Flyte had sometimes wondered what it would be like to get on the wrong side of DCI Steadman. The next day, having been called into his office before she’d even got her coat off, she found out.
‘Let me get this straight, Phyllida,’ he said, pointing to the chair the other side of his desk, his usual smile absent. ‘I instructed you to hand the unidentified floater back to CID without delay, and instead you mount your own private investigation?’
‘Well—’
‘You brief a local reporter on the case – this Luke something or other – without informing the press office?’
Flaming fishcakes.
Having sniffed her interest in Sean Kavanagh, Luke Lawless must have called the press office, fishing for info and dropped her name. Idiot.
‘Sir, if I could just . . .’
A curt movement of his hand silenced her.
‘Since you got here you’ve been badgering me to make you IO on a murder case and meanwhile you’re doing CID’s job for them with some personal crusade, trying to ID a random drunk who fell in the canal while urinating?!’
‘He didn’t fall in.’ Flyte spoke quietly but the confidence in her tone stopped Steadman in his tracks. ‘I mean, I have a line of enquiry that his death was not accidental.’
Steadman’s expression grew incredulous.
‘Look, boss, I’m really sorry. I know it was out of line, but the fact is I recognised the guy.’
Steadman fell silent for a long moment. ‘Is this some kind of a joke?’
‘No . . . I just wasn’t one hundred per cent sure at first.’
‘Go on.’ Steadman leaned forward, obviously intrigued.
‘He was a police officer called Sean Kavanagh.’
Steadman’s eyebrows shot up. ‘What the . . . ?’
‘We were part of the same probie intake at Hendon. Look, I barely knew him but his ex-fiancée has confirmed the ID.’
Steadman could have kicked off but instead he subsided in his seat. One of his detectives wasting time on identifying a random MOP was one thing, but doing it for a fellow cop was a different kettle of fish.
‘What makes you think it wasn’t accidental?’ But from the expression on his face he was hooked.
First thing that morning, Seb had called her. After some warm words about how much he’d enjoyed last night, he told her he’d heard back from his mate in Special Branch who’d run a search on flight manifests.
‘Sean Kavanagh’s fiancée told me that he left the force and emigrated to Canada eight years ago,’ she said.
Steadman frowned. ‘So . . . when did he come back to Camden?’
‘He didn’t “come back”, boss.’ Flyte left a pause. ‘Because he never left the UK in the first place.’
Seb’s mate had checked flight manifests going back ten years and had found no record of a Sean Quillan Kavanagh on any flight either to or from Canada. ‘There were a couple of posts from Vancouver, supposedly on his Facebook account, but they must have been fictitious. He had no further contact with his friendship group. None. Basically, eight years ago Sean Kavanagh dropped off the face of the earth.’
She was dreading Steadman asking how she’d gained the flight information but instead he said, ‘There’s no law against fibbing on Facebook. Maybe he just wanted to cut his old ties and start a new life here.’
Flyte hesitated. ‘There’s something else, boss.’
He raised an eyebrow.
‘A senior technician at the mortuary isn’t happy about the estimated time of death from the routine post-mortem. Something to do with the rate of decomposition. She’s going to ask the pathologist to conduct further tests on the tissue, which will trigger a forensic PM. But I think we should get on it without delay before the body deteriorates any further.’
This was a calculated bluff: Cassie was relying on the request for a forensic PM to come from the police.
Steadman hesitated – understandably, since the bill for a forensic PM would come out of the unit’s budget. Finally, he sighed and said, ‘This Kavangah was one of ours. I’ll get onto the coroner about a forensic, but I want Dean to run the case.’ He put his hand up to quell any objection. ‘No arguments, Phyllida. You knew the guy, so it’s not appropriate for you to be IO, but you can work alongside Dean on it.’ He sent her a wry smile. ‘In any case, I need to know that you two can work together. It’ll be good for you both.’
Hell’s bells.
‘Who’s taking over as IO on the Hugger Mugger?’ she asked.
‘Didn’t Dean tell you?’ He turned back to his computer, already onto his next task. ‘The victim regained consciousness. He’s brain damaged, probably for life, but it’s not our case anymore. Back he goes to CID.
‘One last thing, Phyllida,’ he said as she reached the door. ‘You’re a good detective. But if you ever go off-piste like that again, I’ll be facilitating your career switch to Traffic.’