Last Place You Look Read online

  6

  Robin replaces the phone in its evidence bag on the desk, looking at it thoughtfully. He briefly wonders if the unknown messenger might be a man, maybe someone still keeping their sexuality a secret, but no. The style of the writing, some of the things they discuss. It does seem to be a woman.

  And he really wants to speak to her. Find out if this sort of thing, this sexual experimentation, was normal for Jonathan Miller. But it’ll have to wait for now. Follow it from the beginning, he tells himself.

  He clicks on his email, finds the one he’s looking for and loads it up. It’s a message from the manager of the Premier Inn: CCTV file from the car park attached, list of guests and times and rooms to follow. Plus the electronic log of the room key. The ins and outs from that night. He starts with that.

  Room key issued Monday 17:05. Room 303 accessed 17:12. Then nothing again until Tuesday at just past midday, when he knows the maid went inside. What a thing to find. Another unwitting victim of this man’s death.

  He loads up the CCTV footage. This is all they have. There are no cameras in the lobby, nothing in the endless corridors. And this footage is grainy. He presses the forward button until Monday at half four. It’s black and white, hard to see what’s going on, and he squints as a few cars drive in and out of the square of concrete.

  And then he spots it. Jonathan Miller’s black Mazda 3. It glides in slowly, stopping on the right-hand side. He looks over at Freya. She has her head down, seemingly staring at her keyboard.

  ‘West?’ he says. She doesn’t reply. ‘Freya?’

  She looks up quickly. ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Miller’s Mazda is in the Premier Inn car park, can you get it impounded?’

  ‘Sure, yep,’ she replies, and he frowns. What is it with her? he wonders. Is she normally like this?

  He presses play again, and watches as a door opens and a figure gets out. It’s dark, it’s hard to see their face, but Robin guesses from their broad shoulders, their clothes – a black hooded jacket and jeans – that it’s a man. It’s the same rain jacket Robin remembers seeing in the hotel room, some expensive North Face thing. The man walks quickly towards the reception of the Premier Inn and is gone.

  So he walked through, used the self-service machine to check in, then up in the lift to the hotel room. And from there – nothing. The night manager didn’t see him, the people in room 304 next door heard nothing, and the other side, 302, was newly vacant.

  And then the maid started screaming Tuesday lunchtime.

  Robin sits back and loads the footage taken from the body-worn camera of the PC arriving first at the scene. It’s jerky, but Robin can clearly make out what happened as Jonathan Miller’s body was found.

  A hand on the wooden door. A push, a hard push, for the PC to get into the room. Robin can see the force needed, and knows what the obstacle was behind the door. He sees the camera move as the PC turns, showing the paramedic just behind him.

  And there it is. A naked body hanging from the back of the door, leather pulled taut, legs crumpled up underneath. The belt is looped around the coat hook on the back of the door, buckle threaded through the belt, then looped round his neck, pulling upward by the side of his face. It digs in hard to his neck, leaving a ridge. His feet are still on the floor – he wasn’t a tall man, and the coat hook not high, but the weight of his body was obviously enough to kill him. Head slightly to one side, mouth open, swollen tongue protruding.

  What a way to go, Robin thinks. Hardly dignified. He picks up his empty mug and walks to the kitchen, thinking. What was going through Jonathan Miller’s mind that day? Had he done it before? And why go there? A sodding Premier Inn, of all places?

  While the kettle boils, he spoons instant coffee into his mug, then picks it up, looking at the yellow pigtailed character on the side. Little Miss Sunshine, it says, a present from last Christmas’ Secret Santa. He took it in good grace, the sarcasm clear, mentally trying to work out with a forced smile which one of his dickhead colleagues had given it to him. But strangely, he’s found himself using it every day since, hoping the optimism might permeate through.

  The kettle clicks off and he pours the water in. He goes to the fridge and tentatively sniffs the semi-skimmed, then swears. ‘Black again then,’ he mumbles with a scowl, then looks at Little Miss Sunshine. Not working today, are you, love? he thinks. He carries his mug back to his desk.

  Had Miller planned to stay at the Premier Inn overnight? He’d lied to his wife, saying he was away with work, so maybe he’d reckoned on having a little fun, then inviting his mistress over after. Robin picks up the mobile phone again, scans the call log and the messages, but there’s nothing for that day.

  Perhaps this was as simple as an accidental death. Robin looks at the files littering his desk, at the other investigations ongoing when he got the call to come out to this one. Homeless guy, found dead in the street (probably natural causes, waiting for post-mortem). A series of seemingly random break-ins in empty houses across the city, resulting in potential burglary and criminal damage. Plus numerous others.

  And now Jonathan Miller. Experimenting with a new sexual practice in a hotel room, and royally buggering it up.

  Poor guy, he thinks again. And his poor wife.

  His phone buzzes and he looks at the text. Drink? Tonight? From Steph Harper. Not a bad proposition, although whenever she gets in touch he’s never sure what her intentions are. Still, he thinks, as he replies sorting out a time and place, as long as she doesn’t want to choke him with a belt, he’s happy.

  * * *

  Robin first met Dr Steph Harper, forensic pathologist, at a crime scene four years ago. It was hardly the start of a brilliant friendship. The guy in pieces in front of them had blown his head off with a shotgun. There was no brain left, let alone a pulse, and Steph was annoyed at being called out at two a.m.

  ‘You don’t need me to determine cause of death,’ she snapped from behind the white crime scene mask. She pulled the plastic gloves off and stalked back to her car.

  Robin didn’t see her again for another year, but she remembered him, smiling a greeting as they both turned up at a suspicious death. A man, knife wound, gut split open in the street. She was nicer that time, meeting with him after and patiently answering all his questions. Then she invited him out for a drink.

  Sometimes she had a boyfriend, sometimes she didn’t. It didn’t seem to matter. Sometimes they went back to her place, sometimes they didn’t do anything at all, merely parting with a chaste kiss in the doorway. Robin didn’t really care. She was fun to be around, and she understood a cop’s black humour.

  And tonight he is grateful for the company. He doesn’t want to go home, the sight of Jonathan Miller’s naked corpse dwelling on his mind.

  He is at the bar, ordering their next drinks. Pint of ale for him, G and T for her. He idly looks at the menu; the food’s good here, they should order something. He puts the menu under his arm and carries it back to the table, drink in each hand.

  The pub’s nice, a regular haunt for them both. Low, squashy, dark brown leather sofas. Battered oak tables. Large mirrors, in rusted metal frames. Smart, but not so smart he feels awkward turning up messy straight from work.

  Steph’s been telling him about the post-mortem she carried out that day, a drug overdose in one of the local parks. Sixteen-year-old kid, such a waste.

  ‘And I heard about your guy,’ she finishes. ‘My colleague had the wife in at six to identify the body.’

  ‘Amy Miller?’ Steph nods. ‘How did she behave?’ Robin flags down a passing waiter and orders a sharing plate for them both. Mezze, or some other pretentious name for a bit of houmous and some flatbread, but he can’t stomach proper food after the previous two pints of beer.

  ‘He said, much as you’d expect. Pale, crying, nothing out of the ordinary. Did she know what he was into?’

  ‘Interviewing her tomorrow. But I’m guessing not from what she said today.’

  He looks at St
eph in the low lighting. Even after all this time, he doesn’t know much about her. He guesses she’s younger than him: she’s in better shape by far. He knows she runs triathlons: muscular shoulders, flat stomach, low fat percentage. Unlike him, he thinks, feeling the pints sloshing in his belly.

  ‘Poor woman,’ Steph comments, repeating Robin’s own thoughts. ‘Imagine arranging a funeral for a husband who died trying to get his rocks off in that way. What makes a man do that?’ She stares at him pointedly over her G and T.

  ‘Don’t look at me!’ he protests. ‘I’ll tell you now, if you ever find me dead in that way, make sure you investigate properly. It’ll be murder for sure.’

  ‘You don’t fancy it then?’ She takes a sip from her drink, her eyes amused.

  ‘What? Wrapping a belt round my neck and sitting naked on a scratchy hotel carpet, wanking off to some shitty porn?’

  ‘That’s how you found him?’

  ‘Yeah, limp dick and all.’

  Robin stops as the waiter brings the food out to the table.

  ‘Limp dick?’ Steph repeats, and the waiter flashes them a look before he leaves. Robin pulls off a piece of bread and dips it in the houmous. He puts it in his mouth, watching her. She seems deep in thought. ‘You sure it’s an accidental death?’ she adds.

  He frowns. ‘Why?’

  ‘Just that… normally in these cases there’s still some sign of an erection.’

  ‘Even on the deceased?’

  ‘Yeah.’ She pauses, looks at him. ‘Body still around?’

  ‘On ice. You want to take a look?’

  ‘I’ll have a word with the coroner. Get it transferred to me tomorrow.’

  Robin chews thoughtfully. ‘Don’t take too long on it,’ he says, through a full mouth. ‘I mean, there’s nothing suspicious there.’

  But he doubts himself. He wonders whether he should have called a pathologist to the scene rather than just the ambulance service attending as is usual procedure with sudden deaths. Maybe he should have upgraded it to a category one, but it didn’t seem dodgy. It didn’t look like any offence had been committed.

  His own words echo in his head – make sure you investigate properly.

  They go back to her place. They have perfunctory sex: more like scratching an itch than high-level eroticism. But Robin can’t bear to think about doing anything adventurous, not after poor old dead Miller, and Steph propositioned him with the words, ‘Fancy a quickie, then?’ so she couldn’t have been expecting anything earth-shattering either.

  She goes into the bathroom after, still naked, making no effort to cover herself up, and Robin wonders why neither of them has made the move to get together properly. He likes her, she seems to like him, so why not?

  But as she comes back to the bed, he stays quiet.

  ‘You staying?’ she asks, pulling the duvet across her.

  ‘Do you mind? I can’t be arsed to get a cab this time of night.’

  She leans over and kisses him on the cheek. ‘Just don’t snore, Butler.’

  She’s the closest thing to a relationship he’s had in years. He’s had girlfriends in the past, before, but something stops him from getting too close. He sighs, then rolls over in the bed, listening to Steph’s steady breathing next to him, knowing he’s far away from sleep. It’s not a fucking mystery, he thinks. Any two-bob shrink could get to the bottom of his intimacy problems within minutes. He should make an effort to sort himself out.

  But in a way, he likes it. He nurses the ball of misery in his body like a lurking teratoma, reluctant to get it removed. It’s a part of him now, fully formed. Something, he knows, that’s staying for good.

  7

  Somehow, Freya gets through the day. Butler stays busy, barking instructions at her every now and again. Normally a brusque style like her sergeant’s would get to her, but today his lack of care is welcomed. Any proper attention he put her way and she’d crumple – game over.

  Once she gets home, she sheds her clothes quickly, as if trying to discard the day, pulling a T-shirt over her head. She shuts the curtains, climbs into bed. She feels tired, so very tired, but her body can’t relax, like it knows something is missing. That he is missing.

  She gets up, walks quickly down the stairs in the cold to the kitchen. She plucks a bottle of wine from the fridge, not caring which one, quickly opens the screw top and grabs a wine glass from the cupboard. She carries it back to her bed, then pours a full glass, taking frantic gulp after gulp, not even tasting it.

  She remembers that last time she saw him, in this very bed. Her mind tries to recall everything they spoke about, every word, every nuance, hoping to remember something that will make what happened make sense. But it doesn’t.

  He said he was going to leave his wife. But clearly he’d made no move towards that – Amy Miller knew nothing. Jon said he loved Freya, but he’d died trying something he’d never even come close to hinting he enjoyed.

  Freya finishes the glass, pours another. She remembers when they first met. Summer, over a year ago. A mutual friend’s barbecue. He was there alone, so was she, and they started talking, instantly hitting it off. She liked the way he laughed: soft, self-deprecating. His complete lack of arrogance was refreshing, and she was gutted when she realised he was married, with the ring to prove it. Yet, there he was a week later, bumping into her in Waitrose.

  ‘It must be fate,’ he said. ‘Do you fancy a coffee?’

  Yes, she did. And she fancied him. And apart from that first offer, she was the one to pursue their relationship. He backed away, more times than she could count. I can’t, we can’t, my wife… Even before anything had happened.

  Then, one day, it did.

  They met up to go for a walk. Still pretending things were innocent. Cold winter air, a deserted forest, a gravel track meandering through. We’re just mates, she’d say to her friends. Until his face was close, his hand holding hers as he helped her over a stile, and she leaned forward for that final few inches and kissed him.

  The connection was instant. But even then they waited before having sex. The first time, they were at her house. Dinner cooked at home – they couldn’t go out, too much risk – dessert finished. He was chivalrous, constantly asking is this okay, can we do this? She was desperate for him; he could have done anything, she wouldn’t have minded, but he was more reserved. Usually in a bed, preferably at hers. Curtains closed, eyes shut. Maybe in the shower. Blow jobs were okay, finger up the arse definitely not. He liked her underwear lacy but classic black or white. Orgasms were quiet, stifled groans in the dark. But she was happy. Always happy.

  Freya hasn’t seen the crime scene photos or the video of the BWV from the PC who found him. Maybe if she saw them she would start to believe what has happened, but for now everything seems too surreal.

  She gropes for her phone, picking it up in the dark and scrolling to Twitter. She searches for his username then loads his tweets. Jon wasn’t prolific, only posting occasionally. She took some solace from knowing what he was doing when she wasn’t with him, even if it was information shared with the whole of the internet.

  One from Friday night – a close-up, Jon’s grinning face next to a dark-skinned guy. She knows this is Kal, his best friend, and reads the text below.

  Happy 40th mate!! So happy to celebrate with you. #gettingold #oldman #bestmates

  She stares at Jon’s bright blue eyes, willing him to materialise out of the photograph. How can you be gone? she thinks. You were just here. She wonders if anyone has told Kal yet, and knows they’ll need to interview him.

  She keeps scrolling, but the remaining photo is dull. A shot of some trees, a path through the woods. Walk with Amy is the only caption, followed by a tree emoji. She stares at it, desperate to know what happened that weekend.

  They’d had a plan. Jon was going to talk to Amy, tell her he was leaving, and then call her. She’d imagined him arriving at hers, suitcase in hand, and they’d have spent the rest of the weekend together. Talking,
laughing, shagging. So much time to play with. The whole of their lives from that point on, together.

  So what happened? What happened?? the voice in her head screams. With frustration she throws her phone to the floor, hearing it thump onto the carpet next to her discarded wine glass and the empty bottle. She pushes her face hard into the pillow as the sadness overwhelms her. She doesn’t try to stop it now; the wine has unlocked something and she howls until her voice is hoarse.

  Then she curls up, her legs tucked tight into her stomach. The room lurches slightly from the alcohol, her stomach empty, her body a shell. And at last, she falls asleep.

  8

  Wednesday

  Amy Miller seems thinner than he remembers, shrunken in on herself since learning of her husband’s death. She cradles a large takeaway Costa coffee; Robin can smell the tempting aroma, desperate for one himself.

  But her hair is brushed and styled, her smart black trousers and shirt expensive-looking and clean. She arrived on time, which is more than he can say for West. Freya texted an excuse this morning claiming she’d been throwing up all night. Something she ate, sleeping it off, hopefully in later.

  Robin could do with a nap himself. Steph prodded him awake much too early this morning, already dressed in her running gear. She told him to let himself out, she was going for a long one. Ten miles, she said, and he squinted at her in the morning half-light, vibrant and already bouncing on the balls of her feet. He rolled over in bed, feeling tired and old.

  But she texted as he arrived at the station and confirmed that the coroner had given their plans the okay. She’d been in contact with the undertakers, making arrangements for Jonathan Miller to be transferred to her mortuary.

  While they sit in the family room in the police station, he explains this to the wife.

  ‘I thought you said he wouldn’t need a post-mortem,’ she asks him.

  ‘Sometimes the coroner asks for one if the cause of death is uncertain,’ he replies, and she looks confused.