“Steffan Edwards,” Ffion says.
“Correct,” Jonty says, as though she’d passed his test. “He did it up as a present for Rhys’s girls in the summer hols.”
Ffion frowns. It seems a curious thing for Steffan to have done given his animosity toward Rhys now.
“When was the last time you used your boat?” Leo asks.
“Not since half-term. It’s hardly the weather for sailing.”
“Not New Year’s Eve?” Ffion says.
“I spent the entire day getting ready for the party, PC Morton.”
Ffion bites her tongue.
“My beloved wife took it upon herself to create a lake-themedindoor-outdoor room.” Jonty waggles his fingers around the term. “I’m only relieved I managed to talk her out of the two tons of beach sand she wanted brought in from Abersoch.”
“It would have looked incredible,” Blythe sighs.
“It was bloody hard work as it was.”
“Did the other owners not help?” Leo asks. “I got the impression it was a joint effort.”
“Yasmin was here all day,” Blythe says. “Rhys conveniently disappeared the second there was work to be done. We were all done by around five o’clock, and everyone went off to get ready.”
“What time did the party start?” Ffion says, although she knows the answer. The invite had been a proper thick-card affair, with black embossed lettering and a dedicated email address for replies.
The residents of The Shore warmly invite the neighbors for drinks and canapés.
RSVP: [email protected]
“It was supposed to be half seven,” Blythe says. “But a few people drifted in before then.” She looks at her husband. “The Lloyds got here just as you were putting the children to bed, do you remember? What time was that?”
“Six thirty?” Jonty says. “Seven?”
Blythe sighs. “He’s a marvel with them. Bedtime used to be my job, but they were absolute horrors for me. Jonty has the magic touch, don’t you, darling?”
“And how did Rhys seem when he arrived?” Leo says. It’s too hot in the lodge, and Ffion has an overwhelming urge to throw open the doors and let in the cold lake air.
“Absolutely fine,” Jonty says.
“Oh, darling, he wasn’t! He was behaving most oddly.”
“In what way?” Leo asks. Ffion’s pulse thrums.
“Well, he was having a stupid argument with Yasmin, for one thing,” Blythe says.
Jonty sighs. “He was drunk. From the get-go. And considering the whole point of the party was to chat up the locals—”
“It was not!” Blythe pouts. Ffion half expects her to stamp her foot. “The party was for us, for The Shore owners to have a good time. Only Jonty and Rhys tried to turn it into an olive branch.”
“I don’t follow,” Leo says.
“Let’s just say the natives haven’t warmed to us.” Jonty gives a lopsided grin. Ffion’s fingernails press into her palms. “We thought a few bottles of bubbly and a snoop at how the other half live might do the trick.”
“And it did!” Blythe claps her hands. “Everyone got on famously. They’ll be talking about it for months,” she adds guilelessly. Even Jonty has the grace to wince.
“When did you last see Rhys Lloyd alive?” Ffion says bluntly.