“No!”
“He was killed in his office,” Leo continues. “Somewhere—by your own admission—you went to several times during the party.”
“With dozens of guests!” Yasmin gives a humorless laugh. She looks toward the door as though she’s considering walking out—as though she’s free to do so. A fine sheen of sweat has broken out across her forehead.
“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 bake my own bread.”
“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 predate 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 atskof 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 ofWicked—Glinda’s parts, obviously—and most ofMamma 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.