Flyte

FLYTE

At the undertakers, Streaky and waited in reception; Streaky walking up and down, whistling show tunes, and basically being eighteen-stone of human irritant, while tried to ignore him. When Streaky had called George to say they had a few questions he said he was here to finalise the funeral arrangements.

It was another twenty minutes before George emerged from the office, followed by his ex-wife. He didn't look especially surprised by their presence, and his wife looked dazed with grief, not quite present.

The undertaker showed them into another office, and Chrysanthi followed them in. DI Bacon told him, ‘It was you we wanted to chat to, George.'

But he just waved a hand and said, ‘I've got nothing to hide from my wife. I'll do anything I can to help you find my daughter's killer.'

‘Something has come up of relevance to the investigation. You told us that you had no prior knowledge of your daughter having had any serious allergic reaction, right?' asked Streaky.

‘Yes that's right.' He looked mildly curious but could detect no signs of anxiety.

‘We have evidence that you were present last September when Bronte suffered exactly such an attack.'

saw him throw a look at his ex-wife, but she couldn't decipher his expression.

‘You mean the time she was poorly at her flat and the ambulance came?'

‘That's the one,' said Streaky with just a hint of sarcasm.

George looked confused. ‘The truth is, she called me, drunk, saying that she'd taken an overdose of something. I drove straight over there and called 999 and made her throw up the pills she'd taken. The paramedics came and gave her some kind of injection.'

‘The injection was to counteract anaphylactic shock,' said . ‘An extreme allergic reaction to something.'

‘I didn't know that.' George shook his head. ‘They treated her in her bedroom and wouldn't tell me anything because of patient confidentiality. All they said was she should go to hospital. I tried to persuade her but she refused point-blank – the press were already on her back by then and she didn't want any more bad publicity.'

‘You're saying she had no symptoms of anaphylaxis?' Streaky pressed. ‘Shortness of breath, swelling in the mouth and throat?'

George raised his hands. ‘I remember her breathing was bad but I'm no doctor. I thought it was the pills that made her ill. She never had any allergies as a child' – turning to Chrysanthi who'd uttered not a word during this exchange – ‘did she?'

She shook her head. ‘Never,' she said. ‘She was a very sick child sometimes, but no, no allergies.'

silently replayed the paramedics' recollections: believing Bronte to be displaying symptoms of a serious allergic reaction they had administered adrenaline. But they'd also said that they wouldn't have shared the diagnosis with her father without her express permission.

Now Chrysanthi turned to Streaky. ‘Why are you wasting your time pursuing my husband?' she asked, quiet fury in her voice. ‘I can assure you he had nothing to do with my daughter's death.'

‘How can you be sure of that?' asked .

Chrysanthi bit her bottom lip and shot him a look before dropping her gaze into her lap. ‘Because he was with me that night.'

Jumping Jehoshaphat!

gathered herself. ‘The whole night .?.?.?'

‘Yes,' said Chrysanthi, with a trace of irritation. ‘Have you never heard of a married couple spending the night together?'

tried to imagine the devout and dowdy Chrysanthi having a night of passion with serial philanderer George, the husband she didn't live with and appeared to loathe.

‘I've been telling you from the start if you would only listen,' Chrysanthi told them, shaking her head pityingly, ‘it was that boyfriend of hers.'

*

‘Those two still shagging?' Streaky said, shaking his head. ‘I've heard everything now.'

They were on their way back to the nick, Streaky exiting the car park with his usual insouciance.

‘Do you think they're telling the truth?' asked . ‘Or could they be in it together?' – her eye fixed on the road ahead and her foot pressed to an invisible brake pedal.

‘Why on earth would they kill their daughter?' asked Streaky as he navigated a roundabout one-handed. ‘What possible motive could they have?'

wasn't about to share Cassie's theory, that Chrysanthi killed her children to win sympathy, because she simply didn't buy it: couldn't see her killing her own daughter – both her children – in cold blood. ‘If it was George – whatever his motive – then why would she give him an alibi? Even if they are having .?.?. relations occasionally it's clear she can't stand the guy.'

‘You do hear about people having hate sex after a nasty break-up,' said Streaky, with a man of the world nod.

‘I suppose she can't sleep with anyone else, because in the eyes of her church she's still married, and will remain so until he dies,' said . ‘Maybe her priest is pressing her to reconcile with him?'

‘Maybe.' Streaky shook his head.

recalled Bronte's planned trip to Cyprus, and Cassie's suggestion that she'd been investigating her family history. But so what? It felt more like coincidence than a basis for any plausible motive. How had Cassie come by that information anyway? It could only have been from Ethan. The thought prompted a nasty jolt: a feeling that had to admit bore a strong resemblance to jealousy.

*

Back at the nick they found Craig and Becca both wearing long faces.

‘What's up?' asked Streaky. ‘Did somebody's hamster die?'

‘Ethan has an alibi for the time Bronte died. A real one this time,' said Craig. ‘Tell them, Becca.'

‘Ethan's bandmate admitted to lying about Ethan sleeping at his place in Holloway that night.' Becca looked forlorn. ‘But he did it because Ethan actually spent the night in Camden with the girlfriend of the band's drummer.'

‘And his latest version of events stands up?' asked Streaky.

Becca nodded miserably. ‘I spoke to her myself and she confirmed it. She broke down, said she'd have to tell her boyfriend she's been cheating on him.'

felt a surge of anger at Ethan: not just for spinning them a line to cover his back, but on Cassie's behalf too.