Last Place You Look

by Louisa Scarr

  ‘You okay?’ Robin asks.

  She looks pale, nervous. She nods. ‘Rob, listen. Something happened this afternoon that I need to tell you about.’

  He’s confused. ‘Okay.’

  ‘But if I tell you, I could lose my job.’

  ‘So don’t tell me.’ He reaches over and takes her hand. It’s hot and clammy. ‘Steph,’ he says. ‘It’s fine. I know how these things work.’

  ‘Robin, they’re thinking about reopening the inquest into Trevor Stevens’ death.’

  She blurts it out, a rush of words, and they throw him back in his seat, her hand dropping from his. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The coroner spoke to me this morning. He wants me to go through the original PM and pathology reports, review them in the light of new information.’

  Robin feels his body grow cold. ‘What new information?’ he asks slowly.

  Steph leans closer to him. ‘Apparently there was an anonymous message. Someone emailed him this morning, questioning some of the findings from the original inquest.’

  ‘What findings?’

  ‘I don’t know, he wouldn’t say. But he wants to know if there’s anything in it, before he formally reopens the investigation.’

  Robin can feel the blood rushing to his head. He feels dizzy, confused.

  ‘I know I shouldn’t have told you, but it’s your sister, Rob,’ Steph continues. ‘I didn’t want you to find out another way and realise that I’d been involved.’ She reaches over and takes his hand. ‘Given everything between us.’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ he manages. The words feel thick in his mouth. He clears his throat. ‘Thanks, Steph.’

  He stands up, the chair making a sudden squeak against the low murmurs in the coffee shop. Steph reaches out to him, but he steps quickly away. ‘I need to go back to work. I’ll call you,’ he adds hastily, then rushes out.

  He hurries quickly down the street, back to his car. Breathing heavily, too heavily, his heart beating fast, his hands starting to shake. His legs feel weak and he stops, his back against a wall, head down, his hands supporting him on his knees.

  He can’t go back there. To the trial, the sentencing, the parole hearing. Every day, people talking about how his sister and the twins died. Constant reminders, of their pain, their last terrifying moments.

  Trevor Stevens is dead. Good riddance. At the time, he thought, so that’s it. The line in the sand. He got what he deserved, and Robin could move on with his life.

  But it’s back. And Robin has never been more terrified.

  28

  Freya walks the strange beer bottles down to the lab herself. As she goes, she looks at them through the clear plastic. Two normal glass bottles of Beck’s, a small amount of beer still sloshing in the bottom, some on the sides of the plastic bag. What on earth is going on with Butler?

  He looks worse than normal. His skin has a grey pallor, more than a few days’ worth of stubble on his chin. His shirt is crumpled, his hair barely combed. Something’s on his mind.

  And as she walks back to her desk, he’s gone.

  ‘Have you seen Butler?’ she asks the DC sitting next to her.

  Her colleague points to a yellow Post-it note left on her desk. WFH, it says, in his small scrappy handwriting.

  Alright for some, she thinks.

  Freya logs on, but before she does anything she sees an email from the DCI’s secretary. A meeting invite, for this afternoon – in an hour’s time. And in the subject heading: Strictly Confidential. Please do not notify DS Butler where you’re going.

  Odd, she thinks. But it’s more than odd. It’s downright worrying. And the main thought that runs through her head is: they know. They know about her and Jonathan.

  When they found the hidden camera at the Millers’, Freya’s first thought went to the unauthorised, very illegal visit to the house. That would have been captured on camera. But once the techies confirmed the feed went out remotely, probably to the very laptop she had concealed at her own home, she was reassured. But perhaps it went somewhere else.

  She doesn’t have to wait long to find out. An hour later, she stands outside the DCI’s office. She’s barely been here throughout her career, and now twice in a week. Keep your mouth shut, she remembers Butler saying last time, and she bears this in mind as Baker’s secretary ushers her in.

  ‘DC West,’ Baker says, once she’s sitting in front of his desk. She nods. ‘I hear good things about you, and not just from Robin.’

  ‘Thank you, guv,’ she says, surprised her new boss has said anything complimentary in the small time that they’ve been working together. ‘Butler’s happy with my work?’

  ‘Well, he hasn’t complained,’ Baker replies. ‘And that’s just as good where Robin’s concerned. I need you to do me a favour,’ he continues swiftly. He rests his hands, palms down, on the file in front of him. ‘But it needs to be between you and I, West. No one else.’

  ‘Of course, guv.’

  He hands her the file; she looks at him quizzically. She opens it.

  ‘This is the man that killed Butler’s sister,’ she says quietly. She glances up at Baker, and he nods.

  ‘I need you to look into it for me.’

  ‘But… but…’ she begins.

  ‘The coroner wants us to do some digging, on the quiet.’

  ‘But this was an RTA.’

  ‘That’s what we believed, yes.’

  ‘What we believed?’

  Baker sighs. ‘We need to be sure. It would be embarrassing if the coroner has to reverse his decision, so he doesn’t want to reopen the inquest unless we find good reason.’

  ‘But…’ Freya pulls herself together at last. ‘I can’t do this. I report to DS Butler.’

  ‘You’ve only worked for him for the past week or so, and he can do without you for a few days. Everyone else is stretched to capacity, West. You’re the only one vaguely free.’

  ‘But what about the Jonathan Miller case?’

  ‘That can keep.’ Baker slumps back on his chair; his face is grim. ‘Listen, Freya, you know I don’t hold much stock in this murder theory of yours, but if anyone can find something, Butler can.’

  ‘But you don’t want me to tell him about this?’

  ‘Not yet, no. He has…’ Baker pauses. ‘He’s been through a lot, and nobody followed the Stevens inquest more closely than Robin. Let’s just say I don’t want to open old wounds for no reason.’ Baker leans across the table again, and Freya feels herself wilt slightly in his stare. ‘Will that be a problem?’

  ‘No, guv, absolutely not.’

  Her DCI clasps his hands together with satisfaction. ‘Good. I’ll tell Butler that you’ve been reassigned for a week, some boring admin project that he won’t question. Report to me, and only me. And you can speak to Dr Harper.’

  ‘Steph’s on it?’

  ‘She’s reviewing the medical findings. Between the two of you, I have faith you’ll find anything we missed. If it’s there.’

  He nods and turns away. Freya takes that as her cue to leave.

  She stands out in the corridor and looks at the file in her hands. She feels a slight thrill of excitement. This is hers, and hers alone. Her own little investigation, and a perfect chance to prove herself. It’s going to be fun.

  If only she didn’t have to lie to her boss. If only she didn’t feel so damn disloyal.

  29

  Robin walks away from the coffee shop in a daze. Someone knows something. But what? What could they possibly know?

  He drives home, as thoughts rush through his head. He parks badly, almost hitting the cars either side. With shaking fingers, he opens the door to his house, locking it behind him. He walks quickly up to his bedroom, closing the curtains, then, fully clothed, he bundles himself into his bed.

  When he wakes, it’s dark. His house is silent. He feels hot, fully dressed under his duvet and kicks it off, lying there for a moment in the black. He has no idea what time it is. He’s left his phone downstair
s; he feels weary, too tired to pull his head up.

  He’s felt like this before. A week after Georgia and the twins died, he remembers the overwhelming feeling of nothing. Not despair, not depression, just a blank where feelings should have been. He had no energy to eat, to get up, to answer his phone. In the end, Neal Baker came to his door. His boss, the big man himself, broke in and found him, skinny, weak, lying in his filthy house. Baker made calls, efficient and decisive, and checked Robin into the Priory.

  Robin emerged a month later, prescriptions for different drugs clutched in his hand. Better, but still grieving, and Baker allowed him back to work under his watch, where Robin had stayed. But he knew Baker still kept a close eye on him, ready to shift him to administrative duties or sign him off sick if required.

  And he didn’t want that. He wanted to stay on the job. It was the only thing that kept him going through the trial and the sentencing of Trevor Stevens. Kept him moving, kept him distracted. Until now. It’s back, and thrust into his face.

  Robin knows he can’t let it happen again. He pulls himself up to a sit, then switches the light on. He feels sweaty, and stands up, undressing as he walks, letting his clothes fall to the floor as he goes to the shower.

  He stays there, hot jets washing over his face, pulling him back into reality, until the water turns cold. Then he gets dressed: an old Iron Maiden T-shirt, tracksuit bottoms, socks, hoodie. He feels okay. Awake. Ready.

  He goes into the hallway, then opens the door to his spare bedroom.

  The shard of light expands as the door opens wider, illuminating a cross section of the floor. A perfect triangle, showing first the dark grey carpet, then the bed in the centre. He switches the light on.

  To the casual observer, it’s no more than a boring spare room. Large double bed, made up with pale blue sheets and a duvet. Curtains on the window. Shelves on the far side, empty. But then you might start to see the small details. The two pictures on the wall are cartoon paintings of dinosaurs. The corners of the bookshelf are protected with see-through bumpers, the plug sockets are shielded with white plastic covers.

  Robin doesn’t go into this room any more, but he needs to today.

  He walks in, then reaches under the bed and pulls out a large, flat box. He sits down on the duvet, places it next to him and takes the lid off. Slowly, bit by bit, he takes the contents out.

  This is where he put it all. The memories he couldn’t bear to look at. Photos of him and Georgia, aged eight and ten, grinning, ribs showing through pigeon chests, standing next to a sandcastle on the beach. Older, teenagers, New Year, drunk. Him, smart in an usher’s suit, next to Georgia, looking so, so beautiful at her and Liam’s wedding. Then, him with the twins.

  Oh, that day. He had the call from Liam – a garbled message while he was at work. ‘They’re here,’ the voice said. ‘The twins, they’re here.’

  He phoned back, spoke to his sister. Alex and James, she told him. Tiny, early: four pounds ten, and four pounds five. In the neonatal ICU, but they’re fine, she said, her voice heavy with emotion. They’ll be fine.

  When at last he was allowed to hold them, he looked down at their tiny faces and felt nothing but pure love. One resting each side, they were small enough that their entire bodies ran down his forearms. They smelt of milk, and the hand sanitiser he had to coat himself with. They moved slightly in their tight swaddles.

  ‘They’re beautiful,’ he said to Georgia, his voice husky with barely contained tears. And, by god, he meant it.

  He watched them grow. They were his family. His parents dead, they were his only family – Georgia, Liam and the twins. Georgia and Liam had at first tolerated his presence and then, when they learnt he could be trusted, they were grateful, letting him babysit. Two babies are a handful, and none more than these two. Insanely inquisitive, they’d stick their fingers up his nose, grab hold of his ears, cackle when he blew raspberries on their tiny chubby stomachs. Then, when they were bigger, he’d take them to the park. Herding cats, running around after a football, their little podgy legs pounding furiously across the grass. Georgia would sometimes join them, watching from afar, laughing, then racing across for reassuring kisses when one of them inevitably fell over.

  Converting this room, his spare room, was Georgia’s idea.

  ‘What else are you using it for?’ she said. ‘Then they can come and stay with you.’ She looked at him with a knowing smile. ‘We’re going to need all the help we can get when the baby comes.’

  And she held out the scan photo. A tiny black and white blurry image, and he knew what it was.

  ‘Only one this time,’ she said as he hugged her. ‘Thank goodness.’

  She was six months pregnant when she died.

  He feels the pain throb in his stomach. A feeling he’s done so well to block out, putting their photos in this box, never looking at them, never thinking about them. But what good has that done him? They come back, in his dreams, and he wakes, his face wet with the tears he doesn’t allow himself to cry during the daytime. He blocks out that emotion, but with it, he ignores any other feeling. Of happiness, of joy, of love. For the fear that he’ll experience it again.

  Because these kids, these perfect, beautiful boys, gave him a small, sneaking look into a future he hadn’t considered. The idea that he could be a father. That one day he would meet someone and have kids of his own. And that, actually, this was something he wanted, that he’d be good at.

  He doesn’t think that now.

  He picks up another photo from the box. This time, one of him and Liam. He didn’t just lose a sister and his nephews that day. He lost a brother, too.

  Liam is nothing like him. Older, a sensible, office-based man, at first Robin kept his distance. Georgia would force nights out on them, making Robin take him to the pub. ‘My favourite boys,’ she’d say. Then, whispered: ‘I know you’ll like him. One day.’

  They had nothing in common – but her. And of course, Georgia was right. Robin did get to like Liam. Love him, even.

  Liam wears his heart on his sleeve. He liked to envelop Georgia in huge hugs, literally sweep her off her feet. Robin knows he himself has been described as a cold fish. But he liked Liam’s embraces, not that he’d ever have admitted it.

  But Robin and Liam don’t talk now. Not since… well. Robin puts the photo down swiftly, then replaces the others in the box. But before he puts the lid back on, he reaches inside again, and pulls out two small purple elephants, placing them on the bed next to him.

  Robin bought them when the twins were born and they lay in those tiny incubators, keeping watch when they were so little. And as they grew, the elephants were always clutched in their hands, their ears sucked into their mouths until Georgia could bear it no longer and they went in the wash.

  Liam gave Robin the elephants at their funeral. ‘You should have these,’ he said. ‘They were their favourites.’

  ‘No, keep them,’ Robin replied, pushing them away.

  But Liam insisted. ‘They used to say “Rob-Rob give us”.’ His voice cracked as he said it. ‘They loved them because they reminded them of you.’

  Robin hesitates, then picks up the elephants, holding one in each hand. Their colours have faded, washed into obscurity, their fur worn. And slowly Robin lifts them to his nose.

  He can still remember their smell. That warm, biscuity, malty aroma, as they put their little faces next to his, their pudgy hands on his cheeks.

  And oh fuck, how he misses them all.

  The emotion hits him like an avalanche. Everything he’s ignored for so long, everything he’s pushed away since their deaths. He can’t breathe. He can’t see.

  He rests his forehead against the cool duvet; his arms go up over his face as he collapses on the bed. He lets out a howl – a cry of pain, of pure anguish that comes from deep within his chest.

  And, the two elephants clutched in his hands, he curls into a ball and sobs.

  30

  Thursday

  Appr
opriately enough, the day is cold and grey. A layer of drizzle hangs in the air; it settles on Robin’s hair, creeps under his coat. He pulls the collar up higher, and frowns.

  He awoke early. His eyes puffy, his emotions raw. A low strain of light was drifting in through the gap in the curtains and for a moment he lay in bed, looking at the triangle of asphalt sky. Georgia wouldn’t have wanted this for him. This half of a life. This mess that had become his daily existence.

  He got out of bed and walked into the bathroom, opening the cabinet door and taking out a half-used box of Fluoxetine. He pushed two pills out of the packet and downed them with some water. He hadn’t taken them for the best part of a year, but after last night, today seemed the right time to start again.

  He had a shower, got dressed in the only clean clothes left, and came here.

  He could have done without being at a funeral today. Although, strictly speaking, this isn’t one – Jonathan Miller’s body still being firmly ensconced at the mortuary. It was a strange decision on Amy Miller’s part, holding a memorial prior to the body being released. He wonders what that says about her – guilty or not?

  He and Freya stand at the back of the graveyard, watching the mourners arrive. A dreary procession in greys and black, they shuffle slowly into the church. Robin can hear quiet organ music from inside.

  A large black BMW pulls up, and Khalid Riaz gets out. Everything about him screams money – from his black wool coat to his crisply creased trousers and shiny leather shoes. He is the opposite of Robin, conscious of the creases in his shirt, the parts of his collar where the seams are starting to wear out.

  Freya has put on a better show. She has on a smart black jacket, a neat shift dress underneath. Black tights, high black heels. She looks nice, he has to admit, her long blonde hair loose down her back. She hasn’t said much since they arrived, her face fixed in a stern expression.

  Kal walks past them, then double-takes before nodding and moving on without further acknowledgement.