There’s been hardly any wind for days. The only sailors on the lake are those skilled enough to read the ripples; patient enough to wait for the pockets of breeze which will take them another hundred metres. Steffan fires up his RIB and heads towards The Shore, the newly painted boat bobbing behind. He has a handful of paddleboards out on hire, dotted around the lake, and further towards the mountain he can see Angharad, fishing from her red-sailed lugger. Earlier, Bobby Stafford – who, fair play, didn’t once haggle over the price of a summer’s rental – took Steff’s jet-ski into the cove up the lake. Steffan sees him from the boathouse: noon every day, regular as clockwork.
The teenagers are in the water in front of The Shore, and Steffan pulls back the throttle to slow the boat. He spots Elen’s youngest, Seren, and Rhys’s twins on pink flamingos.
Rhys himself is on the deck of number four, talking to two women – one plump, with mad hair; the other grey-haired and leaning on a stick. Rhys looks up as Steffan approaches, and starts walking towards his own lodge. A few metres from the pontoon, Steff cuts the engine completely, his speed and direction perfectly judged. He’s been bringing boats in since he was eight or nine – he could do it blindfolded.
Steffan throws the painter to Rhys, jumping out as soon as the RIB is close enough. ‘I just finished fixing up this rowing boat. I wondered if your girls might like it.’ He’s so nervous he’s just dived right in, and he could kick himself. Rhys looks like he’s been ambushed – Steff should have thought up some small talk, maybe asked after the family. But the rowing boat looks good, its green and white livery gleaming in the sun. It looks as if it belongs.
One of the twins sculls her flamingo over to inspect the boat. Steffan wants her to find her name on the oar, but she’s looking at Rhys, her hands clasped in front of her. ‘Oh, please, Daddy!’
‘A boat would be marvellous,’ Rhys’s wife says. ‘I’ve seen some cushions which will look simply wonderful in it.’
‘How much do you want for it?’ Rhys says.
‘Nothing. It’s yours.’
‘Fair play, Steff, that’s very generous of you.’
Steffan takes a deep breath, then he hands Rhys his mock-up leaflet. It’s taken him every hour he wasn’t finishing off the boat; working out his prices, and finding quotes for printing. ‘The proper ones’ll be glossy, of course, with better photos.’ He explains his plan for a partnership between the boathouse and The Shore, and Rhys studies the leaflet as he listens.
‘I see. Great! Thanks for the boat.’
Steffan’s flooded with relief. Rhys likes his plans. Now Steff can order the boats he’s reserved and buy more paint. He’ll need more paddleboards, too, and buoyancy aids – maybe green ones, with The Shore’s logo. ‘That’s okay.’
‘Great job,’ Rhys says, and Steffan’s so fired up with relief and excitement that he grips Rhys in the sort of hug usually reserved for after rugby matches and drunken renditions of ‘Land of my Fathers’。 As he speeds back across the lake to the boathouse, ready for this new chapter in his business, he feels a buzz he never got from booze. There are people in Cwm Coed who won’t give Rhys the time of day since he built The Shore, but Steffan won’t hear a bad word against the man.
Rhys Lloyd is going to save Steff’s business.
FORTY
JANUARY 7TH | FFION
Osian Wynne is thirteen and dangerously overexcited. When Ffion and Leo reach the jetty, he and his mate are standing several metres away from Rhys Lloyd’s trophy, as though they’ve dug up an unexploded bomb.
‘I said it would be a crime scene.’ His mam, Donna, arrived seconds after the patrol car. ‘Didn’t I say it would be a crime scene?’ She looks at the crowd of twenty or so locals, summoned by the power of Facebook.
‘She did,’ offers Osian. ‘Will you be putting up some of that blue and white tape, Ffion?’
‘Do you need some chalk?’ someone asks.
Dear God. Ffion blames the government’s rural broadband grants for Cwm Coed’s relatively newfound love of Scandi dramas. Armchair detectives, the lot of them. She turns to the rubberneckers. ‘Has anyone got a carrier bag?’
‘Will there be a reward?’ Osian says. ‘I’m saving for a new rod.’
‘Your reward is the warm glow that comes with assisting a murder investigation,’ Ffion says, picking up the trophy, which weighs more than she expected. Strands of weed cling to the golden spikes.