Page 87 of Dead Fall

Cassie put her out of her misery. ‘Look, I know you need to ask and it was me who kicked this thing off. So sure, I’ll give a statement, go to court, etc., etc.’ She pulled a wry grin, remembering. ‘Although he’ll say it was me who assaulted him.’

A dry smile spread across Flyte’s face. ‘I can believe it.’ She went on, ‘He might have got away with it indefinitely by relying on women’s silence. But maybe the prospect of multiple complainants will give these women confidence.’

It was true, Cassie reflected. Finding out that she wasn’t the only one had made her feel less .?.?. ashamed. Feeling any shame was stupid, of course, but somewhere along the line the idea that women were responsible for their own abuse got baked into the female psyche.

She had no doubt that Steve had assaulted Bronte in Berlin, and that when she resisted, he had turned nasty and thrown the Perdikia village gossip at her – that she was the product of incest.

That had been the catalyst for everything that had followed. Although Bronte wasn’t here to see him punished, Cassie was, and would.

But first she had to make a confession to Flyte. Why? Because she felt the need to unburden herself – and to trust her. If they were to have a future.

‘I need to tell you something,’ she said. ‘It’s about Bronte – and why she was suddenly interested in her family history back in Cyprus. But you must swear to me that it’s in total confidence.’

Flyte lifted her hand in agreement – her expression hard to read.

‘Chrysanthi was George’s daughter, and Bronte was the product of incest,’ said Cassie, meeting Flyte’s eyes for a long moment before saying, ‘You already knew?!’

Flyte nodded. ‘After finding out that Crohn’s can occur when both parents have the same faulty gene it got me thinking. Bronte’s twin brother died from a genetic disease. Then there was the big age gap between George and Chrysanthi, her hatred of him, her rejection of her sexuality – and her extreme protectiveness of her daughter. So I .?.?. got hold of Bronte’s DNA profile.’

Of course. Post-mortem samples from Bronte’s body would have automatically been sent to one of the specialist labs where a profile would have been produced. But it wouldn’t have been examined or analysed; it would have been held on file solely for exclusion purposes in case someone else’s DNA was found in Bronte’s flat – which had never happened.

‘Her profile was just sitting there, unanalysed. Waiting to one day be deleted,’ said Cassie.

Flyte nodded.

‘But you’re not a cop anymore so how .?.?.?’

Flyte looked irritated. ‘You’re not the only one with contacts you know. I was a serving officer for fifteen years. I called in a favour and had it mailed to me. Then it was just a matter of redacting the name and date of birth and getting someone in the know to take a look.’

‘What did they say?’

‘She was unequivocal – said it was a textbook example of first-degree consanguinity. A highly atypical overlap of the two sets of chromosomes, which proved beyond doubt that the parents were father and daughter.’

Cassie’s mind was racing to catch up: if Flyte had worked it out then why hadn’t she tipped off DI Bacon, who would have had Bronte’s profile officially analysed, and instantly seen the significance?

‘Why didn’t you share the info?’ she asked. ‘It gives George a clear motive for murdering Bronte. When she told him she’d booked a flight to Cyprus to explore her roots, he obviously panicked about being exposed.’

Flyte turned to look at her, her eyes hooded. ‘Because it would also give Chrysanthi a clear motive for taking out a hit on her husband.’

Their eyes stayed locked for a long moment, a moment of understanding passing between them.

Of course. Having lost her own child Flyte wasn’t about to see Chrysanthi pursued and convicted of a crime that she probably viewed as retributive justice.

‘Anyway,’ said Flyte. ‘I wasn’t on the Bronte case as a police officer, I’m just a civilian investigating the way it had been conducted.’

Bullshit.

There was a silence while Cassie absorbed it all. She had trusted Flyte to keep a confidence, and Flyte had done her the honour of trusting her in return.

‘I think I know what he fed Bronte,’ said Cassie.

After her first attack, Bronte must have told him the paramedics’ diagnosis of anaphylactic shock, which allowed George to work out what she was allergic to. That offered him the perfect murder weapon: perhaps already thinking ahead to a time he might need it. Something that would silence his daughter forever and in a way that would look like a tragic accident.

Flyte’s face was alight with curiosity. ‘Go on.’

‘Ice cream.’

‘Seriously?’ Flyte’s mouth turned down, sceptical. ‘Surely if you’re allergic to any of the ingredients in ice cream you’d know about it? Milk, eggs, and so on?’

---