The Last Party (DC Morgan #1)(18)

‘Hey, little man!’ Leo says. ‘How’s it going? Happy New Year!’

His tone is so different, it’s all Ffion can do to stop herself turning around and double-checking it’s the same guy. She falls into the spaces between Leo’s words – He did? And what did you do? No way! – and the past grips Ffion’s heart and squeezes it hard. She imagines being on the phone to her own dad, and she picks up another stone, a bigger one this time, and hurls it far into the water.

‘You’ve got a kid,’ Ffion says, when Leo’s finished. She looks along the lakeside, to where the resort squats in the break of the trees. A vast marquee covers one of the decks, fairy lights criss-crossing the windows. ‘Harris,’ she remembers.

‘How did – oh, yeah, right.’ Leo puts a hand to the back of his neck, the small tattoo now hidden beneath his collar. He stoops and picks up a stone; throws it hard into the water, scattering the terns. Ffion lets it go. ‘He’s four. You got any?’

‘God no.’

Leo glances at his watch. ‘The DI wants us in the office to brief him on the job, as soon as Yasmin confirms ID.’

‘You can do that. I don’t do DIs.’

‘I wasn’t aware they were optional.’

‘They are when you cover two hundred square kilometres and your DI works two towns away.’

Leo opens his mouth to say something, then gives up, shaking his head. He points across the lake to a large single-storey structure. ‘What’s that?’ The building is surrounded by boats, some listing to the side, others sitting in huge cradles, their hulls naked and exposed.

‘The boathouse. Steffan Edwards owns it. He fixes boats; rents out paddleboards and dinghies in the summer.’

‘Would he know about the currents?’

‘Probably.’ Ffion begins walking back towards the lodges.

‘Meet me there in the morning?’

‘A third date, already? You’re a fast operator, Mr Brady.’

‘What happened to “Let’s forget last night ever happened?”’

‘I forgot.’

The woman who answers the door at number one has the sort of frame which looks as though it might blow away in a light breeze. Her blonde hair is fine, the skin across her cheekbones so tight it’s almost translucent. She wears yoga pants, and a loose top that hangs from shoulders thin as a coathanger, with huge scrunched-down legwarmers pulled over her feet, making her look like a child borrowing her father’s socks.

‘Come in, come in. It’s all so awful! Darling, there’s a detective here to see us.’

Ffion is ushered into a large open-plan room, and two children, a boy and a girl, are shooed out. The same zinc table as in the other lodges dominates the space nearest the bifold doors, but, where the others were bright and airy, this place is gloomy, the marquee on the deck stealing both the light and the view.

Jonty Charlton – at least, Ffion assumes this is Jonty – sits on the short end of an L-shaped sofa in the other half of the space, where a log burner pushes out suffocating heat. An open bottle of red wine stands on the table next to him.

Jonty rubs his hand across his brow. ‘What a mess, eh? Can I get you something? A glass of wine, perhaps. Blythe, could you find another glass?’

The kitchen surfaces are covered with drying glasses and stacked foil platters. Ffion spots a streamer hanging limply from the curtain pole, and a single shoe abandoned in a corner.

‘I’m fine, thank you. You’ve heard the news?’

‘Ashleigh Stafford put it on the residents’ WhatsApp group,’ Blythe says. ‘I just can’t believe it. He was just here.’

‘How long have you known the Lloyds?’

Blythe puts her hand in the air, like a schoolkid. ‘Yasmin came to one of my yoga classes about five years ago. It’s amazing really. I wasn’t going to teach on a Tuesday – everyone’s chakra’s always a bit off on a Tuesday – but I did, and she did, and the rest is history.’

‘The girls became friendly,’ Jonty says. ‘Blythe told me Yasmin’s husband had inherited a patch of land and needed investors for a development.’

‘And you saw an opportunity?’ Ffion says.

‘It’s what I do.’ Jonty takes a slug of wine. ‘Match projects to investors. It’s rare for me to invest personally, but I find it hard to say no to my wife.’

‘North Wales is on the cusp of regeneration,’ Blythe says. Ffion suppresses a snort. Wait till the lake floods and it pisses down solidly for three weeks. ‘And the energy here is extraordinary – you can really feel it pass through you.’

The only thing Ffion has felt pass through her in Cwm Coed is a dodgy kebab. Maybe the chakra had been off. ‘Is it a good investment?’

Jonty makes a weighing motion with his hands. ‘Property’s like the stock market. To make real money you have to hold your nerve. Play the long game. Once the whole development’s been rolled out, this place’ll be a goldmine.’

‘I’d like to take a look at the CCTV, if I may?’

There’s a moment’s hesitation. ‘Of course! Anything to help. Hang on, I’ll get the key.’

Ffion follows Jonty across the drive to a stone building. Inside, a vast circuitboard lists every external light, and a generator stands in silent anticipation in the corner.