Chapter Thirty-Eight

‘I can't talk to you right now,' said Flyte, her voice tense – and raised over the sound of a car being driven fast.

‘Listen, Phyllida, you're going to want to hear this,' Cassie told her.

She was at work, the day after the germ of a terrible idea had planted itself in her mind: the idea that Chrysanthi could be seriously – dangerously – unstable. Disturbed enough to have killed her own daughter – and not just Bronte but perhaps her twin brother Alexander too. Was that the dark secret that meant she could never take communion?

Cassie knew that the confidentiality of the confession was sacrosanct. Even if Chrysanthi had confessed to murder, her priest wouldn't report her to the cops, but he would forbid her from receiving communion until she had done appropriate penance – which would mean owning up to her crimes and doing jail time.

A sigh from Flyte, who sounded tense. ‘I'll call you back in ten minutes,' she said.

Cassie knew Flyte well enough now to pick up that something was going on. Were she and the ginger gorilla still pursuing Ethan? Recalling his flashes of vulnerability stirred protective feelings. Despite his laid-back charm she could tell that Ethan was a bird with a broken wing – a combination she found dangerously appealing.

She went out back to retrieve Bronte from the freezer, where her body had been stored since her forensic post-mortem, to get her ready for collection by the undertakers.

Opening the zip of the body bag, she said, ‘Hello there.'

Bronte's face was the colour of a freshwater pearl now, her lips a shade of lavender, her skin the texture of putty or bread dough. Otherwordly . Cassie could hardly claim they were friends – she had thrown away that opportunity forever when she was fourteen. But she hoped that Bronte no longer hated her.

‘It's your funeral tomorrow,' she said. ‘And you'll be at peace.'

Did Bronte's expression have a sardonic edge? As if saying, At peace? With my murderer still walking around?

Cassie touched the crucifix locket around Bronte's neck. ‘Was your mum there with you the night you died?' she murmured. ‘Did she bring you some kind of food, drink, medicine .?.?.?'

She leaned over her as if trying to inhale her last thoughts, desperate for some clue.

Nada .

Her phone rang: Flyte calling back.

‘OK make it fast,' came the clipped tones. ‘I'm out on police business.'

Always with the charm.

Cassie took a breath. ‘I think you should consider the possibility that Bronte was killed by her mother.' A sound expressing outright disbelief came down the line. ‘Listen, hear me out. Have you heard of a mental health disorder called FDIA? – Factitious Disorder Inflicted on Another.'

‘Like those nurses who kill the babies they're supposed to be looking after?' Flyte gave an audible shiver.

‘Yes. But the most common expression of it is when a mother persistently feeds her own child toxins to make them sick – sometimes even killing them.'

‘You're saying she killed Bronte and her son, Alexander?' Flyte sounded incredulous. ‘Why on earth would she do such a thing?'

‘Who knows why crazy people do crazy things? The theory around FDIA is that the abuser has a desperate need to win attention and sympathy for themselves through the chronic sickness of their child. Chrysanthi was brought up in care, remember. She had no family, she made a disastrous marriage far too young, to a much older guy who turned out to be a serial philanderer. I'm no shrink but it sounds like the perfect profile of an FDIA abuser.'

‘But it was Chrysanthi who kicked up the fuss about the police handling of Bronte's death, who complained to the IOPC that it hadn't been properly investigated!' said Flyte.

‘Couldn't that be the action of a narcissist? "Poor me, I'm the victim"? Look, we know Bronte's brother Alexander died when he was three. Bronte suffered from stomach problems all her life – and her mother was obsessed with feeding her.' Remembering Bronte's lyric about a skeleton in the cupboard. ‘I think she was digging around in her family history, perhaps because she was suspicious about how Alexander died, and suspected her mother. I think she might have been planning a trip to Cyprus to find out more.'

When Flyte fell silent Cassie thought she was taking it seriously, but when she spoke again it was in pure cop-speak – as if Cassie was just another member of the public. ‘Thank you for sharing your thoughts. Rest assured that every lead is being considered.'

Engulfed by a wave of anger Cassie hung up.

Going back to Bronte, she eyed her sunken features guiltily.

‘I tried,' she murmured. ‘I don't know what else I can do.'

Suddenly she was pitched back to the school showers, feeling the hot water raining on her skin, Bronte's piercing scream like a jolt of electricity. A violent shudder went through her.

‘I'm just so sorry, Bronte. For everything' – her words coming out in a rush. ‘For not being your friend when you needed one. For being a snivelling little fucking coward when I should have been brave. I would do anything now, to change how I behaved. I think .?.?. I wish we could have been friends.'

She remembered what Althea Knowles had said about forgiving herself. But she knew that wasn't her call. That was down to Bronte.

‘Can you forgive me?' she asked, holding her breath.

Nada.

Reaching down, she was starting to zip the body bag back up when her hand lost the power of movement. The fluorescent lights flared, forcing her eyes closed, and she was enveloped by that old, familiar sensation. A feeling of reality slipping .?.?. A buzzing and tingling in the air .?.?. the smell of electricity you got before a storm .?.?.

Opening her eyes, Cassie stared down at Bronte. Her mauve-coloured lips didn't move but what floated up was a single word, the tone teasing.

‘ Friend! '