The Last Party (DC Morgan #1)(63)

‘I’m fine, I’m fine!’ Clemmie says, her teeth rattling so hard she can hardly get the words out. ‘Cramp. So embarrassing. The one time I go without my tow float, too.’

‘Cool boat,’ Caleb says. Rhys assumes the boy is being sarcastic, then sees him gazing at the long, thin boat with something close to envy. Instead of the fibreglass of modern boats, Tanwen has a wooden hull, the varnish thin and chipped. Here and there, sections have been cut out and replaced, the seal around the join still visible. The red sails, now dropped away from the wind, are patched and faded.

‘You think?’ Angharad eyes Caleb, who reddens.

‘I don’t really know anything about boats,’ he mumbles.

‘If you’re going to live on the water, you should learn.’

The colour’s slowly returning to Clemmie’s cheeks. She turns to Caleb. ‘Maybe, if you ask Angharad nicely, she might teach you to sail.’ Rhys and Yasmin exchange a glance. There she goes again: pushy Clemmie. But Angharad gives a slow nod.

‘Ella.’ Perhaps. ‘But for now, you must get warm. Your core temperature will continue to drop for some time.’

Angharad accompanies Clemmie inside her lodge, and the twins and Yasmin drift back to their own lodge. Rhys feels a prickle across his neck and turns to see Dee Huxley watching him.

‘Lakes are so dangerous,’ she says. ‘You think you’re in control and then—’ She bangs her stick sharply on the deck.

Rhys shivers and follows his family inside.

A bundle of post has arrived from Fleur and Rhys feels a surge of optimism for the future. He imagines recording again, touring proper venues, instead of small-town theatres. He opens the contacts on his phone and sends his new assistant a text message. I’ve got a couple of hours’ work for you, if you can fit it in this week.

Rhys could process the post himself – there’s little else to do – but there’s something pathetic about licking an envelope in which you have placed your own signed photograph. It hardly says ‘Celebrity’. When Rhys’s career was at its peak, he had a full-time assistant, working from an office on High Holborn. First the work went, then the office, then the PA. Rhys misses the kudos; likes having an assistant again, even if only for a few hours. A few quid is a small price to pay for self-respect.

She comes the next day, taking over Rhys’s desk to sort the mail. She discards the outer envelopes, and paperclips each competition entry to its accompanying stamped addressed envelope, along with a photograph ready for Rhys’s autograph.

‘This one wants a personal dedication.’

Rhys shakes his head. ‘We don’t do that – it’s in the Ts and Cs.’

‘The woman’s got terminal cancer, Rhys.’ She hands him a photograph and a pen. ‘Write a nice message, yeah?’

An hour later, Rhys has written messages on well over half the photographs, including anything which arrived with a note, or appears to be from a child. You could be inspiring the next generation of singers, he is told, when he complains.

‘Would it inspire you?’ he says.

His assistant laughs, standing and gathering the letters to take to the postbox. ‘Not really. I can’t sing.’

Rhys opens his wallet to pull out a tenner, then recklessly pushes twenty into her palm. ‘Everyone can sing.’

She looks up at him through her eyelashes, deliberately provocative. ‘Maybe you could teach me some time?’ Before Rhys can answer she’s halfway down the stairs.

He catches up with her in time to open the front door in an act of chivalry, his free hand resting briefly on her arm. ‘It would be a pleasure to teach you,’ he murmurs. He feels a stirring in his groin and parks it – parks her – for another time. He has never really looked at her before – not like that – but now he lets his eyes run over her curves and wonders what they might look like, out of those jeans.

A white van is coming up the drive, and Rhys is just about to close the door when it stops and Huw Ellis jumps out. ‘Still got the use of your hands, then?’

‘What?’

‘You seem to be having trouble answering your phone, so I thought I’d pop over and check you weren’t incapacitated.’ Huw walks towards Rhys. ‘Where’s my money?’

‘I’ll get it to you. It’s just a bit tied up. Offshore accounts, you know?’

‘I want it today.’

‘I can’t get that sort of money today, don’t be absurd.’

Huw takes a step forward, and then another, till he’s so close Rhys can smell his aftershave. ‘Pay me what I’m owed, Lloyd. I’ve still got the keys to this place, remember.’ His eyes rove across the lodges. ‘Be a shame if anything happened to it, wouldn’t it?’

He gives a slow smile, then turns his gaze back to Rhys.

‘Or to you.’





TWENTY-SEVEN




JANUARY 6TH | LEO


‘What the fuck,’ Crouch says, each word carefully enunciated, ‘were you thinking?’

Leo stares at a spot just to the right of the DI’s head. ‘It’s a time-critical situation, sir. Yasmin Lloyd’s in custody and we can only hold her for a few more hours. If she planted an envelope with ricin amongst her husband’s mail, we—’