The Last Party (DC Morgan #1)(5)

‘I take it you don’t like that sort of thing?’

‘Tights and nancy boys? Do you?’

Leo opens his notebook with the attention one might give a portal into another world. ‘Who reported him missing?’

‘His daughter. Rang in on the nines. The wife confirms he didn’t come to bed last night, but apparently that wasn’t unexpected. She thought he was partying, or sleeping it off somewhere else. Or having it off, maybe.’ Crouch snorts.

‘Do you want me to speak to the family?’

‘Take a gander at the body first. Make sure the Welsh haven’t fucked it up. Local enquiries, last known movements – the usual. North Wales has sent a DC – he’ll meet you at the mortuary.’

‘No problem.’

‘If it’s an accidental drowning, bat it back to Wales.’ Crouch clears his screen. ‘He washed up on their side.’

‘And if it’s murder?’

‘Depends. If it’s going nowhere—’

‘Bat it back to Wales?’

‘Not as thick as you look, are you?’ Crouch waits expectantly. Leo isn’t sure how to answer. ‘But if there’s a suspect, keep the job, and we’ll get it squared away soon as. First murder of the year, done and dusted in a day, boom.’

Boom? Crouch often bemoans the fact that he is never drafted in to give statements to the press, standing on the steps of the court, or next to the fluttering tape of a murder scene. Based on what Leo has seen of his boss, this is a wise decision on the part of the comms team.

It’s more than an hour from Major Crime’s offices to the force boundary. The sky is bright blue, the streets full of people chasing away hangovers and the excesses of Christmas. A walk in the fresh air. Perhaps a pint, or a Bloody Mary. New year, new you.

Leo listens to a phone-in on 5 Live and feels a crushing sense of despair at the passing of another year with nothing to show for it. He’s still living in a shitty flat with a neighbour who burns herbs in a tin by her door to ward off evil spirits. He’s still working for a boss who belittles and bullies him on a daily basis. And he’s still doing nothing about it.

Leo taps the screen on his phone and listens to the ringtone fill the car’s speakers.

‘What is it?’

‘Happy new year to you, too.’ Leo hears the tiny exhalation which means his ex-wife is rolling her eyes. ‘Can I speak to him?’

‘He’s out with Dominic.’

‘Can I ring later?’

‘We’ve got some friends coming over for drinks.’

‘Tomorrow, then?’

‘You can’t expect me to drop everything and—’

‘I just want to wish a happy new year to my son!’

Allie leaves a silence so long Leo thinks she’s hung up. ‘I write it down, you know,’ she says finally, her tone clipped. ‘Every time you lose your temper.’

‘For God’s sake, I don’t—’ He stops himself, clenching a fist and driving it through the air, stopping just short of the steering wheel. How can he ever win, when the very existence of the allegation provokes him into proving it right? ‘This isn’t fair, Allie.’

‘You should have thought of that before . . .’

‘How many times do I have to say I’m sorry?’ Leo’s voice rises again. Over and over again, the same narrative, the same guilt-trip.

‘You’re lucky I let you see him at all, after what you did.’

Leo counts to ten. ‘When would be a convenient time for me to call again?’

‘I’ll text you.’ The line goes dead.

She won’t. Leo will have to ask again, and, by the time he gets to speak to his son, happy new year will feel like an afterthought.

As Leo drives, the distances between the villages grow, and even the sky seems to open up, until he can look in every direction and see nothing but emptiness. Bleakness.

One day, when his lad is a teenager, Leo will be able to simply pick up the phone and call him. They’ll make their own arrangements to meet after school, or to go to a football match, without Allie as a self-appointed gatekeeper. Without her constantly reminding Leo of what he’d done. You’re lucky I didn’t call the police, she’s fond of saying. Or Social Services. I still could, you know. It hangs over him, shadowing every conversation, every brief contact she allows him to have.

I still could.

God, it’s miserable in Wales. It isn’t raining, which is a blessing – not to mention a rarity – but clouds are rolling in from the north, and wind bends the trees sideways. What do the police do all day, out here? There must be some crime, Leo supposes – sheep theft, the odd burglary – but he doubts CID is a hotbed of activity. Today’s drowning will be the highlight of their year.

The mortuary is in Brynafon, and Leo’s glad of the SatNav as he winds his way around the mountain roads, before dropping back down into what passes for civilisation. A light drizzle hangs in the air, settling on the town’s slate roofs. Leo follows the hospital signs to a small car park, empty except for a silver Volvo XC90 and a brown Triumph Stag held together with rust. The mortuary itself is a low boxy building. Leo presses the buzzer.

‘Push the door,’ comes the tinny response. ‘There’s no one on reception today, but I’ll be through in a sec.’