Page 30 of A Game of Lies

‘I thought I was here to watch Dave?’ Seren gets up and wanders into the kitchen.

‘You are. But you’ve got studying to do – that’s why they call it study leave.’

‘Riiight. And exactly how much studying did you do when you were doing your A-levels?’ She drops two slices of bread into the toaster.

‘That’s not the point,’ Ffion says archly, remembering little of her final year at school besides the Friday night challenge to procure that weekend’s vodka. ‘You’re predicted an A star and two As, which is a long way from my solitary C in Welsh lit.’ She hesitates, glancing at Dave, who already looks mournful at the prospect of being left. ‘Promise me you’ll at least look at your notes.’

‘My next exam isn’t for ages, and it’s only chemistry – I can do that standing on my—’

‘Promise!’

‘Okay!’

‘It’s important, Seren. Good grades open doors. Bangor’s a great uni to have on our doorstep and—’

‘Yeah, about that—’

Ffion holds up a palm like a traffic cop. ‘You’re going to university. End of. If Caleb’s worth his salt, he’ll wait.’

‘But—’

‘No buts.’ Ffion downs the dregs of her coffee, then grimaces when she realises it’s stone cold. ‘How’s he getting on with Miles, anyway?’

‘He’s not. Miles still hasn’t added production assistant to the credits, and he won’t let Caleb anywhere near the editing suite even though he already knows all the software – not even for experience. Caleb’s basically just making coffee and loading the quad bike with emergency bog roll. He’s raging.’

‘Gotta start somewhere, I guess.’

Ffion crouches and holds Dave’s huge head between two hands. Unable to move, he swivels his eyeballs towards the kitchen counter, where Seren is scraping margarine on to her toast.

‘Now listen, mate,’ she says. ‘I’ve got to work, but you’ll have fun with Aunty Seren. I love you, but if you let me down, you’re off to the knacker’s yard.’

‘Touching,’ Seren says, opening the Marmite. ‘It’s a mystery to me why you’re single.’

‘Me too.’ While Dave is distracted by the possibility of toast crusts, Ffion makes a dash for the door. ‘Don’t take your eyes off him for a second.’

Ryan Francis has been missing for more than forty-eight hours. The search-and-rescue team – bolstered by volunteers from Cwm Coed – has been out since dawn, but the updates are thin on the ground.Dim newyddion, reads Huw’s latest message to Ffion.No news. Yesterday, Ffion and George visited every property on Pen y Ddraig. None of the farmers or tenants reported any unusual activity. ‘What next?’ George said, as they left the final house, but Ffion was at a loss. When someone goes missing in a city, the investigation moves fast. CCTV alone prompts dozens of actions: dashcam footage, petrol stations, smart doorbells, town centre cameras … there might be multiple streets in the search area, officers speaking to residents in every house. Mobile phone tracing, financials, computer search history …

It’s different out here. Harder. A person can be lost for days, even if they want to be found.

Ffion’s phone beeps with a message from Leo. She hates that her stomach still gives a flip, as though his communications might be anything other than professional. Sure enough, the message is brief and perfunctory.

Three of theExposurecameras were trashed last night. Am on my way up to camp with George to take a look.

She looks at the screen, annoyed at the flicker of misplaced jealousy she feels. Not that she imagines the robotic George is likely to turn Leo’s head, but … Ffion closes her car door with unnecessary force. She misses him, that’s all.

It’s still too early in the year for the sun to burn off the morning mist that rises from the lake. It ribbons through the trees around the lakeshore, and, as the Triumph climbs towards Carreg Plas, the lake dips out of sight completely, hidden beneath a haze of white.

When Ffion arrives at the back door of the farmhouse, she finds the kitchen teeming with people. Jason Shenton sits ashen-faced at the table, talking to a woman with a tight ponytail and a recording device. A second woman, with a camera slung across her body, is helping herself to a pastry. Next to her, on the kitchen counter, a laptop plays a breakfast chat show on mute. At the other end of the table, Zee Hart is holding an animated conversation with a short, balding man. Neither Leo nor George is here.

Caleb is skulking in the pantry.

‘Who’s Jason talking to?’ Ffion says.

‘Some women’s magazine. The bald bloke is from theSun. He’s found Jason’s other wife in Australia – it’s been kicking off big time.’

‘I’m amazed he agreed to talk to them.’

‘He loses his fee if he doesn’t.’

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