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“Sir.”
“Eight a.m. tomorrow, then, people.” As always, Crouch is first out the door.
Leo contemplates his evening—the empty flat and the funny smell from next door—and turns to Ffion. “I don’t suppose you fancy grabbing something to eat, do you?”
The second he’s said it, he regrets it. Ffion’s face carries that look: the one that saysHow can I let him down gently?
“I want to go through the hashtag on Instagram,” Leo adds quickly. “Be quicker with two of us.”
Ffion shrugs. “Sure.”
They settle on a Chinese restaurant called Wok This Way, sliding into a narrow booth by the door. “King prawn chow mein?” Leo says, scanning the list of dishes.
“Whatever you want.”
“Lemon chicken?”
“Why are you asking me? Oh God.” Ffion puts down her menu. “You’re one of those.”
“One of who?”
“A sharer. Look, I don’t mean to be funny, but if I order crispy duck, it’s because I want crispy duck, not because I want half a crispy duck.”
“Technically, it actuallyishalf a—”
“You order what you want. I’ll order what I want. That’s how restaurants work.”
They work as they eat, each scrolling through Instagram on their respective phones. A woman at the next table gives them a pitying glance, whispering to her boyfriend. She thinks he and Ffion are a couple, Leo supposes, out on date night with nothing to say to each other.
“This was posted at eleven p.m.,” Leo says, looking at a photo of Lloyd in the Charltons’ kitchen. His face was red and shiny, sweat sticking his hair to his brow.
“It could have been taken earlier, though. Some of the guests will have waited till they got home to post. The reception’s rubbish on that side of the lake, and I can’t imagine Jonty Charlton handing out his Wi-Fi password.” Ffion shows Leo a series of images. “Loads of them are in a weird order. Clemence Northcote hadn’t finished drying her hair when the party started—look—but this photo wasn’t posted till the end of the night. And see this one of the Charltons? There’s an almost identical one from a different angle but posted two hours later. We’ll have to get Tech to check the time stamp on them all.”
Ffion stops. She flips her phone around. “This is interesting.”
The image is heavily filtered, but Leo can make out Bobby Stafford talking to a woman with a nose ring. “Who’s that?”
“Eira Hughes. Primary school teacher. But that’s not the interesting bit.”
Eira is laughing, perhaps at something Bobby was saying—he has a smile on his face. Next to them is another knot of people. The image is cut off, but you can see the back view of a woman in black leather leggings standing with her back to Stafford.
“Look at his hand,” Ffion says.
Leo looks. Bobby’s fingers are entwined with the woman’s behind him. “Ashleigh?”
Ffion shakes her head. She takes back her phone and scrolls to a different Instagram post. “This is what Ashleigh was wearing.” Bobby’s wife is in a red dress, clingy and short. Ffion taps back, her thumb swiping images across the screen. She stops, and Leo catches a glimpse of a woman in black.
“Is that her? Do you recognize her?” Leo squints to view the photo Ffion’s staring at.
“Nope.” Ffion swipes away quickly. A little too quickly.
“Not local, then?”
“What?”
“If you don’t know her”—Leo finds himself leaning across the table, his head low, in an effort to get Ffion’s attention—“she’s probably from out of town. Right?”
Finally, Ffion looks up. “Sorry. Yes.”
