Chapter Nineteen

Early the next morning, wearing her full PPE, Cassie was once again unzipping Bronte's body bag.

‘Here,' she said, lifting free Bronte's right hand, all the nails now cleaned of varnish, before angling it into the light for the benefit of Phyllida Flyte and DI Bacon who stood the other side of the open drawer. ‘See?'

The forefinger and middle fingernails were indigo, darkening to deepest purple towards the cuticle, while the third nail was a paler blue.

‘And they couldn't have been bruised in the fall?' asked Flyte, frowning.

‘Hard to see how,' said Cassie. ‘All the other injuries are consistent with her falling on her left side.'

Flyte's gaze swung to Bacon. ‘There was that gap at the bottom of the balcony, between the concrete and the glass, wasn't there?'

Bacon nodded. ‘After she fell she must have grabbed hold of the ledge, if only for a moment. Until some bastard stamped on her fingers.'

Flyte and Bacon looked at one another for a moment, before Flyte swivelled her gaze back to Cassie. ‘So why did you only remove her nail varnish now and not at the PM?'

Cassie tried to hide her irritation. ‘We never remove nail varnish at a routine PM. Why don't you ask the cops why they didn't order a forensic?'

‘Around four thousand reasons,' said DI Bacon drily.

‘There you go,' said Cassie. A forensic PM, which could only be conducted by a pathologist on the Home Office register, took several hours and cost three or four grand – more if any specialist tests were needed. It was the cops who picked up the bill for a forensic and if they didn't suspect foul play then a body got the cheap and cheerful routine version, just like Bronte's had. Cassie had often thought the system was deeply flawed: discouraging the police from ordering a full bells-and-whistles PM in borderline cases.

Flyte told Cassie, ‘You need to bag her hands and move her to the forensic fridge. You have her clothing still?'

‘Of course. Already bagged and labelled.'

As Cassie closed Bronte's drawer, Bacon told her, ‘Nice work. You lot do a good job.'

She shot him a look but he seemed genuine. ‘Thank you.'

Flyte said, ‘I'm just going to call my office to report the .?.?. developments' – before stepping in to the corridor.

‘I'm curious,' Bacon asked Cassie. ‘What made you think to take off her nail polish?'

She pictured her ‘vision' in the laundrette, and the words she'd heard rising from Bronte's dead lips later.

I don't want to die.

She shrugged before flashing her own nails at him, which she had repaired while waiting for them to turn up.

‘Just intuition, I guess.'

He nodded, apparently accepting this. ‘You APTs do spend more time with the bodies than anybody.'

‘Uh-huh.'

‘And you meet the family.'

‘Yup.'

‘What do you make of the mother?' he asked. ‘Bit of a religious nutter by all accounts?'

Wow, this guy hadn't got the memo . But iffy language aside, she couldn't disagree with the underlying sentiment. She remembered Chrysanthi claiming her daughter would never ‘destroy herself' – proper Old Testament shit – and the cross-embellished locket holding the locks of their hair which she'd brought in for Bronte to wear.

Flyte came back in. ‘Right, this development is being reported back to DCI Bellwether.'

‘Righto,' said Bacon, jingling the contents of his pocket as if in celebration. ‘I'd better get back to the nick.'

‘Alvin, I just have a few more questions here re the original complaint.' Flyte bestowed her most dazzling smile on him, making him blink in confusion. ‘Shall we catch up back at the office?'

‘Sure,' he said, beaming. ‘See you there.'

Sucker , thought Cassie.

Once he'd gone, Flyte pinned her gaze on Cassie ‘What's wrong?'

‘Nothing,' but Cassie felt herself blush, a rarity for her.

‘Come off it, I know you. A couple of minutes ago you realised something.'

Cassie felt a spurt of irritation. ‘Don't talk to me like we're friends after that stunt you pulled yesterday, banging on my door with the ginger gorilla at six in the freaking morning.'

‘Well, look' – sounding defensive.

‘No, you look. I used to think you trusted me. Accusing me of selling photos of Bronte! As if!! Basically you were just picking my brains.'

Flyte rolled her lower lip between her teeth. ‘All right, guilty as charged. But you have to understand that I can't simply .?.?. freelance these days. I have to be professional, and keep DI Bacon on board.' Not quite able to hide a note of irritation at her loss of authority.

Cassie paused: still annoyed but also suddenly aware of the tightrope that Flyte must need to walk. ‘"DI Bacon", though? Seriously?' she deadpanned.

‘And everyone calls him Streaky,' said Flyte. They both broke into broad grins.

‘Of course they do.'

The exchange thawed some of the frost between them.

‘Listen, have you interviewed this Charly woman yet?' Cassie asked. ‘About who gave her the pics of Bronte – and details from the PM report?'

‘Not yet. Why?'

‘I need to tell you something.'

‘Go on,' said Flyte.

Cassie pulled a face. ‘It was Bronte's mother.'