The Last Party (DC Morgan #1)(7)

At first, Ffion went along with her Wyllt moniker. If the hat fits, she thought, impressing friends with booze stolen from her parents’ drink cabinet, and inventing ever more outlandish ‘truths’ at the inevitable games of Truth or Dare. It was funny, living up to her name.

Until it wasn’t.

Sometimes, when she and Mia have a pint at Y Llew Coch, they look around at the faces that haven’t changed in twenty years.

‘Still would,’ Mia would say of Hari Roberts, who fitted bathrooms and volunteered as a firefighter.

‘Definitely wouldn’t,’ they’d say in unison of Gruffydd Lewis, who now teaches in the same school that once gave him detention for sliding a mirror under the door to the girls’ changing room.

Ffion steals a glance at Leo Brady, as they don shoe coverings and remove their coats in an anteroom outside the morgue. Would she? Hypothetically, of course, because: rule two. But would she? He’s good-looking, no doubt about that, although perhaps not quite as good-looking as when seen through a filter of vodka and dry white wine.

Still would, she concludes. Probably.

‘After you, Ffion.’ The English detective emphasises her name, as Izzy Weaver opens the door to the morgue. The faux chivalry irritates Ffion. How has this even happened? The look of horror on Leo’s face when he saw her told Ffion all she needs to know. They can’t possibly work together, although Ffion hasn’t yet worked out how she’s going to get out of it. Sorry, boss, I accidentally shagged the DC you’ve assigned me to work with – any chance of a swap?

‘Thank you, Leo.’ Ffion mirrors his tone with a guileless smile. The pathologist raises an eyebrow at her, but Ffion ignores the unspoken question. ‘Any idea of cause of death?’ she says instead.

‘I’m reserving judgement. What’s the name of your MisPer?’

‘Rhys Lloyd,’ Leo says, before Ffion can. She looks at him, her head still reeling. This is all so weird. So awful. ‘He’s a singer,’ Leo continues. ‘Originally from Cwm Coed.’ He pronounces it cum co-ed. Ffion wants to correct him. It’s coom coyd, actually. She wants to say lots of things, but she’s transfixed on the long drawer Izzy is sliding out from the fridge.

‘I wasn’t sure how long you’d be, and I didn’t want him thawing out. All I need now is for your guvnors to agree who I’m invoicing.’

Leo turns to Ffion. ‘The body was found on your side.’

‘He went missing from yours.’ With Cwm Coed in such proximity to England, cross-border working is inevitable: Ffion has experienced Cheshire’s Teflon-coated handovers on several occasions.

‘Lloyd owns a holiday resort on the English side of the lake,’ Leo explains to Izzy. ‘Last seen at a party there yesterday evening.’

‘The Shore,’ Ffion says, although neither of them is listening. ‘It’s been subject to a planning dispute for years.’

Izzy pulls off the sheet and the three of them stare at the corpse. ‘He’s not in great shape,’ Izzy says. She swallows what sounds like a belch, pressing her fingers to her lips and closing her eyes, remaining perfectly still for several seconds. ‘Excuse me.’ She opens her eyes just as Ffion is wondering if she’s alright. ‘I was up till three playing Cards Against Humanity, and that last glass of port was perhaps a mistake. Anyway – let’s see if this is your singer.’

The corpse is naked. Broad-chested, with a six-pack which shows even in this sorry state, and tan lines hinting at holidays Ffion could never afford. A deep gash splits his face in two. Ffion takes slow, even breaths.

‘I bagged and tagged him at the scene, fingernail scrapings, swabs, yadah yadah.’ Izzy waves a hand towards the bench table that runs the length of the room. ‘Property and clothes are over there, if you want a gander. Bloody nice suit. Don’t get a lot of Savile Row in here, I can tell you.’

Ffion walks towards the sealed bags, glad of the excuse to look somewhere other than the corpse. The tuxedo is draped across a folding rack, the stench of lake and death steaming from the fabric. Ffion catches a flash of gold cufflinks and moves on, her stomach reminding her that vodka and wine don’t mix.

Behind her, Leo opens a portfolio, the zip loud within the unforgiving acoustics of the morgue. He pulls out a sheet of paper. ‘Lloyd’s wife has given a description. Six foot one, dark hair, brown eyes . . .’

After each attribute, Leo and Izzy check off the relevant characteristic on the body between them, a macabre game of pairs which turns Ffion’s stomach.

On the narrow stainless-steel table are two smaller bags, one containing a gold signet ring, the other Lloyd’s smartwatch.

‘I’ll get the tech team to pull the data from his Apple account.’ Ffion walks back to the others and makes herself look at the body. ‘It should give us his movements, and, if he has the health app installed, we can see what time his heart stopped.’

‘You’ll make me redundant,’ Izzy says.

Leo runs a finger down to the next item on his list. ‘Appendix scar.’

‘Snap,’ Izzy says, indicating the diagonal line above the man’s right hipbone.

Ffion feels suddenly hot.

‘Mole underneath his left nipple?’ Leo says.

‘Check.’

‘Scar on his—’