Last Place You Look Read online

  ‘Only mildly,’ she says, swinging her bag over her shoulder as they get off the train, setting off at a brisk pace down the platform to the Tube.

  It’s a simple journey and they arrive in plenty of time. Robin looks up at the shiny glass building.

  ‘So this is the private sector then?’ he observes.

  ‘You’ve never fancied it?’ Freya asks.

  ‘What would I do?’ Robin points to the security guy in black, outside the main entrance. ‘I’d be that guy. Hardly going to be one of the bankers, am I?’

  Freya pauses, watching a man leave in a smartly tailored pinstriped suit. She looks back at Robin. He didn’t even iron his shirt this morning.

  ‘I guess not,’ she says, quietly.

  They approach the building and show the security guy their warrant cards. He lets them inside and they walk up to the massive reception desk, where a woman smiles broadly.

  ‘We’re here to see Khalid Riaz,’ Robin says, showing his badge again. ‘He’s expecting us.’

  She prints out ID, points towards the bank of lifts. ‘Twenty-first floor,’ she says. ‘I’ll call up.’

  The lifts are see-through and open, and Robin watches as Freya presses her nose to the glass as they ascend, looking out across the vista of London. It’s impressive, he can’t deny that, but he’s happier standing against the back wall. He resists the urge to hug the floor, choosing to close his eyes instead, trying to pretend he’s not miles up in the air.

  The doors open silently; another woman is waiting for them. She doesn’t check who they are, obvious in contrast to the corporate suits and grey shift dresses, and hurries them along the corridor.

  ‘Kal has a meeting in half an hour, so he can’t talk to you for long.’

  Robin pauses at the door. ‘It’ll take as long as we need,’ he replies sharply.

  Khalid Riaz is exactly as he expected. He smiles a broad grin at them both, white teeth against dark skin, neat black hair and a perfect suit. His silver tiepin is probably worth more than everything Robin is wearing. He holds out his hand and Robin shakes it: firm, but not the bone-cracking style that Robin’s experienced in the past from men like the one in front of him.

  ‘Call me Kal,’ he says, flashing a charming smile at Freya. Robin notices she simpers slightly, head tilted flirtatiously to the side, before catching his look and stopping herself. Kal gestures to the two seats in front and they sit down, Kal going back to his own chair behind the desk.

  ‘Incredible view,’ Freya remarks.

  London is particularly beautiful that day. The sun casts a glow on the buildings around them, making the glass dazzle like diamonds, the sky a perfect blue.

  ‘Good, huh?’ Kal says, and even Robin has to admit it’s stunning. ‘The people I had to fuck to get this office,’ he laughs. Robin stares at him, and he looks slightly chagrined. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbles. ‘Anyway, how can I help you? You said on the phone it was about Jonathan’s death. I thought that was sorted?’

  ‘Sorted, how?’ Robin asks.

  ‘Well, you know.’ Kal’s caught off guard. ‘You know what happened.’

  ‘We’re exploring all possibilities.’ Robin pauses. He likes the silence and he can tell it unnerves Kal. ‘When was the last time you saw Mr Miller?’

  ‘At my party, Friday night. It was my fortieth.’

  ‘And this was the party at King’s Wine Bar in Winchester?’

  ‘Yes. I rented out the whole place.’

  ‘What time did Jonathan arrive?’

  Kal frowns, looks skyward. ‘Not sure. Late. It was in full swing by the time they got there – Jonny and Amy.’

  ‘So…?’

  ‘About nine-ish?’

  ‘And what did you talk about?’

  ‘Talk about?’

  Robin knows what he’s doing, repeating the questions, deliberately stalling for time to think. ‘Yes, at the party,’ he repeats slowly, as if talking to an annoying child. ‘What did you and Jonathan and Amy talk about that night? Anything? Just general topics will be fine.’

  ‘Oh, you know, the usual.’ Robin allows another silence. ‘Look, I can’t remember, okay? I was out of it.’ Kal leans back in his expensive office chair with a creak of leather. ‘It was my birthday. I’d been partying since lunchtime. By nine I couldn’t remember my own name, let alone what conversations I had with people.’

  ‘You were drunk.’

  ‘And the rest.’

  Robin knows what he doesn’t want to say. A party boy like Kal, he would have had more than alcohol flowing in his veins. Coke, most likely, probably a few other illicit substances. Nothing he’d be in any hurry to discuss with a police officer.

  ‘But look.’ Kal sits forward and picks up his phone. ‘Jonny sent me this on Saturday.’ He scrolls, then passes Robin his handset.

  Robin looks at the image. It’s the photo from Twitter, with the dark background, and Jonathan Miller, his arm round Kal, their faces close to the screen.

  ‘We’ve seen it. He took this Friday night?’

  ‘Yes, so it proves he was there.’

  ‘I’ll need to seize your phone.’

  ‘No!’ Kal reacts like Robin’s going to chop off his hand. Robin smiles; it’s not necessary, just wanted to mess with the guy.

  ‘Fine, then email me the photo, please.’

  Kal nods, relieved, and Robin hands him his card with his details. He watches as Kal does the transaction.

  ‘How would you describe Jonathan?’ Robin asks.

  Kal looks up from his phone. ‘He was a good guy. Loyal. Reliable.’ Kal smiles sadly. ‘Makes him sound dull, but he wasn’t. He was the best, the sort of bloke you’d want to have your back, you know?’

  ‘And how well do you know Amy Miller?’ Freya asks.

  ‘Amy?’

  Robin glances across to Freya. ‘Yes, Jonathan’s wife?’

  ‘Er, you know. Fairly well,’ he replies. But he picks up his phone, puts it down again, his fingers tapping.

  ‘Has it ever been just the two of you?’

  ‘The two of us?’

  Robin sighs and leans forward, resting his hands on the desk. ‘Listen, Kal,’ he says. ‘This is all friendly now. But unless you’re going to cut the crap and be honest with us, we might have to request your presence down at the station. And your employers might not be so understanding about a recorded interview with lawyers present.’

  ‘Fine, fine.’ Kal holds his hands up defensively. ‘Yes, okay. There was something between Amy and I. Once. A few weeks ago. She and Jonny had had an argument, she came to my house. We got plastered. Snorted a bit of coke.’

  ‘What were they arguing about?’ Freya asks. ‘Jonny and Amy?’

  ‘She said it was to do with money. Their credit card bill had arrived and Jonny hadn’t been too impressed. I could well believe it. Jonny was always careful in that regard.’

  Robin takes over again. ‘And you slept together?’ he asks.

  ‘No. Yes. Kind of.’

  ‘Which is it?’ Robin snaps.

  ‘Yes. Strictly speaking. But I… you know. Pulled out. Before the deal was complete. I couldn’t do it.’

  ‘Shag your best friend’s wife?’

  ‘No. She left. And I didn’t see her again until the party Friday night.’

  ‘And what were your movements on Monday and Tuesday?’ Robin asks.

  ‘Work. Here. And Lisa came over Monday night. My girlfriend,’ he adds with a charming smile back at Freya. Robin wonders if Lisa knows about the unconsummated shag with Amy Miller. He guesses not.

  ‘Do you know who Jonathan was having an affair with?’ Robin asks instead.

  Kal recoils in surprise. ‘What? Jonny? I don’t believe it.’

  ‘We have evidence that he was seeing someone else.’

  ‘Not Jonny,’ Kal scoffs.

  ‘You’re saying you have no idea who that was.’

  ‘Not a clue.’ Kal leans forward slightly over the desk. ‘Is it true? What they
’re saying?’ He looks from Robin to Freya, then back again. ‘That Jonny was, you know.’

  ‘Was what?’

  Kal glances at Freya again, as if wanting to avoid damaging her delicate sensibilities. ‘Doing that hanging thing, with the wanking?’ he finishes, lowering his voice.

  ‘Auto-erotic asphyxiation?’ Freya says, matter-of-fact, and Kal nods, his face colouring.

  ‘We’re still investigating,’ Robin replies. ‘Had you known him do anything like that in the past?’

  ‘Jonny? No. Not at all. Same with this affair you say he was having. He just wasn’t that sort of guy. The opposite, in fact. We arranged his stag do in Amsterdam, and we were all, you know…’

  Robin did know. ‘Prostitutes?’

  ‘Yeah. But Jonny wouldn’t even go and watch. We bought him a blow job and everything, but he refused.’

  ‘How unreasonable,’ Robin says sarcastically. ‘Just before he was going to get married and everything.’

  Kal gives him a look. ‘Yeah, alright, it was hardly gentlemanly. But we were in our twenties, we were having fun. Although…’ He pauses, thinking. ‘About four months ago, Amy asked me if I knew of any escort agencies. The dodgy kind. Said she was arranging a surprise for his birthday, but wouldn’t tell me what.’

  ‘And you gave her the name of one?’

  ‘Yeah. You want it, too?’

  Robin gives him a disparaging look. ‘What do you think?’

  * * *

  They leave Kal in peace and his PA walks them to the lifts.

  ‘What a prince of a man,’ Freya grumbles as the doors swish closed behind them. ‘And was it just me, or does he pluck his eyebrows?’

  Robin snorts, grudgingly enjoying Freya’s company. ‘They did look suspiciously precise for a man.’ They walk out of the building then head towards the Tube. ‘So Jonathan and Amy were definitely there Friday night,’ he continues. ‘Although it might be worth speaking to a few of the other guests, get confirmation.’

  ‘What do you make of this stuff with the escort agency?’ Freya asks. ‘What do you think his wife was up to?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Robin replies. ‘But one thing’s for sure: Amy Miller isn’t as she seems.’

  14

  Butler falls asleep again the moment they leave Waterloo. Luckily this time he slumps up against the window, rather than on Freya’s shoulder as he did on the way there. She’d sat, frozen, his body pressed against hers, unaccustomed to a strange man being so close.

  He is an odd bloke. She can look at him more closely now he’s unconscious, the red mark clear on his neck. It’s obvious what he’s been doing, although exactly how far he got she neither knows nor wants to spend too long thinking about. He’s not bad-looking, short dark hair, growing grey at the temples. Standard cut, slightly longer on top, due a trim. A man who dresses in greys and blues and blacks – colours that can’t clash, clothes neutral in style. Maybe that’s his charm – the complete lack of self-interest.

  She looks at his eyelashes, flickering against his cheek. Too long, wasted on a man. Nice eyes that slope down slightly at the corners, giving him a kindly air, despite his brash manner.

  He has a rare smile that slips from his face almost as quickly as it arrives, as if his brain can’t sustain the happiness to hold it there. Never verbose, he talks in clipped tones, often mistaken by her colleagues for rudeness. She’s never heard him discuss his weekend, or ask about someone else’s. But despite this, she finds herself liking him. He’s clever, his mind always two steps ahead of hers, challenging, directing, asking her opinion. And unlike other sergeants she’s had in the force, it seems he’s not afraid to let her take the lead when it counts.

  Like today. He’s already said he wants her to be on point for the interview with the escort agency. They don’t like the police, he said on the walk back to Waterloo, so a gentler touch might help. Yours, he added with a small smile, acknowledging his own failings.

  Watching Butler in slumber, she feels her own eyes starting to close. She didn’t sleep well last night, crying for hours, then tossing and turning through dreams about Jon. Dreams where he’s alive, with her, feeling so real she can almost reach out to touch him.

  She woke drained, but full of determination. As ridiculous as she knows it sounds, she feels like he was speaking to her, spurring her on to find out what happened on that Monday night. And the more she hears about Amy Miller, the more she doesn’t like her.

  So she had cheated on Jon. And with his best mate, of all people. The injustice of this burns. If he’d known what she had done, then maybe he’d have left her sooner. They could have been together, and maybe he’d be alive. Maybe. Maybe. There’s so much she’s desperate to have done differently, to still have Jon here. It creates an almost constant ache that makes her feel sick inside.

  The Jon that Kal described, the man turning down hookers, the man you want by your side, that was her Jon. She knows she’s doing the right thing, keeping this quiet from her boss. There is more information out there. She wants to know what happened, and being here, on the case, is the best way of finding out.

  * * *

  Freya may have a woman’s touch, but ten minutes into the conversation with the escort agency and things aren’t going well.

  Butler insisted on driving, and they left her car at the train station. Freya wondered whether it was good old-fashioned sexism, or the fact that he didn’t want to be seen in a girly blue Fiat 500, as she opened the passenger door to his dirty Volvo. It was a car more suited to a family of four, discarded sweet wrappers and fizzy drink cans left strewn in the footwell. She brushed crumbs off the seat as she got in; he put on some music, then turned it down – some sort of late-nineties rock.

  The agency is run by a woman who introduces herself as Frankie Rosa. She’s older, maybe fifty or so, with a matronly air. Big shelf-like bosoms, rounded cheeks, no trace of make-up. And not taking any shit from them.

  They arrived at the registered business address, a detached house in a neighbourhood where disused fridges are left out the front and dogs bark noisily from the back. She opened her door, but isn’t letting them inside.

  ‘We run a respectable business,’ she snaps to Freya, arms crossed, blocking the doorway. ‘What are you suggesting?’

  Freya holds her hands up in front of her, defensively. ‘We’re not interested in arresting you—’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘—we just need to know about Amy and Jonathan Miller.’

  ‘I’ve told you already, any information about our clients is strictly confidential.’

  ‘Jonathan Miller is dead. Can you just confirm he was a client?’

  ‘I will not, and now I must ask you to leave.’

  Freya feels Butler touch her lightly on the arm, indicating it’s time to beat a hasty retreat. They’re clearly not getting anywhere today.

  Back in the car, Freya looks to her boss, flustered.

  ‘What now, Sarge?’ she asks. ‘Get a warrant?’

  ‘For what?’ he replies. Freya looks back to the house and sees Frankie watching them out of the window, greying net curtains pushed aside. ‘We have no grounds, no evidence. And storming in there all guns blazing is hardly going to get a result. If Amy Miller did hire an escort, we need to know who, then speak to her about it.’

  ‘So how do we do that?’ Freya asks, but Butler just frowns, back to tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, deep in thought.

  The curtain flips back, and Frankie has gone. Another dead end, Freya thinks as she feels her phone buzz in her pocket. She pulls it out and answers it.

  ‘DC West?’ the voice says at the other end. ‘PC Wallis. I was told you’re investigating the Jonathan Miller death?’

  ‘Yes?’ Freya says, taking the phone away from her ear and putting it on speaker. Butler cranes forward, interested.

  ‘Sorry I didn’t call before, I only just joined the dots,’ the PC continues. ‘Just that we spoke to the wife Friday night. Amy
Miller? Was parked on double yellows outside a chippy.’

  ‘Where are you?’ Butler asks, starting the engine. ‘We’ll come to you.’

  * * *

  They meet in the middle, Butler pulling up behind the yellow and blue panda in one of the car parks in town. PC Wallis gets out, introducing himself quickly with a handshake to them both, then leans back, resting his ample behind on the bonnet of his patrol car.

  ‘North end of Jewry Street, near the steakhouse,’ he says, in answer to Butler’s question of where he saw Amy Miller. ‘She was blocking the road, so we pulled up alongside and asked her to move.’

  Freya wraps her arms round herself, bouncing to try to defeat the effects of the cold. In her eagerness she left her coat in the car, but she doesn’t want to get it now and risk missing the conversation.

  ‘She was driving?’

  ‘Yeah. But when she spoke she sounded like she’d had a drink or two, so we did a breathalyser.’

  ‘And it was below the legal limit?’

  The PC nods. ‘Nought point two. Well below. She said she’d had a glass of champagne at a party.’

  ‘Was she alone?’

  ‘Nah, her husband was there. In the chippy. She pointed at him through the window. She seemed nervous though, keen for us to be gone.’

  ‘She didn’t want her husband to see you?’

  ‘Not at all, no. I’ll get the BWV for you, you can see for yourself.’ His radio crackles on his shoulder and he bends his head to listen. ‘Got to go, Sarge. Shout if you need anything else.’

  Butler thanks Wallis, and he and Freya get back into the car.

  ‘Do you think she was scared of him? The husband?’ Butler asks.

  Freya knows there is no truth in it but can see where his chain of thought is going. ‘You’re still thinking DV?’ she asks. Domestic violence might make sense. But there was just no way.

  ‘Would tie up with the bruise on her forehead. And a reason to kill him,’ he replies, fingers drumming on the steering wheel. ‘What about Kal, the best mate? In love with Amy Miller? Wants to get the husband out of the way?’