Chapter Fourteen

Cassie had wondered how she would feel, coming home to an empty boat. But opening the cabin door she just felt excited to have the space to herself again. No longer needing to worry about sorting what Archie called ‘a proper supper', she scoured the fridge and made up a random plate of hummus, sardines, gherkins, and tortilla chips – giving Macavity half the fish. ‘It's a treat,' she told him sternly.

Then, as dusk began to fall, she decided to make use of her newly minted freedom by going out. There was a new queer venue in the market she wanted to check out.

Not, she told herself, that she was looking to pick anyone up.

*

It was only 7 p.m. and the mood in the bar was still low-key, which suited her. Queer bars could sometimes feel oppressive – the drag queens, the ‘come as Britney/Wham' nights, the fire breathers .?.?. Exhortations to ‘Have FUN!' usually had the opposite effect on her. She had come out to people-watch, her favourite pastime.

Tucking herself into a corner with a large Grey Goose, she let her gaze drift. And it snagged on a tall slender figure who'd just pitched up at the bar, her wheat-blonde hair now styled into a tight undercut at the back, her spine still straight as a broom handle. Cassie felt her stomach swoop: no need to see the rest of that razor-sharp jawline to know who it was.

Phyllida Flyte . She might not be a detective anymore but there was still something in her upright body language, the air of watchful authority that screamed cop. Not that an air of authority was necessarily unattractive .?.?. As Cassie watched, a young girl with curly hair she'd flirted with in the past, a bit of an airhead but super-pretty, slipped herself alongside Flyte at the bar and turned liquid eyes up at her.

Seeing Flyte shy like a skittish racehorse, Cassie grinned. Good luck with that , she thought, taking a slug of her vodka. But when she looked back, Flyte had leaned in and was laughing at something the girl – Mia, that was her name – must have said.

Cassie felt a frisson of what .?.?. jealousy ? Her relationship with DS Phyllida Flyte had always been complicated. What had started out as naked mutual dislike had morphed first into wary cooperation and then respect, friendship even, after they'd been thrown together in the course of more than one investigation. There had always been an undercurrent of something more between them, but it seemed destined to go unexplored: Cassie was convinced almost from the off that the uptight Flyte was gay, but after spending her adult life barricaded in the closet it had looked likely she'd stay there .?.?. at least until the previous year.

After the devastating events at Flyte's old unit, which had destroyed her faith in the Met and put her life in danger, she had undergone a double metamorphosis. She had handed in her police badge, and come out to Cassie – tentatively, delicately, but also in a way that had hinted at her romantic interest.

Talk about bad timing . Only a day earlier Cassie had agreed to live with Archie on the boat, to see if their on-off relationship had long-term legs. A question on which the jury was still out.

At that moment Flyte glanced around the bar, and seeing Cassie, did a double-take. When Cassie raised her glass in ironic salute, Flyte said something to Mia and headed over, leaving the younger woman pouting in their direction.

‘Fancy seeing you here,' said Cassie as Flyte set her glass of white wine down and took a seat.

Flyte smiled a private smile. ‘I'm broadening my horizons.'

Their gaze met for a moment before breaking apart. Cassie had always been struck by Flyte's curious-looking eyes – irises of the palest ice blue, with a darker limbic ring, like a wild animal – or a super-hot extraterrestrial.

‘She's a bit young for you, though.' Cassie nodded over at Mia, who was chatting to the barman.

‘ Everyone' s a bit young for me,' said Flyte with a wry grin.

Curses .

Cassie didn't want her to think that their age gap – around ten years – had been any kind of factor against them getting together. To Cassie, the fact she was a cop had always been far more of an obstacle. ‘Of course they're not – but Mia is still a stude for Chrissake. She thinks Magna Carta is a posh ice cream.'

Flyte's smile lit her face, turning her prettiness into a disturbing beauty. And there was a new edge to her look – as well as the darker undercut beneath her blonde top layer at the back, she'd had a second piercing in one ear – daring !

‘How's boat life with Bertie?' she asked.

‘Archie,' said Cassie, before seeing from Flyte's dry look that she'd been taking the piss. She made a face. ‘He'd really prefer a nice normal flat, y'know.'

‘Finding it a bit of a squeeze?'

Cassie just shrugged, feeling suddenly disloyal. ‘So how's guarding the guardians working out?' she asked.

‘Oh fine,' said Flyte, eyes hooding as she reverted to default cop mode.

‘A bit boring after murder squad?'

Flyte just gave a tight smile. ‘How's life at the mortuary?'

‘Fine.' Two could play at that game .

‘Any interesting cases lately?'

The too-casual way Flyte spoke got Cassie's antennae twitching .?.?. Did she mean Bronte? Perhaps she'd seen the coverage – it was hard to avoid, after all – and was simply making conversation. Or had she heard something about the investigation via her old CID contacts?

‘Same old, same old.' She shrugged.

Their eyes met, admitting an amused understanding between them.

Cassie took a drink of her vodka before asking, ‘How's Matt?' Judging by Flyte's expression she wasn't being too intrusive, so she went on, ‘Is he any closer to, you know, dealing with losing Poppy?'

‘No,' said Flyte crisply.

Seeing anger flare across her face like a brushfire, Cassie wondered whether, subconsciously, she was fanning her fury against Matt, to keep it alive. Perhaps this unresolved conflict, with Flyte as ‘good parent' and Matt ‘bad parent', was keeping Poppy alive, or more present in some way.

She wished she could say something that might help, but they weren't close enough to talk about it.

After they'd exchanged farewells and Cassie had left the pub she was aware of feeling uneasy. Trying to locate the source, she realised that the charged atmosphere between her and Flyte made her feel guilty – and confused – about Archie.

Not because she fancied Phyllida Flyte, and had done since she'd first laid eyes on her. There was nothing wrong with her – or Archie – fancying other people. No, she was recalling all the times she could have talked to him about her moments of communion with the dead, regardless of how he might react.

Now it occurred to her: how could you have a meaningful relationship with someone while hiding such an important part of what made you tick?