“I brought it on myself,” Glynis says. She follows Ffion’s gaze, staring out the window, talking more to herself than to Ffion and Leo. “I spoiled him. I’d have loved a big family, but it didn’t happen, and so I poured everything I had into Rhys. He got used to getting his own way.”
Leo leans toward Glynis. “Did your son ever hurt anyone? Did he ever hurt you?”
“No! He would never…” She shakes her head over and over.
“But he intimidated you? He was a bully?”
“No! Stop it! He wasn’t—I mean, at school, maybe, as a child, but…” Glynis starts crying again, tears streaking her cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” Leo says.
Ffion feels a rush of anger. Why does Leo have to be so pathetic? He’s doing his job; he shouldn’t have to apologize for it. “What do you mean, he was a bully at school?”
She doesn’t think Glynis is going to answer, but the woman stands and walks to the window.
“It’s a storeroom now,” Glynis says, looking down at the outhouse. “But for years it was Rhys’s music room and where he spent time with his friends. Teenagers don’t want to be around their parents, do they?”
Ffion doesn’t answer. She looks around the room, at the photos of Rhys as a boy, then as a man, and then she pictures his corpse on Izzy Weaver’s slab.
“I should have been a better mother,” Glynis says. She’s still staring out the window, and it’s as though she’s forgotten Leo and Ffion are there. “Checked in on them, made a nuisance of myself.”
“Mrs. Lloyd.” Leo’s frowning. “Did your son do something when he was at school? Something bad?”
Glynis gives a little shake, turning away from the window. She glances at Ffion. “There was some unpleasantness with a local girl. Ceri. I feel terrible about it, looking back, but—”
Ffion interrupts. “Ceri Jones?”
“She was very troubled, the school said. Rhys teased her, but I’m sure he wasn’t the only one. Some children are picked on more than others, aren’t they?”
Ffion doesn’t trust herself to answer.
“What happened?” Leo says, but Glynis is shaking her head, bustling around the table, clearing away the tea and plates of biscuits.
“I really don’t remember. It was a long time ago. You know what children are like.”
There’s a creak from upstairs, and the strains of Yasmin’s voice are just audible. Leo glances toward the sound. “What was your son’s marriage like?”
“They seemed happy.”
“Was he a good father?”
“Rhys doted on those girls.” Glynis’s voice breaks. “They never wanted for anything, and nor did Yasmin. He gave her a generous monthly allowance.”
“What will she do now?” Leo asks.
Glynis folds her handkerchief into a neat square and presses it between her palms before she answers. “Yasmin’s the sole beneficiary of Rhys’s life insurance policy.” She tucks the handkerchief up her sleeve, then meets Leo’s gaze directly. “She’ll be better off now than when he was alive.”
Fourteen
January 4
Leo
“Who’s Ceri Jones?” Leo looks at the shops as they walk down the high street. They haven’t yet reopened after Christmas, their windows dark and tills empty.
“The postwoman.” Ffion is striding ahead, her body tense with fury. “They always said—and all the time Rhys—”
“Ffion, you’re not making any sense.”