‘Dad, can I have some money? We’re going to row to the other side and buy ice creams,’ Tabby yells from the boat, which now contains all four teenagers.
‘What happened to the tenner I gave you at the start of the week?’ Rhys says, distracted by what he’s just seen.
‘We spent it,’ Felicia says, as though it were obvious.
‘I’m not going to dish out cash every time you ask for it. If you want money you’ll have to earn it.’ Rhys thinks of Fleur’s suggestion that he hire an assistant. ‘I’ve got some admin you can do.’
‘Can’t,’ Felicia says instantly. ‘I’m busy.’
‘I can’t either,’ Tabby says.
‘Why not?’
‘Because I don’t want to.’
‘I’ll do it,’ the red-headed girl says.
‘Seren!’ Tabby shoves her. ‘You can’t work for Dad.’
‘Why not?’ The girl fixes her gaze on Rhys. ‘Six quid an hour.’
He laughs at her audacity. ‘I’ll give you three.’
‘The minimum wage is four sixty-two.’
‘Four.’ Rhys won’t be out-negotiated by a teenager. ‘Or I’ll do it myself.’
There’s a beat, then she nods. ‘Deal.’
TWENTY-NINE
JANUARY 6TH | LEO
Elen Morgan doesn’t bat an eyelid when her daughter rocks up with Leo in tow. Neither does her expression change when Ffion explains – oblivious to Leo’s embarrassment – that Leo’s flat is in dire need of a makeover.
‘It’s really not that—’ he starts.
‘A woman’s touch, you mean?’ Elen says.
‘Mam, it’s not the 1950s.’
Leo tries again. ‘I just need to—’
‘That toddler bed,’ Ffion says. ‘The one Seren had.’
‘It’s in the barn. It’ll need a clean.’
‘That’s fine, he can do that.’
Leo is no match for the pincer movement of the Morgan women. Elen is already striding through the house, pulling things out of cupboards. Leo is soon in possession of Lego, a box of toy cars, a Spiderman duvet cover and a pile of dressing-up clothes.
‘Seren used to love that pirate hat, remember? She wore it to bed for six months straight.’
‘You’re very kind, Mrs Morgan.’
‘Nonsense. Better it’s used than hanging about here.’
*
Back home, Leo unloads his car. At Ffion’s house he was infected by her enthusiasm, and by Elen’s no-nonsense practicality. He imagined himself decorating the box room so that, of all the arguments Allie might throw at him, not having a proper bedroom for Harris wouldn’t be one of them. Now he’s home, it feels pointless.
He slumps in front of his laptop, his cursor hovering over the Lloyd file. The smell from next door’s herbs seeps through the door from the landing, making his head hurt.
Where to start? The investigation is a mess. Rhys Lloyd has been dead for a week, and it still feels as though they’re stumbling around in the dark. Elijah’s ricin theory is a bust. The trophy used to assault Rhys is still missing, Ffion’s mate’s drone unable to turn anything up in the dark depths of Mirror Lake. Yasmin was showing off at the piano when her husband was murdered, and Jonty Charlton was taking care of Ashleigh Stafford’s coke pile.
Should they look closer at Caleb Northcote? Angharad said he hadn’t been interested in learning how to sail, but that could have been an act. Leo pulls up the lad’s statement and reads it over. What reason did Caleb have to want Rhys dead?
The smell from next door is intense and cloying. Leo presses the heels of his palms against his eyes. Can a smell send someone mad?
He stands up.
The neighbour’s door is turquoise. A garland of strung-together feathers runs from top to bottom, and a handwritten sticker on the doorbell reads Katchen Grint. On either side of the doormat are tin cans, the contents of which are smouldering.
Leo rings the bell. He has only seen his neighbour a handful of times in three years – scurrying past him on the stairs with a bag of shopping. The door opens and she eyes him suspiciously.
‘Your herbs . . .’ Leo starts. Smoke catches the back of his throat, and he coughs.
‘You want some? I sell them.’
‘No, I—’
‘I got sage, for cleansing; juniper for health . . .’
‘I don’t like them,’ Leo says. ‘I find the smell really . . .’ He wrinkles his nose in lieu of description. ‘Sorry,’ he adds.