Page 45 of Dead Fall

*

Lost in her thoughts, she had almost reached the mortuary when a tall figure materialised at her side.

‘What the fu—! You nearly gave me a heart attack.’ And it was true that her heart did do funny things whenever she laid eyes on Phyllida Flyte. ‘You coming to the mortuary?’

Flyte shook her head. ‘I’m not a cop anymore, remember?’ She sounded bitter. ‘I wondered if you could spare time for a quick chat? I could buy you a coffee?’

Seeing that Flyte’s cheeks had coloured a fetching pink, Cassie remembered how much she hated asking for a favour. ‘What for?’ she asked coolly. ‘As you say, you’re not a cop anymore.’

Flyte blinked rapidly. ‘I .?.?. just had a few more questions about Bronte.’

Seeing her obvious discomfort, Cassie relented. ‘I’m due on shift’ – frowning down at her phone. ‘But you could come and chat to me while I get ready?’

*

It was pretty weird, getting into her PPE with Flyte sitting there, although she studiously avoided looking at Cassie. Not that Cassie got down to her knickers and bra – she wore her scrubs tops and bottoms over her jeans and vest top – but there was something innately intimate in the act of even partially undressing in front of someone.

‘Hmm. You saw the latest about Ethan?’

‘Yeah.’ Cassie sent her a dark look. ‘The thing about the hyoid fracture is bollocks, but you know that, right?’

She nodded. ‘But of course it got the top brass all twitchy – and sent everyone scurrying back to the PM report and looking again at Ethan. Officers who could be following up serious leads.’

Cassie made a face. ‘And this claim he likes to strangle women, you know, during . . . ?’ They broke eye contact, both suddenly embarrassed.

‘It’s probably just gossip but we’ll have to question this Charly Detective,’ Flyte sighed. ‘Or risk being accused by all and sundry of ignoring an important tip-off. We’ve got the techies taking a look at the image of the bruised neck.’

‘“We”?’ asked Cassie, turning to the mirror she raised both arms to brush her hair up into a topknot, caught Flyte’s gaze on her for a moment before it skittered away. The room felt suddenly too small and too warm.

‘The police, I mean,’ said Flyte, staring resolutely at the ceiling, walls, anywhere but at Cassie.

‘I can’t see him committing murder,’ Cassie protested, picturing Ethan’s dark eyes.

‘You’ve met Ethan Fox?’ Flyte’s gaze suddenly piercing.

She turned back to her locker to hide her expression. ‘Yeah, he came to the mortuary, wanting to see Bronte. I had to turn him away, obviously.’

‘And that brief exchange convinced you he was innocent?’ The arch of Flyte’s perfectly shaped eyebrow seeming to say she wasn’t born yesterday.

Curses.

Cassie looked up at the clock. ‘I’ve got to go.’ But catching Flyte’s expression she relented. ‘OK, five more minutes. What is it I can do for you exactly?’

Flyte frowned. ‘Look, it’s probably nothing, but one of the neighbours might have heard a noise from Bronte’s flat before she fell.’

‘What kind of noise?’

‘Heavy breathing?’ Flyte raised a hand and let it drop. ‘I don’t know, is it possible that her killer put her in a headlock, say? Before pitching her over the balcony?’

Cassie shook her head. ‘Look, even if it was missed at the routine PM there’s no way the Home Office pathologist would have missed any injuries to the neck structures.’

Flyte shrugged despairingly. ‘I just feel so powerless. At least when I was a serving officer I could follow up leads. Now it’s become a murder investigation I’m .?.?. tolerated.’

Cassie grimaced: she felt the same way when one of the more self-important pathologists ignored her opinion. It was the first time she’d seen Flyte so despondent. Surely leaving the misogyny and homophobia of her last posting and finally feeling able to come out should have brought her some peace? But then Cassie’s own experience had been so different – she’d never felt the need to put a label on herself, having dated boys and girls from her late teens. The only person who she’d tried to keep it from was Babcia, although in the end it turned out she’d known about her granddaughter’s sexuality all along.

‘Have you looked into who stands to benefit from Bronte’s death? Financially, I mean?’ asked Cassie.

‘Like who? Bronte hadn’t made a will – who does at twenty-seven? – so the parents will inherit as next of kin but it’s all going into some charitable trust.’

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