The Last Party (DC Morgan #1)(45)

‘I’ve got Ffion Morgan with me,’ Leo says. ‘Talk us through what you’ve got.’

‘In October last year, someone sent an abusive tweet to the victim’s account, and get this: the IP address is a café on Cwm Coed high street.’

Leo and Ffion look at each other. Lloyd’s stalker is local.

‘That in itself doesn’t tell us anything – the mobile’s untraceable – but most criminals carry their own phones with them as well as a burner, so I looked to see how many other devices were logged by the wifi network at the same time.’ Gwen pauses for what can only be effect.

‘And?’ Ffion prompts.

‘Just one. Another mobile phone, but a contract one, this time.’

Leo’s pulse picks up. ‘Registered to whom?’

Gwen’s triumph is audible. ‘Yasmin Lloyd.’





EIGHTEEN




DECEMBER 27TH | CERI


The Shore is the last stop on Ceri’s postal route. She leaves the engine running, the midday news on the radio, and opens the rear doors of the van. There are more clothes for Ashleigh Stafford, who frowns at the parcels when Ceri hands them over.

‘There should be one from ASOS.’

‘That’s all I’ve got.’ Ceri wonders if Ashleigh does anything with her time at The Shore except online shopping. In the summer, when the couple spent the whole of August here, Ceri delivered packages every single day. Ashleigh never once said thank you, but once, when Ceri had staggered up the path with a pile of boxes, Bobby Stafford had pressed a twenty-pound note into her hand.

Jonty and Blythe Charlton, at number one, rarely have post.

‘Everything goes to the main house,’ Blythe explained in the summer. Ceri hadn’t long turned forty, celebrating by completing on a two-bedroomed house with a mortgage she’ll still be paying into her seventies. How the other half live.

She has a stack of post for number four. Ceri’s curious about Clemence Northcote and her son. She delivered all their Christmas cards, and a number of bills, and today she has a brown envelope from the DVLA, which seems an odd thing to have delivered to your holiday home. A fat package is too big to fit through the door, so she rings the bell. Caleb answers, yawning so widely Ceri can see his tonsils. He scratches the band of midriff between his pyjama bottoms and a faded hoodie featuring a band Ceri has never heard of.

‘Alright,’ he says. It isn’t really a question.

Ceri hands him the mail. The boy smells of cannabis and sleep, but he’s still preferable to Call-me-Clemmie, whose insistence on limping through a conversation in Welsh has made Ceri late to clock off on more than one occasion. She wonders if Clemmie knows that her son smokes weed, or that he’s been seen on the hillside, gathering the psychedelic mushrooms that have grown there ever since Ceri was at school.

There’s only a postcard for number two. Ceri could pop it through the letterbox, but she has a soft spot for Dee Huxley, and likes to check in on her.

‘Ceri, dear, it’s minus one.’ As always, Mrs Huxley is in her slippers, with several layers beneath her cardigan. Ceri looks down at her bare knees and grins. They have a variation on this exchange most mornings, but it’ll take more than the threat of snow to get Ceri out of her shorts.

‘How are you, Mrs Huxley?’

‘Still alive, which is a good starting point for any day, I always think.’

‘I thought I told you to use this?’ Ceri rattles the door chain, which hangs uselessly on the frame. ‘I might be someone after your money.’

‘I’d give you short shrift if you tried.’ She lifts her stick and bangs it on the floor, then laughs at Ceri’s expression.

At number five, Ceri takes out the package marked for the Lloyds. She’d leave it on the doorstep, if she could, but the big padded envelope marked with his agency address has to be signed for. Signed for! A bunch of stamped addressed envelopes, waiting for Rhys’s autograph. Ceri’s never known anything so ridiculous.

Hopefully one of the twins will open the door. Or Yasmin. Ceri doesn’t much like Yasmin, but she’s undoubtedly the lesser of two evils. The Lloyds have one of those doorbells with a camera attached, so if they’re lazing on the deck they can see if whoever is at the door is worth getting up for. Early last summer, Ceri had rung the bell and been greeted by Rhys’s disembodied voice.

‘Parcel for you.’

‘Could you stick it upstairs in the office? Door’s open. It’s a surprise for Yasmin – I don’t want her to see it.’

‘Fucksake,’ Ceri had muttered, pushing open the front door. ‘What did your last servant die of?’ She’d noted the shoes by the mat and kept her own on, wishing they were muddier. The stairs turned halfway up, and she saw the office at the top. All the bedroom doors were open, the heat stifling. A pile of sheet music, pinned to the desk by an empty mug, wafted in the breeze coming from the balcony in the main bedroom. Ceri put the parcel on the armchair, covering it with a throw so soft it was all she could do not to hold it to her face. She ran a hand over the polished mahogany desk and thought of the crappy furniture in her own house. On the wall, generic framed prints hung in a perfect quartet. Ceri took it all in, moving silently around the small space, her fingers trailing lightly over artfully placed ornaments.