Page 84 of Dead Fall

Meeting the older woman’s eye, Cassie said, ‘You know you can tell me anything you want to. In total confidence.’

Chrysanthi started talking, the words spooling out of her gratefully. When it had become clear to her that George had killed their daughter, she said, she’d faced a choice: hope that the police would find enough evidence to ensure he was punished, or take matters into her own hands.

‘The police had failed my darling daughter from the very first day,’ she said. ‘How could I trust them to get justice for her? And I had her memory to think of. I couldn’t let the whole world drag her name through the mud, for her parents’ sins to be visited on her.’

‘Her father’s sin,’ said Cassie gently. ‘You mean that so long as George was alive the whole story of Bronte’s parentage might still have come out?’

Chrysanthi nodded. After a lifetime protecting her daughter from the truth about her birth, she was driven to protect her memory in death.

‘Once he saw that I had realised his guilt, it would only have been a matter of time before he ran away, disappeared into some hidey-hole overseas. Somewhere that doesn’t ask questions of the wealthy.’

‘And you feared that once he lost his nerve and ran, the police would be straight on to him, look into the Cyprus angle, and join the dots.’

Chrysanthi nodded, touching a crucifix at her neck. ‘There were people in our home village, people who had known my mother, who must have heard things. That after he took me from the care home in Larnaca, I had given birth to twins, and that we were living in England as .?.?. man and wife’ – her voice dropping to a whisper on the last words.

‘And in all these years nobody alerted the authorities? To report him as an abuser?’ Cassie couldn’t keep the outrage out of her voice.

Chrysanthi shook her head slowly. ‘Such a shameful thing would only be whispered. They would blame me as much as him. They would say that I should have resisted him.’

Cassie made a sound of angry disbelief.

‘When the detectives asked me about his death, I told them that in his grief over losing Sophia he had spoken repeatedly about destroying himself. They believed me.’

Cassie’s curiosity got the better of her. ‘But how .?.?.?’

Chrysanthi sighed. ‘There’s only one person in the world I could ask to deal with something like that. We grew up together in the children’s home and he came to London not long after I did. He’s like a brother to me. He didn’t know the whole story – what George did to me and my daughter. When I told him he just said, “I’ll take care of it.”’

Wow. Cassie wouldn’t mind having a mate like that.

Chrysanthi went to refresh the teapot, giving Cassie time to examine what she felt about her confession.

Vigilantism. A nasty word for a sordid business, and not something she’d ever imagined herself approving of. The pathologist had clearly found no signs of George having fought his attacker. Maybe he’d had a gun to his head. Perhaps had even welcomed his punishment.

Either way, she found she gave zero fucks about George’s fate. Sure, he had loved his daughter, but when faced with the risk of exposure, he had put himself first and coldly planned her death. Even at the very last moment when she was clinging on for her life, no doubt begging him to save her, he could have relented and pulled her up.

Picturing her own dad’s lopsided smile, she experienced an unexpected rush of love for him so powerful that it snatched the breath from her throat.

*

That evening Cassie did something she’d been putting off, something that had been weighing on her mind. She was dreading it, but she detested unfinished business.

She walked straight past the queue of youngsters outside the club, their excitement hovering above them like a physical, palpable thing. Looking at the faces, she could see that several of the girls were under eighteen, no doubt using fake ID to get in. Reaching the head of the queue, she looked up at the display that read ‘SkAR: New Spring Residency!’ before scoping the bouncers for a familiar face. Nothing. But just then she saw him emerging from the foyer, the black guy who had checked on her that night. When he saw her he looked alarmed, and then resigned, like he’d been anticipating her return.

Pulling out a pack of cigs, he nodded to the alleyway just beyond the club. After they both lit up, he said, ‘I know why you’re here.’

FLYTE

A few days after her return to the IOPC offices Streaky called Flyte, offering to buy her lunch at a Greek restaurant off the high street.

As they awaited their meze she raised an eyebrow. ‘To what do I owe this honour?’

Grinning at her, he chinked his glass of retsina against hers – mineral water. ‘Say hello to the new DCI in charge of Major Crimes for NE London.’

‘Congratulations!’ And she meant it. He might have some .?.?. outdated ways of expressing himself, but she had come to realise that he was far from the sexist, racist, cartoon Met Neanderthal that she’d pigeonholed him as when they’d first met.

Prejudice came in all shapes and sizes.

‘How’s life at the IOPC?’ he asked.

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