The Last Party (DC Morgan #1)(13)

‘A stalker?’ Ffion looks at the girl.

‘Darling, I don’t think—’

‘They fobbed you off, Mum. And now Dad’s dead!’ Violent hiccups swallow what might have come next, and she runs upstairs, the lodge shaking with the force of her feet on the stairs. Her sister follows, and for a second there’s silence.

Leo makes another note. ‘Your husband had a stalker?’

‘It’s being dealt with by the Metropolitan Police. They never found out who was responsible. It was never anything serious, though, just online stuff. Internet trolls, you know? It comes with the territory.’

‘That’s not what Rhys said.’ The older Mrs Lloyd speaks hesitantly, glancing at Yasmin, who continues to stare straight ahead as though the other woman hasn’t spoken. There’s an uneasy silence, broken by Ffion speaking the older woman’s mother tongue.

‘Beth ddywedodd—’

‘Enough with the bloody Welsh!’ Yasmin cuts herself off, squeezing her eyes shut and shaking her head. ‘Sorry. I’m sorry. Sore point.’ She glances at her mother-in-law. ‘Glynis was desperate for us to bring the girls up bilingually.’

‘It’s part of their heritage, is all.’ Glynis Lloyd keeps her eyes fixed on the table.

‘Perhaps if Rhys had been hands-on from the start . . .’

‘He was touring,’ Glynis says quietly. ‘He could hardly change nappies from Italy, could he?’

Leo intercepts. ‘What did Rhys tell you about his stalker, Glynis?’

‘He said someone was obsessed with him. That they’d made threats.’

Ffion turns to Yasmin. ‘Is this true?’

Yasmin hesitates, then nods. ‘Keyboard warriors. We didn’t take them seriously.’

‘We’ll look at it again,’ Leo says. ‘In case . . .’ He leaves the sentence unfinished. There’s something in Yasmin’s face he can’t read. From upstairs, the sound of the twins sobbing pulsates through the ceiling.

‘I’ll go.’ Glynis Lloyd pushes back her chair, the metal legs screeching against the tiled floor. She waits for a second, as though she can’t quite remember why she stood, before crossing the room with tears streaming down her cheeks.

‘This’ll break her,’ Yasmin says, when her mother-in-law has gone. ‘She hasn’t been the same since Rhys’s dad died, and now this—’ She breaks off, shaking her head fiercely, as though something’s trapped. ‘I’m sorry. It just – it doesn’t seem real.’

‘If you don’t feel up to identifying your husband—’ Leo starts, but Yasmin shakes her head fiercely.

‘No no, I want to see him. I have to see him. I’ll just . . .’ She gestures to her dressing gown.

‘Of course. Take your time, Mrs Lloyd.’

Tears brim over Yasmin’s lower lashes. ‘Thank you.’

‘Have you met them before?’ Leo asks Ffion, when the door to the lodge closes. From upstairs, they can still hear the twins – or perhaps Rhys’s mother – sobbing.

‘The Shore only opened last summer.’

‘Is that a no?’

‘Yup.’

Leo looks at her, exasperated. He’s had more intel from a no-comment interview. ‘How about Glynis Lloyd?’

‘She owns the hardware store in the village. Lives above the shop.’

‘So you know her?’

Ffion shrugs, as though the answer was obvious. ‘She’s local.’ She lifts both hands, fingers pointing in opposite directions. ‘Do you want lodges three and four or one and two?’

Leo is torn between relief that Ffion doesn’t want to team up, and apprehension about setting her bluntness loose on The Shore. This is technically his police area, after all. ‘Three and—’

Ffion is already striding off.

At number three, Leo pokes a hand gingerly through the centre of a door wreath to find the knocker. Inside, a woman is shouting. The words are indistinct, but the sentiment behind them is clear – Leo’s been on the receiving end of similar ones enough times. He raps loudly, earning himself a holly scratch in the process, and the shouting stops. Leo hears footsteps.

‘Hi.’

Leo takes a moment to centre himself. He grew up watching Bobby Stafford fight, and, although Leo’s not into the soaps, Stafford’s instantly recognisable as the ne’er-do-well bare-knuckle boxer in the long-running show Carlton Sands.

‘Um, hi.’ Leo produces his warrant card, and Stafford raises an eyebrow.

A woman joins them at the door, slipping an arm around Stafford. ‘Who is it, babe?’ Ashleigh Stafford is one of those celebrities famous for being famous, segueing from one reality TV show to another, until no one is quite sure how she started. Although she looks a little flushed, there’s nothing to indicate Ashleigh was screaming her head off a minute earlier. She leans a head on her husband’s shoulder. She’s several inches taller than Bobby, and the stance looks awkward.

‘It’s the police,’ Stafford says.

Ashleigh’s eyes widen. ‘Have you found Rhys?’

‘Do you mind if I come in?’

*

The Staffords’ lodge is identical to the Lloyds’. Same kitchen, same layout, same furniture. Same view. Leo finds himself walking towards the sliding doors, drawn to the vast expanse of water. Did Lloyd go into the lake willingly, or was he forced in? Did he thrash in the water, shouting for help? The trees on the opposite shore are reflected upside down, blurring the line between lake and land. Leo imagines Lloyd slipping from one to the other, fighting to surface, each breath more frantic than the last.