Ceri’s solicitor coughs. She looks at him, then shrugs. “I’m not going to lie. Yes, it was a long time ago; yes, he was a kid, but he made my life a misery. I lost all my confidence—I wouldn’t even go to the shops, in the end, in case I saw him. I didn’t have any friends, I didn’t go to art college… He ruined my life, and there he was, waltzing back into the village with all the trappings of success. I hated him for it.”
“Enough to kill him?” Leo says.
Ceri meets his gaze. “No.”
“Do you know what this is?” Ffion lifts the Rising Star Award from the floor and places it on the table. It’s in a clear evidence bag sealed with a red plastic tag.
“It’s a trophy.”
“Have you ever seen it before?”
“No.” Ceri’s eyes flick to the side. “Maybe. I don’t know.”
“Which is it?” Leo says. “No, maybe, or you don’t know?”
“I don’t know!” She blinks rapidly, pressing her hands against her thighs.
“It has your fingerprints on it.”
“I didn’t kill him.”
“The thing is, Ceri,” Ffion says, “Yasmin Lloyd gave tours to almost everyone at the party. No one remembers seeing you on one of them. So if you weren’t given a tour, why are your fingerprints on this award?”
There’s a long silence.
“Okay.” Ceri lets out a long breath. “I went up to Rhys’s office to deliver his post.”
“Funny place to put a letter box,” Ffion says.
Ceri ignores the sarcasm. “If you must know, he tricked me. Again. He made me think he was out—talking to me on the phone, through the intercom. I put the parcel in his office and then I saw—I realized he—” She swallows and looks at the table. “He was in the bedroom. Pretty much naked, watching me walk around his office.”
Next to him, Leo feels Ffion tense. “What did you do?”
“Got the fuck out of there, of course.”
“That must have been upsetting,” Ffion says, her voice level. “It must have brought everything back: all the bullying at school, all that emotion, all that anger.”
Ceri holds Ffion’s gaze. “I didn’t kill him.”
“Who did, then?” Ffion says.
The solicitor interjects. “Officer, you’re not seriously asking my client to do your job for you?”
But Ceri shrugs. “Spoiled for choice, aren’t you? Yasmin’s a money-grabbing bitch, for a start. It wouldn’t surprise me if she killed him for his money. Do you know what she gave me as a Christmas tip? A used Primark card with three pounds forty-nine left on it.”
“If bad tipping makes you a murderer, half the population would be in prison,” Leo says, earning himself a frown from Ceri’s solicitor.
“Chuck a stone in the lake,” Ceri says, “and the splash’ll hit someone who’s glad Rhys Lloyd is dead. I don’t care what they said when he was alive. Even Steffan was mouthing off about him, and he was sucking up to Rhys something chronic all last year.”
“Mouthing off?” Ffion says. “When was this?”
“It was the day Rhys gave me the party invites to hand out—like I was his personal butler, for fuck’s sake.” She screws up her face. “Day after Boxing Day, I think. I left them in the pub, and Steff was off on one about Rhys.”
Leo leans forward. “Saying what?”
“He was talking to Huw. Ellis. Ffi’s—”
“Huw Ellis,” Leo says quickly. “The builder, right?”