The Last Party (DC Morgan #1)(16)

Deirdre Huxley, the owner of lodge two, is of indeterminable age, with sharp eyes that are at odds with the wrinkles around them. She wears a pale pink cardigan with mother-of-pearl buttons, and straight-cut trousers with a sharp crease down the centre. On her feet, velvet slippers are topped with tassels and a swirl of gold embroidery. Her hair is more silver than grey, expertly coiffed into a smooth shoulder-length bob. Well-preserved, Ffion’s mam would call her.

Mrs Huxley examines Ffion’s warrant card through tortoiseshell glasses strung on a chain around her neck. ‘You don’t look like a burglar, but one never knows, does one?’

‘I’m not a burglar,’ Ffion promises.

‘Then come in and warm up, and you can tell me I might want to sit down because the body that washed up on the other side of the lake earlier today is almost certainly Rhys Lloyd.’ She turns, leaving Ffion standing in the open doorway with her mouth open. Talk about getting straight to the point.

Ffion steps inside and closes the door, before following Mrs Huxley into the lodge. The older woman walks with a stick, a beautiful-looking dark-wood affair with a polished metal handle the size of a small fist. She leans it against the sofa and sinks into the cushions with a contented sigh.

‘You’re quite the detective.’ Ffion joins her on the sofa. The lodge has the same furniture she saw at the Lloyds’, but configured differently, so the long table is at the back of the open-plan space, and the corner sofa by the sliding doors on to the deck.

‘One missing man. One body in the lake. We hardly need Miss Marple, do we?’

‘You’ll be telling me how he got there next.’

‘I imagine he was murdered. Would you like a slice of fruit cake?’

Ffion looks up, startled. ‘What makes you say that?’

‘I always have one about this time.’

‘No, I mean, why do you think Rhys Lloyd was murdered?’

‘Wasn’t he?’ Mrs Huxley pushes herself upright and makes her way to the kitchen.

‘Mrs Huxley, if you have information relating to the investigation, I need to—’

‘I think I have some fondant fancies, if you’d rather?’

‘No cake,’ Ffion says firmly. ‘How well did you know Rhys?’

‘I’m not sure any of us really know anyone, do we? The chair of my local WI embezzled thousands of pounds every year, and no one suspected a thing, until she turned up to the AGM in a pair of Jimmy Choos. Now: Earl Grey or Lapsang Souchong?’

Ffion gives in. ‘Earl Grey.’ Her stomach rumbles. ‘And maybe just a small slice of cake. Were you at the party last night?’

‘Oh, yes, dear. I retired before midnight and listened to the bongs with a cup of tea in bed, which is by far the best way to see in the New Year, don’t you think?’

Ffion briefly allows herself to remember snogging Leo outside the club as one year ended and a new one began. ‘Sounds great. When did you last see Rhys?’

‘I don’t wear a watch.’ Mrs Huxley places a tray in front of Ffion, and begins setting out cups. ‘My late husband gave me a beautiful Cartier wristwatch when we married, and when he died, it stopped. It was as if it knew. Do you think watches have souls, DC Morgan?’

‘Was he still at the party when you left?’

‘I took it to several places to be mended, and no one could fathom it out.’

‘Extraordinary. Were you aware of Rhys arguing with anyone at the party? Anyone with a grudge against him, perhaps?’

‘People bear grudges over the silliest things, don’t they?’ Mrs Huxley cuts two generous slices of fruit cake and pushes one towards Ffion. ‘A friend of mine refused to talk to her brother for years, because he’d said something disparaging about one of her children. Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer a fondant fancy?’

Ffion should have sent Leo here. He strikes her as the sort who gets on well with old ladies.

‘Can’t you just look at the cameras to see what time Rhys left the party, dear?’

Ffion puts down her cup. ‘There’s CCTV at The Shore?’ She’s been so preoccupied, it hadn’t even occurred to her there might be evidence on camera. Rookie error.

‘Isn’t there everywhere? Jonty Charlton has the key. He’s at number one. Did you know, the lodges were supposed to be named after Welsh mountains?’

Ffion does know – it made the local paper. The names were ‘unpronounceable’, according to a focus group commissioned by The Shore’s investors, who had proposed English versions in their place. Dragon’s Head. Red Ridge. ‘Over my dead body,’ Ffion’s mam had said, when the petition came around. The local Plaid Cymru councillor took it to Westminster, and the lodge names were quietly replaced with numbers.

By the time Ffion manages to extricate herself from Deirdre Huxley’s lodge, her head is spinning. She scans her surroundings for cameras. They’re well hidden, nestled in the trees lining the drive. Ffion rolls a cigarette and walks down towards the edge of the lake to smoke it in private. It’s astonishing how many people feel it’s their God-given right to lecture a complete stranger on their health.

‘Every cigarette takes ten minutes off your life, you know,’ Leo says, walking up behind her.

‘Eleven, actually. Want one?’