Chapter Seven

In the changing room, Cassie went through the ritual of replacing her lip and eyebrow piercings which she habitually took out for viewings, in case a grieving family member might find her look a bit hard core.

Eviscerating bodies was a breeze compared to dealing with the poor bastards left behind – and this one had been tough: Chrysanthi's raw grief and her fury at her ex, and the fact that Cassie had known Bronte, had left her feeling shaken.

Because of what you did , said her inner voice .

Cassie shook her head to dispel it and meeting her own gaze in the mirror said, ‘I'm looking after her mum and dad as best I can.'

She'd given them both her mobile number, saying they could view their daughter anytime, in contravention of the recent email from the trust saying relatives should be ‘encouraged' to wait until bodies were released to the undertakers, where they could be viewed ‘in a more appropriate environment'. The kind of official bullshit that made Cassie want to puke: the real reason was to reduce the mortuary workload.

At lunchtime, Cassie took the underground tunnel linking the mortuary to the hospital to get into Camden: it was usually only used by the porters bringing bodies over, but she couldn't face the gauntlet of press and social media ghouls who were still hanging around on the pavement outside where the cops had corralled them behind a barrier.

*

‘Hey, long time, stranger!' said Tina, in a voice gravelled by four decades of nicotine. She'd grabbed a corner table at the little Greek-Cypriot taverna between the High Street and Bayham Street – a rare survivor among the chain outlets that had sprouted across Camden.

‘Too long: my fault,' said Cassie with a guilty grimace. She'd always liked Tina, but making friends – and keeping them – had never been her strong point. ‘Love the hair,' she said, admiring the lavender ombre rinse through Tina's bobbed blonde cut.

‘I'm not dead yet!' Tina was in her sixties but she dressed well and took care of herself – serious fag habit aside.

After they'd ordered meze for two, Tina delved into her bag and handed an envelope across the table. ‘Here are the pics you were after. I printed them at the best resolution.'

‘You're a total star,' said Cassie, leafing through the police photos from the scene of Bronte's suicide. Tina was a crime scene manager and they had worked together on dozens of forensic PMs over the years. ‘Obvs I didn't get them from you.'

Tina shrugged. ‘You're all right,' she said. ‘I know you get involved with the cases and I think that's a good thing. We both know what some of the pathologists can be like on routines. Sloppy fuckers' – unleashing a laugh so unapologetically filthy that diners at a table nearby stopped eating to watch. ‘Anyway, I'm retiring in a few months. What are they gonna do? Fire me?'

Cassie grinned: Tina didn't take shit from any pathologist – or detective.

‘So this is the balcony.' Cassie scanned the photo – it was modern-looking, clearly an addition to the original Victorian structure, with a balustrade made of toughened glass with steel edges. ‘Regulation height?' she asked.

‘Yep. Just over the 1,100 mil.'

‘And this gap here, between the bottom of the glass and the concrete footings?'

‘All legal. No more than a few inches.'

‘I can't see anything here she could have stood on, you know, to jump off? Like a chair.'

Tina shook her head.

‘I dunno, Tina. If I was gonna chuck myself off a high building I'd want to make sure I jumped nice and clear so I didn't bounce off balconies on the way down? But she fell really close to the building, didn't she?'

Tina tipped her head, considering it. ‘Yes, but if she was in a state, or off her head, she might have just tipped herself over the balustrade. You know there was a suicide note? A text to her mum from her phone.'

‘Yeah, it was mentioned in the police report.'

The waitress delivered their meze and Cassie put the images back in the envelope. Was she simply letting her personal history with Bronte cloud her judgement?

Tina was watching her with intelligent eyes. Lowering her voice, she asked, ‘You don't think there's anything moody about it?'

Cassie smiled: she hadn't heard anyone use moody – Cockney for questionable, dodgy – in years. ‘Not really. I suppose I can't get my head round why she would top herself when she'd literally just made it big.'

Tina made a face. ‘Pressure? Having all that fame suddenly at twenty-seven can't be easy. You know she had a druggie past? She was in rehab a few months back, after splitting up with the junkie boyfriend. The one who had his own band?'

‘I don't know that much about her,' admitted Cassie. She was allergic to social media – had tried Insta half-heartedly for a few weeks but hated the way it constantly nagged at you, like a dog begging at table. ‘Do you?'

‘Abi, my youngest, was crazy about her,' said Tina, rolling her eyes. ‘We've had a lot of tears. You know her breakout hit went viral on TikTok?'

‘Vaguely.'

‘"Clean Break" . That was how she got the record deal. And the single went triple-platinum.'

‘So was she minted?'

Tina lifted a shoulder. ‘Minted enough to buy that flat.'

They shared a look. Since Cassie had left home a decade ago Camden's property prices and rents had skyrocketed, forcing ordinary people to move out to the suburbs, leaving the centre to the seriously well-off. If it hadn't been for an old mate from her squatting days going to ‘find himself' in Goa and letting his boat to her for a token rent she'd be living miles away in some random suburb.

‘I can't believe you missed the video of it on TikTok,' said Tina. Pushing her plate away, she picked up her phone, tapped at it.

‘Christ on a bike!' Her head shot up to look at Cassie. ‘You need to see this.'