythe is big on aesthetics, and having cans of lager knocking about the place offends her.
‘That one.’ Blythe points to a man gesticulating wildly at Dee Huxley. ‘The boat man.’
Unlike the residents of The Shore, who have at least tried to make an effort with the dress code, the boat man is wearing jeans, a fleece jacket and a beanie hat. Jonty sighs and makes his way across the room.
‘Jonty, dear, have you met Steffan Edwards?’ Dee says. ‘Steffan, this is Jonty Charlton, investor of The Shore, and our host tonight.’ A solid introduction – Jonty’s grudgingly flattered. He doesn’t understand what Rhys has against Dee. She’s batty, of course, but harmless with it.