“Mam, it’s not the 1950s.”
Leo tries again. “I just need to—”
“That toddler bed,” Ffion says. “The one Seren had.”
“It’s in the barn. It’ll need a clean.”
“That’s fine. He can do that.”
Leo is no match for the pincer movement of the Morgan women. Elen is already striding through the house, pulling things out of cupboards. Leo is soon in possession of Legos, a box of toy cars, a Spider-Man duvet cover, and a pile of dressing-up clothes.
“Seren used to love that pirate hat, remember? She wore it to bed for six months straight.”
“You’re very kind, Mrs. Morgan.”
“Nonsense. Better it’s used than hanging about here.”
Back home, Leo unloads his car. At Ffion’s house, he was infected by her enthusiasm and by Elen’s no-nonsense practicality. He imagined himself decorating the tiny second bedroom so that, of all the arguments Allie might throw at him, not having space for Harris wouldn’t be one of them. Now that he’s home, it feels pointless.
He slumps in front of his laptop, his cursor hovering over the Lloyd file. The smell from next door’s herbs seeps through the door from the landing, making his head hurt.
Where to start? The investigation is a mess. Rhys Lloyd has been dead for a week, and it still feels as though they’re stumbling around in the dark. Elijah’s ricin theory is a bust. The trophy used to assault Rhys is still missing, Ffion’s mate’s drone unable to turn anything up in the dark depths of Mirror Lake. Yasmin was showing off at the piano when her husband was murdered, and Jonty Charlton was taking care of Ashleigh Stafford’s coke pile.
Should they look closer at Caleb Northcote? Angharad said he hadn’t been interested in learning how to sail, but that could have been an act. Leo pulls up the lad’s statement and reads it over. What reason did Caleb have to want Rhys dead?
The smell from next door is intense and cloying. Leo presses the heels of his palms against his eyes. Can a smell send someone mad?
He stands up.
The neighbor’s door is turquoise. A garland of strung-together feathers runs from top to bottom, and a handwritten sticker on the doorbell readsKatchen Grint. On either side of the doormat are tin cans, the contents of which are smoldering.
Leo rings the bell. He has only seen his neighbor a handful of times in three years—scurrying past him on the stairs with a bag of shopping. The door opens and she eyes him suspiciously.
“Your herbs…” Leo starts. Smoke catches the back of his throat, and he coughs.
“You want some? I sell them.”
“No, I—”
“I got sage, for cleansing; juniper for health…”
“I don’t like them,” Leo says. “I find the smell really…” He wrinkles his nose in lieu of description. “Sorry,” he adds.
“Oh.” The woman’s in her sixties, her face lined but soft. “The man before you, he was never there, so…” She bends down, using the sleeves of her jumper as gloves to pick up the smoking tins. “I put inside.”
As easy as that, Leo thinks. Why didn’t he do that three years ago?
Back in his own flat, he stands for a while at the doorway of the second bedroom. No harm in at least trying to make the place look a bit nicer, and since Ffion’s mum had been good enough to pass on Seren’s old bed, he may as well put it together.
By eight p.m., the room is, if not transformed, at least getting there. A lick of paint and a chest of drawers and he’ll be done. Leo sits on the little bed and imagines reading his son a bedtime story. He thinks about having Harris to stay for the weekend, about decorating a tree next Christmas.
He opens his laptop again. A year ago, he found a solicitor who specialized in custody claims. He was too edgy to take it further, unclear what obligations family lawyers might have. If Leo leveled with them and admitted leaving Harris on his own in a locked car, would they be duty-bound to report him?
Leo writes an email.I would like to make an appointment to discuss my ex-wife’s decision to move to another country with my son.He can’t live like this anymore. He’s Harris’s dad, and he has a right to be in his life. After he’s pressed Send, he fetches himself a beer. The data from Lloyd’s phone has come back, and he plans to spend the rest of the evening looking over it.
Triangulation has confirmed that Lloyd—or his phone, at least—remained within a fifty-meter radius of The Shore on December 31, which tallies with the accounts given by Yasmin and the twins.
Call and message data has been retrieved for the twenty-eight days preceding the murder, and the analysts have already identified and traced the most popular numbers. Lloyd’s agent features heavily on the incoming calls, as does Yasmin, both daughters—Tabby more than Felicia—and Jonty Charlton. On December 29, the same number rang Lloyd seventeen times; the lines are highlighted in blue and carry a note:Huw Ellis. There are pages and pages of text messages, retrieved from Lloyd’s iCloud account, including increasingly threatening emails from Ellis, demanding the money Rhys owed him.