Last Place You Look Page 6

  He’s seen her around the station many times before. Chatting, laughing with other DCs, swinging that mane of blonde hair around. Since she’s been working for him, she’s been silent. Sullen even. Is that his effect on people, Robin thinks, even after one day?

  ‘So, what?’ he says, trying to get Freya’s attention again. ‘Miller googles erotic asphyxiation on the Sunday night, then decides to try it on the Monday? Wouldn’t you want to give it a bit more thought before you choked yourself in a hotel room?’

  Freya cringes at his words. ‘Perhaps somebody mentioned it at the party on Friday night,’ she suggests.

  ‘That would be quite a topic of conversation,’ Robin replies. ‘Although who knows what these banker types talk about after a few glasses of champagne.’ He remembers the list of guests provided by Amy Miller and passes it across to Freya without looking at it. ‘Follow up on these guys. And the sister for the alibi from Monday night.’

  He adds another note on the board: Interview Khalid Riaz.

  ‘We’ll go tomorrow,’ he says, drawing her attention to the last action. ‘Give him a call, set something up, will you?’

  Freya nods, slumping back on her chair and picking up the phone. Robin stares at her. Her normally glossy hair seems lank and unwashed, her face drawn. He knows he looks like crap at the best of times, but she’s winning the award today.

  ‘Freya,’ he whispers, getting her attention as she talks on the phone. He holds up his mug, silently asking her if she wants coffee. Making an effort. She smiles, her face tight, and holds her hand in a thumbs up.

  It’s the first smile he’s seen from her all day, but he’ll take it.

  11

  Amy’s hands are still shaking an hour later. She gets back from the police station, shuts the front door behind her, then stands in her hallway, breathing heavily. She’s home. She can relax now.

  She walks through to the kitchen and puts the kettle on. She takes a teabag from the cupboard, camomile and lemon, carefully putting it in a mug, the tag hanging over the left-hand side, handle on the right. As the kettle boils she mentally runs through the conversation with the detective.

  She doesn’t like him. He shows little understanding for her, his generic sympathetic words ringing insincere in her ears. She guesses him about the same age as Jonathan was, maybe slightly older, but unlike Jonathan he has marked frown lines between his eyebrows, mouth always turned down. She felt him watching her, judging, with those unnerving brown-green eyes.

  She picks up her mobile and clicks on the top number in her recent calls. She listens to it ring three, four times, then it’s answered, the woman’s voice slow and tired.

  ‘It’s early, Amy,’ her sister says. Amy’s unsurprised by her sister’s coldness; their relationship has never been easy. But Amy has nobody else to speak to – their mother is dead, she has no friends. And whose fault is that? Amy can almost hear her sister comment.

  ‘I’ve just got back from my police interview,’ Amy replies. ‘They think it was me.’

  A sigh at the other end of the phone. Amy hears the rustling of bedcovers, knows her sister has probably just woken up, even though it’s nearly lunchtime.

  ‘Why would they think that?’ she asks patiently.

  ‘The questions he asked, the look on his face.’ Amy pours the boiled water into her mug then carries it to sit at the kitchen table. ‘They’re going to be in contact with you to check we were out for dinner Monday night.’

  ‘Fine.’ More rustling. ‘The restaurant will confirm too, Amy. They say he died on Monday, right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, then. You have nothing to worry about.’ A pause. ‘How are you doing?’

  ‘I’m…’ Amy feels her throat narrow and takes a deep breath in. ‘I’m fine. Considering. Can you come over tonight?’

  ‘I can’t, I’m sorry. I’m working at the club. Tomorrow?’

  Amy agrees and hangs up.

  She wraps her hands round the mug, taking solace from its heat. She thinks about phoning Kal, but knows he won’t take the call, and wonders when the police might be speaking to him. What will he say, about her and Jonathan? Did he know about the affair?

  She listens to the silent house – there is nothing except the slow tick from the clock on the wall, the hum from the refrigerator. Is this how it’s going to be now? Time, stretching out, with nothing to occupy her? Work have signed her off for a fortnight, and Amy knows there are probably things she should be doing. People to notify about Jonathan’s death, paperwork to fill in. A funeral to arrange. But she assumes it won’t be for a while, now that they’re going to do a post-mortem.

  Just procedure, the detective said. And the thought of it makes her hands shake again.

  Her phone rings in front of her, making her jump. She’s jolted the mug, and a splash of tea has hit the tabletop, leaving a yellow puddle. No Caller ID. The police again? But she answers the phone.

  ‘Mrs Miller? This is the doctor’s surgery. We wanted to call you as soon as possible. Your results are back.’

  It’s a woman, kind voice, talking slowly. ‘Results?’ Amy asks.

  ‘Yes, from your blood tests? The fertility results?’

  ‘Oh! Yes.’ How could that have escaped her mind? The police interview must have rattled her more than she’d thought.

  ‘It’s good news, Mrs Miller. Your progesterone levels came back within expected limits, confirming an ovulatory cycle. So there’s nothing here that would indicate anything other than normal fertility at this stage.’

  ‘And my husband’s results? Jonathan Miller.’

  ‘Oh, er…’ There’s a pause and tapping on a keyboard. ‘Nothing back yet for Mr Miller, I’m afraid. We’ll call as soon as something comes through. And then it might be worth us booking an ultrasound, check your ovarian reserve. Explore other reasons why you might be having trouble conceiving.’

  Amy thanks the woman, then hangs up.

  Normal. The relief floods through her. And even though Jonathan’s results aren’t back yet, she knows what they’ll say. It was him. His fault. She takes a celebratory sip of her cooling tea, a smile on her face.

  She was right.

  12

  It’s late by the time Robin makes it home, doing a messy parallel park in the road outside his house, key in the door, shoes carelessly discarded into the cupboard under the stairs. His first port of call is the fridge. He picks up a bottle of beer, opens it, then downs it almost in one, standing there with the fridge door open. He leaves the empty bottle on the side then takes out another and carries it up the stairs to his bedroom to get changed.

  Something still feels wrong about this case, but he can’t put his finger on what. Yes, everything is lining up as it should. Nothing contradicts the wife’s story. The hotel have confirmed she was at work all day on the Monday; Freya was going to follow up with the sister, calling in to interview her on her way home, and check the restaurant they apparently went to. They’ve even spoken to the Domino’s delivery guy from the Saturday night – one large pizza, half and half (Mighty Meaty on one side, Chicken Feast on the other), and a side of garlic bread. All delivered Saturday night at 7:54.

  He takes his shirt off, pulling it over his head still done up, and throws it towards the washing basket. It misses, falling in an untidy heap on the floor, and he leaves it there, with a lone sock from yesterday’s attempt.

  His phone starts to ring, and he looks at it. Liam, it says on the screen, and he silences it then puts it back down on the bed where it continues to buzz angrily. Eventually it stops, and he waits, slowly undoing the belt on his trousers, until it beeps again, showing a new voicemail.

  ‘Sod off,’ he mutters at it. ‘Take the fucking hint.’

  He’s paused, glaring at the phone, and now looks at the belt in his hand. It’s a normal black leather belt – a buckle at one end, holes at the other. The same type he knows Jonathan Miller used that night. He pulls it out of his trousers and holds it, lo
oking at the buckle, then at his own closed bedroom door.

  He takes a few tentative steps towards the door. It has a hook on the back, the same as the one in the hotel. What was going through Jonathan Miller’s head that day?

  He picks up his beer again and finishes it, then replaces the empty bottle on the side. He feels a pleasant buzz from the alcohol, two bottles drunk in quick succession on an empty stomach. He looks at the belt again.

  Slowly, he threads one end through, holding the buckle in his left hand, the loose end in his right. He looks at it, thinking. Did Miller have the buckle at the back or the front of his neck? His mind goes to that awful crime scene, the belt tight under his chin. The back.

  He lifts the belt and puts it over his head. The leather is hard and uncomfortable as he pulls the buckle tight. He feels slightly foolish, slightly silly. How did Miller feel on that Monday evening? Was he excited, nervous? Turned on?

  Robin’s cold, his shirt off, in his empty bedroom. Miller was completely naked, not something Robin’s about to do, still in his trousers and socks, but it makes him wonder. The hotel room was cold, the aircon on high. If anything, wouldn’t Jonathan Miller have turned it down?

  Belt still round his neck, loose end in his hand, Robin looks back at the door hook. How did Miller get it to stay up? Did he do a knot first, secure it in place, then put the noose over his neck? Or the noose first, then over the door hook?

  He decides on the former, and takes the belt off his neck, tying a single knot in the end. Because of the stiff leather it holds fast, and he walks over to the door and puts it over the hook. He pulls, first tentatively, and then with more of his weight. The leather creaks, but it doesn’t move.

  Then, without thinking, he slips the noose over his head.

  There’s not much room to move, but slowly he places his bare back against the cold door and lowers himself into a squat, then a crouch. The leather feels tight; already he can feel the pressure on his throat. It’s uncomfortable, but not painful. He can still breathe easily.

  Until his feet slip.

  The force is sudden, cutting off all his air. He scrabbles frantically with his fingers at the belt, his legs kicking out, trying to get purchase on the carpeted floor. He feels his nails claw at the noose, tight, too tight, vision starting to blur, trying to get his feet back under him, push himself up.

  And then, as quickly as it started, he finds himself prostrate on the ground. He pulls at the belt and manages to get his fingers under the leather, tugging it away from his neck. He takes big gasps of oxygen, then coughs uncontrollably, his throat aching, lying on his back on the carpet. He looks up through watering eyes at the door. The hook has snapped off; a piece of sheared metal lies by his side.

  He sits up slowly, heart beating hard, and takes the now loose belt from his neck, throwing it on the floor. He runs his fingers under his jaw. It’s sore and rough, and he can feel a slight raised ridge where the belt must have cut in.

  Fuck. What a fucking idiot. A better-engineered hook, and that would have been it. A fate like Miller’s.

  He pulls himself up on wobbling legs, then sits on the edge of the bed, breathing heavily. He looks down at the belt, the knot still in the end, and remembers Jonathan Miller. A bit more luck, and the guy would have been fine. Embarrassed maybe, as Robin is, but okay. And now look at him. Dead in a mortuary, ready to go under Steph Harper’s knife.

  Robin stands up and puts a T-shirt on, then changes into a pair of tracksuit bottoms. He grabs the discarded shirt and stray sock, putting them in the laundry basket, followed by the trousers, then picks up the fated belt to put it in the wardrobe.

  But something stops him. He holds the buckle in his hand again – in his left hand. He remembers when he put it over his head, it ended up on that side, just behind his left ear and facing towards the right. But Jonathan Miller’s?

  He races downstairs and picks up his bag and the file, the crime scene photos inside. He pulls them out and looks through them, until he finds what he’s looking for. Even allowing for the camera angle, the buckle faces the other way, towards the left-hand side.

  Assuming Jonathan Miller was right-handed, as most people are, same as him. And assuming Miller had gone with the same action, holding it in his left hand, pushing the end through the buckle, putting the noose over his head. Assuming all of this, the buckle would have been on the left, facing towards the right.

  How might this have happened? He turns the belt round in his hand. It’s awkward, it feels unnatural. Why would Miller have reversed the belt?

  But then the thought makes Robin stop still, standing in his hallway. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, face pale, red bruise already visible, rising painfully on his neck. What if someone had been in front of him and had put the belt over his head?

  The answer is suddenly clear: the buckle would have been reversed, if someone else had been there.

  13

  Thursday

  Freya meets him at the train station. Robin notes she’s looking better this morning – hair washed, eyes brighter – although still unmistakably tired. She greets him with a puzzled, ‘What happened to your neck?’

  ‘Don’t ask,’ he mutters, trying to pull the collar of his coat higher. He knows how bad it looks – he woke with an angry red and blue welt under his chin, and there’s little he can do to hide it.

  She stares at it, curiously. ‘Did you try—’ she starts, but he cuts her off.

  ‘I said don’t bloody ask,’ he growls. ‘Now go and get some coffee.’

  He watches as she goes off to the café, hair swishing down her back. He’s annoyed at having to trek all the way into London to see this Kal. Apparently too busy to come to the police station. Robin was damned if he was going to let this guy off scot-free, so off they go.

  Freya returns with the coffees, just as the train rushes into the platform. They fight the commuters to two cramped seats, Freya next to the window, Robin sticking his legs out into the aisle. She gives her coffee to Robin to hold and rests her bag on her lap.

  ‘So, Khalid Riaz,’ she starts, pulling the case file out of her bag, as the train rattles out of the station. ‘Hedge fund manager, has worked at Sterling and Blake for twelve years, Goldman Sachs before that. Graduated 2001, same year as Jonathan Miller. They both studied economics.’

  ‘Okay,’ Robin says, passing her coffee back and looking over her shoulder at her scribbled notes. They’re pushed close together, and he gets a waft of her perfume, something delicate and floral. He puts his coffee up to his nose and takes a sip through the plastic lid, trying to block out the feeling the scent induces in him. What is it about women? he thinks. They always smell so bloody nice.

  ‘Best man at Miller’s wedding. All over social media, see?’ Freya holds her phone up in front of his face. He takes it, scrolling through the many photos this man posts: people, darkened clubs, women laughing.

  ‘Quite a social life,’ he replies, handing it back.

  ‘Exactly. What do you think he’ll be like?’

  ‘Arrogant prick, probably.’

  ‘Does he have a girlfriend, do you think?’ Freya adds.

  ‘Probably has many,’ Robin comments. ‘Men like him.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘You know. Attractive, money. Women love it.’

  ‘Do they?’ Freya gives him an amused look. ‘You know a lot about women, do you, Sarge?’

  ‘Only my limited experience.’

  ‘Limited? I’d have thought you got a lot of interest,’ Freya says. ‘All that brooding and scowling.’

  Robin rolls his eyes at her, reluctantly enjoying her teasing. It’s clear that being away from the formality of the police station is doing their working relationship the world of good. After the tension of the last few days, Freya seems to have relaxed.

  ‘I don’t brood,’ he replies, only too conscious of the frown on his face. Freya chuckles quietly.

  He looks around the carriage. No one seem
s to be paying them much attention, but you can never be sure. ‘We shouldn’t be discussing this here.’

  ‘Oh, okay, yes.’ Freya’s voice lowers to a loud whisper. ‘Do you want to see my list of questions?’

  ‘Go on then.’

  She pulls out a piece of A4 paper and passes it to him. Neat lines typed and printed out. As he reads it, she pulls a Tube map out of her pocket.

  ‘Jubilee line to Canary Wharf,’ she says.

  ‘These are good,’ he confirms, handing the questions back. They are, and Robin feels guilty – he hasn’t even thought about it. He’s more of a wing-it-on-the-day sort of man. ‘How did the interview go with the sister last night?’

  ‘Yeah, as Amy Miller said. They met about seven thirty, Côte Brasserie on the High Street. Drinks and three courses, left at ten. I’m waiting for the restaurant to confirm, but seems tight. And I went to see the Millers’ neighbours this morning.’

  ‘You’ve been busy,’ Robin says, impressed.

  ‘Not that they were much use.’ Freya refers back to her notes. ‘Left-hand side, number six, were away. They do the same every week and are never around Thursday to Monday. Right side, number ten, is vacant. Rented. Last people left two months ago. No houses built opposite, yet.’

  ‘So nobody saw anything?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Robin closes his eyes and leans his head back against the seat. The thought about the backwards belt still echoes in his head, but he’s tired and the movement of the train is lulling him into a stupor. Next to him, Freya seems to have taken the hint and is quiet. He feels her leg resting against his, knows he’s probably taking up more than his allotted space on their seats, but he’s warm and sleepy and can’t be bothered to move.

  He wakes with a jolt as the train gets into Waterloo. He glances at Freya; she’s staring at him with an amused smile.

  ‘Was I snoring?’ he asks, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.