Page 69 of Dead Fall

She leaned over her as if trying to inhale her last thoughts, desperate for some clue.

Nada.

Her phone rang: Flyte calling back.

‘OK make it fast,’ came the clipped tones. ‘I’m out on police business.’

Always with the charm.

Cassie took a breath. ‘I think you should consider the possibility that Bronte was killed by her mother.’ A sound expressing outright disbelief came down the line. ‘Listen, hear me out. Have you heard of a mental health disorder called FDIA? – Factitious Disorder Inflicted on Another.’

‘Like those nurses who kill the babies they’re supposed to be looking after?’ Flyte gave an audible shiver.

‘Yes. But the most common expression of it is when a mother persistently feeds her own child toxins to make them sick – sometimes even killing them.’

‘You’re saying she killed Bronte and her son, Alexander?’ Flyte sounded incredulous. ‘Why on earth would she do such a thing?’

‘Who knows why crazy people do crazy things? The theory around FDIA is that the abuser has a desperate need to win attention and sympathy for themselves through the chronic sickness of their child. Chrysanthi was brought up in care, remember. She had no family, she made a disastrous marriage far too young, to a much older guy who turned out to be a serial philanderer. I’m no shrink but it sounds like the perfect profile of an FDIA abuser.’

‘But it was Chrysanthi who kicked up the fuss about the police handling of Bronte’s death, who complained to the IOPC that it hadn’t been properly investigated!’ said Flyte.

‘Couldn’t that be the action of a narcissist? “Poor me, I’m the victim”? Look, we know Bronte’s brother Alexander died when he was three. Bronte suffered from stomach problems all her life – and her mother was obsessed with feeding her.’ Remembering Bronte’s lyric about a skeleton in the cupboard. ‘I think she was digging around in her family history, perhaps because she was suspicious about how Alexander died, and suspected her mother. I think she might have been planning a trip to Cyprus to find out more.’

When Flyte fell silent Cassie thought she was taking it seriously, but when she spoke again it was in pure cop-speak – as if Cassie was just another member of the public. ‘Thank you for sharing your thoughts. Rest assured that every lead is being considered.’

Engulfed by a wave of anger Cassie hung up.

Going back to Bronte, she eyed her sunken features guiltily.

‘I tried,’ she murmured. ‘I don’t know what else I can do.’

Suddenly she was pitched back to the school showers, feeling the hot water raining on her skin, Bronte’s piercing scream like a jolt of electricity. A violent shudder went through her.

‘I’m just so sorry, Bronte. For everything’ – her words coming out in a rush. ‘For not being your friend when you needed one. For being a snivelling little fucking coward when I should have been brave. I would do anything now, to change how I behaved. I think .?.?. I wish we could have been friends.’

She remembered what Althea Knowles had said about forgiving herself. But she knew that wasn’t her call. That was down to Bronte.

‘Can you forgive me?’ she asked, holding her breath.

Nada.

Reaching down, she was starting to zip the body bag back up when her hand lost the power of movement. The fluorescent lights flared, forcing her eyes closed, and she was enveloped by that old, familiar sensation. A feeling of reality slipping .?.?. A buzzing and tingling in the air .?.?. the smell of electricity you got before a storm .?.?.

Opening her eyes, Cassie stared down at Bronte. Her mauve-coloured lips didn’t move but what floated up was a single word, the tone teasing.

‘Friend!’

FLYTE

At the undertakers, Streaky and Flyte waited in reception; Streaky walking up and down, whistling show tunes, and basically being eighteen-stone of human irritant, while Flyte tried to ignore him. When Streaky had called George to say they had a few questions he said he was here to finalise the funeral arrangements.

It was another twenty minutes before George emerged from the office, followed by his ex-wife. He didn’t look especially surprised by their presence, and his wife looked dazed with grief, not quite present.

The undertaker showed them into another office, and Chrysanthi followed them in. DI Bacon told him, ‘It was you we wanted to chat to, George.’

But he just waved a hand and said, ‘I’ve got nothing to hide from my wife. I’ll do anything I can to help you find my daughter’s killer.’

‘Something has come up of relevance to the investigation. You told us that you had no prior knowledge of your daughter having had any serious allergic reaction, right?’ asked Streaky.

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