Flyte

FLYTE

The day after Bronte's funeral Streaky held a case conference. ‘I don't need to tell you that we are drinking in the last-chance saloon here. It's been three weeks since Bronte's murder and there's a limit to how long Borough will fund an incident room when we've delivered jack-shit so far as a meaningful lead is concerned.'

While disapproving of the vulgarity, couldn't argue with the sentiment. And once the incident room was downsized she'd be back to the IOPC, interviewing intellectually challenged plods all day, a prospect that she realised filled her with gloom.

Streaky summed up where they were. ‘So we have a pretty solid picture of the order of events. The night Bronte dies she lets somebody into her flat – somebody we assume she trusts. Someone who knows her well enough to feed her something she is dangerously allergic to with the aim of killing her.' After a pause, he went on, ‘Now, we know that her father was with her when she suffered anaphylaxis before but it appears the paramedics gave only Bronte their diagnosis, not him – although of course she could have shared it with George, or anyone else, at any stage afterwards. In any case, his estranged wife has given him an alibi, and it's not easy to see why either of them would murder their only daughter. As you all know, Ethan Fox is out of the frame, this time with a genuine alibi.'

‘So what's our new plan of attack, boss?' asked Craig.

‘I want you overseeing another shot at door-to-door, see if any possible witness was missed in the last sweep, taking the radius from Bronte's flat out wider.'

‘Boss.'

‘Becca, you do another trawl of her mobile records and emails, going further back. Any contacts, friends, lovers, we might not know about.'

He stood up and straightened his tie. ‘I've got a meeting over at Borough HQ with the brass, so I'll see you all later on.' caught the ghost of a wink that he sent her and mouthed Good luck back at him.

Shortly afterwards, Craig surprised her by sidling over to her desk to consult her on the list of door-to-door targets to revisit. Then Becca called her over to look at something on her computer. Even though was no longer a ranking officer, in Streaky's absence the team seemed to be treating her as his de facto deputy, as if she were part of the team.

‘This is Bronte's email inbox,' Becca said. ‘Obviously it's ninety per cent junk, but we check it every day and a new message arrived yesterday that I thought you should see.'

The email came from the Harley Street gastroenterologist to whom Bronte had sent an enquiry about an appointment. Attached was a receipt showing that just three days before her death she had paid his fee in cash – presumably to protect her identity – and two further files: a PDF leaflet titled ‘Living with Crohn's Disease' and a document with Sophia's name that was password-protected.

So Bronte had consulted an expert after all – and after tests they had clearly diagnosed her as suffering from Crohn's. Although it was hard to see how it might be relevant to the case, believed in leaving not even the smallest piece of gravel unturned. She checked her watch. ‘Let's get onto the coroner's office and ask them to apply for her records – today if humanly possible.' Coroners had the powers of a judge and could compel healthcare providers to release documentation that could be relevant to an investigation of a suspicious death.

‘Yes, boss, sorry, I mean Phyllida.' Becca looked flustered.

turned to walk away to hide the blush suffusing her cheeks.

Boss. She had to admit she liked the sound of that.