Flyte

FLYTE

Taking the short cut via the market back to the nick, navigated the crowded pavement like an old Camden hand. Spring had brought out the tourists and trippers keen to get their vicarious fix of ‘alternative' London. They posed for selfies with the punks who hung around on the canal bridge, their towering neon-dyed Mohicans looking distinctly performative to 's eyes.

Passing Camden Tube, she walked through a pungent cloud of skunk smoke that she traced to two guys leaning against the wall openly sharing a joint. She realised with a start that she no longer felt tempted to confront them, and not just because she wasn't a serving officer. She had lived and worked here long enough now to accept – albeit reluctantly – that arresting and processing random spliff smokers was a poor use of police resources already stretched to breaking point.

Back in the incident room, seeing no sign of Bacon, made a beeline for Craig's desk. The look that came over his face when he saw her was one to which she'd rapidly become accustomed: borderline surly with a streak of apprehensive.

‘Hey, Craig. Where's DI Bacon?' she asked.

He frowned. ‘Streaky? He's just popped to the caff for a late lunch.'

Concealing her impatience, she headed straight out again to the greasy spoon she knew he favoured. There she found him, sat at a Formica table, holding forth to the Turkish guy who owned the place.

Recalling the builder's tea they served here she politely declined a drink, before nodding to Bacon's plate. ‘That's a bit healthy-looking, for you?'

He studied his omelette, with its tragic old-school ‘salad' – a couple of limp lettuce leaves cradling sliced tomato and cucumber – with a mournful look. ‘The wife read me the riot act yesterday, put me on a diet,' he admitted. But just then the café owner returned carrying a large plate of chips, which he plonked on the table saying, ‘On the house.'

‘Cemil, you spoil me!' said Bacon, beaming – before throwing a guilty look. ‘I'll pay for them, obviously.' When she sent him a sceptical look, he leaned forward and added under his breath, ‘Cemil is my CHIS. Unofficially.'

‘I don't want to know,' she said, shaking her head. A CHIS was a Covert Human Intelligence Source, or informant. And these days there was no such thing as an ‘unofficial' one: there were forms to fill out and official permission to be sought. But she told herself she wasn't here to nail anyone for procedural irregularities.

As he ate, she gave him the lowdown: that an anaphylactic reaction could have caused the gasping heard from Bronte's balcony. ‘As you know, if she was hyper-allergic to something it would only take the tiniest trace to make her airways close.'

Bacon stopped eating to stare at her. ‘Which would explain why she didn't fight her attacker or scream blue murder.'

‘Too busy trying to breathe.' nodded.

Bacon went quiet, before setting down his knife and fork. ‘When I was on the beat I attended a sudden death, a young fella who died of a nut allergy in a fast-food joint. No EpiPen. He choked to death before the ambo came.' She was shocked to see tears well in his eyes. ‘Celebrating his GCSE results he was. I had to do the death knock.'

‘Golly,' was all could say.

Collecting himself, he picked up a chip. ‘This is a serious lead, Phyllida. If this tryptase stuff shows up in her bloods then there are clear questions that we need answers to. One, what was the allergen; two, who knew she was allergic to it; three, how was it administered.' Having used the chip to drive home his points he now dispatched it, before adding, ‘So what do you think happened that night?'

narrowed her eyes, picturing it. ‘I think someone turned up with a takeout, or made her a drink and slipped something in there. Plan A was simply to wait for Bronte to collapse and die before making themselves scarce. Perhaps placing a panicked 999 call once it was too late to save her.'

Bacon nodded. ‘And if Plan A had come off no "suicide note" would have been needed. The death would go down as a tragic accident.'

‘Precisely. But instead of collapsing inside she makes it out to the balcony, choking, desperate to get some air into her lungs.'

‘The killer can't have that – the noise might wake the neighbours – so he simply tips her over. She hangs on so he has to finish the job.' Bacon folded two chips into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully before swallowing. ‘The killer has to think fast. He taps out the suicide note on her phone before cleaning his prints off it.'

‘Can we go back to Bronte's flat? Now we know what happened?'

‘Let's do it. I'll go and pay.' He got to his feet and headed for the counter, saying loud enough for to hear, ‘Now look here, Cemil, I don't want any argument about the chips.'

As the owner started to protest, she slipped out the front door, having realised something. She couldn't care less if Streaky got the occasional free plate of chips: it wasn't exactly major league corruption.