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FLYTE

Bronte’s forensic PM took place at 2 p.m. the next day, and and Bacon arranged to meet the Home Office pathologist at the mortuary after he’d finished.

Dr Purdy was a balding guy in his forties, bespectacled, and with the manner of someone who had mislaid his keys and was perpetually trying to recall where he’d put them.

‘So ummm. The haematoma on the deceased’s right hand are consistent with somebody pressing down hard on the upper digits,’ he said. It annoyed but no longer surprised that Purdy directed his attention exclusively towards DI Bacon. ‘In my judgement, the force required implies pressure from a foot with someone’s weight behind it, thus’ – he demonstrated by pressing his foot on the floor and leaning in.

‘So she was hanging on and somebody stamped on her fingers to make her let go?’ asked, seeking his gaze.

‘Yes, I think that’s a reasonable conclusion given the circumstances of her death.’ His eyes slid back to Bacon. Hard to know if he was a sexist dickhead or just one of those nerdy guys who were allergic to eye contact when it came to the opposite sex. ‘Abrasions to the palm of her left hand suggest she hung on with both hands initially but once she was down to one .?.?.’

‘Game over,’ said Bacon crisply.

‘Any other injuries?’ asked Flyte. ‘I know bruises can carry on developing after death.’

His gaze turned reluctantly to her. ‘There’s a bruise here, on the back of her right thigh, that has emerged since the routine PM,’ he said.

‘Could that be from her attacker manhandling her over the balcony?’ asked Bacon.

‘It’s possible,’ he agreed. ‘I can find nothing else to suggest that she fought back. Nothing under the fingernails, nor any of the defensive injuries we usually see when someone is fighting for their life.’

frowned. ‘It sounds like somebody .?.?. just tipped her over? Why didn’t she put up a fight?’

The pathologist shrugged. ‘She weighed less than eight stone: it wouldn’t even take somebody especially strong.’ He demonstrated hefting someone over an invisible balcony. ‘Oh and her samples came back from the lab. Negative for drugs and only a negligible amount of alcohol.’ He checked his watch. ‘I’ve got to .?.?.’

‘Who was the APT at the PM?’ asked casually. She’d glimpsed a woman in scrubs whom she didn’t recognise coming out of the forensic suite.

‘I don’t recall her name,’ said Purdy with a frown. ‘I think she’s a locum.’

She caught Bacon’s curious look.

So Cassie had ducked Bronte’s second PM . That was odd, given the interest she’d taken in the case. Going by past experience, once the morgue girl had got her teeth into something, her bite was harder to dislodge than a pit bull’s.

As she and Bacon headed towards the exit, she wondered whether to share Cassie’s intuition that it was Chrysanthi who’d taken and leaked the photo of Bronte, but decided against. There was no proof after all.

Bacon appeared competent enough, but given that he was a Met Police lifer, couldn’t bring herself to trust him. The events of the previous year had shattered her deeply rooted faith in the police service, and exposed a code of omertà between officers that seemed unbreakable. She had seen for herself how even the good cops kept their heads down rather than rat on a colleague, and her gut feeling about Bacon was that if push came to shove he’d probably do the same.