Lounging on the comfy sofa, Cassie was finding the buzz of the tattoo gun soporific, but then she wasn’t the one getting inked today and from the look on her face, Detective Sergeant Flyte was finding the experience anything but restful.
It had come as a shock when Flyte, of all people, had called to ask her advice about getting a tattoo, and sensing her nervousness, Cassie had offered herself as chaperone for the ordeal. It had been nearly a week since the business in the lock-up and Flyte’s mood seemed to have lifted, probably because she’d properly given her daughter a name at last.
‘Owww!’ said Flyte, glaring at Boo, the thoroughly inked and pierced tattoo artist, who grimaced in sympathy.
‘Sorry!’ she said. ‘I know it hurts when I go over and over one area. Just a few more minutes and we’re done. You OK to go on?’
‘I’ll survive,’ said Flyte grimly.
‘I’m really liking the image you chose. Very cool.’ Boo winked at Flyte. ‘Is it an opium poppy?’
‘Hardly,’ said Flyte stiffly. ‘I’m a police officer.’
Cassie turned away to stifle her laughter.
Boo completed the rest of her task in silence, while Flyte rocked her impression of a medieval martyr getting burned at the stake. Finally, it was over and Boo cleaned the tattoo with antiseptic gel. ‘You’re done! I’ll just go get a dressing.’
‘So, are you happy with it?’ asked Cassie.
Flyte frowned down at the design inked on her inner forearm – a delicate line drawing of a poppy in black, three or four centimetres long.
‘I like it,’ she said. ‘Now I can just pull up my sleeve any time and find her there.’ She sent Cassie one of her rare 100-watt smiles, which transformed her resting cop face into one of startling beauty.
Flustered, Cassie dropped her eyes and asked, ‘So, what are you thinking about going back to work?’
Flyte’s face darkened. ‘I can’t imagine going back to Major Crimes – if the Camden unit even survives. DCI Stopford wants me to apply for a job at the DPS.’
‘Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?’ said Cassie.
‘Indeed. Guarding the guardians . . . Apparently, I have acquired some useful experience of dodgy police officers.’ A dry look. ‘The other option is to just bail out, go and retrain as something else.’
‘Listen, Phyllida, it’s none of my business but I would say, take your time before deciding. A couple of weeks ago I was dead set on packing it in at the mortuary and going to work in a bar.’
‘You? Working behind a bar?’ Flyte’s raised eyebrows were the exact shape of a seagull’s wings. ‘That could put a dent in their profits,’ she said drily.
They shared a smile.
Cassie found it hard now to truly remember how grim she’d been feeling until just recently. Her lost connection with the dead, followed by her first ever major screw-up when she’d returned organs to the wrong body, had plunged her into a depression. The heavy feeling of bleakness had lifted now – maybe with a bit of help from the antidepressants. Plus she was feeling less conflicted about her dad, and now she had an amusing little cousin in Orla and a whole new family in Belfast to get to know.
But she also owed a debt of gratitude to Sean Kavanagh for restoring her bond with the dead. Picturing his body drifting across the darkened canal she was convinced that he had come knocking on her hull for a reason, even if she’d remained oblivious for too long to what he was trying to tell her. But then if it hadn’t been for Flyte’s persistence, she might have stayed that way.
‘The cops need people like you, Phyllida. Without you asking questions about Sean Kavanagh’s death he’d still be a John Doe, lined up for a pauper’s funeral and an unmarked grave.’ Hearing herself putting up an impassioned defence of the police was a weird experience.
‘I hear that Bethany Locke came forward with information that directly links Steadman to Luke’s murder.’ Her laser-like gaze scanning Cassie’s face.
‘Oh yes?’
‘Which means that line of enquiry is now getting the attention and resources it deserves. Between you and me, I hear they’ve already got CCTV of Steadman’s Range Rover near the heath at the right time and they’re doing house-to-house enquiries with his image.’
They fell silent as Boo returned to put a dressing on Flyte’s tattoo and give her the aftercare instructions. Cassie recalled the conversation she’d had with Steadman’s wife Natalie, passing on his last words as she had promised. It was clear she’d been completely in the dark about the bank account and the secret loan, but her husband’s crimes would haunt her – and their daughter – for the rest of their lives.
After she’d gone, Flyte eased herself off the tattooing chair, careful to hold her inner forearm away from her body, and came and sat next to Cassie on the sofa.
‘If I did stay in the police I’d have to go through the ordeal of joining a new team again. You’ve probably heard the classic question that gets asked of any new female officer . . . ?’
Cassie shook her head.
‘“Bike or dyke?”’
Their eyes met for an awkward moment before each looked away, Flyte’s alabaster cheeks tinged with pink.
Recalling the time she’d more or less accused Flyte of being in the closet, Cassie braced herself: saying sorry had never come easy to her. ‘Listen, Phyllida, I want to apologise for having a dig at you, you know, when I was trying to persuade you about Sean and Zeke. It was mean and unnecessary.’
‘You were right though,’ said Flyte with a shrug. ‘Two people are dead because a policeman didn’t feel he could be upfront about his sexual preferences with his colleagues. I’ve thought about it a lot these last few weeks. The police still view themselves – and the institution – as white, straight and male. I’ve always argued that nothing will change until we start to look and sound like the people we’re supposed to protect.’ She hesitated. ‘Now I see that an important part of that is about people on the inside being prepared to step up and admit to being . . . different.’
Was Phyllida Flyte coming out to her?
‘You know, I’ve always admired your honesty.’ Flyte’s ice-blue eyes rested on hers and she spoke with a warmth – a humanity – that Cassie had glimpsed in the past. ‘You’ve never let other people’s attitudes prevent you from being true to yourself. So . . . whether I stay in the Job or not, it’s high time I started being more honest with myself. About myself.’
In her discreet and restrained way, Flyte was acknowledging that she was attracted to women and – unless Cassie had lost her gift for reading people – she was also putting it out there that she was attracted to Cassie.
It threw her into turmoil. She’d been aware of her feelings towards Flyte for ages, but she’d always been able to file them under ‘never going to happen’. Until now.
She felt a powerful temptation to lean over and kiss her. A temptation she had to resist.
Because last night she’d taken a different kind of leap. She had met up with Archie, and asked him something – half expecting him to say no.
How would you feel about coming to live with me on the boat? As a proof of concept.
And he had said yes.