A narrow balcony on the first floor of each lodge provides shelter on the deck below, the first few feet screened on either side to give privacy from the neighbors. Several of the owners have dining sets in these covered areas, the rest of the deck dedicated to sun loungers and more sociable seating arrangements.
There are no curtains on any of the windows. The glass is tinted, and reflections of the lake ripple across each set of sliding doors. In return, the lodges shimmer in the water below, the resulting loop unsettling to Ffion. Each deck is separated by a gap of around four feet, ladders leading down to floating docks shared between neighboring lodges.
There are two men in the tent at number one unfastening the swaths of material. Ffion pushes her way inside. “Stop right there.”
“Please!” Leo has followed her in. Ffion shoots him a look, then turns to the men. They’re in navy work trousers and polo shirts, a company logo embroidered on their chests.Markham Events.
“DC Morgan, North Wales CID,” Ffion says, snapping open her ID. “This resort is subject to an active police investigation and could well be a crime scene. That tent’s going nowhere.”
“Can I help you?” Jonty Charlton opens the doors to his deck. He frowns at Ffion. “Oh, it’s you. What can I do for you, Police Constable Morton?”
“DetectiveConstableMorgan. I’m just telling the lads we’ll be needing the tentin situ for a while longer. Just in case.”
“At seventy quid a day?” Jonty says. “I don’t think so.” He jerks his head toward the navy-clad men, who glance nervously at Ffion.
“It’s that or you get nicked for interfering with a crime scene.” Ffion smiles at him. “Would you like to decide now or phone a friend?”
“We’ll, uh…” One of the men gestures vaguely toward the road. “Let the office know when it’s okay to come back, yeah?”
When they’ve gone, Jonty Charlton folds his arms across his chest and glares at Ffion. “I assume North Wales Police will be compensating me for the additional cost.”
“I suppose it depends on what we find,” Ffion says cheerfully. “This is my colleague, DC Brady, from Cheshire Major Crime.”
“Major Crime? Good grief. Is that really necessary?”
“Jonty, darling, close the door. It’s freezing in—oh, hello!” Blythe appears behind her husband, shivering dramatically. “Come in, come in!” She ushers Ffion and Leo inside. “Is there any news?”
“Yes,” Jonty says dryly. “Your bloody tent is going to bankrupt us.”
Blythe lets out an outraged squeak. “Mytent? You were the one who didn’t want riffraff traipsing through the house.”
“And look how that turned out,” Jonty says. “The world and his wife rocked up.” He turns to Leo, ignoring Ffion. “Have you found out what happened to Rhys?”
“The investigation is still ongoing,” Leo says. He’s like one of those spokespeople you see on the news, Ffion thinks, giving an update without actually saying anything new. Men are especially good at it, she’s noticed; it must be all that practice talking bollocks.
She glances toward the lake, although the water can barely be seen through the tent. “Where are the boats?”
“Boats?” Jonty says, as though he’s surprised to find himself near water at all.
“There were several here in the summer.” Ffion saw them tugging at their moorings. A small sailing dinghy, two rowboats.
“We store them at the boathouse over winter. They’d get damaged in bad weather otherwise. Too close to the rocks.”
“Blythe Spiritis ours.” Blythe beams. “I was named after the play, by Noël Coward, you know? Only my name’s with ay, so—”
“PC Morton doesn’t want to hear all that, darling.”
“DC Morgan,” Ffion mutters. He’s doing it deliberately, she’d swear it.
“Here she is.” Jonty walks over to a small desk where there’s a framed picture of a small sailing boat. Jonty’s at the helm, his son and daughter in bright red life jackets, nestled under their mother’s arms. “One of Rhys’s girls took that. She’s quite the photographer.”
“And the other boats?” Leo says.
“They’re just rowboats,” Jonty says dismissively. “I don’t think I’ve even seen Dee Huxley out on hers. The Northcotes hogged it all summer, from what I could see.”
“That’s Clemence and her son, Caleb?” Leo clarifies. “Number four?”
“Correct. Then of course Rhys has the green boat on the end.Had.Christ. Sorry. The guy from the boathouse—what’s his name?”