“Is there any way of knowing which boats were on the lake on New Year’s Eve?” Leo asks. Ffion wanders across the room to where a workbench serves as a desk and picks up a blue A4 book. Steffan either doesn’t see or doesn’t care.
“I’m not the keeper of the lake. There’s not many want to sail this time of year, but Llyn Drych doesn’t close. There are always a few boats out on a good day.”
Each entry in the blue book covers two pages: the date and name of the owner on the far left, followed by a summary of the problem and Steffan’s solution. On the far right are columns for the cost of repairs and the date of collection. Ffion flicks to the end of December. She sees a few names she recognizes and several with addresses farther afield, owners of boats moored locally. It’s a meticulous—if old-fashioned—record of work, but all it tells Ffion is what boatsweren’ton the lake, not which were. She takes a photo of the two pages covering the period between Christmas and New Year, then replaces the book.
“Thanks for your time.”
“If I’d have found him, I’d have pushed him back and let the fish have him.” Steffan stumbles against the boat, the wrench falling onto the concrete with a clatter. “Rhys Lloyd’s no loss to Cwm Coed.”
“Should he be working on boats, in that state?” Leo says as they leave. “Surely he’s breaking some sort of law?”
“Probably.”
They take Leo’s car to The Shore. There’s a child’s car seat on the back seat, but none of the detritus Ffion expects from kids. When Seren had been little, Mam’s car was a repository for clothes, squashed raisins, broken breadsticks, and toys. Leo keeps his car the way he keeps his flat: strictly functional.
“Your son doesn’t live with you, then?”
“I was looking into Lloyd’s career.” Leo sidesteps the question. “He’s not done much recently, has he?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“He was massive ten, fifteen years ago, but then everything tailed off. He hadn’t had a West End role for five years. His website talks aboutTV workbut all I can find is a couple of adverts.”
“What’s your point?”
Leo shrugs. “Maybe he was depressed or worried about money.”
“Suicide?”
“Maybe.”
Ffion pushes her hands deep into the pockets of her coat. Suicide would have been too good for Rhys Lloyd.
Outside number three of The Shore, the reporter Ffion chased away from Glynis’s shop is talking to Ashleigh Stafford, who is wearing a floor-length dress more suited to the red carpet than Llyn Drych.
“We will all miss him so very, very much.” Ashleigh wipes away a tear.
Striped Scarf turns to face the camera. “And that concludes our special report into the death of musician Rhys Lloyd. I’ve been speaking with Ashleigh Stafford, whose latest reality TV show,Stuff with the Staffords, airs later this year.” He holds a rictus smile for three seconds, then mimes a swift cut across his throat. The cameraman swings the heavy camera from his shoulder.
“And that’ll be on tonight?” Ashleigh’s makeup and hair are immaculate.
“Should be.”
“Great!” She turns to Bobby. “Isn’t that brilliant, babes? Such perfect timing.” She pulls her husband back into the house, but not before Ffion sees the embarrassment on his face. She gets the impression Bobby Stafford is a nice guy. What does he see in someone like Ashleigh?
Stupid question, she thinks, as the woman’s perfectly peach-shaped behind disappears.
Leo walks toward the reporter. “This is private property.”
Striped Scarf stares past him to Ffion. “You! Thanks for the wild goose chase. My shoes are wrecked, and Gav’s pulled a hamstring.”
“Is that Gav?” Ffion looks at the cameraman, whose forehead is glistening with the effort of packing away his equipment. “He doesn’t look as though he could pull a Christmas cracker, never mind a hamstring. Now, as my colleague said, this is private property.”
“Yeah? Call the police, then.”
“Nee nah nee nah.” Ffion pulls out her badge. “How’s that for a response time?”
They walk around to the rear of The Shore. Each lodge has its own deck stretching the full width of the property. A near-invisible glass balustrade runs along the edges of each deck. Beneath it, the water is shallow, jagged rocks just visible beneath the surface.