‘I wasn’t—’ Caleb tries, but Rhys’s fist tightens on his throat and he can’t speak.
‘They’re out of your league.’
‘I—’ Beneath the humiliation and the fear, white-hot rage is building inside Caleb, pushing its way to the surface.
‘Got it?’ Rhys says.
Caleb’s fist readies itself, but never has a chance to act.
Rhys brings up his knee and Caleb’s vision swims black.
THIRTY-EIGHT
JANUARY 7TH | LEO
‘He walked me home afterwards.’
Leo’s turned the car’s heater on full blast, and the colour is slowly returning to Ffion’s cheeks. She huddles beneath her own coat and Leo’s, steam rising from her still-wet hair. Outside, the snow has blown itself out, the few flakes which had settled already whipped away. The lake is grey, violent waves thrashing against the shore, and Leo shivers at the memory of Ffion in the water.
‘I remember him kissing me goodnight. I said thank you,’ she says wretchedly, her eyes pressed shut against the memory. On the other side of the lake, The Shore seems to taunt them, and Leo tries to focus on the lake, the mountains, the trees. A couple of hundred metres along the shoreline, two lads are messing about with fishing tackle. Leo tries to imagine Harris at that age.
‘I had a bath every day for weeks and weeks,’ Ffion says. ‘I never felt clean. One day I realised my body felt different. And I knew I was pregnant.’
‘Did you tell your parents right away?’
‘Mam guessed. By then, it was too late to do anything about it.’
‘What did they do?’
‘They shouted. A lot. Demanded to know who I’d slept with, but I refused. Mam listed every lad on that summer camp – was it him? Or him? Dad was disappointed, that was the worst of it. He called me gwyllt; said he was disappointed to discover that all the rumours about me had been true.’ Ffion lets out a shaky breath. ‘He’d already been diagnosed with terminal cancer – we knew he had less than a year left. I hate that I let him down before he died.’
‘So he never got to meet Seren.’ It means star, Leo remembers. A bright light in the darkness. He looks out of the window and frowns. The lads with the fishing rod are causing a commotion, one of them running up to the boathouse, the other on his knees, bending over something.
‘It was Mam’s idea to make her my sister. They’d wanted more children after me, but Mam had six miscarriages, and eventually they stopped trying. She said they’d bring Seren up as theirs. I don’t know what Dad really thought about it – he and Mam spent a lot of time talking about it behind closed doors – but he agreed. He said it would give me a chance to straighten myself out. To—’ Ffion chokes back a sob. ‘To make him proud.’
‘And look at you.’ Leo squeezes her hand. ‘A detective. Wouldn’t he be proud of that?’
Ffion laughs – a messy, hiccupy laugh, but nevertheless a laugh. ‘Maybe underneath. He used to say the police were a “waste of bloody taxpayers’ money”。’ She makes her voice a growl, then gives the same sad little laugh. Tears streak her face, and she scrubs at her cheeks with her hands. ‘Mind you, there’s a few would agree with him if they saw me bawling my eyes out when there’s a murder to solve.’ Ffion takes a long, deep breath and looks at Leo with resolve. ‘Which we should probably get back to.’
‘There’s no rush,’ Leo says, but now there’s a patrol car pulling into the lake, heading for the boathouse, and Ffion sees it too and she’s searching for her radio. Leo bumps the car along the foreshore, meeting the police car as it slows to a halt between the boathouse and where the two lads were fishing.
‘DC Brady.’ Leo shows his warrant card to the uniformed officers. ‘I’m working on the Rhys Lloyd incident room.’
‘Good timing.’ The officer nods to the two lads, who are wide-eyed with excitement. ‘I believe these young fishermen have caught your murder weapon.’
THIRTY-NINE
LATE AUGUST | STEFFAN
Steffan Edwards is in the pub. There was a time when this would have sent digital smoke signals around the village, until someone’s husband was despatched to persuade Steff out of the danger zone and back home; or, at the very least, to drink with him and keep him out of harm’s way.
But Steffan has been sober for two years, nine months and six days, and after the first eighteen months – when he couldn’t even trust himself to walk past Y Llew Coch, let alone set foot inside – he’d returned to his habitual spot at the bar.