Mia hates her more than she’s ever hated anyone before.
THIRTEEN
JANUARY 4TH | FFION
Ffion has had a restless night, eventually dropping off in the early hours and then sleeping through her alarm. She hasn’t showered, and her hair is a frizzy mess. As she turns into The Shore, she stops to show her warrant card to the uniformed officer stationed at the bottom of the drive. He’s talking to two men, and Ffion recognises them instantly: Striped Scarf reporter and his cameraman sidekick, Gav. Early-morning mist envelopes the trees and a light drizzle hangs in the air, settling in silver beads on Striped Scarf’s jacket.
‘These guys have been hanging around for a few days,’ Ffion says to the uniform. ‘They’ve been warned, but—’
Instantly Gav’s camera is on his shoulder, the reporter thrusting a hand-held mic towards Ffion. ‘Now that this is a murder enquiry – do the police have any suspects?’
‘You’ll have to speak to the press office.’ Ffion shuts the car door, reminding herself for the umpteenth time to fix the window.
‘It’s DC Morgan, isn’t it?’ the reporter shouts. ‘North Wales Police? Are you working with the Cheshire team because the victim is Welsh, or because the suspect is?’ As Ffion moves off, he walks with her, yelling his questions. ‘A source has reported historic tension between The Shore and the local community – can you comment on that? What’s the relationship like between you and your English colleagues?’
Ffion puts her foot down. ‘Fucking hell.’ For once she’s grateful for The Shore’s rarefied enclave, tucked away from prying eyes. Outside the Lloyds’ lodge, blue and white tape flutters in the breeze, and white-suited CSIs move back and forth between the lodge and the van outside. Behind the lodges, the lake lies beneath a blanket of fog.
Ffion sees Mia’s pink tabard coming out of Dee Huxley’s lodge and calls out. ‘You owe me a text!’
Mia hesitates, before walking over to Ffion. ‘Ti’n iawn?’
‘Not bad. Busy.’ Ffion gestures to the crime scene tape. ‘Did you get my voicemail on New Year’s Day? About saying I spent the night at yours, if Mam asks?’
‘I did. What’s the big deal, though? How come you need an alibi?’
‘Personal stuff.’ Ffion shrugs. ‘No drama, just don’t want the whole world knowing my business.’
‘You’re a crap mate, you know. You only ever message me when you need something.’ Mia says it lightly, but her words have an undercurrent which is hard to ignore.
‘That’s not true.’
‘Whatever.’ Mia walks away.
‘I haven’t told anyone, by the way,’ Ffion calls after her. ‘About what you’ve been up to.’ Mia stops, but doesn’t turn around, and a second later she’s heading for her car. Ffion chews the inside of her cheek. She’s not a crap mate. A crap mate wouldn’t keep a secret, would they? Especially in the middle of a murder investigation.
Ffion speaks to the uniform outside the Lloyds’ lodge. ‘Is DC Leo Brady in there?’
The officer checks her clipboard, on which everyone’s movements are neatly marked. ‘Just arrived.’
Ffion gives her shoulder number for the list, then ducks under the blue and white tape and pulls on PPE from the box by the front door.
Upstairs, Leo is speaking to the lead CSI.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ Ffion says.
‘Tough commute?’ Leo’s voice is muffled by his mask, and Ffion can’t tell what kind of mood he’s in. ‘The lads have seized a bunch of medication from Lloyd’s bedside cabinet.’
‘Mostly over-the-counter,’ the CSI says. ‘Some prescription. We’ll get them submitted to the lab.’
‘Any evidence of a crime scene?’ Ffion says.
‘Blood-spatters. Here, by the desk.’ The CSI indicates. ‘It’s been cleaned up pretty well, but there’s also blood and fibres which suggest the victim was dragged from the study through the master bedroom.’
Ffion and Leo follow her across the stepping plates positioned to protect evidence. There are more plates on the balcony, and the metal railing bears the telltale traces of fingerprint dusting.
The CSI bends down and points to the bottom of the glass barrier, which stops around thirty centimetres above the deck of the balcony. ‘There’s blood on the underside of this glass. It looks as though the victim was pushed underneath it.’