Page 5 of A Game of Lies

‘What are the contestants doing now?’ Despite the impression she gave DI Malik, Ffion knows very little aboutExposure, beyond the fact that a bunch of wannabe survivalists getting pissed off with each other on a North Wales mountain has to be worth a watch.

‘Well, not a lot, thanks to these bones,’ Miles says drily. ‘One of them suggested they dig out the fire pit, and as soon as I saw what they’d uncovered – I was watching from the studio, of course – I sent our runner up to call a halt to proceedings.’

They keep walking for several more minutes, then, ahead of them, Ffion sees a high wire fence. ‘Is that it?’

‘Yes. It belongs to a neighbouring farm. Erected for pheasants, I believe, so it’s not the most rigorous of barriers, but it marks the boundary nicely.’ He raises his voice. ‘Everything alright, Dario?’

‘Right as rain, boss.’ Dario has the sort of square frame you don’t mess with, and a head like a polished egg. He wears a high-visibility jacket which extends almost to his knees, with SECURITY on his left breast in shiny blue letters. He eyes Dave with interest. ‘That one of them cadaver dogs, is it?’

Georgina makes a noise which Ffion might have taken for a laugh, were it not for the fact that Georgina Kent never, ever laughs.

‘Not exactly,’ Ffion says.

‘That Zee’s been back,’ Dario tells Miles.

‘You’d have thought she’d have got the message by now.’ Miles turns to Georgina and Ffion. ‘There’s this girl. Woman, I suppose. Her name’s Zee Hart, and she’s got some godawful YouTube channel calledHart Breaks. She applied to be on the show, then, when she was knocked back, she had the audacity to put herself forward as a presenter for a TV segment she wanted to callExtra Exposure. Wanted to interview contestants as they got knocked out, that sort of thing.’

‘She’s put up a tent,’ Dario says.

‘A tent?’ Miles’s voice – already high-pitched – goes up an octave. ‘That’s not allowed, surely?’

‘Where is it?’ Ffion says.

‘About twenty metres from the perimeter fence, on the other side of camp.’ Dario points.

Ffion shrugs. ‘Nothing to stop people wild camping on the mountain.’

‘Monitor her,’ Miles says. ‘Let me know if she moves.’

‘Will do, boss.’

‘And no one’s to go beyond this fence without my say-so, okay?’

‘Got it.’

‘The show airs at seven –’ Miles clasps his hands together in prayer ‘– and then … well, don’t be surprised if the tabloids swing by.’

He gives a knowing chuckle and Ffion blows out her cheeks. What would it be like to possess such extraordinary levels of self-confidence? Okay, soExposuresounds like good telly, but it’s just another reality show, when all’s said and done. A tabloid hack would only trek out to Snowdonia if the cast were wall-to-wall celebrities.

Unless, of course, the bones turn out to be interesting …

They follow Miles through a metal gate, which Dario padlocks behind them with aclick. Ffion feels instantly too hot, despite the wind which, up on the mountain, feels anything but summery. She couldn’t doExposure. Not in a million years. Quite apart from having to live with six strangers for a fortnight, she couldn’t handle being locked inside what is effectively a cage. Like wild cats in a safari park, she thinks, and she imagines stalking the boundary, looking for an escape.

‘How big is the enclosure?’ Georgina asks, as they weave their way through narrow-trunked, densely planted trees. Ffion glances at her, wondering if she’s feeling as claustrophobic as Ffion, but her face is its usual impassive mask.

‘Pretty big.’ Dario gestures to the trees. ‘It was all woodland, but Miles had a section cleared in the middle for the camp.’

Sure enough, a few minutes later the woodland opens out and they’re standing in the clearing. The trees shield the fence from view, giving the impression of total isolation. They could be in the middle of dense forest, Ffion thinks. They could be in another country, another time.

Three large cream bell tents stand in a line at the back of the clearing. A short distance away is a wood-fired hot tub, logs neatly stacked against its side, and on the opposite side is what Ffion assumes – from the spade leaning against the door – to be a compost loo.

In the centre of the camp is a rudimentary kitchen, built in the same expertly rustic fashion as the loo, plus a vast table – seemingly hewn from a single piece of wood – and seven seats. Above the table, metal lanterns sway on a thick rope suspended between two poles. Aside from the rustle of leaves in the breeze, it’s eerily quiet.

Ffion points to a small windowless structure clad in horizontal planks, the width of a phone box, but half the height. Steps have been cut into the ground, in order to access the door. ‘What’s that? Another loo?’

‘The … er … diary room,’ Miles says, but there are two spots of colour on his cheeks. Ffion wants to ask more, but Miles is directing their attention to the rest of the camp. ‘Boys are on the left, girls on the right. The third bell tent is the chill-out zone. There are cameras in the tents and in this communal camp area, but not in the woods – any filming there will be with Owen and Roxy.’ He points to the fire pit. ‘Here are the bones.’

They walk towards the kitchen area, where another spade lies abandoned next to a pile of dirt. A couple of metres away is a tall tree stump with a padlock bolted to the surface.

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