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 onto something.” She starts walking toward 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 recognizes one of them from the fan mail Felicia was responding to when they arrested Yasmin. Each padded envelope is labeled with the address for The Shore and bears a return address for Lloyd’s talent agency: Tuttle, Whyte & Associates.There’s a stack of smaller, 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—”
“He’s in meetings today,” Leo said, mentally crossing his fingers. “Be a bit of a result if we find ricin, though, right? Front page of the nationals, I reckon.”
There was a long pause before the CSI spoke. “Okay. Leave it with me.”
“If we don’t get a result on it today,” Leo says now, “we’ll have to get authorization to keep Yasmin another twelve hours. We can’t take the risk of witness interference if we bail her.”
“Great,” Ffion says. “Double time for rest-day working.”
“I’d rather have the weekend off. I’ve had to cancel seeing my lad.” Leo tries to keep the bitterness out of his voice, but he can feel Ffion’s eyes on him. “My ex is moving to Australia with her new partner,” he says shortly. “They’re taking Harris.”
“They can’t.”
“I’d have to take them to court to stop them.”
“So take them to court.”
“I can’t.” Leo knows Allie would be on the phone to Social Services in a heartbeat, readying the recording of Harris’s cries to be played in court.
“Of course you—”
“It’s not that simple.”
“You’re the kid’s dad. You’ve got rights.”
“Just forget it. I don’t know why I even told you.” Because he hadn’t told anyone else, Leo realized. Because he needed to talk.