Last Place You Look Read online

  ‘I went through the crime scene photos you sent me,’ she says, laying out two mugs and popping teabags in. ‘And some things don’t make sense.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘I did some reading up. Typical auto-erotic cases, especially men, would have other indicators. Cross-dressing, something wrapped round the genitals, such as an elastic band or a ribbon.’ Robin winces. She continues, enjoying his discomfort. ‘Foreign bodies in the rectum – vegetables, tampons, table legs—’

  ‘Now you’re taking the piss,’ Robin interrupts.

  ‘I’m not. I’m really not. The literature reports one case of a traffic cone.’

  ‘Oh, bugger off,’ Robin mutters.

  ‘But there’s none of that here.’

  ‘There was porn in the room,’ he says.

  ‘Yes, but no penile engorgement or semen consistent with a recent ejaculation.’

  ‘Perhaps he hadn’t got going,’ Robin suggests, and Steph shrugs. ‘Tox results back?’

  ‘Not yet. Although…’ She goes back into the mortuary and returns with a lidded glass jar with a green-beige liquid inside. ‘Stomach contents,’ she says with a smile, swirling it round in front of him.

  Robin’s own insides twist in response. ‘Which was?’

  ‘We’ll have to wait for full analysis to be sure, but my first guess when I opened him up was that he hadn’t consumed much food close to time of death. And it definitely contains alcohol.’ She goes to open the lid. ‘Want to take a sniff?’

  Robin retches slightly and Steph laughs at his distress. She carries it back to the mortuary. When she returns she bends down to the small fridge next to a filing cabinet and gets out the milk, adding it to the stewing tea, and Robin is very grateful for the separation of the two refrigerated units. Steph passes him the mug, then sits down at her desk.

  ‘Any unexplained marks on his body?’ Robin asks, desperate to change the subject.

  ‘No defensive or offensive injuries to the hands or arms.’ She thinks for a moment, taking a sip of her tea. ‘I’m sorry, Rob. I don’t know what to tell you. You didn’t find any disturbance in the room?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  They sit in silence for a moment. Robin’s seen her at work before, surrounded by corpses and the smell of disinfectant, and it’s where he’s always found her oddly more attractive. Something to do with her confidence: her assurance and knowledge where she’s clearly the expert.

  ‘You want to go out?’ he says, and is surprised by himself.

  She raises an eyebrow. ‘With you?’

  ‘Yes, with me.’

  ‘Out out? Not just for drinks and a casual shag?’

  He knows she’s baiting him. ‘Out out. For dinner.’

  ‘Okay.’ She smiles. ‘When? Text me and book a restaurant.’

  He finishes his tea, and they walk together to the exit to the mortuary.

  ‘What would compel a guy to do something like that?’ he asks, almost to himself.

  ‘The theory is the constriction of the neck heightens the sensation, making for a better orgasm.’ She watches him as she says it, clearly observing his response. ‘Or perhaps it’s the thrill – more arousing because of the danger and the risk.’

  ‘Hmm,’ is all he can think to say as he pauses in the doorway.

  ‘You want to try it when we go out?’ she says, mocking him.

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘I might be able to pick up a traffic cone?’

  ‘Seriously, fuck off.’

  She laughs and he appreciates knowing someone who can tolerate this level of humour. ‘So, nothing else weird from the PM?’ he asks, mentally closing the case.

  ‘Nope. Although…’ Steph stops for a moment, thinking. ‘Come and look.’

  They go back into the main room, putting fresh gloves on and standing next to the body. ‘Help me roll him.’

  Robin goes over to the other side of the cadaver and leans over, putting his hand on the dead man’s skin. It feels cold and slightly squishy, not unlike uncooked chicken. He pulls and they tilt him onto his side.

  ‘See here, and here.’ She points to the white patches on his bum. ‘Post-mortem hypostasis, where blood pools after death. The pale areas are where the greatest pressure was applied.’

  ‘So why here?’ Robin asks, indicating the one on his upper back.

  Steph frowns, and they return him face up, stepping back and snapping their gloves off again. ‘That one I wasn’t sure about. I assumed it was where he was leaning against the door.’

  ‘But?’ Robin stops. This is it; this is the sign he’s been looking for. ‘What if he was killed elsewhere?’ he says, quietly.

  ‘But you have the CCTV…’

  ‘But what if?’ Robin says. He feels a swell of excitement growing in his chest. ‘How would you interpret your findings then?’

  ‘I’d say the hypostasis was more consistent with a body which lay on its back after death…’ Steph’s thinking out loud. ‘And…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The time of death. It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The PC that found him reported his body being cold and floppy. But if Jonathan Miller died the night before, as you’re assuming, then he would have retained some rigor mortis. The body would still be stiff, even a little bit, until about thirty-six hours after.’

  ‘Can’t you run tests now?’ Robin pauses in the doorway. ‘This could be really important, Steph.’

  ‘It’s too late. The further away from time of death, the less accurate it all becomes. If we’d acted sooner it would have been possible, but not now. He’s been dead for four days, and refrigerated for a lot of that time. There’s no way I can tell for certain.’ She sees Robin’s determined expression and rolls her eyes in resignation. ‘Fine. I’ll have another look. But the cause of death is still the same, Rob. He asphyxiated. No doubt about it.’

  ‘Just…’ Robin’s already backing away from her, starting to walk fast down the corridor. ‘Don’t file that report just yet.’

  ‘I’m being pressured by the coroner,’ Steph calls. ‘What am I supposed to say?’

  Robin turns back. ‘Recommend an open verdict for the moment.’ Steph shakes her head, disbelieving. ‘Please?’

  ‘Fine,’ she shouts after him, but Robin’s already running.

  Back to the police station. Back to review the evidence.

  17

  ‘Butler, have you nothing better to do?’

  Robin waits in front of his DCI, the file clutched in his sweaty hand. Freya’s sitting next to him, up to speed on what Robin and Steph discussed in the mortuary.

  ‘Guv, there’s just too much about this that doesn’t add up,’ Robin begins.

  DCI Neal Baker stares at him across the desk. ‘You have a crime scene with no signs of foul play. Eyewitnesses saw the dead man up until he entered the hotel, something you also have captured on CCTV.’ He rubs his salt-and-pepper goatee in exasperation. ‘Data from multiple sources back this up, plus one of our own PCs saw the guy in a fish and chip shop. When exactly do you think he was murdered?’

  ‘The pathologist says the normal signs of auto-erotic asphyxiation are missing, he had no previous predilection for this sort of stuff, the post-mortem hypostasis is dodgy so the body might have been moved, Steph can’t be sure on time of death, and—’

  ‘And who are you saying killed him? The wife? The wife with an alibi?’

  ‘Maybe. The best friend isn’t telling us everything.’ Robin’s acutely aware of how daft this is starting to sound. ‘I just have—’

  ‘A feeling, yes.’ Baker taps his fingers on the desk. He looks to Freya. ‘And what do you think, West?’

  Robin told her not to come, he didn’t want her to get caught up in this mission of his, but she insisted. He watches as a blush of red creeps up from the neck of her shirt.

  ‘I agree with DS Butler, guv,’ she says. ‘Something doesn’t feel right.’


  Baker rolls his eyes. Robin’s got a lot of respect for his DCI. An ex-boxer, Baker’s once large muscular chest has given way to flab, but otherwise he’s an intimidating figure. A strong black man, he’s worked his way through the ranks, pushing aside every bit of institutionalised racism he encountered and proving himself through hard graft. He’s an experienced cop, but he’s more than that to Robin – he’s a trusted friend. But today he’s his boss. And a grumpy one at that.

  He runs his hand over his shiny bald head. ‘Fine,’ he says at last, in his strong London accent. ‘Look a bit closer. But do it on top of your normal caseload; I don’t want your other investigations to suffer as a result of this ridiculous quest.’

  Robin and Freya both stand up quickly, about to leave before their boss changes his mind.

  ‘And you have zero budget, you hear me?’ Baker shouts after them. ‘Zero!’

  ‘You should have stayed out of it, Freya,’ Robin whispers as they walk quickly down the corridor. ‘You didn’t need to bugger up your reputation on this, too.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ she replies quietly. ‘It’s important.’ She stops in the corridor, and he pauses in response. Her face is solemn; it’s clear how seriously she’s taking this case. ‘But Sarge,’ she says. ‘How are we going to find anything? Baker’s right, we have nothing. It’s the perfect murder.’

  ‘The perfect murder?’ he repeats.

  ‘Yeah. Where no one has any idea who did it or why. Where they leave no clues, no exhibits, no lines of investigation. Where nobody even suspects it is a murder.’

  But she doesn’t wait for Robin’s response. She smiles, her expression pinched. ‘I’ll get back on it,’ she says, and hurries off, leaving him standing in the corridor.

  Robin stares at her departing back. After the jubilation of Baker’s agreement, Freya’s words have shaken him. Because Robin knows all about perfect murders.

  He knows only too well.

  Part 2

  18

  Sunday

  Robin wakes in the night with a jolt. His body is cold and clammy; the sheets are soaked with his sweat. But he can still smell it. He can taste it, the image from the dream so clear in his mind.

  He lies in the darkness, waiting for his heart rate to return to normal. He forces himself to take a juddering deep breath in, slowly, then lets it out. He knows why this is happening. It’s soon. The one date he tries to forget.

  He gets out of bed, feeling the cold air on his damp skin. He knows he needs to wake up fully, get the image of the dream out of his head or he’ll never get back to sleep. The digital clock next to his bed reads 2:36. He can’t start the day at this time. He needs some rest.

  He misses her.

  But she’s gone. Everything’s gone.

  He thinks of Liam. Does he feel like this? Does he struggle to get to sleep at night, wake in the black, body tensed up in knots? Liam’s alone, just as Robin is, and he thinks again about calling him, extending a branch of reconciliation. He would love to see Liam, but still, something stops him.

  He thinks about the days before. Before the accident, even before the kids. A carefree world where he and Liam and Georgia would spend Saturday night at the pub. Drinking pints, playing darts, chatting, laughing. Just whiling away the hours, assuming this would be something that would always happen.

  Little did they know.

  He pulls a jumper over his head then walks down to the kitchen and flicks the light on. He stands for a moment, blinking, in the middle of the tiled floor, feeling his bare feet get cold. He sees the mess left from his day of doing nothing: the sink piled with dirty dishes, crumbs, puddles of coffee, discarded spoons, pizza boxes, just left on the side. The floor feels gritty under his feet. He can’t remember the last time he cleaned this place, or took any pride in his surroundings.

  He listens to the noises of his world. The hum of the fridge, an occasional car going past in the road. The rain falling on the pavement outside. He knows that if he goes into the living room, everything there will be as he left it: the cushions discarded, an array of dirty mugs abandoned.

  Saturday night, Sunday morning, and he stands in his boxer shorts, grubby sweatshirt, his hands by his side, his head bowed. He doesn’t know why he came down here now. He just feels the empty hole in his chest.

  Nothing changes. Nobody cares.

  He feels so incredibly alone.

  19

  Monday

  Freya faces Butler outside the interview room. Amy Miller is inside. They’re recording this one: the paperwork is signed and the video ready to go.

  Her boss stares down at her.

  ‘Ready?’ he asks.

  ‘Sure you want me to lead?’ Freya replies. Her voice wavers slightly. She wants to do this, but she’s aware of how much is riding on this interview. They have one shot. As soon as her suspicions are raised, Amy Miller will ask for a lawyer and it’ll be no comment from then on.

  ‘She won’t suspect you. Blonde hair, blue eyes, you’re the picture of innocence.’ He smiles, brief and flickering, then opens the door, holding it for her to go inside.

  Amy looks up as they enter and sit down opposite. Her face is slightly confused, gaze shifting anxiously between Freya and her sergeant, waiting for someone to speak. She’s wearing an expensive-looking cream silk shirt, lace bra just visible underneath. Her diamond ring shines in the overhead light as she fidgets with the delicate silver pendant around her neck.

  ‘Thank you for coming in, Mrs Miller,’ Freya begins.

  ‘Amy, please.’

  ‘Amy.’ Freya forces a smile, willing it to seem natural. She hates this woman, and her anger sears like heartburn in her chest. ‘I know this may seem strange,’ she continues, ‘but we wanted to talk again. Confirm a few details before we wrap up our investigation.’

  ‘What do you need to know? I thought I gave you everything last time I was here.’ Freya watches as Amy glances to Robin, but her boss keeps his expression neutral.

  ‘Would it be possible for you to give us access to search the house?’ Freya asks, nerves flickering in her chest. She knows they don’t have enough for a warrant at this stage, and they are desperate to see what they can find.

  ‘The house?’ Amy’s face twitches. ‘Why? Jonathan was found in that hotel, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, but we have some concerns around how he died. We’ll be quick and respectful, we promise. We’re just worried it might be suicide, and having a look around the house might help to rule that out.’ Freya leans forward, as if sharing a secret with Amy. ‘We know how awkward a verdict of suicide can get. With life insurance, and such.’

  Amy’s brow furrows. ‘Life insurance, of course.’

  ‘Any excuse, and those bastards won’t pay out. So, you see, the sooner we can sort it, the better. For all concerned.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  Butler slickly pushes the required paperwork towards Mrs Miller, followed up with a biro. Amy reads it for a second, then signs an elegant swirl at the bottom. He pulls it swiftly back into the file.

  Amy Miller turns her large doe eyes to Butler. ‘Do you know when we might be able to bury him?’ she asks. ‘When will you…’

  ‘Release the body?’ Freya finishes for her. ‘We don’t know yet, unfortunately, Mrs Miller. As soon as we can.’

  ‘I might arrange a memorial instead then,’ Amy says quietly, almost to herself. She looks up at Freya. ‘People are asking when they can pay their respects.’

  ‘Of course, I understand,’ Freya replies. But she doesn’t. Why can’t you just wait, you devious cow? she thinks. Why are you so keen to have closure?

  But instead, Freya says, ‘And tell us again about your weekend. What was Jonathan like? How was he acting?’

  Freya listens as Amy Miller goes back over her movements across Jonathan’s last days. She knows these by heart by now, and nothing differs. Freya asks for more names from Khalid Riaz’s birthday party: Amy writes them down. Aware of the lack of food in
Jonathan’s stomach when he died, they ask about his Saturday-night pizza: apparently he ate it all. Freya asks again about Amy’s whereabouts on the Monday and Tuesday, when Jonathan was dying in the Premier Inn, and Amy’s note-perfect. Again.

  ‘Had Jonathan ever mentioned trying something new? Sexually?’ Freya asks. She and Butler have already agreed not to mention the threesome, her sergeant filling her in on his conversation with the escort the other night, but they want to see how far Amy Miller will go. How much she’ll lie.

  And, sure enough, Amy shakes her head. ‘Never, no.’

  ‘No sex toys, vibrators, that sort of thing?’

  ‘No. Not at all.’ The wife pauses. ‘Do you think someone else might have been there? In the hotel room?’

  ‘We don’t know much at this stage,’ Freya replies, dodging the question. ‘But we will leave no stone unturned, we promise.’

  And with that last sentence, Freya was one hundred per cent sincere. No stone unturned, you nasty bitch, she thinks, the smile still plastered on her face.

  * * *

  They let Amy Miller go.

  ‘I honestly didn’t expect her to say yes,’ Freya says as the two of them watch her walk across the car park and climb into her white Audi. ‘What does that mean?’

  Butler turns. ‘Either she’s got nothing to hide and we’re wrong about her. Or she’s arrogant enough to believe we won’t find anything.’

  ‘She might have disposed of it already,’ Freya suggests, following her boss back into the station. ‘And do we like the life insurance angle for a motive?’

  ‘Let’s try and get a warrant,’ Robin begins, pausing as they hear someone shout from reception.

  ‘Rob!’

  They both turn, and Freya notices her skipper’s expression change at the sight of the man walking towards them. His eyes narrow, his shoulders immediately tense.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he snaps.

  The man’s tall and slim, short grey hair, dressed in a smart suit and tie.