The Last Party (DC Morgan #1)(26)

‘Go on, chief.’ Leo kisses his son fiercely on the forehead and lets Allie strap him back into his seat.

‘We’re moving,’ she says, when she returns.

‘Where to?’

‘Australia.’

Leo blinks. A car drove past, just as Allie spoke, and for a second he thought she’d said . . .

‘We’re sick of England.’ Allie fiddles with her car keys. ‘Brexit, house prices, the bloody rain . . . Dominic’s got a job offer, great prospects, and we’ve found a house with an annexe. Mum and Dad are going to spend half the year with us, half back home.’

‘You can’t.’

It’s as simple as that, surely? Legally, Leo has joint parental responsibility. Allie can’t take their son to another country.

‘It’s an incredible opportunity for Harris to experience a completely different lifestyle.’

‘But I won’t be able to see him.’

‘You can use the annexe, when my parents aren’t there. And when Harris is old enough he can fly on his own.’

‘Are you actually insane? “Use the annexe”? What, for those six months of annual leave I get? Even if I save all my holiday allowance, even if I spend a month every year in Australia – bloody Australia! – that’s eleven months of the year when I don’t get to see my son.’

‘There’s Zoom.’

‘Jesus, Allie.’ Leo sweeps a hand across his face. ‘How can I have a relationship with my—’

‘Relationship?’ Allie’s shouting now, and Leo glances towards the car. ‘You hardly even see him now!’

‘Because you don’t let me!’ Leo makes himself calm down – the last thing he wants is for Harris to hear them arguing. He speaks quietly. ‘I’ll take you to court over this.’

‘I’m sure they’ll be very interested to hear what a devoted father you are.’ Allie swipes purposefully at her phone and Leo turns away. He knows what’s coming, and he doesn’t want to hear it. The communal door slams behind him, but not before Allie’s pressed play on the voice note, and Leo has been forced once again to hear the soundtrack of his nightmares.

‘Daddy left me. I’m all on my own and it’s really dark. I’m scared, Mummy, please come and get me. I’m so scared . . .’

Leo doesn’t need the sound file to hear his son’s cries. He hears them all the time. He hears them at night, when he can’t sleep; at work, when he looks at the photo of Harris on his desk.

He hears them now, as he drives towards Wales, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. He has two options. Either he lets Allie take Harris to Australia, or she finally drops the sword she’s dangled over him for the last year. Either way, he’s going to lose his son.

Izzy Weaver has already started the post-mortem when Leo arrives. ‘I’m still standing,’ she announces, inexplicably.

‘Morning,’ Leo offers in return.

‘Afternoon,’ Ffion says pointedly. The clock on the wall reads 12.01 p.m. Izzy continues her careful examination of Rhys Lloyd’s body, while the radio plays quietly in the background.

‘Which country does iconic pop trio A-ha come from?’

‘Norway,’ says Izzy.

Ah, Leo realises: that’s where ‘I’m Still Standing’ had come from. Elton John, obviously. 1983, if there’s a bonus point on offer.

‘What time did you finish up at The Shore yesterday?’ he asks Ffion.

‘What are you, my mam?’

‘I was only asking.’ Talk about prickly. Ffion’s scowling now, as though Leo was checking up on her, instead of simply making conversation. ‘Any cause of death yet?’ he says to Izzy.

‘Patience, grasshopper.’ Izzy examines the pulpy mess that was once Rhys Lloyd’s face. For a few minutes, the only sound in the room is the tinny noise of the radio quiz. ‘Dissection scissors,’ Izzy says, and Leo is just thinking I’ve never heard of them – who’s the lead singer? when the mortuary technician crosses the room and hands them to her.

Izzy hands them straight back. ‘Dissection scissors, Elijah!’ He ambles across to the trolley to find the right ones and Izzy rolls her eyes. ‘See what I have to deal with?’

‘Sorry,’ Elijah says, not sounding it. ‘Miles away.’

‘If only.’ Izzy looks at Leo. ‘Last week he sent the wrong bloods to the lab, and a sixty-six-year-old man with multiple organ failure came back pregnant.’

She circles her scalpel around Lloyd’s face.

‘These injuries were sustained prior to death.’

Ffion comes closer, to look. ‘Did they kill him? There are rocks in the lake beneath the decks – could he have fallen on to them?’

‘I’ll know more once I take a look at the brain, but there are no facial fractures, and if it were rocks, as you suggest, I’d expect more diffuse abrasions. What we’ve got here are more localised lacerations – more consistent with a sharp object.’

‘A weapon?’

‘Frankie Goes to Hollywood,’ Izzy says, to the radio. She bends over Lloyd’s face, poking at his injuries with a pair of long, narrow tweezers. ‘Interesting.’ She snaps her fingers and Elijah passes her a sterile pot from a stack on the trolley next to her. Leo wonders if working for Izzy Weaver is better or worse than working for Crouch.