Last Place You Look Page 2

  With him being away, it’s been over a week since she saw him. She wants him, inhales him, as they fall together on the bed, his weight on top of her. He kisses her neck, her chest, her breasts, him awkwardly fumbling to remove her bra with one hand.

  It’s over quickly. The first one never takes long; too keen to have each other. After, they lie on the bed, her head resting on his chest, and he tells her about his week. It’s not that interesting, if truth be told, but she likes the mundane nature of it, as if this is their normal lives.

  As he talks, he runs his hand through her hair, wrapping a strand of it round his finger. She’s proud of her hair. Unlike other women her age – unlike her – she still wears it very long, and doesn’t have the need for expensive dyes to eliminate the grey. And she knows they look good together, his sandy-blond hair matching her own.

  She’s noticed over this past year that age is starting to catch up with him. Lines have become more pronounced at the corners of his eyes, wrinkles on his forehead. But it suits him. It gives him an air of authority where his boyish good looks previously couldn’t.

  ‘You’ve lost weight again,’ she says, running her hand down his chest where she can feel his ribs. ‘Are you looking after yourself?’

  ‘I had a bit of food poisoning,’ he mumbles. ‘Dodgy stomach.’

  Her fingers stop at a green-yellow smudge on his side. ‘And what’s this?’ she asks.

  ‘Hit by a squash ball,’ he replies. ‘And besides,’ he continues, back to her original comment, ‘wouldn’t you rather this, than the beer gut that so many of my friends have?’

  ‘I wouldn’t care,’ she says, looking up at him, conscious of the soppy grin on her face. ‘Whatever you look like.’

  He leans down and kisses her, smiling. ‘You would. When I got man boobs and a double chin.’

  ‘Never,’ she laughs.

  His phone beeps from his jacket on the floor, interrupting the moment. He ignores it, but she can sense him wanting to check.

  ‘When do you need to get back?’ she asks quietly.

  He sighs, closing his eyes for a moment. ‘Soon,’ he says. ‘We have plans for tonight.’

  We. She wants to ask, but she won’t.

  ‘That’s fine,’ she says, feigning nonchalance. ‘I’m off out tonight, too.’

  ‘Really?’ He seems surprised, and that annoys her. Yes, I have a life, she thinks. ‘Where to?’

  ‘Oh, just out with friends.’

  ‘Who?’

  She lists a few names, mainly men. That gets his attention, as she knows it will, even though she feels pathetic for playing these silly games.

  ‘Any of them single?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes,’ she says, but doesn’t add any more.

  It has the desired effect. He shuffles down in the bed until they’re face to face, their noses touching. He kisses her, slower and softer than before.

  ‘We still have time,’ he says, his mouth pressed against hers, his voice husky and deep. ‘For a bit more.’

  * * *

  After, he showers quickly and gets dressed in the same clothes. She wonders if his wife ever suspects when he returns home smelling sweet and fresh, even after a long day in the office. But she doesn’t care. It won’t matter soon.

  She watches as he bundles up his tie and puts it in his pocket. She’s lying on the bed, still naked under the duvet, and he comes and sits next to her, finishing dressing and doing up his belt.

  ‘I’ll call you,’ he says. ‘Once it’s done.’

  She nods. ‘When are you going to tell her?’

  ‘Saturday or Sunday. I don’t know.’ He looks away, out of the window to the grey sky beyond. She wonders if he’s reconsidering. ‘I need to pick a good moment.’

  ‘Are you worried about how she’ll take it? Come at you with a meat cleaver? Put cyanide in your Weetabix?’ Freya’s trying to lighten the mood, but it falls flat: he only looks back at her, a dark, thoughtful expression flashing across his features. Then he smiles quickly, seemingly pulling himself together.

  ‘I’ll see you soon,’ he says. He leans forward and kisses her, one last peck to the lips.

  He walks to the door, then turns back. ‘I love you,’ he adds as he opens it, as if it’s a casual afterthought.

  ‘I love you too,’ she says, but the door is already closing.

  She hears her front door open and shut, then falls back on the pillow with a groan. She doesn’t allow herself to get her hopes up. They’ve been here before: the declarations of love, the promise he’ll leave his wife. He will this time, he always says, he will.

  But then something comes up. It’s usually because of her. Because she’s unwell, or emotional. Freya was joking before, but her comment must have been too close to home. She remembers the look on his face; he’s scared of what she might do.

  She used to wonder about this faceless woman and google her, learning all she could through Facebook and LinkedIn and Twitter. This wife: too delicate to be alone, but yet could go out with friends, hold down a busy job, go on holidays, post photos after 5k runs and sponsored walks for charity.

  And after a while, she stopped asking. For these few short hours, these stolen moments, he is hers, and that keeps her going. Until the next time she can see him. She knows it’s pitiful. She knows she should think more of herself, and find a man who will commit wholeheartedly, not just profess love, then screw her in her lonely bedroom before going back to his wife.

  But this time, something’s different. He seems more serious, more distracted. She believes him. To her detriment, she knows.

  Next to her, her phone beeps. One of her friends, confirming time and a place. It’s a shitty club, one she hates, but it’s better than sitting at home.

  He will do it this time, she tells herself. He will.

  She just needs to wait for his call.

  3

  ‘Try the navy.’

  Amy sits on the bed and watches as her husband pulls the tie from his neck and reaches for the one she suggests. He flips the collar up and wraps it round, knots it expertly, then turns for her approval.

  ‘Much better,’ she says, and tilts her face up for a kiss.

  He bends down and pecks her lightly on the lips.

  ‘We need to hurry up, or we’ll be late,’ Jonathan says.

  ‘Everyone’s always late. This is Kal, remember?’

  ‘True.’ He sits next to her on the bed, then slumps backwards. ‘Oh god, and all his awful workmates are going to be there. All posh and braying.’

  ‘Have a few drinks and you’ll be fine.’ Amy stands up and checks her reflection in the mirror, feeling the jitters rise in her stomach again. She presses a finger tentatively against the red and blue bruise blooming on her forehead.

  ‘You sure you’re okay?’ Jonathan asks.

  She glances back at her husband, lying on the bed, watching her.

  ‘It’s fine.’ She takes a long breath in. ‘What do you want to drink? I’ll fetch one to get you started.’

  ‘You sure?’ Jonathan sits up, his forehead furrowed. She’s complained about his drinking in the past; it’s no wonder he’s surprised.

  She shrugs, pretending it doesn’t bother her. ‘I can put up with your drunken slurring for one night. What do you want?’

  ‘We got any orange?’ he asks. Amy nods. ‘An Old Fashioned then.’

  She walks out of the bedroom, down the stairs and into the kitchen. It’s spotless – draining board clear, surfaces empty and wiped down – just as she likes it. She sees a plate on the side and a few toast crumbs left by Jonathan, and suppresses a ripple of irritation.

  Amy remembers her appointment earlier that day. Following the nurse into the consulting room. Holding out her arm as she was prodded and poked, a sharp sting as the needle was pushed into her skin. She had watched fascinated as the dark red blood saturated each one, filling four vials.

  The whole process had taken less than five minutes; very transactional, much like
her husband’s.

  Jonathan had his appointment too, that morning, his sample to give, although in a different way. He’d flashed her a cheeky grin, a question, answered by her with a scowl. She had been reluctant to help out and wondered why. It had felt strange somehow; there was no romance here, no love or passion or understanding. Just wanking into a pot, and a hasty rush to get to the hospital in the allotted time for the test. She had heard him upstairs: the rhythmical sound of skin against skin, and had gone further away to block it out. She should have made an effort to turn it into something they could do together, to make it fun, but nothing about this feels like enjoyment. Just wave after familiar wave of resentment and anger.

  In the kitchen, she gets a short, squat tumbler out of the pristine glass cabinet, holds it up to the light, then wipes a smudge off the side with a tea towel. She adds sugar and a generous dash of bitters, mixing them together. Ice next, then a large measure of Jameson, just how Jonathan likes it. No water.

  She gets an orange from the fruit bowl and a knife out of the block. The knife is heavy and reassuring in her hand and she weighs it up for a second. How long would it take, she wonders, for him to bleed out on their bedroom floor? She could take him by surprise, press it to his neck and pull. Watch the look of astonishment on his face as the blood flowed. She’s heard thirty seconds, if you cut the jugular. Would that be long enough for her?

  But instead she presses the tip into the thick rind of the orange. It resists at first, then digs in and she cuts off the end, then a thick slice, chopping it in two and placing it in the glass.

  Suddenly she stops, her breath catching. She rests both hands on the work surface, her head lowered, paralysed by the enormity of what she might be told as a result of the tests. Maybe they’d know why, after three years of trying, she is still not pregnant, when around her all her friends produced bumps and babies seemingly at will. She thinks about the smiles she’s forced onto her face, all the tiny dresses and sleepsuits she’s bought as gifts, while part of her withers inside.

  Every month she cries, silently in the bathroom, sticking on another pad, inserting another tampon. Every month Jonathan tries to be sympathetic, but he doesn’t understand. Not really. He doesn’t get the yearning. The desperation to feel a tiny person squirming inside.

  But she can’t think about that now; she has bigger things to focus on tonight.

  She picks the glass up and carries it to the bedroom, the ice cubes rattling.

  ‘Here,’ she says. He’s standing in front of the mirror, fiddling with the front of his hair, and he turns and takes it from her.

  ‘Sure you’re okay driving?’ he asks, then takes a sip. ‘Mmm, perfect, thank you.’

  ‘Yeah, not in the right frame of mind for drinking,’ she replies. She’s lying. She’s just in the mood for sitting back and downing glass after glass of a cool white, but tonight is not the time. She needs to be alert; she needs everything to go right.

  She notices him looking at her over the rim of the glass. He has a look in his eye, one she’s seen before but ignored. Slight hesitancy. Worry. He looks away.

  ‘What have we got on this weekend?’ he asks. His tone seems light, but she detects an air of forced casualness.

  ‘Nothing, why?’

  He pauses. ‘No reason.’

  She leans up and kisses him, pressing her body against his. He feels unwieldy at first, reluctant, then eases. She tastes the whiskey, the cool of the ice cubes on his tongue.

  She feels an urge to do more with him, but the sadness hits her and she pulls away. ‘Drink up, before the ice cubes melt and it gets too watered-down. You know how much you hate that,’ she adds, then walks downstairs to antibac the kitchen again.

  * * *

  It’s getting late, Amy realises as she pushes the door open to the pub. The party is in full flow, music blaring, conversation loud, some people already drunk enough to dance. Kal has gone all out for his fortieth, renting the whole place. Balloons in silver and red pull to the ceiling on their strings; a large banner on the back wall shouts Happy Birthday Kal in huge letters. She wonders who put all this together – not his girlfriend, that’s for sure: a dainty twenty-something-year-old, the latest in Kal’s long line of pretty but useless women. She spots her now, giggling with a group by the bar, all in tiny skintight dresses, leaving nothing to the imagination.

  She looks around the room and sees Kal, who turns and waves. She heads over.

  Kal was the best man at their wedding, Jonathan’s friend since university. Tall, dark, with a physique honed from early mornings at CrossFit and protein shakes, she’s always liked him. Fancied him a bit too much, if the truth be known.

  He’s drunk, she can tell. His hand slightly forceful at her waist, his eyes unfocused as he goes in to peck her on the cheek. They misjudge the distance and she kisses a corner of his mouth, thinking inappropriate thoughts as she gets a waft of his expensive aftershave.

  ‘Jonny about?’ he shouts over the noise.

  She flutters a hand dismissively. ‘I was parking the car. He’s gone already, off socialising. You know Jonathan.’

  ‘Social butterfly,’ Kal agrees. ‘Bar’s free, help yourself to whatever you like. Probably a few bottles of champagne still making the rounds if you’re quick.’ He leans in closer, and she can feel his stubble on her cheek. ‘Listen, Amy. About the other week…’ His voice trails off, and he looks at her.

  ‘It’s forgotten.’

  ‘It’s just…’ His eyes dart around the bar; she knows he’s looking for Jonathan. ‘Jonny and I. We go back a long way.’

  She shakes her head. ‘We both have a lot to lose, Kal. Forget about it. Seriously.’

  Kal takes a step back. Then the grin returns. ‘You see my latest photos?’ he asks. He takes his phone out of his pocket, scrolls with a thumb, then thrusts it in her face. She looks at the bright picture – a small, chunky toddler, caramel skin and dark eyes, smiling on some sort of trike.

  ‘He’s gorgeous, Kal,’ she replies. She feels the familiar ripple of jealousy, a burn in the pit of her stomach. How come Kal has everything? His kid was an accident, result of a one-night stand, and yet he’s a father while she remains childless. She feels the urge for a drink resurface.

  ‘Champagne, did you say?’ she adds, and Kal points towards the barman on the other side of the room, circulating, a large bottle in his hand.

  ‘Go grab him quick, Amy. Have fun.’

  And just like that, she’s dismissed. She feels the tension return to her neck and shoulders. The car keys weigh heavy in her hand, but she needs a drink. Something to take the edge off.

  Something to help her forget.

  4

  Tuesday

  The car park is already swarming with blue and yellow by the time Robin arrives. He flashes his ID through his open car window and is let past the cordon, then parks up behind the huge purple-signed building.

  The uniform in reception recognises him and directs him towards the lift.

  ‘303,’ he says.

  Robin nods a thank you, and heads up.

  He doesn’t need the signs when he gets to the right floor. He can hear the buzz of the crime scene as soon as the lift doors open, and walks down the beige corridor towards the noise. Carpet worn in the centre, scuff marks on the wall. The hotel’s old, in desperate need of a refresh. People crowd the corridor – nosy onlookers, PCs starting to make enquiries, the paramedic packing up his things, having already pronounced life extinct.

  Robin pushes past them all. A uniform greets him at the hotel room doorway with a grimace.

  ‘You were first on the scene?’ Robin asks as he puts on gloves and shoe covers. The PC nods. ‘Everything left as you saw it?’

  ‘Except we cut the guy down.’

  ‘You moved the body?’ Robin replies, exasperated. ‘Is it all on BWV?’

  The PC taps the body-worn camera on his chest, then looks apologetic. ‘Paramedic needed to examine him properly.’

&
nbsp; ‘And you think it’s a cat two, G 28?’

  But Robin doesn’t wait for an answer, and steps inside.

  It’s slightly cold, the aircon turned up high, but apart from that there’s nothing strange about the room. The bed looks untouched – the duvet tightly tucked in at the edges of the mattress, the purple throw draped over the bottom. Clean, white pillows, terrible artwork on the walls. One black coat hangs on the rail and Robin picks it up, looking in the pockets.

  He finds a black leather wallet and an iPhone, opens the wallet and pulls out the driver’s licence.

  ‘Jonathan Miller,’ he reads to no one in particular. ‘Date of birth nineteenth of May.’ He reads the year then stops, looking to the ceiling, doing the maths. ‘Thirty-nine.’ He reads the address aloud. ‘Ashcroft Drive, Winchester.’

  Robin turns to the PC still behind him. ‘He lives just down the road. What was he doing here?’

  The PC doesn’t answer, just points to the body lying on the floor, partially hidden by the bed.

  Robin takes a step forward, seeing it in full for the first time. ‘Ah, shit,’ he mutters.

  ‘You going to be the one to tell next of kin?’ the PC asks.

  Robin sighs. ‘I guess so, yes. Find out who it is, will you?’

  He walks forward and crouches next to the body. The cause of death is clear: a brown leather belt looped round his neck, now loose and gaping. An angry red mark cuts into the flesh, showing the clear pull upward.

  Robin scans the wall and furniture around them. ‘Where did he tie it?’

  ‘Round the door hook.’

  Robin glances back to the main door. The small silver hook doesn’t seem sturdy enough to take the weight. ‘And we think he was here overnight?’

  ‘Initial enquiries say so, yes. Cleaner assumed the room was vacated, even though he hadn’t checked out. Let herself in just past midday and found the body.’

  Robin stands up. He notices a magazine lying open on the desk, and goes over to it. A double-page spread of a naked woman confronts him, her legs apart, mouth gaping.