The Last Party (DC Morgan #1)(52)

‘What do you know about ricin?’ Ffion says.

For the first time in the interview, Yasmin seems genuinely confused. ‘I don’t even know what that is.’

‘It’s a drug,’ Ffion says. ‘Prepared from a widely available garden plant and highly toxic. A tiny amount can cause the body to shut down, with death occurring from a few hours to a few days later.’ God bless the internet.

‘I wouldn’t know the first thing about buying drugs, let alone preparing them – I just don’t move in those sorts of circles.’ Yasmin looks desperately at her solicitor. ‘I’m an interior designer; I have respectable friends. I carry a National Trust card.’

‘What time did you last see your husband, on the night of the party?’ Leo says.

‘I’m not certain. I told the twins to give him a sandwich, in an attempt to mop up the booze. I watched him eat it, around nine-thirty or ten, but I’m not sure if I saw him after that.’

‘CCTV tells us that Rhys walked from the Charltons’ lodge to your own, soon after ten-thirty p.m.’ Leo presses play, and four sets of eyes watch Rhys Lloyd stagger down the driveway of The Shore. Ffion lets her own lose focus, until the screen is too pixelated to make out Rhys’s figure. ‘Did you follow him?’

‘Well presumably, detective’ – Yasmin stresses the title – ‘you would see me on camera, if I’d done that. But you won’t, because I didn’t murder my husband.’

‘The cameras are easy to avoid,’ Ffion says, ‘if you know they’re there.’ She doesn’t look at Leo. If only she’d thought about CCTV; if only she’d walked along the shore instead of driving, instead of parking in full fucking view of the cameras.

‘Tensions between you and your husband pre-date New Year’s Eve, don’t they?’ Leo says.

‘I don’t know what you mean.’ Yasmin blinks rapidly.

‘You had an argument on Christmas Eve, didn’t you?’

‘How do you—’

‘What was it about?’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘Oh, I think you do,’ Leo says.

‘Well, I don’t,’ Yasmin says firmly, her composure finally under control. ‘And I don’t see the relevance. Okay, so Rhys and I didn’t have a perfect marriage. Who does? As a matter of fact, I was planning to leave him. But that doesn’t mean I killed him.’

Yasmin’s solicitor interjects. ‘According to your disclosure statement, DC Brady, Mr Lloyd’s watch shows his heart stopped at 11.38 p.m. My client was at the party until after midnight.’

‘She could have slipped out,’ Ffion says. ‘No one would have noticed.’

‘I was singing.’ Yasmin widens her eyes suddenly. ‘In fact, I can prove it!’ She reaches into her pocket, before giving a tsk of frustration. ‘I need my phone – my main one, I mean. I gave it to someone to record me. I was going to put it on my Instagram Stories this morning, only . . .’ She sighs. ‘Well, obviously, I didn’t. But the video of me singing will be on my phone, along with the time it was recorded.’

‘One song isn’t an alibi, Mrs Lloyd,’ Leo says.

‘I did practically all of Wicked – Glinda’s parts, obviously – and most of Mamma Mia. I was asked for several encores – I must have been up there for half an hour.’

‘Was Jonty Charlton watching you?’ Ffion says.

‘I imagine so. The man’s besotted.’ Yasmin gives a sly smile. ‘There’s a limit to how much tantric crap a man can take.’

‘Is he planning to leave his wife?’

‘He would, if I asked him to.’

‘Really?’ Ffion says, with intentional disbelief.

Yasmin looks affronted. ‘Of course he would. Jonty would do anything for me.’

Ffion smiles. ‘Is that right?’

Too late, Yasmin realises her mistake. ‘Not anything, I just mean—’

‘The Charltons have a boat, don’t they?’ Leo says.

‘Yes but—’

‘Jonty’s an experienced sailor. Could easily handle a boat in the dark.’

‘I—’

‘You’re on camera, singing, when your husband died,’ Leo says. ‘But you could easily have poisoned Rhys earlier that day.’

‘This is preposterous!’

‘And in fact, no one remembers seeing Jonty between eleven p.m. and the early hours of New Year’s Day. I doubt he will be on any footage of your little concert. Where was he?’

‘You’ll have to ask him.’

‘That,’ Leo says, ‘is an excellent idea.’

Yasmin breathes a sigh of relief. ‘Does that mean I can go?’

‘You’re under arrest for murder,’ Ffion says. ‘You’re not going anywhere.’





TWENTY-TWO




CHRISTMAS DAY | CLEMMIE


Clemmie Northcote can’t believe this is now her life. It’s nine a.m. on Christmas Day, and instead of staring at the mould in the corner of a kitchen-cum-diner-cum-lounge she is gazing out on a flat, calm lake. Pen y Ddraig mountain is topped with snow, and the forest gleams with frost. Instead of the thud of downstairs’s bass, and the rise and fall of upstairs’s arguments, she hears . . . nothing.