Page 22 of Dead Fall

Hell’s bells. The guy looked like a dinosaur in a bad suit: a cartoon rendering of the kind of cop who gave the Met a bad rep.

She shook his hand, which felt slightly sticky, and dredged up a smile. ‘Phyllida Flyte,’ she said, still not used to omitting the ‘DS’ rank that had defined her for so long.

Bellwether just smiled. ‘I asked DI Bacon to come in as a fresh pair of eyes on the Bronte case, to see whether we should be recategorising the death as suspicious. Given that time is of the essence and you’ll be going over the same ground it would be useful if he could sit in on your interviews. And he can also give assistance with anything you need for your investigation.’

Flyte gave a little nod. Her IOPC investigator status gave her the powers of a police constable, but Bacon’s DI rank might prove useful.

‘I was about to tell Phyllida that you attended the mortuary regarding this ghoulish photograph,’ Bellwether told Bacon. ‘So you can fill her in. And of course the team has been briefed to make themselves available to you both.’ He looked at the wall clock. ‘I’ve booked the meeting room so that you can start interviews.’

‘Great,’ said DI Bacon.

Time to establish some ground rules.

‘ That’s thoughtful of you, Malcolm,’ she said coolly, ‘but I’d like more time to get across the details of the case first.’ Getting to her feet, she buttoned her jacket and sent him her most charming smile. ‘If someone could show me to my office I’ll let you know when I’m ready to conduct interviews.’

*

It turned out that her ‘office’ would be shared with Bacon – although office was a somewhat grand term for the tiny box room that had evidently been hastily rigged with two desks facing each other and a giant photocopier of uncertain vintage filling the remaining space. The lino floor felt sticky underfoot, the air smelled like something had died in here and when she went to open the windows dead flies and dust bunnies fell from the blinds onto her shoes.

Bacon regarded her look of disgust with open amusement. ‘I’ve seen worse.’

Ignoring him, she sat down at one of the desks and fired up the computer. ‘I’m going to need a log-in – and an access code for the PNC and CRiS.’ The two systems which between them held all UK criminal records, cautions, and reports of investigations.

‘I’m afraid you’re not allowed direct PNC access. But that’s one of my jobs,’ he chuckled, ‘to help reach the parts other beers cannot reach.’

‘What?’ She stared at him.

‘Just kidding. It was an ad for lager back when you were still wearing a school blazer. You’re what, early thirties?’

‘None of your business,’ she snapped. Christ, what a clown. While also feeling a little buzz that he’d knocked five years off her age. ‘Right, I’m going to need the report from the scene. The PM report and the deceased’s phone records.’

‘Aye, aye, ma’am,’ he said.

Ma’am?

‘How did you get on at the mortuary?’ she asked. No need to mention she and Cassie knew each other.

‘Fine. I’d say almost certainly an inside job. The girl – sorry, woman – I spoke to had some story about someone trying to get in, but there’s no evidence of a forced entry.’

Picturing the pixelated image she’d seen splashed online Flyte thought of what poor Chrysanthi was going through, followed by a surge of pure rage. If anyone had shared a picture of her daughter she’d .?.?.

‘Obviously we need to get onto this TikTok .?.?. creature – the one who first aired the photograph?’

A rumbling sound came from DI Bacon’s belly. ‘Down, boy,’ he said, before getting to his feet. ‘I’d better pop to Maccy D’s for some emergency sustenance before we start. Can I tempt you to an egg and bacon McMuffin?’

She shook her head. ‘Oh, and feel free to call me Phyllida.’

‘Will do. I’m Alvin. But everyone calls me Streaky.’

Everyone except me, she silently vowed.

Chapter Sixteen

When Cassie pitched up at the mortuary entrance the next morning her heart sank to see who was at the door.

But Bronte’s father George Angelopoulos greeted her amicably enough. She took him into the family room and made him a cup of tea. Then, taking a seat opposite him she met his gaze. ‘Mr Angelopoulos, I can’t tell you how sorry I am – we all are – about the image in the press. We have no idea how it was obtained but the police are investigating, as you know.’

Her NHS Trust employers would go apeshit if they could hear her: their mantra was ‘never apologise or admit liability in any way’. Well, screw that. To her, the policy wasn’t just inhumane, it was stupidly short-sighted: for most people it was enough to hear the word ‘sorry’, and parroting an infuriating corporate response only made a lawsuit more likely.

---