The Last Party (DC Morgan #1)(49)

‘You made your husband think he had a stalker. You gave a false statement to police.’ Ffion leans forward, speaking slowly and deliberately. ‘You let your teenage daughters believe they were in danger.’

‘I—’

The solicitor coughs. There’s a brief exchange of glances, then Yasmin rearranges her features into something approximating contrition. ‘I’ve been suffering with anxiety and depression, for which I intend to seek help.’

Intend to avoid a conviction on the grounds of mental health problems, more like, Ffion thinks. ‘Gaslighting your husband alleviated your symptoms, did it?’

Yasmin flushes.

‘What’s the value of your husband’s life assurance policy?’ Leo says.

The solicitor frowns. ‘My client has been arrested for harassment. I’m not sure I see the relevance of—’

‘One point five million,’ Yasmin says evenly. Everyone stares at her. ‘Not that it makes any of this any easier.’ She wrings her hands and Ffion narrows her eyes. It’ll help, though, right? she thinks. Rhys was worth more dead than he had been alive.

‘How do they work that out?’ she says.

‘Potential earnings, I suppose. Royalties and so on. Rhys took out the policy years ago. We never thought we’d need it.’ Yasmin’s words become a sob.

The solicitor takes a packet of Kleenex from his briefcase. ‘Are you okay to continue?’

Yasmin nods, stemming the tears with a tissue. ‘I’m fine.’ She looks at Ffion, perhaps noting the scepticism in her expression. ‘It’s for the girls, of course. The insurance money. Their school fees, their future – it’s going to be hard for them, now they only have me.’

When Ffion’s dad died, Mam had allowed herself a week to grieve. A week to clutch his old jumpers, to weep until her eyes were raw. Then she packed away his things and pulled herself together. She had a newborn baby to look after; a teenager spiralling out of control. Elen Morgan didn’t have time for grief.

‘The twins seem to have a good relationship with their grandmother,’ Leo says. ‘I’m sure that will be a great comfort.’

Yasmin sniffs. ‘Glynis thought Rhys could do no wrong. They have that in common, I suppose.’

‘Do you and Glynis get on?’ Ffion asks.

‘Better since my father-in-law passed away. Jac and Rhys locked horns a lot. It caused friction between the four of us.’

Leo jots something down. ‘When did he die?’

‘Two years ago, although he was on his way out for a year before that. Dementia. Not that Glynis ever admitted it. She’s very private. Proud, you know?’

‘What was your marriage like?’ Leo says.

‘It was . . . fine.’

‘Your husband was paying sex workers,’ Ffion says bluntly. ‘I wouldn’t call that fine.’ She picks up the plastic evidence bag containing the mobile phone. ‘You bought this pay-as-you-go in an attempt to send untraceable tweets to harass your husband, right?’

‘My client has already admitted to—’

‘But you use this phone for something else, don’t you?’ Ffion says. She watches the colour drain from Yasmin’s face. ‘How long have you been having an affair with Jonty Charlton?’





TWENTY




JANUARY 5TH | LEO


The pay-as-you-go phone Yasmin used to send her venomous tweets to Rhys is a flip-style Nokia, slim enough to slip into the lining of her handbag, which was precisely where Leo and Ffion had found it. The phone had no passcode, and there was just one phone number stored in the contacts: Jonty Charlton’s.

The string of saved text messages was a mixture of logistics – See you by the generator at 6.30; sentiment – I miss you so much, angel pie; and pure filth – I want to take your throbbing—

‘Don’t! I can’t bear it.’ Ffion claps her hands over her ears.

Leo looks up from the list of messages he’s been reading, and grins. ‘Don’t you like my sex talk?’

‘Not when I have to picture Jonty Charlton and Yasmin Lloyd doing it behind the bike sheds at The Shore.’

‘They actually did do it there.’ Leo finds the relevant text message and reads it out. ‘“You can bend over and I’ll park my—”’

‘Stop! It makes me want to bleach my ears.’

‘I didn’t have you down for a prude, Ms Morgan.’

‘You know I’m not a prude, Mr Brady.’

For a second they lock eyes, and Leo feels that same jolt of electricity he felt on New Year’s Eve. Somewhere in the office, the printer whirrs into action. ‘So,’ Leo says, after a beat, because focusing on work feels like the most straightforward route right now, ‘Yasmin inherits her husband’s life assurance and Jonty Charlton becomes the controlling partner of The Shore. That’s a pretty solid motive for getting shot of Lloyd. I’ll tell Crouch we want to nick Yasmin for murder. We can hang fire on Charlton till we hear what she has to say.’

Faced with the revelation that his client had failed to disclose an affair with her husband’s business partner, Yasmin’s solicitor had stopped the interview for a consultation, which has already gone on for well over an hour. Leo and Ffion wandered back to the office, where Ffion commandeered the desk opposite Leo’s and is now doodling on a piece of scrap paper.