Page 72 of Dead Fall

‘To Bronte,’ he echoed, and they both knocked back their drinks.

*

After Ethan had left Cassie couldn’t relax, her mind constantly circling back to her suspicion that Chrysanthi could have been a lifelong abuser, poisoning Bronte since childhood to cause her ‘stomach problems’. What if she had contaminated one of the many home-cooked meals she delivered to Bronte after she’d left home? Not with a toxin this time, but with something she had discovered her daughter was seriously allergic to? Even a tiny trace of allergen, hidden in a stew or similar, could have been enough to trigger anaphylaxis.

Then all she had to do was fail to call an ambulance – and suck up the sympathy that would be lavished on a mother who’d lost a second child – the child she was no longer able to control. Bronte heading out to the balcony in a desperate bid to get air wasn’t in the script, but the stronger and taller Chrysanthi would have been more than capable of tipping her over, especially with her daughter in the throes of an anaphylactic attack.

Cassie spent the rest of the day down an online rabbit-hole exploring every conceivable known allergen. In addition to the hundreds of foods and flavourings that could cause a serious reaction in the vulnerable, she discovered you could be dangerously allergic to coins, sunlight, textiles, any number of different insect stings – even to your own sweat. Given that anaphylaxis had been incredibly rare until recent years, it was clear that something in the modern lifestyle was scrambling the normal programming of the human immune system.

Cassie wished she’d hung around when Curzon had opened Bronte’s stomach in case the contents had held any clue. Then she remembered the crime scene pics that Tina the CSM had printed out for her right at the start. Where were they .?.?.? Half an hour later she’d unearthed them from the Jenga tower of paperwork stood on her bedroom chest of drawers.

She’d been totally focused on the balcony images before, but now she flicked impatiently past them to find the interiors.

Plucking one out, she murmured, ‘Tina, you’re a star!’ It showed what had clearly been the contents of Bronte’s fridge lined up on the kitchen worktop. Flattening the printout on the table she looked for any Tupperware or foil container, the type of thing that might hold the remains of a home-cooked meal. But there was nothing like that – the only containers being jars of mustard and salad dressing, and an ice cream carton. She sighed: remembering Chrysanthi saying that before the police finally called it as a murder she’d been allowed to take ‘mementos’ like the locket from her daughter’s flat, so could easily have removed anything she’d previously missed that might incriminate her.

Cassie wondered whether to call Flyte again, to try to persuade her, but was put off by her outright disbelief from last time. Her anger at Flyte’s reaction had subsided. It was totally understandable that someone who had experienced losing a baby would find it near-impossible to comprehend a mother killing her own child.

FLYTE

The day after Bronte’s funeral Streaky held a case conference. ‘I don’t need to tell you that we are drinking in the last-chance saloon here. It’s been three weeks since Bronte’s murder and there’s a limit to how long Borough will fund an incident room when we’ve delivered jack-shit so far as a meaningful lead is concerned.’

While disapproving of the vulgarity, Flyte couldn’t argue with the sentiment. And once the incident room was downsized she’d be back to the IOPC, interviewing intellectually challenged plods all day, a prospect that she realised filled her with gloom.

Streaky summed up where they were. ‘So we have a pretty solid picture of the order of events. The night Bronte dies she lets somebody into her flat – somebody we assume she trusts. Someone who knows her well enough to feed her something she is dangerously allergic to with the aim of killing her.’ After a pause, he went on, ‘Now, we know that her father was with her when she suffered anaphylaxis before but it appears the paramedics gave only Bronte their diagnosis, not him – although of course she could have shared it with George, or anyone else, at any stage afterwards. In any case, his estranged wife has given him an alibi, and it’s not easy to see why either of them would murder their only daughter. As you all know, Ethan Fox is out of the frame, this time with a genuine alibi.’

‘So what’s our new plan of attack, boss?’ asked Craig.

‘I want you overseeing another shot at door-to-door, see if any possible witness was missed in the last sweep, taking the radius from Bronte’s flat out wider.’

‘Boss.’

‘Becca, you do another trawl of her mobile records and emails, going further back. Any contacts, friends, lovers, we might not know about.’

He stood up and straightened his tie. ‘I’ve got a meeting over at Borough HQ with the brass, so I’ll see you all later on.’ Flyte caught the ghost of a wink that he sent her and mouthed Good luck back at him.

Shortly afterwards, Craig surprised her by sidling over to her desk to consult her on the list of door-to-door targets to revisit. Then Becca called her over to look at something on her computer. Even though Flyte was no longer a ranking officer, in Streaky’s absence the team seemed to be treating her as his de facto deputy, as if she were part of the team.

‘This is Bronte’s email inbox,’ Becca said. ‘Obviously it’s ninety per cent junk, but we check it every day and a new message arrived yesterday that I thought you should see.’

The email came from the Harley Street gastroenterologist to whom Bronte had sent an enquiry about an appointment. Attached was a receipt showing that just three days before her death she had paid his fee in cash – presumably to protect her identity – and two further files: a PDF leaflet titled ‘Living with Crohn’s Disease’ and a document with Sophia’s name that was password-protected.

So Bronte had consulted an expert after all – and after tests they had clearly diagnosed her as suffering from Crohn’s. Although it was hard to see how it might be relevant to the case, Flyte believed in leaving not even the smallest piece of gravel unturned. She checked her watch. ‘Let’s get onto the coroner’s office and ask them to apply for her records – today if humanly possible.’ Coroners had the powers of a judge and could compel healthcare providers to release documentation that could be relevant to an investigation of a suspicious death.

‘Yes, boss, sorry, I mean Phyllida.’ Becca looked flustered.

Flyte turned to walk away to hide the blush suffusing her cheeks.

Boss. She had to admit she liked the sound of that.

Chapter Forty

‘Terrible, just terrible,’ Babcia was saying on the phone. Chrysanthi had been to her flat that morning for coffee and told her all about the funeral.

Cassie was on her way into work when her grandmother called, and could tell from her heartfelt tone that she needed to talk.

‘It must remind you .?.?.’ Cassie didn’t need to finish the sentence. Babcia had had to face the funeral of her own daughter – Cassie’s mother – murdered in her twenties, just like Bronte.

‘It was the worst day of my life.’ She paused. ‘But I realise now that I was wrong not to take you to the service. Even though you were so young, it might have been helpful for you to say goodbye to your mama properly.’

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