She will keep her new life.
Whatever it takes.
TWENTY-THREE
JANUARY 6TH | LEO
The following morning, Leo goes straight to Crouch’s office. ‘Sir, we’re going to need an extension on Yasmin Lloyd.’
‘You had her in custody all day yesterday – what were you doing? I’ve been fending off complaints from the community ever since I got in.’
‘Because we arrested the wife?’
‘Because you haven’t charged her.’ Crouch scratches his nose. ‘Rhys Lloyd is a homegrown hero. When he married an English woman, it seems some of the locals were disappointed. Now they feel they’ve been proved right – she was always a wrong ’un.’
‘Unfortunately Yasmin’s alibi checks out,’ Leo says. ‘We’ve looked at the videos on her phone, and at the time of Rhys Lloyd’s death she was giving an impromptu concert at the party. But if we can nail Jonty Charlton’s involvement we could make a case for conspiracy. I’d like to arrest him too.’
‘And stir up another hornet’s nest? I don’t want another English suspect in the traps till you’re one hundred per cent certain of a charge.’
‘But—’
‘Got it?’
‘Yes, sir.’
The drive to The Shore feels three times as long, with Ffion at the end of it. A dozen times last night, Leo had composed a text message, only to delete it, not knowing what to say. He’s so angry with her, but it’s more than that – more complicated. He feels betrayed. They’d had something, hadn’t they? A connection.
He’d clearly misread the situation.
For once, Ffion’s there before him. She’s leaning against the Triumph, a roll-up between her fingers. She gives a curt nod as he arrives.
‘Excuse my slippers.’ Dee Huxley is pushing neatly folded wrapping paper into a plastic box outside number two. ‘I’ve just remembered the recycling van comes today. How’s that murder investigation coming along?’
‘We’re following several lines of enquiry,’ Leo says carefully.
‘Terrible business.’ Dee goes back inside.
Ffion snorts. ‘You really are Mr Corporate Speak, aren’t you?’
‘Some of us do things by the book.’
‘The whole place knows we’ve nicked Yasmin Lloyd – it’s hardly a secret.’
Leo stops walking. The recycling van comes today. ‘Do you remember there was a ricin assassination attempt at the White House?’
‘Vaguely.’
‘They sent it in the mail. We know Lloyd was in his office on New Year’s Eve, before the party: what if he opened an envelope containing a noxious powder? Yasmin could easily have slipped it into the pile of fan mail.’
Ffion stares at him, and Leo feels stupid. ‘I know it’s a long shot.’
‘No, I . . .’ Ffion gives a grudging nod. ‘You might be on to something.’ She starts walking towards the Lloyds’ lodge. ‘Although good luck convincing Crouch to spaff his forensics budget on a hunch.’ She laughs, and for a second Leo hears Allie in her dismissive tone.
He makes a snap decision. ‘I’m not going to tell him. I’ll put it through under an existing budget code.’
‘Ooh, you rebel.’
Leo can hear the grin in her voice, and he’s annoyed to find a smile tugging at his own face. ‘Fuck off, Morgan.’
‘No chance,’ she says. ‘You’re stuck with me.’
There isn’t a lot of post in the Lloyds’ recycling box. A few hand-delivered envelopes – Christmas cards, from other residents of The Shore perhaps – but Leo assumes that most of the family’s mail goes to their London address. There are two large padded envelopes in the box, and Leo recognises one of them from the fan mail Felicia was responding to when they arrested Yasmin. Each Jiffy bag is labelled with the address for The Shore, and bears a return address for Lloyd’s talent agency: Tuttle, Whyte & Associates. There’s a stack of torn-open envelopes stuffed into each one. They place all the post in a sealed plastic bag, and Ffion persuades a community support officer to take it straight to the lab.
‘They’ll test it as soon as they can,’ Leo says, coming off the phone.
Ffion looks grudgingly impressed. ‘Fair play. I didn’t think you’d get that one through.’
Nor did Leo.
‘I’d better speak to DI Crouch,’ the CSI had said, when Leo gave her the heads-up on the submission. ‘It’s outside the remit of—’