Last Place You Look Page 8

  Freya frowns. ‘He didn’t seem much like a jealous lover to me. So much into Amy Miller that he can’t even… you know… complete the transaction,’ she finishes, resorting to a euphemism.

  Butler nods. ‘And, of course, we have nothing to show he was murdered.’ He turns to face her. ‘What do we have? What are we still waiting for?’

  ‘We have the CCTV, social media, the mobile phone data and the telematics from the car,’ Freya says, counting them off on her fingers. ‘Khalid Riaz confirms he was at the party, and Amy Miller’s alibi has been confirmed for Monday.’

  ‘So just the post-mortem,’ Butler says. Freya watches as he takes his phone out of his pocket and sends a quick text. ‘I’ll chase up Steph.’

  Steph? Freya thinks. Interesting her boss and the pathologist are on first-name terms. But a sinking feeling is growing in her stomach: there’s nothing to show Jon’s death isn’t precisely what it seems.

  ‘And then what?’ Freya asks, quietly. ‘Assuming Dr Harper doesn’t find anything odd.’

  Butler shrugs. ‘Then we type it all up, and move on,’ he says. ‘No matter what our guts are telling us.’

  Freya turns away from him as he starts the car, putting it into gear. She feels hot tears behind her eyes and blinks them away in frustration. She’s letting Jon down.

  But Butler’s right, there’s nothing, she tells herself as they drive back to the police station. Nothing.

  15

  Given the situation he managed to get himself into the night before, Robin’s in no rush to go home at the end of the day. He takes a small detour, back to the house where Frankie lives. Something in him wonders whether it’s not just the administrative hub of the escort agency, but where actual transactions take place. Illegal transactions.

  He parks a good distance away and kills the engine. Before leaving the police station he picked up a sandwich, a can of Coke and a Twix from the vending machine, and now sits in the darkened driver’s seat and opens the wrapping. The bread is slightly stale, the ham curled around the edges, but it’ll do – it’s more than he’s eaten all day.

  The road seems quiet. He recognises Frankie’s Ford Fiesta parked outside, identified through the check on the Police National Computer. Lights are on in the house but there’s none of the activity he’d expect to see. Brothels have people – men – coming and going at all hours, but the road is silent until a single car pulls up in the drive. A woman gets out – tall, long dark hair, pretty, wearing a short, smart cocktail dress and high heels. She goes into the house without knocking; Robin makes a note of the number plate and calls it in.

  Control report back immediately: car is registered to an Olivia Cross, resident of Winnall, Winchester. So not this address, despite how much she seems at home.

  ‘Anything more about her?’ Robin asks.

  ‘IC1, thirty-eight, single. Caution for soliciting in 2018, but nothing else,’ comes the reply. So he’s on the right track, Robin thinks.

  Then the front door opens again and Frankie herself comes barrelling out. She’s moving at speed towards him, wearing a tight pink tracksuit. His hand immediately goes to the ignition key and he starts the engine as she bashes on his car door.

  ‘Fuck off!’ she screams, her spit showering his driver’s side window. ‘This is harassment.’

  ‘Okay, okay, I’m going,’ he shouts, and quickly drives away.

  * * *

  He leaves his car at home, and heads into town. It’s Thursday night, and the pavements are busy as he walks towards King’s Wine Bar.

  It’s a nice place – small and homely, pretty art deco-style stained glass at the tops of the windows, with a chalkboard of cocktails and a decent line of local ales on tap. He finds a seat at the bar and orders a pint of Ringwood Forty Niner, happily taking a long gulp the moment it’s presented to him. As he pays, he asks about the party and the barman goes to get the manager.

  The manager’s a young guy, with long hair tied back in a man bun and an impressive thick bushy beard.

  ‘Yeah, course,’ he says, when Robin asks if he was working. ‘Wanted to personally make sure it all went down okay.’

  ‘And did it?’

  ‘A good night was had by all,’ he says, smiling. ‘Especially me. The bar tab was huge. These London guys can drink, I’ll tell you that.’

  ‘Do you remember seeing this man?’ Robin asks, showing him a photo of Miller.

  The manager shakes his head. ‘No, sorry. But it was heaving that night and we were rushed off our feet. Didn’t stop for a minute.’

  ‘CCTV?’ Robin points to the camera above his head.

  ‘Sorry, not from Friday. We rotate the tapes every three days. You should have come here sooner.’

  Robin curses under his breath. ‘Can you check the receipts, see if our guy paid for anything?’

  The manager looks apologetic. ‘Nobody paid for anything, that night.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘Nope. The entire tab was picked up by the guy whose birthday it was. Kal something?’

  ‘Fucking hell,’ Robin says, then internally chastises himself. He is there asking questions as a police officer, after all.

  But the manager doesn’t seem to mind his language, and laughs loudly. ‘Alright for some, eh?’

  He leaves, but not before pouring Robin a fresh pint. Robin downs the final swig of the last one, then moves on to the full glass.

  The bar is starting to fill up properly now: people coming for a quick drink after finishing at restaurants, friends meeting friends, the barman chatting away happily to a few. A DJ has taken up residence on the far side of the room, playing music that Robin hasn’t heard before: a combination of jazz and something more modern. Robin’s enjoying the ambience, then becomes aware of someone sitting down on the bar stool next to him. He turns.

  The woman orders a glass of sparkling mineral water, then looks at him.

  ‘You want a drink?’ she asks.

  He recognises her. Olivia Cross, from Frankie’s house. She’s in the same smart dress, but her hair is tied up high now, a few tendrils loose around her face.

  You don’t look like a tom, Robin thinks, then wonders if he’s spoken out loud.

  ‘No, thank you,’ he says.

  He turns back to his pint, but she doesn’t leave. He can feel her looking at him.

  ‘You were at Frankie’s,’ she says. ‘You’re that cop.’

  ‘Guilty as charged,’ he replies. Then, despite knowing the answer, he asks, ‘And you are…?’

  ‘Liv.’ She holds out a slim hand and he shakes it. It’s cold where she’s been holding her glass. ‘I work for Frankie.’

  ‘Robin Butler,’ he replies. ‘Is this coincidence, or did you follow me?’

  She laughs. ‘You’re not stupid, are you? Even after a few pints.’

  He doesn’t reply. She’s flirting with him. Officially he’s off duty, but still, this isn’t great.

  ‘You’re not Frankie’s favourite person, Robin. I’d stay away for a while if I were you. She was about to report you.’

  ‘Thanks for the tip.’

  ‘What did you want, anyway?’

  ‘A man called Jonathan Miller used the escort’s services. We wanted to know why.’

  She nods, thinking, taking a sip from her glass, her lipstick leaving a mark on the rim. She rubs at it with her finger.

  ‘Off the record, right?’ she says quietly.

  ‘I’m not a journalist.’

  ‘Well, don’t arrest me if I tell you what you need to know.’

  ‘Deal.’

  ‘He was my client. Or rather, his wife was. She paid me. I went out to see them both. At their house.’

  ‘And this was?’

  ‘A few months ago. Maybe May?’

  ‘What service did you provide?’

  ‘You’re not going to arrest me, right?’

  ‘I’m off duty.’

  ‘They wanted a threesome.’

  Robin raises his
eyebrows. ‘Him and his wife?’

  ‘Yeah. She said it was his birthday present, except… well. He didn’t seem that keen.’

  Robin finishes his pint, then raises his hand to the barman. ‘You want one?’ he asks her and she shakes her head. ‘What do you mean, not keen?’ he asks, once he’s been served.

  ‘He was reluctant at first. I thought he was just shy, but he stayed away. His wife was into it, though – came over, started kissing me, took my clothes off.’

  ‘Where was he?’

  ‘He watched. Then she got a few drinks down him and he seemed to relax. Gave him a blow job. Then he did his wife from behind while she kissed me.’

  She looks over quickly, wondering whether she’s given too much detail.

  ‘So, he didn’t…’

  ‘Fuck me? No. Still asked for the full amount, though. No refunds.’

  ‘And the wife paid?’ Robin gets his phone out and shows Liv a photo of Amy Miller. ‘That her?’

  Liv squints at it. ‘Yeah, that’s her. Real Stepford Wife sort. Controlling.’

  ‘Interesting,’ Robin says. To his surprise he notices another pint has gone while they’ve been talking. ‘Assume you won’t come down to the station and give us a statement?’

  ‘You’re kidding, right?’ Liv replies. ‘Now buy me a drink. And let’s talk about something else.’

  He does as she asks. And he finds himself enjoying their conversation. Despite their professions being seemingly at odds with each other, they talk, as Robin moves from pints to whisky.

  They go outside for a smoke, Robin sharing Liv’s cigarette. They pass it to and fro, huddling together in the cold autumn air.

  And then the alcohol takes over and – nothing.

  * * *

  He wakes with an acidic taste in his mouth and a skull-splitting thump in his head. He opens his eyes. He’s at home, in his bed, in his boxers, the duvet askew. He looks around the room, wincing. And then he sees it – a black lacy bra, draped over the back of the chair, a navy dress next to it.

  ‘Oh…’ Robin groans. Nothing else comes out. He couldn’t have, could he? Surely not. He lies back on the pillow, praying for the pain in his head to subside and some sort of memory to come back. He can remember the bar. He can remember them talking. Him drinking. Far, far too much. Then… nothing.

  ‘Oh, shit,’ he mutters again.

  He can’t have slept with a prostitute. Detective sergeants simply can’t go around shagging toms. It’s an investigation from Professional Standards, a warning at best. How could this have happened?

  He hears footsteps on the stairs, then the bedroom door opens and she walks in. Liv’s wearing one of his T-shirts, her legs bare, her hair loose around her face. She has a cup of tea in her hand.

  ‘You’re awake,’ she says, and sits at the end of the bed, sipping at her mug. She smells of cigarettes, and it makes his stomach turn, although he acknowledges he can’t smell too good either if the taste in his mouth is anything to go by.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he starts.

  ‘What for?’ She gives him a small smile.

  ‘That… I don’t know,’ he moans. ‘Did we…’

  ‘Shag? No.’

  ‘Oh, thank god,’ he sighs. Then realises what he’s said. ‘Not that… You’re not… you’re very good-looking… it’s just…’

  She’s obviously enjoying his discomfort. ‘No offence taken. You were so drunk the taxi wouldn’t take you unless I came along. And then I stayed the night. Just slept here, next to you. Same bed. I was worried about you puking again and choking on your own vomit.’

  ‘Again?’ He runs his tongue round his teeth. They’re furry and sour. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he repeats.

  ‘It’s fine, really. It made for a nice change. Did you know you have a Dorset accent when you’re drunk? You sound like a farmer.’ She goes around to the head of the bed and sits next to him, resting against the pillows.

  ‘It’s Devon. Where I grew up.’

  She reaches across him and passes him the glass of water on his bedside table. ‘Drink something.’

  He leans up awkwardly and takes a sip. The water is insanely refreshing and he takes another gulp.

  ‘Did I try and sleep with you?’ Robin asks.

  ‘No, not at all. You kept calling me Georgia.’

  ‘My sister,’ Robin says quietly.

  ‘That explains it.’

  Robin thinks about the many times his sister helped him home after a night out. Put him to bed, like Liv did last night. She’s been on his mind more recently, after Liam’s missed call. Now spilling out into his subconscious when pissed.

  ‘I was thinking about what you said, about how Jonathan died,’ Liv says.

  ‘Oh, no. I shouldn’t have told you that. That’s confidential. Please…’ he begs.

  ‘My lips are sealed. I promise. But I’ve had some experience with auto-erotic asphyxiation.’

  Robin looks over at her.

  ‘Not me,’ she continues. ‘But men who want me to do it to them. I tried it with one client. It scared me.’ She shakes her head, looking thoughtfully into her tea. ‘Never again.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He went blue, passed out. We must have pulled too tight, I don’t know. I had to do mouth-to-mouth. He came round, begged me not to call 999.’

  ‘Lucky guy.’

  ‘For me too. Can you imagine? Do you think the wife was doing it to him, to Jonathan? Maybe it went wrong and she panicked.’

  ‘She has an alibi.’

  ‘Ah.’ Liv shakes her head again, her hair falling prettily over her shoulders. In another life, maybe, Robin thinks, they might have had a future. ‘He didn’t strike me as that type, though,’ she adds.

  Robin sits up more in the bed. The water is helping, hydrating his poor addled brain.

  ‘The men that want it. It’s not their first rodeo, you know?’ Liv looks at him, and he nods. ‘They try a few things first. BDSM, role play, pain. This is their next big thing. You know what I’m saying?’

  Robin remembers their conversation from the night before. ‘You don’t go from being a reluctant participant in a threesome to full-on erotic asphyxiation a few months later.’

  ‘Right.’ She looks at the clock, then swears. ‘Call me a cab? I’m so late.’

  She jumps up from the bed, pulling Robin’s T-shirt off and putting her dress back on. Robin does as he’s asked, the cab company confirming arrival in ten minutes. As she gets dressed he sees a flash of her nearly naked – a tattoo, a Chinese dragon, curling round her lower back – and an insight to what could have been. She picks up her bra and puts it in her pocket.

  He puts on the T-shirt she’s just taken off and follows her down the stairs.

  ‘And Frankie? You’ll leave her alone now, won’t you?’ she asks, turning round at the front door, reaching down and putting her heels on. ‘She’s one of the good ones. Always lets you know what you’re in for. No surprises.’

  Robin nods. ‘We’ll back off. Thank you,’ he adds again.

  She opens the door, then leans back and gives him a slow kiss on his cheek. ‘Look after yourself, DS Butler,’ she says. Then she stops, and pauses for a second. ‘It’s a shame about Jonathan. I felt sorry for him,’ she adds quietly. ‘He seemed sweet.’

  Robin watches her get into the cab, then closes the front door with a click.

  A man dead from an experimental sex practice, when he’d refused a wife-sanctioned shag with a prostitute? None of this adds up. And it is certainly more than his hungover mind can compute this morning.

  16

  Friday

  This is Steph Harper’s domain, not his. And the smell of decomposing flesh and dead bodies is not sitting well with his hangover. He’s already had a near-miss second dry-heave in the road outside the hospital as he clambered out of the taxi. However, he now dons the gloves and mask as requested, and walks up to her side.

  Poor Jonathan Miller is on the slab. Naked when he
died, naked for his post-mortem. Robin can see the cut running up the middle of his stomach and chest, culminating at his neck, then shooting off in the standard Y-incision on both sides. His eyes stare, open and unblinking, at the ceiling.

  Freya’s back at the station, working her way through his – now their – sorely neglected caseload. Robin’s glad; he’s hardly firing on all cylinders. And it doesn’t pay for your DC to see you in such an obviously self-inflicted state.

  Steph’s still got the Dictaphone in her hand, and is talking quietly, making final notes. She switches it off as Robin approaches.

  ‘Figured you didn’t want to wait for the report,’ she says.

  ‘Rather not. What did you find?’

  ‘Much as you’d expect from a strangulation. Numerous petechiae around and on the eyes. Pronounced ligature mark on the neck,’ she says, pointing to the red lines and bumps circling his head. ‘Mild pulmonary congestion, but no further abnormalities. No injury to neck tissues. No pericardial or pleural haemorrhage or petechiae.’

  ‘Which means?’ Robin asks.

  ‘Carotid artery obstruction resulting in cerebral hypoxia. All things considered, it appears he asphyxiated.’

  ‘Ah.’ Robin feels a swell of disappointment, then wonders why. This isn’t a bad thing. He knows how Miller was found, he knows what it showed. ‘Wouldn’t you expect more injury to the neck?’ he asks. He’s only too aware of the last remnants of the bruises under his own chin, now faded to a pale red mark, hopefully passing for a shaving rash or something else innocent.

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Steph replies. ‘Because he was found incompletely suspended—’ She glances at Robin. ‘Not hanging off the ground,’ she clarifies. ‘There wouldn’t be much pressure to the neck. And you’re sure it’s not a suicide?’

  ‘No note, no previous depressive behaviour,’ Robin replies. ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s just…’ Robin sees Steph frown behind her mask, then she gestures to her office at the rear of the main mortuary. He follows her in, as she pulls off the protective gear. ‘You want tea?’

  He nods, and she turns on the kettle propped up on a fridge behind them.