‘Lucky you.’
‘I wondered if you might reconsider giving elimination prints.’
Seren looks at him blankly.
‘It is voluntary,’ Leo says. ‘You were quite within your rights to say no – only it’s incredibly helpful to be able to rule people out.’
‘Fingerprints? What happens to them afterwards?’
‘They’re deleted. They can’t be used for anything except this case – Ffion must have explained all this to you?’
‘Nope. But I don’t mind doing it. It’s quite cool, actually. I’ve never been involved in a murder investigation.’
‘Thanks for changing your mind. I appreciate it.’
Seren shrugs. ‘No one asked me in the first place, but whatever. Can I . . .’ She gestures vaguely up the street.
‘What? Oh, yes, of course. Thanks.’ Leo watches her go, his mind working overdrive. Seren Morgan was on the elimination list as a refusal, and there’s only one explanation for the discrepancy.
Ffion lied.
FIFTEEN
NEW YEAR’S EVE | MIDDAY | YASMIN
Yasmin Lloyd can’t wait to be divorced. If she’s completely honest （which she rarely is） she hasn’t wanted to be married for a long time, but things have now come to a head. She has been utterly betrayed by her husband, and, although she appreciates the irony of that, she simply can’t stay with him another minute.
Except she has to. Yasmin isn’t a monster, and it will hit Tabby and Felicia hard when she and Rhys separate. The least she can do is let them enjoy the party tonight. As the girls are fond of pointing out, there’s nothing else to do around here, and it would be cruel to ruin the festivities by announcing on New Year’s Eve that their parents are splitting up.
Yasmin gazes out from the bedroom balcony. A lone boat tacks lazily across the water, and a flock of birds are diving for fish. On the opposite shore, someone is perched on a stool, painting or drawing. Yasmin sighs. She no longer sees the beauty in the lake, or in the sharp outlines of the surrounding mountains. She no longer cares for the reflection of the trees; or the lodges, mirrored in the silvery water. The novelty of The Shore wore off when the nights drew in, and the decks were no longer sun-kissed. She thinks wistfully of Tuscan villas and Caribbean beaches.
Yasmin steps back inside and closes the door, walking through Rhys’s study towards the stairs. On his desk is a stack of mail ready to be posted to fans all over the world. Yasmin shuffles the post into a neat pile, straightens the chair, and picks up a throw which is supposed to be draped artfully over one arm, but which Rhys insists on sitting on and creasing. She steps back and eyes the room critically. She’s very proud of her design work at The Shore, and is looking forward to showing it off to tonight’s party guests. If only it were possible to pick up the lodge and put it somewhere more interesting. There must be lakes in the Home Counties, surely?
She tweaks the curtains for symmetry. Outside on the drive, her husband is talking to Dee, and Yasmin can tell from his stance that he wants to get away. She could rescue him, she supposes, as she makes her way downstairs, but why should she, after what he’s done? She makes a few adjustments to the cushions in the sitting room and turns the table arrangement to face the door. It’s funny how all the lodges are the same, and yet look so different. Take the Charltons’ place: Blythe talks a lot about aesthetics, but the woman has no eye for colour.
Yasmin takes a bottle of brandy from the kitchen. Rhys’s agent sends him an extraordinarily expensive one every Christmas, which Rhys opens on New Year’s Eve to bring him luck for the forthcoming year. Yasmin always joins him. Rhys’s career needs more than a glass of superstition, but it happens to be excellent brandy.
By the time Yasmin gets outside, Rhys is marching towards the lake with his phone clamped to his ear, and Dee is nowhere to be seen. Yasmin can imagine how the conversation went.
So sorry, Dee, I have to call my agent back.
Oh, of course, dear, don’t let me stop you.
Rhys is forever getting out of dull social situations by fabricating urgent calls with Fleur. She can see him now, through the trees, pacing the little cove and talking furiously into his mobile. Doesn’t he realise Dee has gone back inside, and his little act is being wasted?
‘Yasmin, where’s that naughty husband of yours?’ Blythe says, the moment Yasmin joins the others in the Charltons’ lodge. ‘Jonty needs help putting more lights up.’
‘We’re not joined at the hip,’ Yasmin says tartly. She resumes the balloon-blowing she’d half-hoped someone might have finished in her absence. Privately she thinks balloons are terribly naff, but Blythe has had a hundred delivered, in The Shore’s signature green and off-white, putting Yasmin in charge of creating an arch.