Page 112 of A Game of Lies

Henry’s under arrest. They’ve got him.

FORTY-EIGHT

TUESDAY | FFION

Ffion’s hand hits the chair. Her fingers grasp it and something about the solidity of it grounds her enough to plant her feet, to pull herself up against the drag of the water and climb on to the seat and then the arms and then the high back, where she clings tight and gasps again and again until the burn in her chest subsides.

‘Shit, shit, shit,’ she says out loud, because it’s weirdly reassuring to hear her own voice over the rush of the water and the—

She stops. What was that noise?

The water laps at her chin. In another minute or two, she’ll have to tip back her head to keep her mouth out of water. And then …

There it is again.

Barking.

‘Dave!’ Ffion tries to shout, but her lips are numb with cold and her throat tight with fear. The barking is close, and now she hears Leo’s voice too, and she calls again, and this time it doesn’t matter that no sound comes out, because the door to the confession pod is being wrenched open. The water knocks Ffion off her perch and she’s tumbling again, but this time she feels strong hands hauling her upright.

Two thousand litres of water rush out of the confession pod, and Ffion finds herself standing in a river along with Leo, Huw and Dave.

‘Ti’nfucking idiot, Ffi,’ Huw says. His eyes are glistening.

Leo takes off his jacket and drapes it around her trembling shoulders. ‘Are you okay?’

Ffion tries to nod, but it turns into a shiver. Dave is trying to climb into her arms, and she crouches so she can thank him properly for finding her, but also because her legs won’t support her much longer. ‘Henry …’ she starts, but her brain is running at half-speed. She isn’t sure she can explain how she discovered it was Henry who killed Miles, but it seems she doesn’t need to.

‘He’s been arrested,’ Leo says. ‘George is en route to Bryndare with him now.’

Ffion manages a tight nod. She doesn’t trust herself to speak. Leo puts his arm around her, and she lets him guide her through the camp. ‘I thought I was going to …’ She can’t finish.

‘So did I.’

‘I’m glad you found me.’

Leo turns to face her. He runs his hand down her shoulder and takes her hand, squeezing it tight. ‘So am I.’

FORTY-NINE

WEDNESDAY | LEO

Henry Moore (or, more accurately, Clive Manning) rests his hands on the interview room table, his gaze low. Next to him is a solicitor, a woman in her fifties who occasionally interjects with reminders to Leo and George that her client has already answered that, or to ask Henry if he would like a break.

Leo and George sit opposite them. Ffion attempted to argue her case, but even she had to concede that she couldn’t carry out an impartial interview of a man who, a few hours ago, had tried to kill her.

‘It’s a conflict of interest,’ Leo said.

Ffion’s expression darkened. ‘You’d know all about that, I suppose.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

But Ffion had turned away, and with Henry ready for interview there was no time to drag an explanation out of her.

‘Why the fake name?’ Leo says, when Henry has finished giving an account of his movements over the last few days.

‘I never use my real one.’ Henry shrugs, as though assuming a pseudonym is a perfectly normal thing to do. ‘I’m an investigative reporter, often working with insalubrious characters. Not this time, of course.’ He smiles and looks around, perhaps in the mistaken belief that he is warming up the crowd. Leo stares back at him, and Henry’s smile fades.

‘And you were employed as a researcher?’

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