Page 57 of Dead Fall

Flyte threw herself down on the sofa. ‘And the parents say no allergies that they were aware of?’

‘Right,’ said Streaky, padding around the living room like a disconsolate bear. ‘And there’s no record of her having a GP – not an NHS one anyway.’

Flyte felt something digging in her back. Investigating, she found a book wedged between two cushions. A guidebook to Cyprus, new-looking, with a couple of pages turned down – a dreadful habit. The chapter that Bronte had marked this way was titled ‘Villages of the Troodos Mountains’.

Flyte recalled how indifferent, hostile even, Chrysanthi had seemed to her home island: a lack of interest she insisted that her daughter shared. She showed Streaky the book. ‘Did anyone say anything about Bronte planning a trip to Cyprus?’ she asked.

Streaky shook his head. ‘Not to my knowledge. But it’s not exactly a smoking gun, is it?’

She shrugged. ‘It’s probably nothing, but maybe she was in contact with some extended family we don’t know about? We should get one of the DCs trawling her online footprint to find out more? Becca would do a diligent job.’ Translation: not that self-important pipsqueak Craig.

‘Right you are, boss,’ said Streaky, but his tone was jocular.

Spotting a bookshelf in the corner, Flyte found a row of self-help books, the kind that claimed to offer solutions to troubled adults – Moving Beyond Trauma .?.?. The Mountain is You .?.?. How to Heal Your Inner Child .?.?. Hippy-dippy nonsense. But there was also a fat medical tome titled Diseases and Disorders in Early Childhood and another called Understanding IBD and Crohn’s Disease, which suggested that Bronte had been exploring her lifelong health issues – or perhaps an allergy?

Seeing The 27 Club along the spine of another book she pulled it out. The cover featured images of famous musicians – Janis Joplin, Kurt Cobain and Amy Winehouse among them. Reading the blurb reminded her of the unenviable entry requirement for the so-called ‘club’: you had to be a music star who died at the age of twenty-seven, preferably in tragic circumstances. Just like Bronte. Leafing through it she found the dedication ‘To Bronte’ spelled out in small neat type at the top of the title page and below it, a sprawling signature that began with a flamboyant ‘E’. Ethan Fox. Riffling through the pages she made another discovery: the receipt, probably tucked inside by the bookseller.

‘Streaky, could you come here a sec?’

Wordlessly, she showed him the receipt. Sending her a look, he pulled out his phone. ‘Craig? Get hold of Ethan Fox. Make out it’s just a routine review of the evidence blah, blah, but please could he come down the nick pronto to answer some questions.’

*

Two hours later, Ethan Fox was being ushered into the interview room by a female uniform. Her cheeks were pink and she was suppressing a smile – no doubt he’d been exercising his charm on her en route.

Flyte had been curious to see Ethan Fox in the flesh. Although she was personally immune, she recognised his appeal: it wasn’t just his dark good looks, but something in the way he held himself – relaxed, self-possessed, but with just a hint of vulnerability that would be catnip to women. Women like Cassie, who it was clear had a major crush on him.

Folding his long body into the chair, he set a packet of Marlboro and a lighter on the table and sent Flyte an appealing smile. ‘I don’t suppose .?.?.?’

‘You suppose correctly,’ said Flyte, returning the smile with a serving of frost. She dropped her gaze to her notes, blinking away an unwelcome image: Ethan and Cassie having sex.

After starting the tape, Streaky read him the caution, and noted that he had declined the right have a solicitor present. Ethan lifted one shoulder, an unconcerned smile on his face. ‘I’m not really a lawyer kind of guy.’

‘So I’ve just been refreshing my memory of what you told DS Ellwood, the first time you were interviewed,’ said Streaky, leafing through a printout with a distracted air. ‘Oh where is it .?.?. ah, here we go. So you said that you and Bronte were no longer together and the last time you saw her was several days before her death.’

Ethan gave a shrug-nod in response.

‘Sorry, Ethan, but could you answer for the tape?’ Streaky sounded apologetic.

‘No worries. Yeah, that’s what I said.’

‘To be specific, when DS Ellwood asked you to nail the timing, you said it was “at least five days” before she died.’ Streaky blinked at him absent-mindedly. ‘Sorry, but could you just confirm that was accurate?’

‘I couldn’t tell you what day exactly it was but yeah, five or six days earlier is about right.’ Ethan picked up his lighter, his brow creased now.

Flyte slid The 27 Club book, opened and face down, in its clear evidence bag, onto the table between them. ‘Do you recognise this?’

He craned forward. ‘Ummm, not sure.’

She turned the book over, revealing the title page with its dedication.

‘This is your signature, isn’t it?’

Leaning forward, he said, ‘Oh yeah, I remember now, I got it for Bronte.’ He was still sounding unconcerned but the way he was fidgeting with the lighter, reflexively turning it over in his long fingers, told a different story.

‘I know it’s hard remembering what happened on any particular day more than two weeks ago,’ said Streaky, still playing Mr Chummy. ‘Sometimes I forget what I did yesterday! But how soon after getting Bronte the book did you give it to her? Just roughly.’

‘I gave it to her pretty much straightaway, I think.’

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