The Last Party (DC Morgan #1)(14)

‘Coffee?’ Bobby Stafford says. The vast, gleaming coffee machine would be more at home in a Starbucks.

‘Thanks, but I won’t keep you. A body was retrieved from the lake earlier this morning.’

It’s evident from the Staffords’ expressions that this isn’t news.

‘A formal identification hasn’t yet taken place, but we believe it to be Rhys Lloyd.’

Ashleigh’s hands fly to her face. ‘Oh, my God.’

‘Fucking hell,’ Bobby adds.

It seems this is news. Although Leo reminds himself that Bobby is an actor, and Ashleigh is . . . what is Ashleigh? An influencer, Wikipedia says, which is still performing for the cameras, isn’t it?

‘When did you last see Rhys?’ Leo asks.

‘He was proper hammered last night.’ Ashleigh takes the coffee Bobby hands her, cradling it in two hands. ‘I saw him chucking up in the bushes.’

‘What time was that?’

‘Ten? Eleven?’ Ashleigh says, with little conviction.

Leo looks at Bobby, but the former boxer shrugs. ‘Don’t ask me, mate – I didn’t see him.’

‘At all?’

‘There were a lot of people partying last night. I was talking. Drinking. Having a good time.’

Leo catches a note of defensiveness in Bobby Stafford’s tone, and the briefest glimpse of resentment in the glance his wife shoots him. He remembers the argument he interrupted. ‘Were the two of you together at the party?’

‘No,’ Bobby says, just as Ashleigh says, ‘Yes.’ Leo waits. ‘Bit of both,’ Bobby adds.

There’s something going on here that Leo can’t work out. ‘How did Rhys get on with the other residents of The Shore?’

‘Alright, I guess.’ Again, that guarded reaction from Bobby.

‘You didn’t like him, did you, babe?’ Ashleigh’s looking away, but Leo catches a flicker at the corners of her lips. Bobby shoots his wife a look.

‘Is that right, Mr Stafford?’

Bobby holds Leo’s gaze. ‘I didn’t have much to do with him.’

‘But you didn’t like him?’

‘For fuck’s sake! Does it matter?’

Leo waits long enough for Stafford to feel uncomfortable. ‘A man is dead, Mr Stafford. Possibly murdered. I think establishing who disliked him is quite important, don’t you?’

‘Murdered?’ Ashleigh breathes out, her eyes wide in apparent shock, and Leo mentally kicks himself. The official stance on any dead body, until a forensic pathologist confirms otherwise, is ‘unexplained’. Leo will be in deep shit with Crouch if Ashleigh Stafford starts gossiping.

‘My colleagues and I will be taking statements from everyone who attended the party or saw the deceased immediately prior to his death.’ Leo hands Bobby a card. ‘If you think of anything in the meantime, please let me know.’

‘Do you have a suspect?’ Ashleigh follows Leo to the door.

‘I’m sure I don’t need to remind you, Mrs Stafford, not to make any observations online in relation to the police investigation.’

‘I’ve got two million followers on Instagram. I have a responsibility to keep them updated.’

What did she think she was: a war correspondent? ‘I imagine it will be tricky to update your social media status when you’re serving two years for contempt of court.’

Ashleigh’s mouth drops open, and Leo heads for the lodge next door.

Clemence Northcote, at number four, has short hair streaked with pink and purple. She wears a dress which forms a triangle, like the Ladies’ sign on a loo door.

‘Do you need to speak to us both? Only, Caleb – that’s my son – is still in bed.’ She gives Leo a conspiratorial grimace. ‘Teenagers! I managed to stay awake to see in the new year, but that’s still early when you’re sixteen, isn’t it? No idea what time he got to bed. I was dead to the world.’ As she realises what she’s said, a look of horror passes over her face. ‘Ouch. Sorry.’

‘We’ll speak to him tomorrow, if that’s alright? Sounds like it was quite the party.’

‘It was wonderful.’ She winces again. ‘God. Awful to say that, after what happened to Rhys, but of course we didn’t know he was missing until this morning, let alone . . .’ She shudders. ‘Do you think there’s any risk to the rest of us? Is it okay for us to stay here? Only—’ Clemence cuts herself off, taking a steadying breath. ‘Sorry. I’m all over the place. It’s all such a shock.’

‘We’d prefer you to stay at least until you’ve given a statement, please, Mrs Northcote.’

‘Please, call me Clemmie. Of course. Gosh, it’s just awful, isn’t it?’ She moves to the hob and stirs the contents of a large pot. ‘Soup. For Yasmin and the girls.’

In place of the long metal table Leo had seen in the Lloyds’ and the Staffords’ lodges, Clemence Northcote has a small wooden one with two folding chairs. Against the wall, Leo recognises an Ikea bookshelf he has in his own flat. On the other side of the glass doors is a clothes horse with a wetsuit dripping gently on to the deck.

‘It must have been cold,’ Leo says, nodding towards the wetsuit.

‘Sorry, what?’ Clemmie is opening and closing drawers with dizzying inefficiency.