Last Place You Look Read online

  ‘You won’t return my calls, Rob, and I need to speak to you. You’re never home. What do you expect me to do?’

  Butler pulls the man to the side of the police reception, but Freya can still hear their conversation.

  ‘You could get the hint and leave me alone, Liam.’

  ‘It’s this week.’

  ‘I know it’s this week,’ Butler almost shouts. Then he catches himself and growls, more quietly, ‘So what? You going to throw a party?’

  The man recoils, hurt clear on his face. ‘I was going to visit her grave, Robin. Their graves. And I wanted to know if you would join me. But it’s clear how you feel.’ The man turns, his shoulders hunched. ‘I’ll leave you alone from now on, Robin. Don’t worry.’

  He walks out of the reception, the double doors slamming behind him. The room is quiet, conversation stilled to an awkward hush.

  Butler turns and walks quickly past Freya without a word. If Freya didn’t know better about her immovable boss, she would think from the look on his face that he was about to cry.

  20

  When Freya gets back to the incident room, Butler is nowhere to be seen. She wonders about the visitor, who he was talking about. She’s heard the whispers, some tragedy in his past. Apparently he was nicer before. Sorry you’re stuck with him, her colleagues said.

  But she’s glad of the space after the interview with Amy Miller. It was difficult, to be so close to the woman and not spit in her face. Not shout: what did you do to him? How did you kill him?

  Because she knows it was her.

  The weekend was a struggle. Endless hours with nothing to do. Friends called, but Freya shut herself away. None of them know of her relationship with Jon.

  When they interviewed Kal, Freya wasn’t worried – Kal doesn’t know about the affair. Nobody does. Jon had been insistent – he didn’t want Amy finding out or, more specifically, knowing it was her. He’d been so adamant and she hadn’t asked more, just gone along with what he’d said, not wanting to fess up anyway to the shame of her affair with a married man. She’d always felt reticent with her friends; most of them were married, and she’d known they’d disapprove. So none of them now would understand why she was such a wreck. None knew just how much in love she’d been.

  But she spoke to her mum, bawling down the phone with snotty tears, until her mum threatened to drive up from Salisbury at that precise moment. ‘No, I’m fine, don’t come,’ she said, sniffing loudly, not wanting her mother to suffocate her with her fuss. ‘I’m fine. I just miss him, that’s all.’

  That’s all. Master of the understatement.

  Sleep still comes in bursts; she spends her waking hours crying in the dark, scrolling through the same photos and messages from him on her phone. She tried to get into his laptop, but she doesn’t know the password – the door into his hidden world she’s desperate to see, as if it holds the secret to his state of mind in those last few days.

  Eventually she gave up and came into the office. She spent hours diligently working on Butler’s backed-up caseload, typing up reports, filing away evidence.

  There’d been another break-in on the Friday night to add to their investigation. Not that they had the capacity to actually do anything on it. That was the fourth now. This time the damage had stretched to graffiti: messy daubs across the previously spotless living room walls. She ensured the initial house-to-house had been done by the PCs in the area, linking the statements to the correct file on the Record Management System. There was no useful intel, but at least the paperwork was up to date, any evidence logged and sent to the lab.

  Butler was impressed Monday morning. He won’t be so keen on you when he finds out what you’re hiding, she told herself. That you were in love with the victim. That it’s you he’s looking for when he goes through the call logs on the mobile phone. The telematics from the car show Jon’s trip to her house on Friday afternoon, but Butler has no idea where she lives, and they haven’t focused on much before the party. Now she’s buried the records in her drawer, telling Butler there’s nothing of note. Another lie. Another crime, perverting the course of justice, to add to the potential charge of burglary that she’s already committed. She’s heard the voicemail from Robin on the secret mobile: a calm message asking the mysterious woman to call in to the station, to make herself known.

  But it’s too late. She’s in deep now; she needs to follow it to the end.

  She turns in her seat and looks up at the whiteboard where Jon’s timeline is neatly written. He’d mentioned the party Friday night. She remembers he wasn’t looking forward to it, although looking at the photo of him and Kal stuck up on the board, it looks like he was perfectly happy. Had he been lying to her? Another dishonesty to keep her close? To keep her happy while he fucked her?

  She clenches her teeth, pushing away the misery threatening to turn into tears in the middle of the office. She looks at the photo, searching for the honesty behind his blue eyes. And then she frowns. She looks closer, squinting at the image, then turns and pulls it up on her computer screen, zooming it in to a point on the base of his neck, just next to the collar of his shirt.

  She’s aware of Butler coming back into the office, sitting beside her at his computer.

  ‘Sarge?’ she says, without looking away from the screen.

  ‘Hmm?’ He scoots up next to her on his chair.

  ‘Here.’ She sits back, chancing a look at him. He seems calmer now, the anger from earlier gone from his face. She points to the spot on the screen. ‘See that mole?’

  ‘Yeah? And?’

  ‘He’d had that removed,’ she blurts out. She remembers it clearly. Six months ago. The worry about possible skin cancer, the relief when the results were negative.

  ‘How do you know that?’ Butler asks. She feels him looking at her, her face growing hot.

  ‘I…’ Shit. Think, Freya, think. ‘I noticed on the crime scene photos.’

  He moves away to his own computer, clicking. She knows what he’s doing but she doesn’t dare turn around. She hasn’t seen the shots from the hotel. She doesn’t want to remember Jon like that, but there’s no avoiding it now.

  ‘Bloody hell, you’re right,’ Butler says from behind her.

  She turns. But luckily he’s done the same as her, blown up the photo so only pale skin is visible. And sure enough, there’s a narrow silver line, where the mole should have been.

  Slowly, Butler shakes his head, then pulls the photo of Jonathan and Kal down from the board. ‘So this…’ he starts.

  ‘It’s an old photo,’ she finishes for him. ‘That tweet is a lie.’

  ‘And if that’s a lie,’ Butler continues, ‘what else is?’

  21

  Robin mentally thanks Tripadvisor for the restaurant recommendation, as he and Steph walk across to their table. So far, he hasn’t screwed anything up. He ironed a shirt, put on a suit, nice shoes, tried a tie and discarded it. He was on time to pick Steph up; he even remembered to open the car door for her, a gesture she raised an eyebrow at.

  Steph had been busy over the weekend, so they’d agreed on Monday night. And as the time for their date approached, Robin found himself getting nervous. This felt right, a tiny step towards letting someone else into his life. And although he and Steph had done things in the past, if they were going to turn it into something more, he knew he needed to invest some proper energy.

  The waiter holds the chair out for Steph and she sits. Robin notices she’s made an effort too – her hair is shiny and down round her shoulders, and she is wearing a dress, rather than her standard after-work uniform of jeans and a top. She looks nice, and he tells her so.

  ‘Just nice?’ she says, teasing him.

  ‘Better than nice. Beautiful.’ This stuff doesn’t come easy to Robin, and he finds himself stuttering over the words. He stares at the menu in his hands – thick white card, small black printed lettering. Like the rest of the restaurant, it’s simple, clean and elegant. The lighting is low, the m
usic gentle and muted. The waiters move effortlessly around, their voices no more than a low murmur.

  They order. He can’t resist the steak; she has something vegetarian. He asks about her day and she tells him about a post-mortem completed on a body fished out of a river. Neither baulks at such a disgusting conversation while they eat, and Robin thinks, this can’t be normal.

  The conversation turns to Jonathan Miller. It is inevitable, a shared interest, and work being the only thing going on in Robin’s life.

  ‘And Baker’s letting you use uniforms for the search?’

  Robin nods through a mouthful of steak. It was a hard sell for Baker to allocate more resources. But he accepted that leaving his DS and a DC to do a full recon of a house alone was going to take for ever. ‘First thing tomorrow,’ Robin replies.

  ‘I can’t believe she agreed to it. I wouldn’t let police anywhere near my house without a warrant.’

  ‘But you’re part of this world. She’s not suspicious.’

  Steph points a fork at him. ‘Are you sure she’s not completely innocent?’

  ‘I don’t know, Steph. I don’t. If she did do it, I have no idea how. She has an alibi for him arriving at the hotel. She was miles away when he died.’

  ‘So maybe she didn’t do anything?’ Steph repeats. ‘Someone else was complicit?’

  ‘But who?’ Robin shakes his head. ‘The best friend’s alibi checks out, and we still haven’t found the mistress. Did you get any further with narrowing down the time of death?’

  Steph looks apologetic. ‘No, and I don’t think we’re going to.’ She starts to explain in the face of Robin’s grumpy expression: ‘We use a lot of factors to estimate TOD – changes in muscle tone, stage of rigor mortis, level of decomp—’ she counts them off on her fingers ‘—and these can all be utterly unreliable. Body temp is the only one that’s vaguely useful, and that’s still subject to problems such as clothing and temperature of the room.’

  Robin remembers the chill in the hotel room that day. ‘So what did you conclude for Jonathan Miller?’

  ‘Nothing that tied up. Minimal decomp, but low liver temp. So the honest answer is, I don’t know.’ She pauses, putting her knife and fork together on the plate. ‘Maybe tracking down this mistress is your best bet after all.’

  ‘Easy for you to say,’ Robin replies with a smile. ‘Freya’s been through everything with a fine-tooth comb. There’s nothing. I’m beginning to think she doesn’t exist.’

  Steph shrugs. ‘I’m just saying,’ she replies, as the waiter clears their plates. ‘Take all your assumptions away. Look at it from a different angle. And who knows what you might find.’

  She reaches across the table and takes his hands. Hers are soft and warm; her eyes shine in the candlelight. ‘Now, are we bothering with dessert, or shall we go somewhere else for a nightcap?’

  * * *

  Robin pays the bill. They get into his car. He starts the engine, his intention to drive to hers, but she stops him.

  ‘Let’s go to your place,’ she says.

  ‘My house?’

  ‘Yes, your house. Unless you have a canal boat or hunting lodge I don’t know about.’

  They’ve never gone to his place before. Hers is nicer and, truth is, Robin likes it that way. He knows that the moment Steph steps in the door she’ll be creating a view of him that might not be favourable. Sure enough, as they walk into the hallway, he can see her taking in the tired decoration, the dated patterned wallpaper he’s never got round to replacing, the miscellaneous crap strewn about – spare screws in cereal bowls, receipts discarded on the side. It’s not that he’s actively untidy, more that he hasn’t had the energy to sort it. After work, it’s all he can do to slump on the sofa and make himself food. And nobody ever comes here anyway.

  For the first time he’s seeing it through someone else’s eyes, and it’s not pretty.

  ‘Coffee?’ he asks, and puts the kettle on, more as a way to distract than because he wants it. But then he feels her arms round his waist, and he turns to face her.

  ‘No, thank you,’ she says, and she leans up to kiss him.

  He’s never done this sober. But it’s an experience he’s welcoming. They stay in the kitchen for a while, just kissing, her hands finding their way under his shirt, a soft caress up his back. But he wants to get into that dress. Taking it off standing next to his grubby cooker seems wrong, so he stops, and leads her slowly up to his bedroom.

  There are clothes on his bed – the discarded tie, his dirty shirt from work – and he pushes them onto the floor. He mentally calculates the last time he washed his sheets – after the unmentionable night with Liv – and deems it acceptable.

  He kisses her again, stronger this time, and she’s not hanging around, undoing enough buttons on his shirt so he can pull it over his head. He finds the cursed hidden zip at the side of her dress, and tugs it down.

  This is new. A bra and knickers he hasn’t seen before – he would have remembered these. But they don’t last long, and nor do his trousers and boxers. They fall together on the bed, him on top of her, and for the first time their connection feels like it could be something more permanent. Something he’ll want to do more often.

  * * *

  After, they lie on their backs on the bed, and Robin pulls the duvet across to keep them warm.

  ‘Can I have that drink now?’ she asks, running her fingers down his chest.

  ‘Whisky or beer?’

  ‘Whisky.’

  He gets up to fetch it, feeling very naked, her eyes on him as he puts on a pair of boxers, then goes to the kitchen. When he comes back, she’s pulled on his shirt, legs still bare, and is standing looking at the narrow bookcase in the corner of his bedroom.

  He hands her the tumbler and stands next to her. She has a book in her hand, an old hardback of Charlotte’s Web.

  ‘What’s the story behind this?’ she asks, putting it back on the shelf.

  He looks at the line of books. A few Famous Fives, a battered copy of Roald Dahl’s The Twits and George’s Marvellous Medicine.

  ‘They were my sister’s.’

  ‘Were?’

  ‘She’s dead.’

  He reaches down and picks up a photo frame. It’s an old one, but his favourite. In it, Georgia is laughing with the twins balanced one on each knee – a chaotic shot, nobody’s facing forward, nobody looking where they should be, but one that Robin’s always thought summed them up the best. Full of love, and chaos, and laughter.

  He holds it out to her, and she takes it.

  ‘James and Alex,’ he says, pointing to the boys in turn. ‘They were two when they died. Georgia was thirty-eight.’

  He can’t bear to look at it any more, and goes back to sit on the bed. Steph slowly puts the frame back on the bookcase and joins him, pulling the duvet up to cover them.

  ‘How did they die?’ she asks quietly.

  He looks at the ice cubes in his glass, and swirls the brown liquid. ‘Car accident. A guy in an SUV ploughed into the side of them while they were stopped at traffic lights. Killed Georgia and James instantly. Alex was on the other side of the car, and he held on for two days in hospital before he died too.’ Steph rests her head on his chest but he can’t look at her. ‘The guy was drunk. Three times over the legal limit.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  Robin shrugs. There is no other response.

  ‘What happened to the driver?’

  ‘He got a concussion and a broken arm. The judge sentenced him to three years in prison, disqualified from driving for one, post-release.’

  Steph takes a quick breath in. ‘Why so short?’

  ‘He pleaded guilty to a lesser charge of causing death by careless driving. CPS didn’t push for more. The judge’s remarks at sentencing were vague, although we believe he was sympathetic because the guy sought treatment for alcoholism afterwards. Both me and Liam – their father – spoke at the hearing about Georgia and the boys. But it didn’t make an
y difference.’

  Robin feels a flash of guilt for the way he treated Liam at the police station this morning. He knows he needs to apologise, phone, go round, something, but so many words have been said over the past year, the weight of them seems insurmountable.

  ‘So, he’s out of prison? The guy?’ Steph asks.

  Robin takes a long sip from his glass. The whisky is bitter on his tongue. Saying it all out loud hasn’t helped. If anything, he feels worse. ‘Can we not talk about it? I’m sorry, it’s just…’ He takes the last gulp from the glass, but continues to hang on to it, willing the ache in his chest to subside.

  Steph leans up and kisses him lightly. ‘It’s fine. I understand,’ she says.

  * * *

  Later, when they’ve turned off the light and Steph is sleeping beside him, Robin thinks of that man, the alcoholic.

  It was Neal Baker that told him, at the time a detective inspector. He appeared next to him in the incident room, his face serious, then pulled Robin away to an empty interview room. Robin couldn’t take it in at first. This beast of a man, standing in front of him, tears in his own eyes, telling Robin that his family was dead. He remembers Liam sobbing in the corridor of the hospital. Later, the two of them sat next to Alex’s bed, his tiny body covered in bandages and wires, evidence of the heroic efforts to keep him alive that ultimately failed.

  Weeks later, once Robin had returned to work, he read the incident report. The man, pissed out of his mind, drove into Georgia and the twins. And then he’d reversed and driven away, leaving them dying, alone, in the road.

  He could have saved them. He could have called 999 and the emergency services would have arrived five minutes, ten minutes sooner.

  But he hadn’t. He’d driven away, and they’d died.

  That man deserved everything that had come to him. And in that, Robin has no doubt.

  22

  Tuesday

  Freya watches Amy Miller glare at them from behind her rain-spattered windscreen. Fuck off, bitch, she thinks, then pulls the collar up on her coat, ducking back inside the Millers’ house. She wishes she would just leave. Why does she have to wait there? Staring at them?