Page 68 of Dead Fall

Flyte scrolled through her photos and pulled up the images of Bronte’s flat taken after her death. ‘Here’s her place. Tenth-floor apartment overlooking the canal. Ring any bells?’

Gary’s brow furrowed, and he looked over at Yasmin. ‘Do you remember that place with the music posters? There was a fantastic one of Nina Simone, proper vintage.’

‘That’s it! That’s the place,’ said Flyte.

‘I only remember the poster,’ said Gary. ‘Wasn’t that the block where the lift was out of action?’ he said to Yasmin. ‘And I said I hope to fu—God we don’t have to stretcher her down.’

Yasmin peered at the images ‘Oh yes! I do remember. We don’t see too many places with a piano.’

‘Did you ask her what she’d eaten to cause the allergic reaction?’ Flyte chipped in.

Yasmin nodded slowly. ‘A takeout vegan mezze, which wasn’t much help – it would be full of potential allergens – nuts, legumes, soybeans .?.?. I told her she needed to get tested but she was .?.?.’ she hesitated.

‘Dismissive?’ said Flyte.

‘I was going to say drunk,’ said Yasmin with a look. ‘And probably stoned.’

Streaky said, ‘We think somebody was with her when it happened.’ They had to tread carefully – any identification had to come from the witnesses unaided.

Yas nodded. ‘Mmm, yes. There was a guy there.’

‘Could you describe him?’

‘Umm. Tall. Nice-looking,’ said Yasmin.

Flyte bit her lip.

‘Yaz likes an older guy,’ said Gary, sending her a cheeky look.

‘Older?’ queried Flyte. Yasmin could only be a few years younger than Ethan.

Yasmin blushed. ‘Yes, in his fifties, at a guess? He said he was her dad.’

Chapter Thirty-Eight

‘I can’t talk to you right now,’ said Flyte, her voice tense – and raised over the sound of a car being driven fast.

‘Listen, Phyllida, you’re going to want to hear this,’ Cassie told her.

She was at work, the day after the germ of a terrible idea had planted itself in her mind: the idea that Chrysanthi could be seriously – dangerously – unstable. Disturbed enough to have killed her own daughter – and not just Bronte but perhaps her twin brother Alexander too. Was that the dark secret that meant she could never take communion?

Cassie knew that the confidentiality of the confession was sacrosanct. Even if Chrysanthi had confessed to murder, her priest wouldn’t report her to the cops, but he would forbid her from receiving communion until she had done appropriate penance – which would mean owning up to her crimes and doing jail time.

A sigh from Flyte, who sounded tense. ‘I’ll call you back in ten minutes,’ she said.

Cassie knew Flyte well enough now to pick up that something was going on. Were she and the ginger gorilla still pursuing Ethan? Recalling his flashes of vulnerability stirred protective feelings. Despite his laid-back charm she could tell that Ethan was a bird with a broken wing – a combination she found dangerously appealing.

She went out back to retrieve Bronte from the freezer, where her body had been stored since her forensic post-mortem, to get her ready for collection by the undertakers.

Opening the zip of the body bag, she said, ‘Hello there.’

Bronte’s face was the colour of a freshwater pearl now, her lips a shade of lavender, her skin the texture of putty or bread dough. Otherwordly. Cassie could hardly claim they were friends – she had thrown away that opportunity forever when she was fourteen. But she hoped that Bronte no longer hated her.

‘It’s your funeral tomorrow,’ she said. ‘And you’ll be at peace.’

Did Bronte’s expression have a sardonic edge? As if saying, At peace? With my murderer still walking around?

Cassie touched the crucifix locket around Bronte’s neck. ‘Was your mum there with you the night you died?’ she murmured. ‘Did she bring you some kind of food, drink, medicine .?.?.?’

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