Chapter Seventeen

At the crack of dawn the next day Cassie was woken by a rapping at the cabin door: a knock with the unmistakable note of authority.

Her heart beating double time, she pulled on Archie's towelling robe.

‘I'm coming!' she said testily to the repeated knocking. And opened the door onto the starkly beautiful features of Phyllida Flyte.

‘What the .?.?.?' she managed, before seeing behind Flyte the ginger-haired cop who'd come to the mortuary to question her about the image of dead Bronte on socials.

‘Nice boat,' he said, sounding genuinely impressed. ‘How old is she?'

‘We need to ask you some questions,' said Flyte, ignoring her colleague. ‘Pursuant to a complaint by the family of Sophia Angelopoulos to the Independent Office for Police Conduct.'

Pursuant to .?.?. ? Flyte's job change hadn't loosened up her vocabulary.

‘What, now?! Half dressed?' – pulling the robe closer.

‘You can get dressed, of course, or we can do this down the station later if you prefer?'

Cassie rolled her eyes. Flyte might only be a civilian now, but she had brought a real cop with her. As she led them downstairs, she did a quick mental inventory – no pills on board – not since Archie had moved in – and only a tiny bit of weed, which was effectively decriminalised in Camden these days.

After retreating to the forward cabin to pull on some clothes, she came and sat opposite them at the banquette-style dining table, Flyte looking uncomfortable pinned into the corner by DS Bacon's considerable bulk.

Her cat jumped up on the table: he was always nosy about guests.

‘Macavity!' said Cassie, giving him a little push.

But Bacon was stroking his head admiringly. ‘" He's the bafflement of Scotland Yard, the Flying Squad's despair: For when they reach the scene of crime—Macavity's not there!"'

Unusually for him, Macavity was allowing Bacon to scratch him behind the ears . ‘ Are you "a fiend in feline shape"? Hmm? "A monster of depravity"? '

Flyte made an impatient face. ‘Could we get on?'

‘I'm not stopping you,' said Cassie, picking up the cat and putting him on the floor.

‘DI Bacon here has already questioned you about the photograph of Sophia's body. But there's been another development.'

Oh great.

‘Yes, the self-styled "detective" who first aired the pics on TikTok has now posted details which appear to come from the preliminary PM report.'

‘Really,' Cassie drawled.

Flyte pulled a chilly smile. ‘Also, an examination of the mortuary access system and your entry code usage shows that you spent the night there last Thursday. Why was that?'

A chill washed over Cassie. This had horrible echoes of the time she'd stayed overnight at the mortuary a couple of years ago. That time it had been because one of her guests, a nine-year-old boy, Oliver, had drowned swimming in the canal on a hot day. His mum had been utterly distraught, not wanting to leave – and kept saying over and over how scared Oliver was of the dark. So Cassie had promised to keep him company, sleeping beside him on the floor of the body store. When the body of an old gent had gone missing months later, Flyte had been assigned the case, leading to her first encounter with Cassie. Having discovered her unofficial overnight stay, Flyte had leaped to the wrong conclusion: that the weird-looking, tattooed and pierced morgue girl had something to do with the theft.

‘Look, I stayed because as I already told your buddy here' – widening her eyes – ‘someone tried to get into the mortuary that night – probably one of these social media nutjobs trying to get a photo of the autopsy suite.'

‘There is no evidence of any break-in,' said Flyte flatly. ‘We suspect an inside job. Who do you think might be tempted to take a cash bribe for a photo of a dead celebrity?'

Once again it was Jason's moon-like face that rose in her mind's eye. But he hadn't seemed shifty when they'd discussed how the pics had got out – and she wasn't about to drop him in it.

‘It could be anyone.' She shrugged. ‘The porters are always coming in and out via the tunnel from the hospital when they deliver bodies.'

‘What about the undertakers?'

Cassie shook her head. ‘They only have access to the clean side of the body store – the drawers are double-sided so they can check in a body out of hours.'

Flyte made a note in her neat schoolgirl handwriting.

‘What about the PM report?' asked DI Bacon. ‘Who might have seen that, aside from the pathologist?'

She frowned. ‘The family, anyone in the coroner's office, anyone with access to the police computer .?.?.' – widening her eyes for emphasis. ‘Look, why don't you ask this Charly character where she got it?'

Seeing a frown flit across Flyte's brow, Cassie guessed something. ‘Is it even a crime, sharing this stuff?'

It was DI Bacon who answered. ‘Without an actual break-in, or payment of a bribe to an official, probably not. But rest assured we'll still be paying her a visit.' He cracked his knuckles meaningfully, earning a frosty look from Flyte.

The Neanderthal and the Ice Maiden . Cassie had to suppress a smile: these two were going to have a barrel of laughs working together.

Flyte pulled out her phone. ‘In her latest video she claims the PM report overlooked "clear evidence" of foul play.'

‘Oh Jesus.' Cassie rolled her eyes. ‘Let me see it.'

Flyte tapped her screen and handed the phone to Cassie.

Charly had filmed herself at night on the towpath outside Bronte's flat, an uplight casting spooky shadows on her face. She flourished some papers. ‘I managed to get hold of the pathologist's top-secret autopsy report from my sources. What I found in here shocked me . The police are lying to us about Bronte's death,' she said. The vid cut to a close-up of a phrase, the words looming larger to fill the screen – ‘fracture of the hyoid bone'. Charly went on in a doom-laden voice, ‘The hyoid is a tiny bone in the throat. What does a fractured hyoid strongly suggest? That Bronte was strangled .'

Cassie made a scoffing sound. ‘What a load of crap.'

‘Go on,' said Flyte.

‘What this halfwit doesn't mention is that Bronte had multiple broken bones large and small, all over her body,' said Cassie. ‘Falling ten storeys will do that to your skeleton. The hyoid bone is often fractured in a fall from height.'

‘Not evidence of strangulation then, in your view?' asked Flyte.

‘No! Curzon would hardly mention a hyoid fracture in the report without further comment if it meant anything.' Even Curzon.

‘And you saw nothing else to suggest that she might have been strangled?'

Cassie noticed Bacon's sideways glance at Flyte – probably wondering why she was asking a lowly mortuary tech this stuff instead of the pathologist. She obviously hadn't told him their history, the cases they'd collaborated on.

Cassie pictured Bronte's throat: the flesh unmarked, with no tell-tale bruising, and the whites of her eyes clear, with a bluish tinge, but no sign of the petechial haemorrhages that were a red flag for asphyxia of any kind.

She shook her head. ‘Nothing that was visible. But you know that it takes a forensic PM to look at the underlying tissues for any hidden injuries.'

Flyte motioned to DI Bacon that it was time to go.

Cassie felt a flare of anger. ‘So am I a suspect for this photo stunt? Or did you drag me out of bed just to pick my brains?'

Flyte had the grace to blush – two points of pink high on those wide cheekbones. ‘Your insights are always appreciated. Thank you for your time.'