Ffion answers in English, a concession to Leo and Yasmin, Leo assumes. “We won’t know that until after the postmortem, I’m afraid.” She turns to Yasmin. “When did you last see your husband?”
Yasmin is ashen. “Last night. Ten, maybe? I—”
“You should have called the police when he didn’t come to bed!” Tabby says suddenly, angry tears blotching her face. “But you didn’t care, did you? Even this morning, when I said Dad was missing, you saidHe’ll turn up, and now…” She collapses again, burying her face in her arms.
“Mrs. Lloyd,” Leo says. “Was your husband fit and well when you last saw him?”
“Yes.” Yasmin glances at her mother-in-law. “Although, notwell, exactly.”
“He was ill?” Leo flips open his notebook. The pathologist will want to know about signs of illness. Perhaps Lloyd died from natural causes.Bat it back to Wales, Crouch said, but Leo can’t do that if Rhys died at The Shore.
“You could say that. It was”—Yasmin closes her eyes for a second—“self-inflicted. He was very drunk. But it was New Year’s Eve,” she adds, a little defensively.
“I’m sorry to ask this,” Leo says, “but what was Rhys’s state of mind yesterday evening?”
Yasmin looks up sharply. “Are you suggesting he committed suicide?”
There’s a stifled gasp from Glynis.
“Dad wasn’t depressed.” Tabby sniffs hard. “Why would he kill himself?”
“Maybe something upset him.” Felicia speaks quietly, a hard undercurrent threading her words. She’s staring at her mother, who seems unaware of her daughter’s sudden change in mood.
“Like what?” Leo directs his question to Felicia, but it’s Yasmin who answers.
“Rhys was fine. Drunk, that’s all. As I said, it was a party.”
“Did he have any medical conditions?” Leo asks.
Yasmin shakes her head. “He was very healthy. He had to be. People don’t realize how fit you have to be to sing at a professional level.”
“Did he take drugs?” Ffion says. The briefest of glances passes between Tabby and Felicia.
“Absolutely not.” Yasmin’s response is too fast. Leo makes a note to request a rush job on the toxicology.
“Had he fallen out with anyone?” Ffion asks.
“Everyone loved Dad.” Tabby’s words are punctuated by jagged breaths. “He was the nicest man you could ever meet.” Felicia puts her arms around her sister, but Leo thinks he sees a dart of anger in her eyes before both girls’ faces are lost to the embrace.
It could be something or nothing, thinks Leo. There’s always a reluctance from family to admit to an argument, even a trivial one—especiallya trivial one—when a loved one has been found dead. The deceased is always aloving spouseorparent, their relationships always unsullied by petty spats. So many victims able tolight up a roombefore their lives are snuffed out, it’s a wonder it hasn’t put the National Grid out of business.
Yasmin chokes back a sob. “I just can’t believe he’s gone.”
“I’m so sorry,” Leo says.
“Sorry?” It explodes from Tabby with such vigor that Leo instinctively tenses, the way he does if a fight’s about to kick off. But although the girl’s fists are clenched and her eyes blazing, her lip wobbles, and tears stream down her face. “You’re sorry? Even though Dad told you he had a stalker, and you did nothing about it? But now you’re sorry?”
“A stalker?” Ffion looks at the girl.
“Darling, I don’t think—”
“They fobbed you off, Mum. And now Dad’s dead!” Violent hiccups swallow what might have come next, and she runs upstairs, the lodge shaking with the force of her feet on the stairs. Her sister follows, and for a second, there’s silence.
Leo makes another note. “Your husband had a stalker?”
“It’s being dealt with by the Metropolitan Police. They never found out who was responsible. It was never anything serious, though, just online stuff. Internet trolls, you know? It comes with the territory.”
“That’s not what Rhys said.” The older Mrs. Lloyd speaks hesitantly, glancing at Yasmin, who continues to stare straight ahead as though the other woman hasn’t spoken. There’s an uneasy silence, broken by Ffion speaking the older woman’s mother tongue.