Flyte

FLYTE

In his white forensic suit DI ‘Streaky' Bacon resembled a large and dissolute snowman. At least he wouldn't be able to access his trouser pockets, thought sourly.

Dusk was gathering outside by the time and Streaky reached Bronte's flat: its previous life as a warehouse still evident in the vintage steel columns, stripped brick walls, and what looked like the original oak floorboards. A baby grand piano sat in the centre of the open-plan living room and framed posters of bands and artists lined the walls, some of whom had never even heard of. Like the black-and-white image of some moustachioed guy above the name Django Reinhardt in a jaunty retro font.

Seeing her frown, Bacon said, ‘Gypsy jazz musician from the forties.'

Was ‘gypsy' even an acceptable term these days ?

‘The girl had taste,' he went on admiringly as he browsed the images. ‘Miriam Makeba .?.?. Etta James .?.?. that's Nina Simone.'

‘I know who Nina Simone is,' said tartly, reading the inscription beneath Simone's uncompromising stare: An artist's duty is to reflect the times .

Bronte's place struck her as surprisingly neat and orderly for the home of a druggie music star. Maybe her mother had been right when she said Bronte was staying clean – literally. It always struck how every home had a unique and distinct smell: here she picked up the scent of recently burned candle or incense – a spruce-like, Christmassy fragrance. Myrrh, at a guess.

‘Who's been in here since the death?' she asked.

‘Just her mum and dad, to take some items of sentimental value,' he said. Then his face lit up. ‘Hello, gorgeous!' he exclaimed. This was directed at the woman in the forensic suit with dyed blonde hair and lavender ombre rinse who'd just come in from the balcony.

‘Well, look what the cat dragged in!' she exclaimed on seeing him, her London tones sounding as though they'd been kippered by decades of cigarette smoke.

Bacon introduced the woman, who appeared to be around his vintage, as Tina Verity, the crime scene manager who'd attended right after Bronte's death. noted the wary – and increasingly familiar – look that came into her eyes at the dread initials IOPC.

‘Best CSM north of the Thames,' said Bacon beaming, before introducing . ‘So, Tina, we need to take another look at the scene with fresh eyes.'

‘Thank you, DI Bacon,' said meaningfully, before turning her gaze on Tina. ‘Let's start with the balcony shall we.' This was still her investigation and she wouldn't stand for being demoted to the role of passive spectator.

The balcony was edged by a glass panel topped with a rail, and at only a couple of metres long by less than a metre deep, too small for any furniture.

indicated the steel balcony rail. ‘Was this dusted for prints and swabbed for DNA?'

‘It wasn't requested,' said Tina – a construction that avoided mentioning the name of Hickey, the uniformed sergeant who'd decided off his own bat that the death was non-suspicious.

‘Well let's do it now,' she said.

With a flicker of her heavily mascaraed eyes towards Bacon, Tina replied, ‘I can do, but after over a week of rain, pigeons et al, the chances of getting any results are close to zero.'

‘I'm quite aware of that,' said sharply. ‘We'd have had a far better chance had it been printed and swabbed straightaway.'

Bacon dropped to his haunches with an audible ‘Oof', and examined the gap between the concrete base and the bottom edge of the glass panel. After whipping out a tape measure he measured the base and gap above before running the tape up to the top rail.

‘One hundred and fifteen centimetres high,' he said. ‘And the victim was only one hundred and fifty-seven centimetres, barely five foot three in old money, so even if she stood on the base, the rail would still be at chest height on her. Hard to see how a short-arse could have got herself over without anything to stand on – or a helping hand.'

nodded. Despite the questionable language his meaning was spot on.

Just inside the balcony doors she recognised the coffee table where the ‘synthetic cannabis' had been found after Bronte's death. She and Bacon took a seat on the sofa which looked out over the canal and he handed her printouts of the scene photos, including those showing the tabletop with its psychedelic packaging and turquoise Rizla papers, which had prompted Sergeant Hickey to mention drug use in his report as a possible contributory factor in Bronte's supposed suicide.

‘No remains of a joint, no ashtray?' huffed , gesturing at the photo. ‘What was Hickey thinking? That she smoked a joint and then what, flushed the stub down the toilet, washed the ashtray and put it away?!'

Bacon gave a headshake, his expression making it clear that he agreed with her. ‘I've told the toxicology lab to bump her samples to the top of the queue, given the public interest in the case.'

They went into the kitchen, where opened the built-in fridge-freezer. She called Tina in from the balcony and asked, ‘I assume it wasn't empty before? What was in it?'

‘It was pretty full, actually.'

‘Here,' said Bacon, handing her another photo. Leaning in, Tina pointed out the fridge contents, which had been snapped lined up on the worktop.

‘Bag of salad, fruit, tofu, yoghurt, a jar of mustard, vegan ice cream.'

It sounded more like the fridge of a health nut than a druggie.

tried to keep her expression neutral. It wouldn't be fair to blame Tina for the failure to properly analyse the scene: the blame for that lay squarely with Sergeant Hickey.

Suicidal people didn't tend to fill their fridge before topping themselves. And it would have been a challenge for a woman of Bronte's height to scale the balcony unaided. All of which would have raised a big fat red flag with any trained detective, had Sergeant Hickey bothered to request one.