“My colleagues and I will be taking statements from everyone who attended the party or saw the deceased immediately prior to his death.” Leo hands Bobby a card. “If you think of anything in the meantime, please let me know.”
“Do you have a suspect?” Ashleigh follows Leo to the door.
“I’m sure I don’t need to remind you, Mrs. Stafford, not to make any observations online in relation to the police investigation.”
“I’ve got two million followers on Instagram. I have a responsibility to keep them updated.”
What did she think she was, a war correspondent? “I imagine it will be tricky to update your social media status when you’re serving two years for contempt of court.”
Ashleigh’s mouth drops open, and Leo heads for the lodge next door.
Clemence Northcote, at number four, has short hair streaked with pink and purple. She wears a dress that forms a triangle, like the LADIES sign on a loo door.
“Do you need to speak to us both? Only, Caleb—that’s my son—is still in bed.” She gives Leo a conspiratorial grimace. “Teenagers! I managed to stay awake to see in the New Year, but that’s still early when you’re sixteen, isn’t it? No idea what time he got to bed. I was dead to the world.” As she realizes what she’s said, a look of horror passes over her face. “Ouch. Sorry.”
“We’ll speak to him tomorrow, if that’s all right? Sounds like it was quite the party.”
“It was wonderful.” She winces again. “God. Awful to say that, after what happened to Rhys, but of course we didn’t know he was missing until this morning, let alone…” She breaks off. “Do you think there’s any risk to the rest of us? Is it okay for us to stay here? Only—” Clemence cuts herself off, taking a steadying breath. “Sorry. I’m all over the place. It’s all such a shock.”
“We’d prefer you to stay at least until you’ve given a statement, please, Mrs. Northcote.”
“Please, call me Clemmie. Of course. Gosh, it’s just awful, isn’t it?” She moves to the stove and stirs the contents of a large pot. “Soup. For Yasmin and the girls.”
In place of the long metal table Leo had seen in the Lloyds’ and the Staffords’ lodges, Clemence Northcote has a small wooden one with two folding chairs. Against the wall, Leo recognizes an Ikea bookshelf he has in his own flat. On the other side of the glass doors is a clothes rack with a wet suit dripping gently onto the deck.
“It must have been cold,” Leo says, nodding toward the wet suit.
“Sorry, what?” Clemmie is opening and closing drawers with dizzying inefficiency.
“The New Year’s Day swim. A village tradition, I hear.”
“Oh, that. Yes. I’m used to it, though. I swim all year round.”
“Were you there when the body was found?”
Clemmie presses her hands on either side of her face. “I left right away. Came back to The Shore. It seemed intrusive. And…” She seems reluctant to finish. Leo waits. “The locals are a bit funny about us,” Clemmie says eventually.
“About The Shore?”
Clemmie nods. “I’ve tried. Believe me, I’ve tried. I organized a litter pickup, volunteered to help at the library… People are polite enough, but it’s…” She sighs. “It’s verythem and us, you know? Did you see the massive letters at the bottom of the drive?”
“You can’t miss them.”
“Well, quite. Before The Shore opened, someone spray-painted letters on theoand ther, so it read THE SHITE. They had to sandblast them to get it off.”
Leo laughs. “The locals aren’t keen on the development, then?”
“They’re not keen onus. There’s an assumption that we’re all rolling in it, that we’reup ourselves, as my son would say, just because we’ve bought lodges.”
“I imagine a place here isn’t cheap.” Leo speaks neutrally. He’s already checked out The Shore’s website, where a three-bedroom lodge starts at £550,000. In tiny font, at the bottom of the page, the annual maintenance fee is listed at an eye-watering ten grand a year.
“It is a lot of money, I know, but”—Clemmie stretches an arm toward the lake—“look at it.”
Leo can think of better things to spend half a million quid on than a window.
“The trouble is, they think we’re all living in mansions the rest of the year.”
“You mean you’re not?”