Chapter Forty-Eight

She and Flyte sat side by side overlooking the canal, where the sun was starting to sink towards the roofline opposite.

‘So, DI Bacon and I interviewed Axel, the doorman from the club yesterday,' Flyte told her.

‘And?'

‘He's given the police a statement about this SkAR character.'

Cassie repressed a shudder. ‘Could we call him by his real name?'

Flyte's eyes softened. ‘Of course. Anyway, Axel has detailed all the times he's witnessed young women leaving the club in an upset and dishevelled state, some of whom named Sk—Stefano Makris as their attacker. Axel has two younger sisters and he says he hated what's gone on there. Sounds like it's been more or less common knowledge among the club staff.'

One of Cassie's most vivid memories of that night was the caring expression on Axel's face after she'd escaped Steve. It was something that had been a great comfort to her these past weeks – the concern of a stranger.

‘And none of these women pressed charges.'

‘No.' Flyte shook her head. ‘He even offered to call the cops but the women all said the same thing: they wouldn't be believed, that rapists never get convicted .?.?. Luckily, Axel had used the club Uber account to get some of them home safely. Which means they can be traced, and the aim is to reassure them that they will be believed.' She looked at Cassie, uncharacteristically hesitant. ‘There's a really good female DC on the case, Becca Povey.'

Cassie put her out of her misery. ‘Look, I know you need to ask and it was me who kicked this thing off. So sure, I'll give a statement, go to court, etc., etc.' She pulled a wry grin, remembering. ‘Although he'll say it was me who assaulted him.'

A dry smile spread across Flyte's face. ‘I can believe it.' She went on, ‘He might have got away with it indefinitely by relying on women's silence. But maybe the prospect of multiple complainants will give these women confidence.'

It was true, Cassie reflected. Finding out that she wasn't the only one had made her feel less .?.?. ashamed. Feeling any shame was stupid, of course, but somewhere along the line the idea that women were responsible for their own abuse got baked into the female psyche.

She had no doubt that Steve had assaulted Bronte in Berlin, and that when she resisted, he had turned nasty and thrown the Perdikia village gossip at her – that she was the product of incest.

That had been the catalyst for everything that had followed. Although Bronte wasn't here to see him punished, Cassie was, and would.

But first she had to make a confession to Flyte. Why? Because she felt the need to unburden herself – and to trust her. If they were to have a future .

‘I need to tell you something,' she said. ‘It's about Bronte – and why she was suddenly interested in her family history back in Cyprus. But you must swear to me that it's in total confidence.'

Flyte lifted her hand in agreement – her expression hard to read.

‘Chrysanthi was George's daughter, and Bronte was the product of incest,' said Cassie, meeting Flyte's eyes for a long moment before saying, ‘You already knew?!'

Flyte nodded. ‘After finding out that Crohn's can occur when both parents have the same faulty gene it got me thinking. Bronte's twin brother died from a genetic disease. Then there was the big age gap between George and Chrysanthi, her hatred of him, her rejection of her sexuality – and her extreme protectiveness of her daughter. So I .?.?. got hold of Bronte's DNA profile.'

Of course . Post-mortem samples from Bronte's body would have automatically been sent to one of the specialist labs where a profile would have been produced. But it wouldn't have been examined or analysed; it would have been held on file solely for exclusion purposes in case someone else's DNA was found in Bronte's flat – which had never happened.

‘Her profile was just sitting there, unanalysed. Waiting to one day be deleted,' said Cassie.

Flyte nodded.

‘But you're not a cop anymore so how .?.?.?'

Flyte looked irritated. ‘You're not the only one with contacts you know. I was a serving officer for fifteen years. I called in a favour and had it mailed to me. Then it was just a matter of redacting the name and date of birth and getting someone in the know to take a look.'

‘What did they say?'

‘She was unequivocal – said it was a textbook example of first-degree consanguinity. A highly atypical overlap of the two sets of chromosomes, which proved beyond doubt that the parents were father and daughter.'

Cassie's mind was racing to catch up: if Flyte had worked it out then why hadn't she tipped off DI Bacon, who would have had Bronte's profile officially analysed, and instantly seen the significance?

‘Why didn't you share the info?' she asked. ‘It gives George a clear motive for murdering Bronte. When she told him she'd booked a flight to Cyprus to explore her roots, he obviously panicked about being exposed.'

Flyte turned to look at her, her eyes hooded. ‘Because it would also give Chrysanthi a clear motive for taking out a hit on her husband.'

Their eyes stayed locked for a long moment, a moment of understanding passing between them.

Of course . Having lost her own child Flyte wasn't about to see Chrysanthi pursued and convicted of a crime that she probably viewed as retributive justice.

‘Anyway,' said Flyte. ‘I wasn't on the Bronte case as a police officer, I'm just a civilian investigating the way it had been conducted.'

Bullshit.

There was a silence while Cassie absorbed it all. She had trusted Flyte to keep a confidence, and Flyte had done her the honour of trusting her in return.

‘I think I know what he fed Bronte,' said Cassie.

After her first attack, Bronte must have told him the paramedics' diagnosis of anaphylactic shock, which allowed George to work out what she was allergic to. That offered him the perfect murder weapon: perhaps already thinking ahead to a time he might need it. Something that would silence his daughter forever and in a way that would look like a tragic accident.

Flyte's face was alight with curiosity. ‘Go on.'

‘Ice cream.'

‘Seriously?' Flyte's mouth turned down, sceptical. ‘Surely if you're allergic to any of the ingredients in ice cream you'd know about it? Milk, eggs, and so on?'

‘Uh-uh.' Cassie shook her head before pulling up one of the crime scene photos on her phone: the one showing the contents of Bronte's fridge lined up on the counter. ‘See this? It's a carton for a new vegan ice cream. I recognised the branding' – zooming the image to show the distinctive green diamond pattern. ‘When I googled it I found that the dairy protein is replaced by lupin beans.'

‘Lupin like the flower?'

‘Yep. It's a big new vegan ingredient, but some people are seriously allergic and cos it's only recent they're often not even aware. A kid in Canada had an anaphylactic reaction to lupin flour in a pancake mix – so now any product containing the stuff has to feature a warning.'

Cassie recalled the pic on George's phone of a beaming Bronte outside Marine Ices. Ice cream was Daddy's treat . Easy to imagine him turning up with a carton of her favourite flavour that night, encouraging her to try it.

Go on, it's vegan. I got it specially for you.

Flyte's eyes widened, remembering something. ‘Could lupin beans feature in a meze? Bronte told paramedics that's what she'd eaten just before her first attack.'

‘Absolutely!' said Cassie excitedly. ‘You get them in Mediterranean dips and salads.'

Flyte nodded, taking it on board. ‘Anyway. It's all somewhat academic now. The guilty have already been punished.'

There was a silence while they watched the female coot on the opposite bank, sitting complacently on the nest in the dying twilight; the male bird nowhere in sight.

Flyte spoke lightly. ‘No sign of the boyfriend? Archie.'

Cassie bit the inside of her cheek. ‘That went the way of all flesh. Archie is a lovely guy but .?.?.'

A pause. ‘And Ethan?' Flyte was studiously avoiding eye contact.

‘Ethan?!' Cassie shook her head with a self-mocking laugh. ‘That was messed up. I was on the rebound, I suppose, and then it got all tangled up with me trying to find out who killed Bronte.' Pushing her hair behind her ear, she sought Flyte's gaze. ‘You see, Phyllida, I'm a bit of a disaster zone when it comes to relationships.'

Flyte eyes rested on Cassie's, her ice-blue irises taking on a softening hint of jade from the canal. ‘Maybe you just haven't met the right person.'

‘Maybe you're right,' said Cassie, looking right back at her, suddenly hyper-aware of their hands just centimetres apart on the deck between them.

‘I'm eleven years older than you,' said Flyte.

‘Age is just a number.'

‘And .?.?. I'm seriously thinking of rejoining the Met.'

Cassie blinked. The idea of dating a cop had always been the insurmountable obstacle to any idea of a romantic relationship between them. Now she realised that, without even noticing it, her thinking had undergone a fundamental shift.

Flyte wasn't like other cops. And yet she belonged in the police, as surely as Cassie belonged in the mortuary. She felt a sudden impulse to share her secret – her bond with the dead – before stopping herself: there would be time for that later .

Instead, she moved her little finger to touch Flyte's and smiled into her eyes. ‘Nobody's perfect,' she said.