There’s a ripple of good-natured laughter around the room, and what else can Leo do but laugh too? He feels Ffion’s eyes on him.
‘And this must be our Welsh representative.’
‘DC Ffion Morgan, sir.’
‘Sorry you’ve ended up working with Lard Arse.’
Leo can’t bring himself to laugh, this time. He shouldn’t care what Ffion thinks of him, but it seems he does.
‘Don’t put yourself down, sir.’ Ffion smiles sweetly. ‘I’m sure you’re just big-boned.’
Leo thinks he can actually hear his boss’s double-take. Silence stretches across the room like a rubber band, and Leo braces himself for the twang, but it doesn’t come.
Crouch narrows his eyes at Ffion, then looks away. ‘Down to business, then.’ He taps his iPad authoritatively, and the screen on the wall behind him comes to life with a bullet-pointed summary of the post-mortem. ‘Cause of death still unclear, but the pathologist is leaning towards heart failure, brought on by assault from an unknown weapon. We’re still waiting for a full toxicology report, but initial bloods show very low levels of alcohol.’
‘That doesn’t make sense, boss,’ DC Parry says. ‘The witness statements all say Lloyd was hammered.’
‘Science doesn’t lie, DC Parry.’ Crouch holds up a printed report – the lab results, Leo assumes. He thinks of Izzy Weaver’s disparaging tirade about the unfortunate Elijah – last week he sent the wrong bloods to the lab – and hopes Izzy double-checked the submissions.
‘The post-mortem also revealed extensive superficial injuries to the victim’s face,’ Crouch continues, ‘delivered pre-mortem. There was a fine linear cut on his tongue and one on his chin, a couple of days old, likely to be a shaving cut – and marks around both ankles, consistent with some kind of rope. It’s likely he was tied to something designed to keep him at the bottom of the lake.’
‘Well, that’s a fail,’ DC Clements says. ‘Any chance the rope might wash up?’
‘Tac Support are doing a fingertip search of the shore. As it stands, the implement used to inflict the facial injuries is unknown, so if they come across anything which looks likely they’ll bag and tag it. Traces of some kind of varnish or paint were found in the victim’s facial wounds, but it’s not clear what they’re from.’
‘Could it have been a hit and run?’ DC Thorngate looks around the room, testing the idea. ‘Someone panicked – chucked the body into the lake? Might be worth checking the sample against the national paint database.’
Ffion nods. ‘The injuries aren’t consistent with blunt trauma, but it’s worth a shot.’
‘We’re still waiting for the call history from Lloyd’s mobile.’ Crouch says. ‘But apps in use include Tinder and Plenty More Fish. The analysts are digging into both, to establish who Lloyd was in contact with, in case we’re looking at a rejected lover or a jealous husband.’
‘Which might also account for the stalker.’ The suggestion comes from DC Walton, making notes on her pad with the keenness of someone new in post.
Next to her, Thorngate spins a pen through her fingers. ‘Would he have reported it, though, if it was someone he’d had an affair with?’
‘He didn’t have much choice,’ Ffion says. ‘The woman turned up on their doorstep.’ She looks at her notes. ‘White, blonde hair, black jeans, brown leather jacket, baseball cap.’
‘That’s pretty detailed.’ DC Thorngate’s pen skitters on to the desk. ‘Any cameras about?’
Ffion shakes her head. ‘The woman tried to force her way into the house, demanding to see Rhys. When Yasmin refused, the woman made threats towards her and their teenage daughters.’
‘Did she call on the nines?’ Crouch asks.
‘No,’ Leo says. ‘Her husband phoned it in, when he got home. He said Yasmin had been in shock and hadn’t been thinking straight. Obviously, there was no sign of the offender by the time police got there.’
Crouch draws on his iPad, and a question mark appears on the smart screen behind him; a caption reading Stalker. ‘There’s our first suspect. DC Thorngate, I want you to be the liaison between the Met and our analysts – see if there’s any crossover between women Lloyd was seeing on Tinder and our mystery stalker.’
‘Yes, boss.’
‘Who’s on boats?’ Crouch looks around the room.