Under a Dark Cloud

  Under a Dark Cloud

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Part 1

  1 Wednesday

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14 Thursday

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20 Friday

  Part 2

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29 Saturday

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36 Sunday

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  Part 3

  42 Monday

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47 Tuesday

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  60

  61

  62

  63 Wednesday

  64

  65 Friday Two weeks later

  66

  Acknowledgements

  Butler & West

  Canelo Crime

  About the Author

  Also by Louisa Scarr

  Copyright

  Cover

  Table of Contents

  Start of Content

  For Marie and Alec.

  Your enthusiasm is infectious.

  Prologue

  The smell sticks in his nose, cloying and alien. It hangs in the air; he feels it down the back of his throat. It’s something he’s never experienced before. Instinctively, it makes his heart race.

  He opens his eyes. His vision is blurry. All he can see is a grey tinge of moonlight and he gropes around to try and find his glasses. He’s aware his hands feel dirty, a layer of something sticky on his skin.

  He’s seeing double. He blinks and pushes his fingers into his eyes, until a kaleidoscope of colour dances on his retinas. The fuzziness persists. But even through the darkened haze he can see his hands are stained a deep red. The stuff is everywhere, under his nails, all down his arms. Some of it has started to dry, and he rubs at his palm with a finger.

  He glances down at his T-shirt; it’s stained and filthy. He can sense damp patches under his arms and down his back. He feels cold, his body starting to shiver.

  He squints to force his eyes to focus. He is sitting on a hard, rough floor, slumped against a metal cabinet. He is in a large vehicle – what appears to be the back of a truck or a van.

  His mind feels like pieces of a wet jigsaw: soggy and fragmented, unable to fit together. He can’t remember what he did to get himself here.

  He puts his hands either side of him to push himself up, recoiling as he touches a puddle of something wet. He looks frantically around the small space. He can just make out the indistinct edges of cupboards, the side of a table. Papers scattered across the floor, some soaking in patches of the same stuff he is sitting in.

  And then he knows what it is. It’s blood. Blood is everywhere. Pools of it across the floor. Spatters across the cupboards and ceiling and windows. Covering his jeans and T-shirt and skin. He tastes it in his mouth: metal and rust. The smell of it in his nose. It is hideous, and bile rises in his stomach.

  He starts to panic, his heart racing, adrenaline jolting his body into action. But then he freezes. He sees it now. Something in front of him, lying in the middle of the floor, half hidden under the table. Something more horrifying than the blood.

  He jumps away, the back of his head hitting a corner of a cupboard, sharp and painful. He pulls his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them, his body locked in fear.

  He pushes his eyes tightly shut. His hands ball into fists. He starts to rock.

  And then a noise fills the inside of the van. It is loud and terrifying, and after a moment he realises it’s coming from his own mouth. It echoes off the walls, making his throat raw, draining the air from his lungs.

  He is screaming. And he knows there is nothing he can do to make himself stop.

  Part 1

  1

  Wednesday

  At first: a buzz. A fractious whine, intermittent, next to him. He wakes with a jerk, his hand groping on his bedside table. He picks up his phone and holds it to his ear.

  ‘Butler,’ he grunts.

  He opens his eyes and glances across to the clock, bright digits shining in the hazy glow of morning: 5.42 a.m.

  ‘DS Robin Butler? This is DC Grey from Thames Valley Police. I’m sorry to wake you.’

  The voice sounds nervous and young.

  Robin clears his throat, leaning back against the pillow. ‘How can I help, DC Grey?’ he mutters, scratching his chest absent-mindedly.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ the voice apologises again. ‘I was told to call you. I’m sorry it’s so early.’ He is stuttering to get the words out, and Robin grits his teeth.

  ‘Get to the point, Detective Constable.’

  ‘Yes, sorry. It’s about your friend. Dr Finn Mason?’

  Robin frowns, struggling to digest the information. ‘What about Finn?’ he asks.

  ‘He’s involved in an incident,’ Grey continues. ‘And he’s asking for you. Normally, we wouldn’t call, but because you’re a detective—’

  Robin sits up in bed. ‘What sort of incident?’ he snaps. ‘Is he okay?’

  Grey hesitates. ‘Yes, yes, he’s fine,’ he says at last. ‘Well, not exactly fine. We’re not sure yet. We’re struggling to work out what’s going on. Perhaps you could come up here.’

  ‘Is he injured?’

  ‘We don’t think so, no. But…’ He pauses again. ‘He’s locked in a van and he’s refusing to come out.’

  Robin switches on the light next to him. His brain is only half awake, and Grey’s confusing waffle isn’t helping. He didn’t sleep well last night, thanks to the massive storm raging outside the house until the early hours of the morning. ‘Why is he locked in a van?’

  ‘He… um… Just come up here and my DI can explain.’

  ‘Text me the location. I’ll be with you as soon as I can.’

  Robin hangs up, then stares at his phone as the information comes through. The Oracle multistorey car park, in the middle of Reading. Top floor.

  Light is starting to trickle in through the curtains. Robin lies back on his pillow for a moment, stretching out in the middle of the bed, enjoying the last luxury of warmth. He can’t understand what’s going on. What is Finn doing in a van on top of a multistorey car park? And why is it a matter for a detective inspector?

  He hauls himself out of bed, has a quick shave and a shower, and dresses in the first clothes to hand: jeans and a shirt. He dries his short hair roughly with a towel and smooths it down with his fingers.

  As Robin goes downstairs, he considers when he last spoke to his best friend: they had met up to celebrate Finn’s birthday in February; he had been talking about a big project he was working on, some weather instrument. Robin hadn’t understood the details, but Finn had been excited. Robin remembers the conditions last night: the rain hurling itself against the window; the wind so strong it felt like it could rip every tile from his roof. The forecasters had told people to stay inside, but Robin knew that was
the sort of storm Finn lived for. He hadn’t been out in that, surely?

  He looks out of his window now, the weather calm again. His road is littered with twigs and leaves and rubbish, the pavements wet and puddled. The quiet is bizarre in contrast to last night. He had lain in bed in the darkness, listening to the rolls of thunder booming, other-worldly, across the night sky, hoping a tree wouldn’t come through his ceiling. But hours passed and the storm abated; Robin wonders now what new one has begun for Finn.

  He puts the kettle on, spooning a generous helping of instant coffee into his travel mug. Caffeine is always the priority; he can grab breakfast later.

  As the kettle boils, he stands in the doorway to his living room. His furniture is stacked against one wall, a stepladder leaning against another. Strips of wallpaper dangle from where he was removing it at the weekend. It looks a mess, and he wonders when he’s going to have time to finish. Still, small steps. He feels a grudging swell of pride that he’s actually even started.

  Robin makes his coffee then leaves the house, glancing upwards to his roof as he climbs into his faithful Volvo V60. All tiles intact, that’s something, he thinks as he starts the engine, taking a swig of his coffee then resting it in the cup holder. The roads are clear as he heads out, but the residual mess shows the extent of the storm. Broken roof slates lie scattered across the tarmac; fences lean drunkenly against fallen trees; puddles rise into giant waves as his car charges through them. The wind has brought down a power line on one of the main roads and it holds up his progress, waiting patiently for the uniform to wave him through, the yellow-and-blue police car creating a temporary cordon.

  As he eventually turns onto the deserted M3, he dials a number and it rings over the hands-free speaker. It goes to voicemail. DCI Neal Baker’s rough London tones fill the car, and he hangs up before leaving a message. There’s still time, he thinks, glancing at the clock. Nobody’s expecting him at work yet and besides, he’s not sure what explanation to give. Personal matter or police business? It’s unclear.

  He debates calling his DC, Freya West, but leaves it for the moment. He doesn’t want to wake her; she won’t care where he is for at least another few hours. He’s noticed she’s been looking a bit worn around the edges of late and remembers her mentioning a bout of insomnia. He dismisses the niggle. He’ll speak to her later.

  Robin knows where he’s going: north on the M3, then up the A33, past Basingstoke, towards Reading. Radio 2 plays, more of a distraction than anything else. Robin can’t imagine what Finn has got himself into.

  Finn is studious and sensible and – most of all – law-abiding. There’s no way he’s got himself into trouble with the police; it isn’t him. They grew up together, living two doors apart. His mum, Josie Mason, has known Robin since he was a baby, but it’s been a while since he last saw her. Nearly six years ago – Robin knows exactly when.

  Finn is everything Robin isn’t – considered, clever, intellectual. It had been Finn talking Robin out of scrapes when they were teenagers: Robin’s impetuous nature getting him into trouble. And now the tables are turned? Robin can’t believe it.

  His phone rings and Robin answers it. His DCI’s voice comes through on the overhead speaker, rough and to the point.

  ‘Butler? Craig called me, she said you were on your way.’

  ‘Craig?’ Robin echoes. ‘Guv, do you know what’s going on?’

  ‘DI Jo Craig, Major Crimes at TVP, in charge of the situation there in Reading. I know her, she’s good.’ Robin takes Baker at his word: his boss – a no-nonsense ex-Met beat cop – isn’t one for tolerating incompetency. ‘And no, not much. What I do know is that you’re right to be going. It sounds like a mess, and they need someone who knows him personally. To get him out of there.’

  ‘Why’s he locked in a van?’ Robin’s shouting to be heard over the road noise. ‘What’s he doing in a car park? And why is it a matter for Major Crimes?’

  There’s a pause. Then Baker speaks again, but he’s distorted by the poor reception and Robin only hears snippets. ‘It’s not just that he’s locked… Robin. There’s… him.’

  ‘Sorry, boss. You’re breaking up. What did you say?’

  This time, his DCI’s voice comes through loud and clear.

  ‘It’s not just him in the van,’ Baker says. Robin catches the edge in his tone. Something far more serious is going on.

  DCI Baker continues: ‘There’s a dead body in there, too.’

  2

  8.10 a.m. and DC Freya West slides into a seat next to DC Mina Desai, at the edge of the main incident room.

  ‘My first day back and you’re ten minutes late?’ Mina hisses.

  ‘Shush, I brought you coffee,’ she says, handing one of the takeaway cups to her friend. ‘Power went out last night, my alarm didn’t go off.’

  It’s not been a great start to the day. Already Freya’s annoyed. Waking with a jolt to a blank bedside clock; no power to boil the kettle; worrying about food spoiling in her silent freezer, until the power flickered back into life just before she left the house. She senses an excited undercurrent from the other detectives; a level of chatter and laughter that can only result from something as out of the ordinary as the huge gales and pouring rain last night. They are all as wound up as kids.

  She glances round the room again: where is Butler? She’d brought the second coffee for Robin, but as he is nowhere to be seen, and Mina looks like she’ll fall asleep any second, she figures the latter is more deserving.

  Mina takes it with a grateful smile and clutches it tightly in her hands. ‘Where’s your boss?’ Mina asks, and Freya shrugs.

  ‘Must have a day off,’ she whispers back. But she knows that’s not true. They’d worked together yesterday as usual, finishing off the paperwork for a GBH, and he hadn’t mentioned being off today. It’s odd. Freya looks at her phone again: no message. She briefly wonders whether he’s hung-over and has overslept, as he tended to do in the past, but things haven’t been like that for a while. He’s been more together lately – clean-shaven, shirts ironed. Sometimes he even gets a haircut. She sends a quick text: Where are you? as Mina tugs on her arm.

  ‘Is that the new guy?’ she says, nodding towards a man sitting at the edge of the group.

  Freya glances across. The male detectives are, as usual, wearing an identikit version of the same outfit: pale-blue shirt, boring tie, smart trousers, lanyard slung round their necks. Freya thinks they must all shop in the same place – Next or Marks & Spencer – creatures of simple habit, not known for their dress sense. The new guy is wearing something similar, although he pulls it off better than the rest: slightly more fitted, slightly more fashionable. ‘That’s him,’ she replies. ‘Josh Smith. Transferred from up north somewhere.’

  ‘Hot,’ Mina comments with a sideways look at Freya.

  ‘Maybe.’ Freya feigns nonchalance, like she hasn’t noticed, but yes, he is. And he knows it, too. Ever since he arrived six months ago, just before Christmas, the women at the station have been all abuzz. Relaxed smiles and hair-tossing. It’s a bit too obvious for Freya. Not that she has the brain space for any sort of flirting nowadays.

  In front of them, DCI Neal Baker clears his throat and the whole room hushes in reverence. ‘Good morning, everyone,’ he begins. ‘A warm welcome to Mina Desai, on her first day back after maternity leave.’

  Freya glances at Mina, whose face has gone red. She leans over, her mouth next to Freya’s ear.

  ‘To be honest,’ Mina whispers, ‘if I can get through the day without breast milk leaking through my top, it’ll be a win.’

  Baker continues: ‘As you’ve probably guessed, the storm last night has pulled up more than your usual number of crazies. Reports of supposed criminal damage have gone through the roof and domestics have escalated, with everyone stuck inside. Response and Patrol are doing all they can to get on top of the problems on the roads with trees down and flooding, so some of the more serious B and Es are going to fall to us.’ A groa
n ripples round the room. Breaking and entering – hardly a favourite for detectives who assumed their days of taking dull statements from annoyed homeowners were over. ‘Now, we’re already low on DSs and DIs, and with Butler out dealing with a personal issue this morning, Smith, West and Desai, I want you reporting to me, with Smith in charge for the time being as acting DS. The rest of you, please report to your supervising officers, who will point you in the direction of your newest priorities.’

  Conversation starts up, as the other detectives begin their day. Freya stares at her phone again. Nothing. What could possibly have happened for Robin to take an unplanned day off? The man has no personal life. His parents and sister are dead. His love life non-existent. It worries her.

  Mina leans across to Freya. ‘So, it looks like the hot guy’s in charge. Ooh, here he comes.’

  Freya hurriedly puts her mobile in her pocket as Josh stands in front of them. He looks smug.

  ‘Josh,’ he says, holding his hand out to Mina. ‘You must be Mina.’ She shakes his hand, and Freya notices a flirty smile on her face. Then he turns to Freya. ‘And you’re Freya. Where’s your charming boss this morning?’

  She knows he’s being sarcastic; Robin’s reputation around the team is hardly one of jollity and fun, despite the Little Miss Sunshine mug that resides on his desk. Her hackles go up in response. ‘How should I know? I’m just thrilled you’re in charge this morning,’ she replies, returning the sentiment.

  But he takes her comment on the chin and smiles, showing a row of even white teeth. ‘Now, that’s no way to speak to your new boss,’ he jokes, then stops dead, as he feels Baker behind him.

  Baker gives a stern eye to Smith. ‘Josh,’ he says, ‘I know you were a DS in Newcastle and you had to take a step down to come here, but don’t bugger this up.’ Baker’s an intimidating figure: over six foot and nearly as wide, with a shaved head and a salt-and-pepper goatee. He glares at Josh. ‘You do, and I’ll put you back in uniform on one of those shitty bikes that no one will use.’