Last Place You Look Page 3

  ‘It was open to this?’ he directs to the PC behind him, who nods. Robin flicks to the next page, another woman, red lipstick, pubic hair completely absent. Standard porn, he thinks.

  ‘Preserve the scene for now,’ he says to the PC. He hands him the phone and wallet. ‘Put these into evidence. And that.’ He points to the porn magazine. ‘And I want that video as soon as possible. Where am I going?’

  ‘Eight Ashcroft Drive,’ the PC confirms. ‘Wife. Amy Miller.’

  Robin thanks him, then dials a number.

  ‘West?’ he barks. ‘We’ve got a death to report. Meet me at next of kin. I’ll text you the address.’

  * * *

  The house is big and grand and recently built, on a new estate at the edge of town. As he drives past the identical cul-de-sacs Robin notices a half-finished child’s playground. He indicates as he approaches number eight.

  There’s a car parked by the side of the road. One of those pastel-blue trendy Fiat 500s – old style made new. He pulls up behind it and his DC gets out.

  ‘Apparently they’re going to put a Co-op in when it’s all done,’ Freya comments, pointing to the muddy field in front of the house, where they clearly haven’t finished building.

  Robin grunts in response. He’s known DC Freya West for a few years in CID, but it’s only this week that she’s been assigned to him.

  ‘You can’t work by yourself for ever,’ his DCI, Neal Baker, had said, with forced cheer. ‘You’ll enjoy the company.’

  Robin wasn’t so sure. He knows her from around the station: she’s keen, seems intelligent, but sometimes her enthusiasm grates – a constant chatter about whatever enters her head at that specific time. He just wants to get the job done. He doesn’t need to know about town planning and the placement of local conveniences.

  He looks towards the house. There’s a car in the driveway and a light on in one of the top bedrooms, even though it’s barely two p.m.

  ‘You’re leading, right?’ Freya asks, and Robin nods. He’s rehearsing the words in his head, a speech he’s used too many times. Back in uniform, he was told: always have a hat. Always, always have a hat. And today, in plain clothes, he does up the buttons on his suit jacket, straightens his tie.

  He’s not sure how he’s going to broach the question that every next of kin asks: how did he die?

  ‘Who’s the deceased?’ Freya asks as Robin rings the bell.

  But he doesn’t have time to answer. The door is opened by a pretty woman, wearing jeans and a white T-shirt, with a short, blunt blonde bob. She’s slim to the point of skinny, her cheekbones jutting out from her pale face. He notices a large bruise on her forehead, a few days old, he guesses, mottled purple and green.

  ‘Amy Miller?’ Robin asks and she nods. ‘I am DS Robin Butler, this is DC West. Can we come in?’

  Amy moves out of the way and lets them through. Her body language is wary, as most are when the police arrive courteous and polite. They know, deep down, what’s going to happen.

  ‘It’s about your husband, Jonathan. Would you like to sit?’

  Next to him, Robin notices Freya stiffen, no doubt preparing herself for the news they have to deliver.

  ‘What’s happened? He’s at work,’ the wife says, indicating the sofa opposite her. He sits down; the sofa’s large and soft and Robin finds himself sinking too far in. ‘Do you want anything to drink?’ she asks. ‘Tea, coffee?’

  ‘No. Thank you—’

  ‘What’s he done? Has he been arrested?’

  Robin struggles against the soft sofa and sits up straight on the edge. He looks Amy Miller right in the eye. ‘We’re sorry to tell you this, but your husband was found dead this morning.’

  ‘Dead? What do you mean?’ Amy looks from Robin, to Freya, back again. He’s used to a range of reactions when people find out their loved one has died: disbelief, rage, confusion. Some just melt before you, hit the floor. Amy Miller seems to be in denial. ‘It’s not him.’ She reaches for her phone. ‘I’ll call him, you’ll see. Whoever you’ve found, it’s not Jonathan.’

  ‘We have his wallet and driver’s licence. We believe it’s your husband. I’m sorry, Mrs Miller,’ Robin adds again.

  Next to him, Freya utters a quiet ‘excuse me’ and gets up from the sofa. He glances back at her as she leaves the room, hurrying towards the door. He frowns. This can’t be her first visit to notify next of kin, Robin thinks. Please don’t say his new DC can’t hack it. He’d assumed she’d be made of sterner stuff.

  But he hasn’t got time to worry about West.

  ‘What happened?’ Amy Miller’s asking again, nervously fiddling with her phone. ‘Was it a car accident? It’s probably a car accident. He’s always driven too fast, I’m always telling him to slow down.’

  ‘No, no, it wasn’t a car accident. He was found at the Premier Inn on the other side of town. Do you know why he might have been there?’

  ‘The Premier Inn?’ Robin is used to next of kin repeating his words back to him as they struggle to make sense of the news. ‘Why was he at the Premier Inn?’

  ‘Has he ever gone there before?’

  ‘No, not that I know of. Why would he go there?’ And then she asks the question Robin’s dreading. ‘How did he die?’

  Robin remembers the body. Grey, limp. Naked. The belt loose round his neck.

  ‘We believe he asphyxiated.’ He clears his throat. ‘He was found hanging in his room.’

  ‘He killed himself?’ The wife’s face is a mask of horror, eyes wide, skin white. ‘Why would he do such a thing? Did you find a note?’

  ‘No, we…’ Robin takes another breath. ‘I’m sorry to have to ask you this, but have you heard of auto-erotic asphyxiation, Mrs Miller?’

  ‘Auto what?’ the wife asks, in little more than a squeak.

  ‘It’s when the victim, usually a man, limits oxygen flow in order to gain greater sexual pleasure.’

  ‘Greater…’ Her voice trails off, and she starts to cry. Robin reaches for a tissue box on the side and hands it to her.

  The wife dabs at her eyes. ‘Was he alone?’ she asks.

  ‘We don’t know at this stage. We’re still investigating his death. Do you know if he was seeing anyone else?’ he asks quietly.

  She shakes her head, a quick movement, over and over.

  Robin waits for a moment, watching Amy Miller cry. Poor woman, he thinks. It’s a lot to take in. First the news that your husband’s dead, then that he died in such a way. Alone in an anonymous purple-tinged hotel room, cheap leather belt round your neck, wanking in order to— In order to what? he wonders. Have a slightly better orgasm? Was that worth the price he had to pay?

  ‘Do you know if your husband had tried anything like this before?’

  ‘No, that’s not something I’d want to get involved in, absolutely not,’ she replies, still staring at the floor.

  Not the question I asked, he thinks, but he lets it go.

  ‘And when did you see him last?’

  ‘Yesterday morning. He was working from home Monday, and then had a meeting at one of the other offices today so drove up last night. He works at Synaptics, in town.’ She twists the rings on her left hand and the diamond catches the light. It’s big and bulky, worth a bit, Robin guesses, not that he has any experience in these things. ‘At least, I thought that’s where he was.’

  ‘So he has a car with him?’

  ‘Yes, a black Mazda.’

  She recites the number plate, then starts crying again. Robin knows he’s not going to get much more out of her today.

  ‘Can I call someone for you?’ he asks.

  She shakes her head.

  ‘Are you sure? You shouldn’t be alone.’

  ‘I’ll call my sister after you’ve gone,’ she replies, and Robin gets up to leave.

  ‘Can I see him?’ she says, looking up at him through her tears. Her voice is wet with snot.

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Robin digs in his pocket and hands Amy a card.
‘Please call me and we’ll arrange for you to come in. You’ll need to formally identify the body.’

  The wife wipes her eyes with a corner of the tissue then scrunches it up in a small ball in the middle of her palm. She stands up, waiting next to him. He gets the feeling she wants him to leave, and he doesn’t blame her.

  ‘We’ll need to ask you some more questions later,’ Robin adds. He walks to the front door, the wife trailing behind him. ‘Before you go, do you know the unlock code for his phone? It would help us a lot at this stage. To get a picture of what he was doing before he died.’

  She nods and he hands her his notebook. She scribbles six digits inside. ‘We’ll be in touch, Mrs Miller,’ Robin finishes. ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’

  He walks outside, the front door closing behind him. Freya is standing next to her car, her back to him, looking down at her phone.

  ‘Did you see her face?’ Robin directs to her as he approaches. ‘A bit of a domestic, do you think?’

  Freya glances back when she hears Robin’s voice and he sees she’s been crying.

  He frowns at her. ‘You okay?’ he asks, confused.

  She nods, the movement quick and sudden. ‘The victim,’ she asks. ‘What did he look like?’

  He shows her a photo on his phone, a picture taken of Jonathan Miller’s driving licence. She looks at it for a second, then screws her eyes tightly shut.

  ‘Did you know him?’ Robin asks.

  She nods again.

  ‘Were you close? Should you be on this case, Freya?’

  She opens her eyes, then takes a long breath in, her vision fixed in the middle distance. Then she turns to him. ‘No, not close. I’m fine. Just a shock, that’s all.’

  Robin looks at her, unsure whether to believe her. But when she meets his gaze, she seems genuine. ‘Meet me back at the station,’ he says at last.

  Freya leaves, Robin waiting as her car goes out of sight. He turns back to the house. Amy Miller is watching him through the living room window. She raises a slow hand, then disappears, pulling the curtains shut behind her.

  Poor woman, Robin thinks. He hopes she’s got someone to call, to help her through. It’ll get worse before it gets better.

  He remembers that feeling. The initial incomprehension, the shock. Then the darkness that follows. The darkness that doesn’t fade.

  The darkness he still knows now.

  5

  Freya drives until she is out of sight of her sergeant’s car, then pulls down a side road and stops. She feels dizzy, her breathing is sharp and shallow, but there is nothing she can do to slow it down. The panic is thick.

  She holds her phone in her hand, gripping it tightly. She pulls up his contact details, but she can’t call him, she can’t take the risk. But the photo – it was him. Him. Oh god. And that was her – Jon’s wife.

  She’s never met her before, and on social media she looks different. She’s lost weight, her face narrower and her hair shorter, but now she recognises the pinched smile and the sharp nose. And Freya had never been to his house, she hadn’t known where he’d lived. It had been where she was; there hadn’t been any need.

  Freya remembers the weekend. Waiting. Sitting around, willing him to call. And now he’s dead.

  Dead.

  But how? She’s struggling to get her head around what she heard her new boss tell Amy. She’d stood outside the room, her head whirring, as Butler’s low tones gave the awful news. Auto-erotic asphyxiation? It’s too bizarre for her to take in. Jonathan – her Jon – died in an accident in some strange sex game? That isn’t him. It couldn’t be. Jon, a man who would only do it with the lights on if she forced him, trying some kinky strangulation experiment? She just can’t believe it.

  But he’s dead.

  The thought makes her body crumple. A heavy weight takes over. Her head drops, her legs feel weak. And she puts her hands on the steering wheel and cries.

  * * *

  After fifteen, maybe twenty minutes, her phone starts to buzz next to her. She stares at the screen: Butler. She knows he must be back at the station by now, wondering where she is.

  She looks out of her windscreen into the street beyond. A few people walk, hands thrust in pockets. The season has just edged into autumn, the air is colder, sky grey, colours muted. It feels apropos to her life now: he has gone. A hole has been left where he once was.

  She knows she needs to go back and tell Butler what’s going on. He’ll find out soon enough. She’ll be excused from the case, moved to work on something else and the investigation will carry on without her.

  She faced her new assignment with trepidation. Robin Butler is known by her colleagues for being brash, grumpy, rude. But a solid detective.

  ‘You’ll learn a lot from him,’ DCI Baker said. ‘Just try not to piss him off on your first day.’

  ‘How might I do that?’ she asked her colleagues.

  They laughed. ‘Breathing,’ they replied.

  She pulls down the mirror in the sun visor and tidies herself up as best she can. But she looks like she’s been crying: face puffy, eyes red. There’s not much she can do, except lick her finger and rub off the mascara under her eyes. Then she drives to the police station.

  When she gets there, Butler’s sitting at his desk, staring at the screen, twisting to and fro on his chair. His middle finger taps repeatedly on the desk like he has a slight excess of energy, the momentum at the beginning of a case making him restless.

  He sees her arrive and a frown forms. He has almost permanent ridges on his forehead, an expression so overused it’s worn creases across his face.

  ‘West,’ he begins without greeting. ‘The PC has sent over the CCTV from the Premier Inn. Need you to look at it, and try and track down traffic cams or ANPR.’ He talks fast, his gaze back on his monitor.

  ‘Sarge?’

  ‘Hmm? And I wouldn’t mind following up on that potential DV. Maybe he liked his sex a bit experimental, a bit rough. Would fit with the way he was found.’

  Freya reels. Domestic violence? Surely not. Not Jon. Butler fires instructions at her. Follow up with forensics from the hotel. Get a warrant for his medical records. Maybe speak to his friends, family, cover off all lines of enquiry and see if he was suicidal.

  ‘You think he might have done this deliberately?’ Freya stutters.

  ‘I don’t know, maybe.’ Butler’s head is down; he’s looking at the phone in his hand, typing numbers through the see-through plastic evidence bag. ‘Ah, here we go. Wife was right. We’re in.’

  Freya sits down next to him and looks over his shoulder as he navigates the screen. She knows she needs to say something. Now. In mere seconds her superior officer is going to discover her name, her messages. He’s going to know she was having an affair with the victim. But her lips are dry; she can’t seem to open her mouth.

  The office is noisy. Rows of desks and computers, detectives talking, shouting to each other across the room. She makes a small sound, trying to attract his attention but he doesn’t notice, too focused on the phone.

  She watches as he clicks on WhatsApp, selecting the first message. She recognises the text, sent by her on Monday morning. Are you okay? she wrote, desperate to hear from him after a silent weekend. Call me. Xx

  Butler scrolls back; other messages appear on the screen. Freya knows there will be nothing there about their get-together on Friday – they’d made those arrangements in person the week before. But the messages are revealing of their affair: some of them loving, others slightly dirty. Not much though, Freya knows. Gentle suggestions, nothing too lewd. Jon wouldn’t have liked that. But— her brain screams, look how he died!

  ‘So he was seeing someone on the side,’ Butler observes. ‘No name.’ He shows her the screen, and it’s a row of digits. Jon hadn’t entered the number in his contacts, he’d been that wary. ‘Let’s try it.’

  Butler picks up the desk phone and looks from one to the other, carefully punching in the numbers. Freya knows
where that phone is now. On silent. In her bag. A second mobile, given to her by Jon when they started seeing each other. ‘My own private line,’ he’d joked. Then more seriously, ‘Keep the voicemail anonymous. Never leave your name. I can’t have Amy finding out who you are.’

  She watches as Butler listens. She knows it’ll be ringing, then cutting to voicemail. He puts the phone down, his face disappointed.

  ‘No message?’ she asks.

  ‘The answerphone was generic, no clue who this belongs to,’ he replies.

  He sits back in his chair, thinking. Freya stays mute. Tell him, the voice in her head says. Tell him.

  ‘Accidental death?’ he mutters, half to himself. ‘Do you think? If we have nothing that indicates suicide and nobody was there with him, then what else could it be?’

  Freya knows what he’s saying, but something about this feels very wrong. The Jon she knew wasn’t this guy. This man, dead in a hotel room, a leather belt round his neck. ‘We need to be sure,’ she manages to say.

  Her boss looks at her. ‘How well did you know him, West?’ he asks.

  This is it. Tell him. Excuse herself from the case, leave him to it. But what if this isn’t an accidental death? What if it’s something more sinister? Freya knows this weekend he was going to leave his wife. His wife, who had threatened him in the past, who Freya knows he was wary of. Freya joked about it on Friday night, and the thought of this haunts her. What if she did kill him?

  Freya knows the mere idea is ridiculous, but she also knows that only she has this insight. What if Butler isn’t as good a detective as people say he is? What if he just lets it go, does a half-arsed investigation, puts it down to an accident and leaves it at that?

  And her new sergeant has no way of knowing the identity of the mystery woman in Jonathan Miller’s life.

  ‘Hardly at all,’ she replies. She turns away from Butler, feeling her body grow hot. ‘I’ll get on to forensics,’ she says. ‘Get them moving.’

  ‘Great, you do that,’ he replies.

  Just like that, the lies are in place. And Freya knows there is no return.