Chapter Twenty

DI Bacon calling Bronte's mum a ‘religious nutter' had reminded Cassie of Chrysanthi's last visit, and Bronte's silver locket.

Now she told Flyte that Chrysanthi had wanted to put the necklace round Bronte's neck herself.

‘And you left her alone with the body.'

‘Not exactly,' said Cassie. After opening Bronte's drawer and unzipping the body bag to her chest she had deliberately busied herself with some paperwork at the other end of the body store. ‘I didn't leave the room but I gave her some space, not wanting to intrude on the moment, you know?'

Flyte nodded but her expression remained sceptical. ‘You think she took the photo then?'

‘It would have taken seconds to whip out her phone and do it.' Cassie shrugged. ‘The photo went public two days after that.'

‘But why on earth would she share something so .?.?. intimate with some social media clown?'

Cassie resisted the temptation to roll her eyes. ‘Because she didn't buy the idea that Bronte killed herself and thought the police had done a sloppy job investigating it.'

‘She was hoping that the coverage would bounce the police into a murder investigation' – Flyte sounded thoughtful.

Cassie nodded. ‘That, plus the official complaint to you lot. And fair enough, it totally worked.'

‘Well, that's one less crime to investigate,' said Flyte. ‘There's no law against sharing an image of your own daughter, even if she is lying dead in a mortuary.' She shook her head. ‘It's just beyond me, how anyone could want to see their dead child splashed across every news and social media outlet in the world.'

Cassie paused, understanding how Flyte's own loss would make that hard to comprehend. Softening her tone, she said, ‘Suicide is the toughest thing for a parent or partner to accept, but I think she might have another reason for wanting it to be murder, weird as that sounds.'

‘Go on.'

Cassie had done a bit of research on St Ioannis, the church Chrysanthi attended. ‘You know she's devout Greek Orthodox, right? So apparently, her priest is in his eighties and very old school. Suicide is still a cardinal sin in Orthodox theology so if Bronte had killed herself he could have refused to hold a funeral service for her.'

Flyte's lips rounded into a pretty ‘O'. She looked at Cassie with something of their previous intimacy, before saying, ‘You know, if you hadn't had the idea of checking for bruising on the fingernails the police would probably have remained convinced that it was suicide.' She fixed Cassie with a look. ‘No point asking you what on earth made you think of it, I suppose?'

Cassie pulled a half-grin. ‘No point at all.'

*

She had half expected her discovery to bring her some kind of closure over Bronte's death but the initial buzz faded fast. As she wheeled her old schoolmate's body down the corridor to the dedicated forensic suite out back, she found guilt still hanging over her like a bad pills-and-vodka hangover. Bronte's bruised fingers might be clear evidence of foul play but it was still a long way from finding out who'd killed her.

‘Look, I'm doing everything I can,' she told the shrouded figure as she rolled the tray holding her over to the open drawer into the forensic body store. ‘And Flyte is a good detective. She'll make sure the cops do the business.'

Bronte's silence felt charged with scepticism.

After prepping the suite with all the tools and sample pots needed for the PM, she changed into civvies, and made a call to book Maddy, the locum she trusted most, to come in and cover Bronte's forensic PM, which would be happening the next day. Cassie had put in for the day off. After all, now the body was effectively an exhibit, the role of the APT was severely limited – no more than handmaiden to the pathologist. At least that was what she told herself.

Sunk in these thoughts she was pulling open the front door to leave – when she reeled back. A man stood there, his arm raised as if to strike her.

Her hand flew up to defend herself before she realised that he'd only been about to knock on the door. ‘You scared the shit out of me!' she barked.

‘Sorry, sorry,' said the guy, wide-eyed, both hands up in the air in surrender.

‘The mortuary is closed,' she said, surveying him through narrowed eyes.

‘Oh, right. I was hoping to see someone.'

He was tall and lean, all in black, with dark hair long enough to frame a clean-sculpted jaw and even darker eyes, the kind of guy who would shatter your heart into a thousand pieces and leave you to sweep up the mess.

No prizes for guessing who he was . Ethan Fox, Bronte's ex.

‘Do you mean one of our guests?'

‘Bronte. Sophia Angelopoulos.' He looked past her into the corridor, as if he might catch a glimpse of her.

Closing the door behind her, Cassie spoke gently. ‘I'm afraid you would need permission from the family to view a body.' Not that Bronte could be viewed by anyone now, not until after her forensic PM.

That prompted a bitter laugh. ‘Like that's ever going to happen,' he said.

Cassie started walking, steering him away from the mortuary.

He threw a last glance at the place before saying, ‘I'm Ethan Fox, by the way.'

‘Hey, Ethan. I'm Cassie Raven, one of the mortuary staff.'

He looked at her with molasses eyes, a wry smile lifting one corner of his mouth. ‘I know. I saw your fifteen minutes of fame on social. Or more like fifteen seconds these days.'

‘You saw that?' Cassie grimaced.

He grinned. ‘Yeah. I punched the air when you told her to go fuck herself. They've been hounding me too, as you can imagine. The dodgy boyfriend who got poor Bronte into gear.' He snorted. ‘That comes straight from her mother.'

She noted that he didn't say ‘ex-boyfriend'.

‘Is there really no way I can see her?' he asked.

‘I'm really sorry, Ethan, not without her parents' say-so.'

He blew out a breath. ‘It's so shit being out of the loop. You know the first time I heard about what happened was on social? The Feds haven't even called me.'

They'll be calling you now , she thought wryly.

She let him chat on about Bronte's death, understanding how it helped the bereaved to talk.

Ten minutes later, she drifted to a halt next to the stairway down to her section of towpath. ‘This is me.' Although she felt sorry for him, she didn't want him knowing where she lived. Was she finally learning caution in her old age?

He nodded towards the 'Spoons next to the lock. ‘Can I buy you a drink?' Seeing she was about to say no he pushed a hand through his hair. ‘It might sound a bit .?.?. weird but, talking to you .?.?. it's the next best thing to seeing her?'

Seeing the look of embarrassed entreaty in his eyes, she nodded. The newly bereaved sometimes experienced a sense of accelerated intimacy with the person looking after the body of their dead loved one. And there was another reason: Ethan might let something useful slip, something he wouldn't say to Flyte and the cops, who'd be bound to treat him as a suspect. When it came to murder, lovers and exes were always top of the list.