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“Should you be here?” Mia likes Huw, but the whole village knows what he thinks about this place.
“Where is he?”
“Who?”
“Lloyd.” He doesn’t wait for an answer, and Mia follows him inside, watching him scan the room, then walk through to the hall and open the front door. People are dancing now, the furniture pushed to the walls to make more room. She stops to speak to Seren, who holds her glass behind her back as though that’s enough to hide the fact that she’s drinking, even though her eyes are wild.
“Amazing party, right?” Mia says.
Seren shrugs. “It’s okay.” She’s all done up—body-con dress and heels almost as high as Mia’s. Hair teased into ringlets and eyes ringed with black. She looks dangerously sexy, and Mia wonders if Elen saw her leave the house like this.
“Is your mam here?” Mia asks.
“Mam, at The Shore?”
Yasmin squeezes into a space beside them. “Seren! Have you seen Tabby and Felicia? I’ve been looking everywhere for them.”
“I think they’re watching Netflix at Caleb’s.”
“Tell them I need them to make their father eat something.”
“Um. Okay.”
“He won’t listen to me. I put a sandwich under cling film in the fridge; they can give him that.” Yasmin looks at Mia. “He’s completely off his face. It’s mortifying.”
He’s not the only one, Mia thinks. There are now more empty bottles under the table than full ones on it, and even Clemmie has two bright spots on her cheek as she demonstrates what might be some kind of Irish dancing. Steffan Edwards is knocking back red wine, which isn’t going to end well.
Maybe she’ll join him, Mia thinks. She has been relatively abstemious so far—taking swigs of champagne between canapé rounds—but she’s done with this lot. She looks across the room. Jonty is practically drooling down Ashleigh Stafford’s cleavage, and she feels a sudden burst of anger at being the waitress, the cleaner, the bit on the side. Ashleigh pouts and preens and flicks her expensive hair extensions with her expensive nails.
Mia hates her more than she’s ever hated anyone before.
Thirteen
January 4
Ffion
Ffion has had a restless night, eventually dropping off in the early hours and then sleeping through her alarm. She hasn’t showered, and her hair is a frizzy mess. As she turns into The Shore, she stops to show her ID to the uniformed officer stationed at the bottom of the drive. He’s talking to two men, and Ffion recognizes them instantly: Striped Scarf reporter and his cameraman sidekick, Gav. Early morning mist envelopes the trees and a light drizzle hangs in the air, settling in silver beads on Striped Scarf’s jacket.
“These guys have been hanging around for a few days,” Ffion says to the uniform. “They’ve been warned, but—”
Instantly Gav’s camera is on his shoulder, the reporter thrusting a handheld mic toward Ffion. “Now that this is a murder inquiry, do the police have any suspects?”
“You’ll have to speak to the press office.” Ffion shuts the car door, reminding herself for the umpteenth time to fix the window.
“It’s DC Morgan, isn’t it?” the reporter shouts. “North Wales Police? Are you working with the Cheshire team because the victim is Welsh or because the suspect is?” As Ffion moves off, he walks with her, yelling his questions. “A source has reported historic tension between The Shore and the local community. Can you comment on that? What’s the relationship like between you and your English colleagues?”
Ffion puts her foot down. “Fucking hell.” For once, she’s grateful for The Shore’s rarefied enclave, tucked away from prying eyes. Outside the Lloyds’ lodge, blue-and-white barrier tape flutters in the breeze and white-suited CSIs move back and forth between the lodge and the van outside. Behind the lodges, the lake lies beneath a blanket of fog.
Ffion sees Mia’s pink apron coming out of Dee Huxley’s lodge and calls out. “You owe me a text!”
Mia hesitates before walking over to Ffion. “Ti’n iawn?”
“Not bad. Busy.” Ffion gestures to the crime-scene tape. “Did you get my voicemail on New Year’s Day? About saying I spent the night at yours if Mam asks?”
“I did. What’s the big deal, though? How come you need an alibi?”
“Personal stuff.” Ffion shrugs. “No drama, just don’t want the whole world knowing my business.”
