Page 4 of A Game of Lies

‘No.’

‘Married at First Sight?’

‘Tell me that’s not as horrific as it sounds.’

‘It’s worse.’ Ffion turns through an open gateway on to a gravel drive. ‘That’s what makes it so brilliant.’

She parks the Triumph in front of Carreg Plas, a solid, stone-built farmhouse to which someone has added a small wooden porch. Two bay trees in square pots stand sentry by the front door. As they wait for someone to answer the door, Georgina looks down at Dave.

‘Why don’t you just leave him in the car?’

‘Because he’ll eat it.’ Ffion bangs the knocker again, then gives up and walks around the side of the house. The garden gate is open, and they find themselves in a cobbled courtyard. If the view from the front of the house, looking down on to Llyn Drych, was spectacular, the back is nothing short of breathtaking. Dense woodland slopes up from the farmhouse, giving way to the rocky landscape of Pen y Ddraig, its summit swirled in mist.

On either side of the courtyard are two rows of red-brick outbuildings with slate roofs. The numbers one to eight are painted on to stable doors.

‘Horses?’ Georgina says.

‘I said, I’m not doing it!’ comes a woman’s voice from number eight.

‘Bloody argumentative horses.’ Ffion walks towards the open door, just as a dark-haired woman with a full face of make-up storms out and heads for the farmhouse.

‘Sorry about that. The talent can be a little temperamental.’ A man steps forward, hand outstretched. ‘Miles Young, Young Productions. Young by name, less so by nature nowadays.’ He gives a rueful grin, then laughs, pushing a hand through thick white-blond hair. He’s in his late forties, with pale blue eyes and eyelashes so fine they’re almost invisible. High cheekbones give him a pinched, rather anxious look, despite his broad smile.

‘The talent?’ Georgina shakes his hand. ‘Detective Constable Georgina Kent, Bryndare CID.’

‘My presenter, Roxy Wilde. Such charisma – the camera loves her.’ Miles offers his hand to Ffion. ‘And you are?’

‘DC Morgan. I understand you’ve found some bones?’ As Ffion says his favourite word, Dave sits bolt upright, his tail sweeping an arc on the cobbles.

‘I called hours ago. Where have—’ Miles stops himself, screwing up his face in self-admonishment. ‘Sorry, I don’t mean to sound … You must have a million more important things to do. It’s just that we’re on such a tight schedule. Most reality TV programmes show footage recorded the day before, or even earlier, but we’re breaking new ground. What you’ll see tonight will have been recorded today. Fortunately we’ve got a lot in the can already – the contestants stayed at the farmhouse last night, you see, so this delay isn’t as disastrous as—’

Ffion cuts in. ‘Could we see the bones, Mr Young?’

Miles glances back at his desk, which boasts two computers and a tangle of leads, then tears himself away. ‘Of course.’ He reaches for his jacket. In addition to the desk, the room has a double bed and a slim wardrobe. Ffion spots a tea tray, and the door to what she assumes is a bathroom. A large casement window at the back of the room looks on to the woods in the foothills of the mountain.

‘It’s a cracking spot, isn’t it?’ Miles locks the door behind them. ‘Our location scout did a good job. Camp’s about twenty minutes up the mountain.’

‘Who stays at the farm?’ Georgina asks.

‘I’m in the main house, along with Owen – that’s our cameraman – and Roxy, who you’ve encountered. Number eight’s my studio, and the rest of the stable rooms are for the contestants, for when they’re evicted.’ Miles takes them through a gate at the rear of the courtyard, which leads on to the mountain.

‘They come back here?’ Ffion says.

‘It’s a condition of their contract. Two nights back at the farm for interviews. Once that’s done and dusted, they get their participation fee.’

‘Which is how much?’ A gorse bush snags at Ffion’s legs.

‘Ten grand.’

Georgina whistles. ‘Nice.’

‘Not as nice as the hundred grand the winner – or winners – will get.’

‘Bl—imey.’ Ffion manages to divert the expletive. Malik says she needs totemper her language, whatever the fuck that means. People have complained, apparently.

‘I imagined there’d be more of you,’ Georgina says. ‘Big lighting rigs, catering wagons, a vast crew.’

‘I like to keep things tight when we’re filming,’ Miles says. ‘It’s been bedlam while we were building the camp, but now we’re rolling I’ve stripped it back to the bare minimum. We’ve got a runner who comes each day, a security guard, and for anything else I need I call the production office.’

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