Chapter Twenty-Five

Monday morning Cassie was back in the mortuary – and from the look of the list it was going to be a mare of a day. The only bright spot: Prof Arculus, her favourite pathologist, was down to conduct the PMs.

Since seeing Bob, she'd spent hours going over what he'd said. He was right: asking the question Cui bono? – who benefits? – was always a good place to start. When she'd quizzed him on who exactly would profit from any post-mortem sales spike, he'd said that Bronte's A&R man – aka her handler at Melodik – might be on a sales bonus, and her manager, aka her father George, would presumably get commission. She could see no obvious way it would deliver a payout for Ethan, which brought her an unexpected gust of relief.

She texted George with an excuse: could they meet to discuss the arrangements for transferring Bronte's body to the funeral director's once the coroner released the body? He came straight back, suggesting lunchtime at the Costa Coffee overlooking the canal.

Jason was in a good mood, whistling happily to himself as they prepped the autopsy suite, and she felt guilty for ever suspecting him of selling the pics of Bronte's body.

‘Good weekend?' she asked.

‘Banging weekend. Went to a rave out near Basildon.' He eyed her. ‘You're not going to ruin it by giving me the jumper are you?'

She grimaced. ‘No, you take the asthma death, I'll take Mr P.'

‘Good luck with that,' chuckled Jason. ‘I never was any good at jigsaw puzzles.'

The remains of Mr P, aka Jack Perez, had arrived in a heavy-duty black body bag. Several witnesses had seen him throw himself off a footbridge into the path of a high-speed train. The effect of a 150 mph impact on the human body wasn't dissimilar to an explosion, and as sorry as she felt for poor Jack, she felt even worse for the Transport Police cop who'd got the gig of scouring the track to collect any surviving body parts.

She emptied the bag as gently as possible onto her work table, releasing the smell of blood and diesel. All that was recognisable was the head, or most of it, a bloodstained tie, and some longish sections of limb, which she could tell were legs from the scraps of the suit trousers he'd been wearing.

It was a challenge to feel any connection with the dead when they no longer resembled a human body, but she always tried. Jason had put his earbuds in and was working on his customer so she leaned into what was left of Mr P's head and said, ‘I'm so sorry that you were so unhappy with your life. The police have been to see your wife and parents to break the news. They'll be put in touch with people, professionals, who can offer them support.' She made a mental note to check with the coroner's office to ensure this wasn't an empty promise.

The police report said that Jack Perez had recently lost not just his printing business, but his wife, who had left him for someone else.

Prof Arculus came in just as she'd finished arranging Mr P's remains into some sort of vague order. He shook his head sadly. ‘Oh dear. Poor man. High-speed train?'

She nodded. A Tube train never reached sufficient speeds to wreak this level of carnage.

‘Witnesses?'

‘Yes, two people saw him jump. The train driver is in a bad way, as you can imagine.'

The Prof nodded. ‘Righto. There would be zero point in dissecting the remains of this poor fellow. Cause of death manifestissima est .'

Aka blindingly obvious . In cases like this the coroner would be happy with an external exam and tox.

Having returned the bag containing Mr P to his drawer in the body store she went back to the autopsy suite, where Prof A already had Jason's guy – the one who'd apparently suffered a fatal asthma attack – on his dissecting bench. Since Mr P hadn't needed eviscerating it gave her time to observe the Prof in action.

He twinkled at her over his glasses. ‘Aah, Cassandra, as a keen student of anatomy you will be interested in this relatively rare example of fatal asthma.' He indicated the outside of one lung which showed faint bar markings ‘What do we see here?'

‘Marks left by the lungs pressing the inside of his ribs.'

‘Meaning?'

‘His lungs were swollen: hyperexpanded' – remembering the proper terminology.

‘Bravo.' After making a series of swift but precise strokes of his large-bladed scalpel in the tissue of one lung, he splayed the sections as if he was opening a book – which she'd heard called ‘reading the organs'. Pointing out several areas with a bloodied gloved finger he said, ‘Classic pulmonary lesions consistent with asphyxiation.'

Pulling the trachea and larynx towards him the Prof sliced that open too and beckoned Cassie to look. ‘The upper airway has only minimal signs of inflammation though. Why might that be?'

She racked her brains. ‘Post-mortem de-swelling?'

‘Indeed.'

Cassie glanced over at the body lying on Jason's work table minus his viscera. The guy had been middle-aged but fit-looking, with a slim torso and well-defined thigh muscles and biceps. She picked up his notes. Jake Ecclestone. ‘Christ, he was sixty-four! He looks a lot younger. And to be honest I always associate asthma deaths with children.'

‘ Au contraire ,' said the Prof. ‘The age of maximum danger arrives in one's sixties.'

‘He was obviously super-fit,' said Cassie. ‘He died while competing in an Iron Man event! His notes mention he suffered from asthma, but what triggered the attack? There's no mention of any allergies.'

Jason appeared at the bench. ‘You done with the lungs, Prof?' and at his answering nod, started to scoop them into a pail for weighing.

‘I'm afraid this chap's fitness regime killed him,' Prof Arculus went on. ‘A phenomenon known as exercise-induced asthma.'

‘Seriously?' said Cassie.

‘It's a well-known issue among athletes. Exercise, especially endurance forms, in dry or cold conditions, can trigger perilous levels of broncho-constriction.'

‘There you go! I've always said it's dangerous, this fitness lark,' said Jason, hefting the pail of lungs off the bench. ‘When I kick the bucket I want to be sat on my sofa watching Formula 1, with a fag on, drinking Jack Daniel's.'

The Prof chuckled. ‘Bravo, Jason. And I shall be on hand to confirm cause of death as "heroic disregard for life-lengthening measures".'

*

With four further PMs taking up the rest of the morning, Cassie had to rush to reach the rendezvous for her meeting with George Angelopoulos.

He was already there – downstairs in the basement of the Costa where they were the only customers – and intent on his phone.

Over his shoulder she saw that he was looking at a pic of Bronte, aged seven or eight, holding a double scoop of ice cream in a cone, a delighted grin splitting her face.

‘Marine Ices!' said Cassie, recognising the electric-blue lettering of the shopfront in the background. ‘My dad used to take me there.'

George stood up to greet her. ‘She loved it there. It used to be our weekly treat, till she left home.'

She talked him through the timeframe of when the coroner might release Bronte's body for burial now that it was a criminal investigation. ‘She will call for a second examination by a Home Office-approved pathologist – in case of any challenge by the defence if it comes to court.'

‘ Another post-mortem?!'

Seeing his alarmed look, she tried to reassure him. ‘He might only need to do an external exam and double-check the original report.' Mentally crossing her fingers, since that couldn't be guaranteed.

‘What about her blood samples and so on?'

‘All the samples that were taken at the first PM are being held at the lab in case someone is charged and goes to trial.'

He looked down at his hands for a moment. ‘You know the police won't even tell us what this new evidence is?' – his gaze raking her face.

She shrugged apologetically. ‘It's not unusual for the police to withhold details in case it might help with their investigation.'

‘But you know what these online detectives are saying? That the police are hiding the evidence simply to cover their backs.'

‘Those people are idiots, George.'

He seemed jumpy today, his eyes red-rimmed, the whiff of ethanol coming through his pores, evidence of a heavy night on the booze. He was still dressed immaculately though: his dark suit twinned with a casual but pricey-looking merino V-neck underneath, and a Breitling wristwatch that didn't look like knock-off. The sale of his restaurant business had made him wealthy, but recalling what Honest Bob had said, she wondered whether, as Bronte's manager, her death stood to make him even richer?

Feeling a spurt of guilt at the thought, she sought his eyes and asked gently, ‘How are you doing?'

He shook his head slowly, staring at the table, before looking up, his bloodshot eyes meeting Cassie's.

‘I'm fine, for a man who just killed his daughter.'