Page 27 of Dead Fall

‘That business on her narrowboat, that was just a fishing expedition, right?’ He inserted a finger into his back molar to dislodge some food fragment – a sight from which she averted her eyes – before continuing. ‘Fair enough – I’ve seen technicians spot stuff the pathologists missed on a routine PM, in a hurry to get to the golf club,’ he chuckled.

Flyte just pulled a frosty smile.

Bacon clattered his knife and fork onto his empty plate and sat back. ‘Do you think she had anything to do with the dead girl’s photos or leaking the PM report? Just for the record’ – resting his eyes on hers. Intelligent eyes.

‘No,’ said Flyte, ‘not in a million years.’ Reaching for her bag, she said, ‘Anyway, I’ve got to do some stuff at the bank, so I’ll see you back at the office.’

*

Chrysanthi Angelopoulos’s imposing detached house stood in a large leafy plot a few minutes’ walk from Hampstead Heath, the kind of house built for the wealthy that had sprung up on London’s fringes in the thirties. Today it was probably worth ten million. Flyte had learned from the case notes that Sophia’s parents were barely on speaking terms, but the husband, George, had clearly left her in good financial standing.

As she made her way through the well-tended front garden she saw a big man in work gear up a ladder at roof level, apparently clearing the gutters.

Flyte didn’t feel guilty about fibbing to DI Bacon: she’d get more out of Bronte’s mother woman to woman, she told herself. While Chrysanthi disappeared to make tea, Flyte took the opportunity to check out the living room. It felt like something from an earlier era: a large brass carriage clock ticked discreetly on the mantelpiece, lace antimacassars guarded the backs of sofa and armchairs, and a glass display cabinet crouched in the corner was stuffed with china figurines, silver-framed photographs, and a darkly varnished icon of a cross-looking Jesus.

As Chrysanthi poured their tea from a silver pot, Flyte discreetly looked her over. She was probably only eight or nine years older than Flyte – in her mid-forties – but her tweedy skirt and oversized cardigan, the way she held herself, gave off the air of someone older. Almost as though Chrysanthi had made a deliberate decision to make herself unattractive.

After offering her condolences, Flyte got down to business. ‘Mrs Angelopoulos, why don’t you tell me in your own words why you made the complaint?’

‘The police made up their minds straightaway that Sophia had .?.?. done a terrible thing to herself – and I knew she would never, ever do that.’ Chrysanthi pulled out her phone and handed it over to Flyte. ‘Look. You have seen the final text message I received, sent from her phone?’

Flyte had already seen a transcript of the message, which Bronte had sent just after 1 a.m., which had been a key factor in Sergeant Hickey concluding Bronte committed suicide.

Dear Mum, it read. I am so sorry to do this to you and Dad but I can’t go on. I hate Melodik, I hate what they are trying to do to my music, and I can’t see any future. Just blackness and despair. Everyone will be better off without me. Look after Peppa. I love you, and Dad. S.

Flyte got a sudden image of Poppy’s little newborn face, the tiny hand curled under her chin as if in thought. ‘I’m so sorry, Chrysanthi. You woke up to this on that morning?’

Chrysanthi’s hand shot to cover her mouth and she nodded.

‘You must have been devastated.’

‘When I saw it at six o’clock that morning, I went straight around to the flat, of course, but they had already taken my baby away.’ Anger entering her voice.

Flyte left a respectful pause. ‘So you said on the phone that it was the mention of Peppa didn’t sit right with you? Who is Peppa?’

‘It’s just a fish, an angel fish.’

A fish?

‘From when she was a little girl Sophia always had a fish tank. I keep it in my bedroom. It’s all I have left of her.’ She took a shaky breath. ‘It was only later that I realised.’ She opened a file lying on the coffee table – the kind with plastic sleeves inside – and pulled out a greetings card. ‘Look here.’

It was a birthday card, and inside, beneath the greeting ‘To Mum’ in a large expressive hand was the message ‘Love from Sophia and Pepper.’

‘You see?’

‘The spelling of Pepper.’

‘Exactly. She’s had that fish since she first left home, oh nine years ago? She would never spell his name wrong.’

But someone in an overwrought state might not notice an overzealous auto-correction.

‘And your conclusion?’

‘That it was sent by somebody else. The man who killed her. To mislead everyone.’

‘And do you have a view as to who that might be?’

‘Ethan Fox, of course, her ex-boyfriend’ – her eyes narrowing. ‘I always told her he was a bad man.’ Chrysanthi embarked on a three-minute character assassination, while offering no evidence or any real motive for why he might murder his ex.

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