And that’s when Rhys knows he’s about to die.
Five
New Year’s Day
Leo
Leo scrolls through Wikipedia as he walks from the mortuary toward his car. Rhys Lloyd had been well respected in the music business. He hadn’t charted in a while—the top ten seemingly a constant stream of manufactured bands andfresh talent—but a few years back, the guy could do no wrong. Awards left, right, and center, and charity work too: playing for laughs in a spoof version ofThe Pirates of PenzanceforChildren in Need. Lloyd was working class—which everybody loves nowadays—and even though he’d apparently lost his accent, he spoke glowingly in interviews about hisidyllicupbringing in North Wales.
Lloyd was a rags-to-riches poster boy, plucked from obscurity when Lesley Garrett’s agent was on holiday in Llangollen and had popped into the Eisteddfod arts festival to find a loo. In the years that followed, Lloyd had released numerous albums, including a Christmas hit with Leona Lewis, crossing the bridge from light opera and musical theater into something Leo is more likely to listen to. In fact, Leo realizes, as he scans the list of tracks, hehaslistened to some of these. Liked them, even.
The brown rust bucket Leo saw when he arrived belongs to Ffion. She’s sitting in the driver’s seat, staring into space. Leo raps on the glass, and Ffion spends a few seconds trying to wind down the window before giving up and getting out.
“Feeling any better?”
Ffion frowns at him.
“Some people put Vicks VapoRub around their nostrils,” Leo says. “For the smell.”
“Thanks, Columbo, but this isn’t my first rodeo.”
“I thought maybe… I mean…” Leo thrusts his hands into his pockets. Why is Ffion being like this? She’d been fun last night; they’d had a laugh. “I guess you don’t get a lot of crime out here, that’s all.”
Ffion is nodding sagely. “Yup, it’s all pretty low-key in North Wales. Mostly sheep, as you’d expect. If we’re not shagging them, ha ha, we’re stealing them!”
“You’re taking the piss.”
“No,you’retaking the piss, mate, resorting to lazy stereotypes. For your information, I was here last week for a PM on a woman who’d shot herself in the face. The rest of the week, I was in court with an armed robbery. So enough of the big I am, yeah?”
Leo has a sudden thought. Is this because he didn’t message her? He’d asked for her number after they had drunkenly agreed that going to Alton Towers together would beoh my God so funny!and she’d punched it into his phone. This morning, after Ffion had left his flat and driven home, she had no doubt expected a text from him.Sorry I was asleep when you left… Had a great time… When are you free again?That sort of thing.
Leo takes a deep breath. “Look, I think we need to clear the air. Last night was…” He stops. The right word is important. Not dismissive, but not meaningful either. “Fun,” he settles on. The corner of Ffion’s mouth lifts in a half smile. Shit, isfuntoo meaningful? He doesn’t want to lead her on.
“Yeah, it was.”
Ffion’s spikiness softens, and despite himself, Leo feels the same heat he experienced when he first saw her on the dance floor last night. There’d been a sort of electricity about her, as though your hair might stand on end if you got too close. Ffion hadn’t played games either, just returned his gaze with a cool, even stare, then stopped dancing and walked right up to him. “Hot, isn’t it?”
“Very,” Leo had replied. “Fancy some air?”
“The thing is,” he says now, “I mean, it’s not that you’re not—it’s just that…” Leo falters. Ffion’s face has gone all crooked. Is she going to cry? Fuck. “I’m not really looking for a relationship.” He finishes too quickly, the words gaining volume so he practically shouts the last few.
“Me neither.” Ffion gives a brusque nod, as though concluding a business meeting. “That’s that sorted, then.” She gestures to the mortuary. “Any hints on cause of death?”
Leo doesn’t know whether Ffion’s genuinely okay with this or just sparing his feelings, but either way, he’s grateful to be back in more comfortable territory. “You know what pathologists are like,” he says. “There could be a knife sticking out of the bloke’s back and they’d still hedge their bets till the inquest.”
Ffion gives the ghost of a smile. “I’ll go and see the wife on my way home. Yasmin Lloyd’s down as next of kin, right?”
“Yes, but…” Leo hesitates. “Well, she’s at The Shore.”
“So?”
“So that’s technically England. My patch,” he adds when Ffion doesn’t say anything.
“Technically, yes, but Rhys is from Cwm Coed. His mam, Glynis, still lives there. And it’s literally on my doorstep. So I’ll—”
“We’ll do it together,” Leo says, with uncharacteristic decisiveness. If this turns out to be a juicy job and Leo gives it away, Crouch will never let him forget it.
There’s a long pause as they lock eyes before Ffion breaks away with a sigh presumably intended to suggest she doesn’t give a shit either way. “Fine. Follow me. Call me if you get lost. I’ll give you my number.”