Page 2 of A Game of Lies

‘Sounds like someone I know.’ Alun grins at Ffion. She’s about to throw something at him when an audible fart erupts from her corner of the office.

Malik glares at her. ‘Is that what I think it is?’

Ffion abdicates responsibility with a raised palm. ‘This is what happens when you make me come in to the office every day.’

‘You’re telling me that stink is my fault?’

Ffion had been perfectly happy working out of her cubbyhole office in Cwm Coed, or writing statements in her car by the edge of the lake, reporting in as infrequently as she could get away with. Seventeen months ago, a murder investigation at luxury lakeside resort The Shore had turned the spotlight well and truly on to Cwm Coed – and on to Ffion. Her last appraisal –not a team player; struggles with authority– landed her with a fifty-minute commute to Bryndare and a scowl it would take more than Botox to shift.

‘Ffion, I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but coming to work is literally what you get paid for.’ Malik crosses the office. ‘It certainly doesn’t give youcarte blancheto dothis.’ He jerks Ffion’s chair, rolling it backwards to reveal a large, hairy heap beneath Ffion’s desk.

To call Dave a dog would be simplistic. Cursed with the neuroses of the Prozac generation, Dave jumps at loud noises, barks at prolonged silences, and is only truly happy when pressed against Ffion’s legs or – ideally – on top of her. Given that Dave is the same height as a seated adult, this is particularly challenging at traffic lights, when he takes the brief pause as a sign that their journey is over and he can climb into Ffion’s lap like a forty-kilo cat.

‘How many times have I told you?’

Ffion wonders if Malik is addressing Dave, but then the DI turns to her, and she realises he’s waiting for an answer. Dave’s tail thumps slowly on the carpet.

‘At least six,’ Alun chips in. Arsehole.

‘I can’t leave him at home. He howls. The neighbours have complained.’

‘So get a dog-walker. Leave him with your mum. Sign him up to the bloody circus. I don’t care, Ffion – just stop bringing him to work!’

Dave unfolds himself from beneath the desk and Ffion makes a grab for his collar. ‘What if he’s my emotional support dog? Being with animals is proven to relieve stress.’

‘The only thing being relieved around here is that dog’s bowels. Take him home. Now.’

Reluctantly, Ffion gets to her feet. ‘I might as well go and look at those bones, then. Since I’m going that way.’

‘Oh, no.’ Malik waggles a finger. ‘I’m not having you swanning around at home with no one to keep an eye on you. Either Alun or Georgina can take it.’ He turns to them. ‘There’s some kind of reality TV show being filmed on the mountain by Cwm Coed.’

‘Exposure.’ Ffion pulls on her coat. It’s May, but this is North Wales, which means it’s still practically winter.

‘Never heard of it,’ Georgina says. ‘Sorry, sir.’

‘I wish I could say the same.’ Malik grimaces. ‘It sounds ghastly. Seven “ordinary men and women”, the trailer says, but what ordinary person wants to be filmed eating fish eyes and bulls’ test—’

‘I think you might be thinking ofI’m a Celebrity, sir.’ Alun looks faintly queasy.

‘Anyway, the producer called in the bones this morning and—’

‘Did they find them at theExposurecamp, or at the farmhouse where the crew are staying?’ Ffion says. ‘The house is ours, but the camp is just across the border into Cheshire.’

‘I don’t know where—’ Malik stops. ‘How do you know so much about this?’

‘I know one of the contestants. Ceri Jones. She’s the postie in Cwm Coed.’ Ffion shuts down her computer. ‘See you tomorrow, then.’

‘Tomorrow? Ffion, it’s only three—’

‘No point in coming back only to go home again, is there? I’ll work remotely for the last couple of hours.’ Ffion smiles guilelessly. ‘Oh, and don’t rely on SatNav for the farm – it’ll dump you in a field. You want to take the single-track road past Felingwm Isaf and hang a right at the big oak tree.’

‘Velin-goom Ee-sav,’ Malik repeats slowly. On paper, the DI possessed the minimum level of Welsh required of him to transfer from Surrey police to North Wales. In practice, he’s still mastering pronunciation. He sighs, as though what he’s about to do pains him. He holds out the printout to Ffion, keeping a firm grip on it for a few seconds after she takes it. ‘Don’t piss about.’

‘Of course not, sir.’

‘And take someone with you.’

‘Honestly, boss, I work better on my—’

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