The Last Party (DC Morgan #1)(2)

As the mist begins to clear, a woman cries out.

It stands out among the screams of excitement, sending shivers of a different kind down the backs of those waiting on the shore. Those still in their depth stand on tiptoes, straining to see what’s happening, who’s hurt. The rescue boat dips its oars into the water. In and out, in and out, making its way towards the commotion.

Out of the mist floats a man.

Face down, and quite unmistakably dead.





PART ONE





ONE




NEW YEAR’S DAY | FFION


Ffion Morgan scans the prone figure beside her for signs of life. The man is tall, with broad shoulders, and black hair cropped close to his skull. On the back of his neck, where a shirt collar might lie, is a small tattooed name. Harris.

Ffion clears her throat, testing the silence with a tiny, tentative noise, as though about to make a speech she isn’t sure how to start. The man doesn’t stir. That makes things easier.

There is, however, the small matter of the arm.

The arm is big. It has smooth dark brown skin, stretched across the sort of bicep Ffion always wants to bite, although clearly now is not the time. It lies diagonally across Ffion’s stomach, its hand hanging loosely by her hip. Habit makes her check the man’s fourth finger and she’s relieved to find it bare. She looks at his watch. Eight a.m. Time to split.

She shifts her legs first, shuffling them sideways a millimetre at a time, before bending her knees to drop her feet to the floor, all the time keeping her torso still, like a contortionist folding herself into a box. She waits a moment, then presses her upper half into the mattress as she slides slowly towards the edge of the bed. The manoeuvre is practised, honed over the past year, thanks to whatever misplaced gene it is which makes men cast out a proprietorial arm in their sleep.

The owner of this morning’s arm gives a grunt. Ffion counts to fifty. If he wakes, he’ll suggest breakfast – or coffee, at least – despite neither of them wanting it. Not with each other, anyway. Ffion blames Generation Z. All those feelings. There was a time when men showed you the door before they’d even tied a knot in the johnny, but now they’re all woke. It does her head in.

She tries to recall who the arm belongs to. Harris doesn’t ring a bell. It begins with M, she’s sure. Mike? Max? She fishes for pieces among the murky depths of the previous evening’s drinking, reeling in a memory of straight white teeth, a shy smile, a desire to please which she found as attractive as it was unusual.

Mark?

She tears a piece of skin from the inside of her top lip. Fuck fuck fuckitty fuck. She hates it when she can’t remember their names. It feels . . . slutty.

Marcus!

Ffion grins at the ceiling, relief making her giddy. Rule number one: always know who you’re spending the night with.

Marcus.

Recalling his name unlocks the rest, New Year’s Eve unfolding in all its drunken, glorious splendour. Marcus Something-or-other (surnames don’t count): a sky-diving instructor (I’ll sort you and your mates out with freebies) who matched her shot for shot and slipped a hand around her waist when he leaned forward to make himself heard above the noise of the bar. Shall we head somewhere quieter? We could go to mine . . .

Ffion closes her eyes and indulges in the memory of the tingle of Marcus’s thumb on her bare skin; so full of promise. For a second she thinks about rolling over and waking him up and—

No second helpings. Rule number two.

Marcus’s bedroom has the sparse, anonymous feel of a rental. Magnolia walls and vertical blinds; a scratchy carpet bristling with static. Ffion sweeps her right foot across it and finds her pants. Her left foot yields a sock, and, as the breathing beside her steadies, she slides out from under Marcus’s arm and on to the floor with all the grace of a sea lion.

The blue top she was wearing the previous evening is by the wardrobe, her jeans a few steps behind it. The classic clothes trail: Ffion is nothing if not predictable. With luck, she’ll find her shoes kicked off in the hall, her jumper in a puddle by the front door.

She dresses swiftly, stuffing her socks into her jeans pocket for speed, and hunts fruitlessly for her bra, before chalking it up as a loss. A quick wee, and a peek in the bathroom cabinet (a box of condoms; a half-squeezed tube of haemorrhoid cream), then she checks for her car keys and skedaddles. The pavements are frosty, and she zips up her coat. It’s khaki green and covers her from chin to ankle, its warmth and practicality the trade-off for looking like a sleeping bag with feet. As she retraces her steps to her car, she does the traditional alcohol-units-into-hours calculation and concludes she can just about get away with it.

It’s after nine when she gets home, and Mam’s making porridge. Two swimming costumes hang on the radiator.

‘You’ve never missed a New Year’s Day swim before.’

Elen Morgan’s voice is neutral, but Ffion has thirty years’ experience interpreting her mam’s stirring techniques, and the way she’s snatching at the wooden spoon right now doesn’t bode well.

Sixteen-year-old Seren bounces out of a pile of blankets on the big chair by the window. ‘They found a—’

‘Let your sister have some breakfast before we get into that.’ Mam’s sharp voice cuts across Seren.

Ffion looks at Seren. ‘They found a what?’