by Louisa Scarr
They arrived at the prearranged time that morning. Freya had driven to Butler’s house first thing, wanting to arrive at the Millers’ in the one car so as not to look heavy-handed, and she found him reluctant to let her inside.
‘But I need to pee!’ she’d begged, that first cup of tea of the day having made itself known, and he’d grudgingly moved aside as she came face to face with the reason for his hesitation.
Steph had been finishing up a mug of tea in the doorway and Freya had stopped, mouth open.
‘DC West,’ Steph had said calmly, putting the empty mug on the side and picking up her coat.
‘Dr Harper,’ Freya had replied, her cheeks colouring, then dashing inside the bathroom. As she’d sat and peed, she’d thought about her boss. Dark horse, that Robin Butler, having a thing with the pathologist. It was strange to think about him being close with anyone.
By the time she’d finished, Dr Harper had gone and Butler was waiting impatiently for her in the open doorway.
‘Can we go now?’ he’d growled, and she’d not dared to ask him any more.
Now, Freya hears Amy Miller’s Audi start up and drive away. Four of them stand in the Millers’ hallway – her and Butler, and the two borrowed PCs, gloves and shoe covers already on. They both seem young, cocky in their new uniforms. One, tall and thin, a sprinkling of acne across his chin, introduced himself first as Mayhew. The other – PC Graves – is shorter, baby-faced, with a large grin.
They have Scientific Services on speed dial, evidence bags at the ready.
‘What are we looking for, Sarge?’ Mayhew asks Butler. Graves is hovering behind him, uncertain.
Butler’s already told them about the nature of Jonathan Miller’s death. ‘Sex toys, porn, anything similar. Things that look out of the ordinary. Anything weird. You both start downstairs, I’ll tackle the garage.’
Butler turns and leaves the three of them, and Freya waits as the two PCs grumble then go into the living room.
She hears the taller one comment as they go: ‘Butler’s weird, does that count?’
Graves gives a snort of laughter. ‘You heard the story about him?’
Freya can’t see them now, but she lingers, out of sight. Part of her knows she should go, but the other part is curious to find out more about her enigmatic boss.
‘No, what?’ She imagines the pair looking around nervously, heads together.
‘Crawley joined the force same time as him. Said he was an alright guy then. Bit quiet, but alright. You know, few beers on a weekend, good bloke. But then a few years ago…’ Their voices lower further and Freya has to strain to hear them. ‘His sister and her kids died in this messed-up car accident, and after that he just went mental.’
She remembers the case, five years ago. It was discussed in whispers and glances in the incident room, a joint investigation between the CID and the SCIU, the Serious Collision Investigation Unit.
The PCs continue. ‘What?’ Mayhew asks. ‘Like Hulk mental?’
‘No, you wanker. Like shut down. Didn’t talk any more. Heard he spent a few weeks in the Priory, and then when he came out he wasn’t the same. Apparently his parents were already dead and the sister tipped him over the edge.’ Freya hears a small chuckle coming from the PCs, and clenches her jaw in anger. ‘You notice he won’t let anyone drive him anywhere, always has to take his shitty Volvo?’ Another snort of laughter. ‘That’s why.’
Freya grits her teeth. She wants to go in there, tell them off for being so insensitive, but she has no authority over them: she’s the same rank, despite her detective status. But another part of her, a shameful part, doesn’t want to defend him. To be associated with her sergeant’s gossip.
She quickly walks away and up the stairs to the bedroom, their words echoing in her ears. If it’s true, it explains a lot. Butler’s air of sadness, his reluctance to talk. She saw his house this morning. It was hardly the residence of someone functioning normally: mess, dirt, everywhere. She spotted the unpaid bills on the side, the carpet that can’t have seen a hoover in months.
She stands in the doorway to the master bedroom. In direct contrast to her boss’s house, this room is pristine. The bed has multiple throw pillows draped artistically across the covers, the duvet pulled tight. Like the rest of the house, it’s clean. Unnaturally so. She’s beginning to agree with Baker. They’re not going to find anything here.
She starts her search, going over the bedside tables, looking in drawers. It’s strange, going through her lover’s belongings in this way. She recognises jumpers he wore, shirts and T-shirts. One particular rugby shirt pulls her attention. It’s a faded blue one; she remembers it from their first walk in the woods and now takes it out of the wardrobe, pushing it against her face.
And it’s him.
The smell of him, the feel of the rough cotton, remembering the warmth of his chest when he wore it, and she starts to cry. It’s too much; she shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t be doing this.
She hears footsteps on the stairs and hastily puts the rugby shirt back, turning away from the door and drying her eyes with a corner of her cardigan.
‘You find anything?’ Butler’s voice from the doorway.
She crouches down, her back still towards him, and busies herself in a drawer. ‘Nope,’ she replies. She pushes Jon’s socks and boxers aside: nothing untoward underneath.
‘No porn?’
‘Not even a vibrator or a pair of handcuffs.’
She hears him sigh, and risks turning to face him. He’s opened the wardrobe next to her, riffling through Amy Miller’s clothes.
‘She’s probably removed anything already,’ he mutters. ‘We shouldn’t have given her warning.’
‘But what was the alternative?’ Freya asks. ‘We have no grounds for a warrant, no reason to arrest her. Anything in the garage?’
‘Bagged up a few items. Duct tape, rope, things that might have been used to strangle Miller.’
‘You think?’
He shrugs. ‘Not really. A stab in the dark. Plus all their rubbish.’
Freya wrinkles her nose. ‘Nice.’
‘I know.’ Butler turns and smiles at her. She feels a swell of affection for her boss, and a flash of embarrassment for not telling off those sodding PCs. He’s obviously been through a lot and yet, here he is, trying his hardest to work out what happened to Jonathan. ‘It gives us an interesting insight into this woman, though.’
‘What do you mean?’ Freya moves on to the chest of drawers, opening the first. It contains what looks to be exercise gear: tiny Lycra tops, folded neatly, rows of pink and purple and baby blue.
‘I’ve been in loads of people’s houses after a loved one has died – you too, I expect.’ Freya nods. He continues, ‘And few look like this.’
Yours doesn’t, Freya thinks.
‘This level of organisation and cleanliness – Amy Miller is meticulous, detailed. She likes things just so. If she has killed Miller, she’s not a woman to leave evidence behind.’ Butler shuts the wardrobe and stands frowning in the middle of the room. ‘Plus, she agreed to this. She knows we won’t find anything.’
‘Nowhere you could store a dead body?’ Freya asks.
‘A chest freezer in the garage,’ Butler replies. ‘Come and see.’
Freya follows her sergeant down the stairs and through the house to the door leading to the garage. As they pass the living room, Freya looks in on the PCs who are still searching, now quiet, gossip time obviously over.
The garage is as methodically organised as the house. Large white boxes, labelled with their contents. Tools, Spare Bulbs, Painting. A posh-looking racing bike is propped up against one side, the freezer on the other.
Butler opens it with his gloved hand. Freya looks in, a waft of cold air hitting her in the face. It’s full to the brim. Vegetables organised in white mesh baskets. Meals frozen in plastic boxes, descriptions written on the side in black pen. Chilli. Spag bol. Casserole.
Freya feels the disa
ppointment. There’s nothing interesting here.
‘Sarge?’ There’s a call from the door and Butler and Freya both turn.
PC Graves stands, waiting for them.
‘We have something,’ he says.
23
The coffee shop is loud and busy, but Amy barely notices. She sits alone, empty mugs in front of her, hands shaking, although now she doesn’t know whether it’s because of nerves or the caffeine. She should have stayed. She should have made sure they didn’t break anything, trampling through her house in their dirty shoes, although she knows they had little blue booties on their feet. That’s worse somehow. Treating her house like a crime scene. Like she’s done something wrong.
Of course, she knows it’s going to be fine. Elimination purposes, they said, and that’s what will happen. They’ll find nothing, and they’ll leave her alone. Still, she can’t help but worry. People go to jail all the time. Innocent people.
She picks up her phone and calls a number. It rings, then goes to voicemail. She hangs up and tries again. This time he answers.
‘I told you not to call me.’ His voice is sharp.
‘Kal, I need you. Please.’
There’s a long pause. She imagines his face, those handsome dark eyes.
‘Amy, please.’ His voice is softer this time. ‘I need some space. Jonny’s death is…’ He pauses again. ‘It’s too soon.’
He hangs up.
Amy picks up the cold coffee mug. The dregs inside are black and disgusting, and she stares at them, then lifts a hand to order another. She thinks about Kal. She knew he would need time. Jonathan was his best friend. But she mustn’t let him slip away, not after all she has done.
Amy’s proud of what she’s achieved. She had a bad start in life, but she pulled herself out of the dirt-filled, shit-stinking council flat, leaving her mother and everything she associated with her behind. Amy knew that the things her mother had done to her were due to her own pathetic shortcomings. The beatings, the cupboard under the stairs, the cold baths. She’d avoided the worst of it, her sister receiving the brunt of her mother’s abuse – and a better option for the punters. Skinny, tiny Amy had been no erotic fantasy, even for men as depraved as these.
Her mother was weak. Unable to get control over the alcoholism that eventually left her dead and rotting on the kitchen floor. She was not like that. Her, Amy Miller. She had the beautiful house, the respectable job. But it hadn’t come easy. She’d had to make sacrifices to get what she wanted, and this was the hardest of them all.
She picks up her phone again, and pulls up a different number.
‘The police are at my house,’ Amy says when her sister answers.
‘The police, why?’ the voice replies.
‘They think I had something to do with Jonathan’s death.’
‘But that’s ridiculous. How did they get a warrant to search?’
‘They didn’t. I gave them permission.’
‘You… Amy! Why did you give them permission?’
‘I thought it would make me look guilty if I didn’t!’ Amy shouts. She feels people looking at her, and forces herself to stay calm. ‘I need you to help me,’ Amy adds, more quietly. ‘I need you to find out what they know.’ A pause. ‘You can do that, can’t you?’
A sigh at the end of the phone, and Amy knows she’s won.
‘Fine. Just this once. But Amy?’
‘Yes?’
‘Hire a bloody lawyer.’
Amy puts the phone back on the table, just as her next coffee arrives. She smiles up at the waitress.
‘I said extra hot. This is barely warm.’ The waitress scowls, and goes to take it away. ‘And a chocolate croissant?’ Amy calls at her back. ‘Please.’
It’s going to be okay, she tells herself. It’s going to be okay.
24
Robin and Freya stare at the small black box in the PC’s gloved hand.
‘And where did you find this?’ Robin asks.
The PC – Graves or Groves, Robin thinks his name is – points to the bookshelf. ‘In there.’
It’s clever, Robin has to admit. On the shelf among the boring hardback economics books was one that blended perfectly with the rest. But the middle of the book had been hollowed out, pages cut carefully with a knife, to conceal something inside.
‘How did you even find this?’
The PC smiles. ‘A trip down memory lane. I have this book myself but haven’t picked it up in years. I studied finance at uni.’
‘You did?’ the other PC says.
‘Don’t be so surprised,’ he retaliates to his colleague. ‘Just because I found it, not you.’
As the coppers verbally swipe at each other, Robin considers the book in one hand, the black box in the other. It’s a camera, a surveillance unit, with a tiny lens on the end of a thin cable, linking to a main box concealed in the body of the book. A small hole has been drilled in the spine, and now Robin holds it up to the light, looking through it. Robin’s seen similar units on Amazon, but never one in use.
‘And the video will be in there?’ Freya asks, pointing at it.
‘No, it would transmit the video to a laptop, via Wi-Fi,’ Robin replies.
‘Jonathan’s laptop?’
‘Maybe.’
There’s no way Amy knew about this, Robin thinks. Unless she set it up to video them? He looks at the space where the book was, then at the room. Assuming the lens is wide enough, it would probably capture most of the lounge.
‘Have you found any more?’ Robin asks.
The PCs stop squabbling and shake their heads. ‘We called you as soon as we found this one.’
The four of them start to look again, checking each book on the shelf thoroughly. There’s nothing else there, but when they move into Jonathan’s study, they find one more.
‘We need his laptop,’ Robin says, and they start up again.
But it’s not there. A charger cable lies under his desk, still plugged into the mains, but no computer. Robin swears under his breath.
‘Keep looking,’ he says. ‘We need those video files.’
* * *
Hours later, Robin sits in front of his television, empty Chinese takeaway boxes and bottles of beer in front of him, and thinks about the cameras. They left the Miller house pretty much empty-handed. The two cameras, bagged and tagged, now passed to forensics. No laptop. No spare phones, no porn, no dodgy sex toys that would indicate that either Jonathan or Amy had a predilection for such things. They took photos, the house at every angle. They took samples from the drains, from the large chest freezer, from the bath – Robin hoping for something that might show blood or drugs. Anything to indicate foul play. They even took the contents of their bins, ready for someone to filter through.
They couldn’t find any trace of a document relating to life insurance policies on Miller, and Freya confirmed that the warrant to specifically request it had been denied.
‘Baker wouldn’t even put it through to a magistrate,’ she relayed to Robin. ‘“No evidence Amy Miller’s responsible, where’s your reasonable grounds?”’ she said in a passable imitation of Baker’s London accent. ‘“It’s no more than a fishing expedition. You can’t just apply for warrants in the hope you find something”.’
Chicken and egg, Robin thought angrily. Can’t find the evidence without the warrant, and can’t get the warrant without evidence.
Robin hates doing things this way. It’s all wrong. You don’t warn a suspect, then search a house to look for something to tell you what direction to take a murder investigation in. You do a search once you know what you’re looking for. To back up a theory, to find evidence to convict. You don’t wander round a house fruitlessly. Desperately.
And – as much as Robin hates to admit it – perhaps there is nothing to find. So someone had planted cameras. Assuming it was Jonathan Miller, it showed he didn’t trust his wife. That isn’t a crime. And without finding the video it produced, they have nothing.
; Perhaps Jonathan’s death really was an accident.
The doorbell rings, and Robin looks up in surprise. He looks at the clock: eleven p.m. Who comes round unannounced at this time of night?
He pulls himself up from the sofa and goes into the hallway, turning on lights as he goes. He opens the door, and Liv Cross is standing there.
She’s dressed casually tonight. Tight blue jeans, brown knee-high boots and a light pink jumper, a coat over the top. She looks natural, pretty. And off duty.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asks gruffly. He inwardly curses himself for being so rude.
She looks embarrassed. ‘I…’ she starts. ‘I was passing, and I saw your light was on. I wanted to check you were okay.’
‘Come in.’ Robin holds the door open and she walks past him. Her hair is free, curly, over her shoulders. ‘Do you want a drink?’ he asks.
He shows her through to the kitchen and she takes her coat off, draping it over the back of a chair.
‘Wine? Beer? Whisky?’
She smiles. ‘I’m driving.’
‘Tea, coffee? Water?’ he says apologetically. ‘I have ice.’
‘Water. Sure.’
He gets a glass and fills it from the tap, then pops a few ice cubes in from the freezer. He grabs himself a beer, then gestures through to the living room. But as he follows her, he tells himself a stern no. You dodged it last time, he thinks. Don’t even think about sleeping with her.
‘You working tonight?’ he asks, more to make conversation than anything else, but then realises what he’s said and regrets his words.
But she laughs. ‘Yes, but not for Frankie. Some of my work is legal, you know. I also dance at For Your Eyes Only. You know, the one in town?’
‘I know of it,’ Robin replies.
She laughs again, and he thinks how pretty she is. ‘I get that not many of your friends are strippers.’