by Louisa Scarr
‘Yeah. One of them was completely clear, but the second had traces of a benzodiazepine in the bottom, specifically flunitrazepam.’
Robin knows what that means. ‘How much?’
‘A small amount, but enough to render someone unconscious. Full report’s in your inbox,’ Greg finishes.
Robin ends the call. He sits for a moment, rain spitting on his windscreen, and he feels the fury growing inside, adding to the ball of anger already there from his exchange with Liam.
He places a call to Control.
‘Yeah, home address for Olivia Cross,’ he says, hand already on the ignition key. ‘Age late thirties.’
He listens to the reply. ‘That’s the one,’ he agrees. ‘Brown hair, brown eyes.’
He makes a mental note of the address, and guns his car out of the car park.
34
Freya’s glad Robin’s distracted as they leave the church, refraining from asking her too many questions about her so-called admin assignment. She collected the CID case files from work this morning, a huge box in her boot.
She drives home quickly and unloads it, placing it on her kitchen table. She makes a sandwich, tuna and mayo, then sits eating it, reading the basics from the report Baker gave her the day before.
Trevor Stevens, fifty-four. Received a paltry sentence of three years in prison for causing death by careless driving, released after two. Twenty-four months in a minimum-security jail for the hit-and-run on Georgia Riley and two-year-old twins Alex and James. She remembers Robin testifying at the sentencing hearing, then arriving back to work two days later, red-eyed and silent. The sentencing notes talk about the accused’s attempt at rehabilitation, Stevens’ teary, apologetic appeal to the judge, the letters from his family and friends, talking about what a great bloke he was. Blokes are always great, Freya thinks, as she looks at his picture, until they get blind drunk at lunchtime and kill three innocent people.
Notes from his parole hearing talked about his commitment to AA. How he hadn’t touched a drop since the accident. How he had a sponsor, daily meetings to attend, plus a recent commitment to God. How much of it was true, Freya didn’t know, but barely a week after his licence had been reinstated (only disqualified for a year, what a joke) his car was found destroyed and burnt out at the edge of Cottingham Forest, a body inside. Analysis confirmed the body was Trevor Stevens, but that was all it could show. The flames had burnt him to a crisp.
Freya looks for the crime scene photos but they seem to be missing. Stored at the SCIU, she assumes. She looks up the name of the investigating officer – Sergeant Kevin Burton – then sends him a quick email asking to meet.
She reads on. No witnesses to the accident, car and body spotted at eleven p.m. by a dog walker. And a broken bottle in the passenger-side footwell.
That bottle was a distinctive shape – Jack Daniel’s whiskey. So Trevor hadn’t been so abstemious. And when he’d fallen off the wagon, he’d fallen hard, driving his car into a tree.
Freya sits back at her kitchen table. The whole box is laid out in front of her, the scribbled notebooks from the detectives, the typed witness statement from the dog walker. There’s not much, but it all seems present and correct. So what?
She wonders if Steph has found anything additional, and calls her. She answers immediately.
‘I heard you were the DC on the case,’ Steph says. ‘Have you told Robin?’
‘Baker told me not to. Have you?’
A pause. Freya remembers Steph being at her boss’s house that Tuesday morning. Then: ‘No, of course not. Have you seen him?’
‘At the Miller funeral today. Why?’
‘I don’t know, he just…’ Another pause. ‘He doesn’t seem to be doing so well.’
‘He always looks, you know, a mess,’ Freya suggests.
‘Yeah, but more than usual.’ At the other end of the phone, Steph sighs. Freya can hear the hum of a car engine. ‘Have you reviewed the case file yet?’ Steph asks.
‘Yeah, but…’
‘Where are you?’ Steph says. ‘I’m coming to you.’
Freya hangs up and texts Steph her address. Ten minutes later she’s standing on her porch.
Next to Steph, Freya always feels unhealthy and large. Steph screams fitness, from her all-year tan to the way she moves: lithe, with energy. Freya offers her a drink and she refuses, pulling out a bottle of water from her bag – reusable, of course – and an apple, which she takes a bite out of.
If Steph is seeing her sergeant romantically, it seems like a strange match to Freya. Butler doesn’t drink anything that isn’t either alcoholic or caffeinated. Most of his food comes from the vending machine or takeaway shops. Yet Freya knows that women find him attractive. That beaten, melancholy persona, mistaking him for a strong, silent type when in fact he’s just miserable.
Steph sits down at the table, apple still in her hand, and takes a file out of her bag.
‘The medical side of things,’ Steph explains, passing it to Freya.
Freya opens the file and flicks through. She pulls out the post-mortem report. ‘It’s short.’
‘That’s not unusual.’ Steph reaches over Freya and selects a photograph from the pages. She hands it to Freya, who can’t help but gasp. It’s clearly human, but the body’s black, constricted, shrunken. Almost burnt beyond recognition.
‘What was the cause of death?’ Freya asks.
‘Multiple injuries, consistent with given history of road traffic collision.’
‘Had he been drinking?’
‘Inconclusive.’ Steph finishes her apple and stands up, throwing it into the bin from a distance, easily making the shot. ‘Fire burnt everything up. I’ve got the tissue samples, though. I’ll take another look. Our tests have got better since then, more sensitive. They might pick up something new, you never know.’
‘You’re not going to exhume the body?’
‘No,’ Steph scoffs, and Freya feels stupid for asking. ‘Would be even less to find now, and digging up a body is hardly going to keep things below the radar for the coroner.’
‘Do you know what this additional evidence is?’ Freya asks. ‘That caused the coroner to get us to investigate?’
‘No, you?’
‘No.’
Steph shrugs. ‘So we’ll just need to do what we’re told. Take another look at what we have.’
Freya feels the pressure, looking at all the reports, all the mess. Steph, as if sensing her indecision, starts to stack the paperwork into piles.
‘I don’t even know where to start,’ Freya mumbles, helplessly.
Steph looks at her. ‘What does your training tell you to do?’ she asks.
Freya pauses. But instead of that, she thinks about Butler. What would he say? They haven’t worked together long, but she can imagine. ‘Start from the beginning,’ she says. ‘Do the interviews again, look at the crime scene. Make my own mind up about what happened.’
‘So do that.’
Freya nods, and picks up one of the witness statements from that day. She feels Steph’s eyes on her.
‘Freya, how well do you know Robin?’ Steph asks.
Freya looks at her. Steph seems unsure; she’s blushing slightly, her usual confidence evaporated.
‘He’s been my sergeant for just over a week.’
‘I don’t mean like that. I mean…’
‘No, there’s been nothing like that.’ Freya dismisses it quickly. ‘And I’ve never heard any rumours from around CID either.’
‘Never? I mean, I wouldn’t blame him if he had. He’s single, attractive, all those late nights working,’ Steph says, the words flying out of her mouth.
‘No, never,’ Freya repeats.
She knows what Steph is referring to. Even though it’s not strictly speaking allowed, there’s a lot that goes on between the police. The hours are unsociable, and nobody outside the force understands the pressures that detectives experience. It’s only natural that people hook up. And Freya knows abo
ut the sheer number of marriages that crumble as a result.
But Butler? No. No one’s ever talked about him in that way.
She looks back to Steph. ‘You like him, don’t you?’ Freya says.
Steph laughs, slightly sharp. ‘Stupid, aren’t I?’ She gathers her files back up, shoving them hastily into her bag.
‘Not at all. I’ve seen you two together. He feels the same.’
‘Yeah, but men like Robin Butler?’ Steph shakes her head, sadly. ‘By the time they realise, it’s too late.’
35
Robin holds his finger tight to the doorbell of the mid-terrace house and waits. He can hear the bell inside, ringing over and over, then a voice shouts, ‘All right, I’m coming, I’m coming.’
The door opens and Liv stands in front of him. She’s got changed after the memorial and is now in jogging bottoms and a loose, light pink T-shirt, feet bare and arms crossed. She looks sleepy, as if he’s woken her.
He forcefully pushes past her into the house, her face shocked at the sight of him in her hallway.
‘You fucking drugged me,’ he shouts. ‘You roofied me.’
She glares at him, hands now on hips. ‘Get out of my house.’
‘I should arrest you.’
But she laughs. ‘I’d like to see you try. Explain that one to your police buddies – how a prostitute managed to drug you while you were at home with her, late on a Tuesday night.’
He knows she’s right. Shit. ‘Give me my notebook back.’
She scowls, then walks past him into her kitchen and picks up the purple notebook from the table. ‘Fine. Amy couldn’t make sense of it anyway. I don’t know why I bothered.’
Robin snatches it out of her hand. ‘Your sister Amy, you mean.’
‘You know about that.’
‘Hard to miss, you standing next to her in the bloody church.’ Then he realises. ‘You had a threesome with your sister?’ he says, his voice rising at the end with incredulity.
She sighs in frustration. ‘I…’ she starts. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake.’ She goes to the kettle and switches it on, taking a mug out of her cupboard. Her kitchen is small, but clean and bright. ‘You want one?’
‘No, thank you,’ he says, sarcastically. ‘Explain.’
‘I hadn’t seen Amy for about ten years,’ she says. ‘I didn’t know where she lived, didn’t even know she’d got married.’
‘How come?’
‘Our childhoods were less than perfect. As kids we were close, but then our lives took different paths.’ She pours water into her mug and adds a herbal teabag, hanging the tag over the edge. ‘She went down the manic-obsessive route, perfect little Amy. I… well. I preferred to self-medicate a different way. Drugs, alcohol—’
‘Prostitution?’ Robin adds, spitefully.
‘Yes. Thank you for the reminder.’ Liv carries her mug to the small dining table and sits down. Robin makes no attempt to join her, just watches from the doorway as she takes a cigarette from the packet on the table and lights it.
‘We fell out. And then I turn up at her house six months ago.’
‘And then what?’ Robin snaps. ‘Emotional reunion?’
Liv takes a long drag from her cigarette and blows out smoke. ‘Not quite.’ She screws up her face. ‘Amy thought it was funny. Thought Jonathan would get a kick out of it, screwing both sisters.’
‘He didn’t?’
‘No, his reaction was much like yours, complete disgust. She persuaded him to have a blow job, and then she told him after. He went mad, said she was sick. Kicked me out of the house.’ She shrugs, takes another drag. ‘Don’t blame him.’
‘But you kept in touch?’
‘Yeah.’ She sighs and stubs the finished cigarette out in the ashtray. ‘She’s the only family I have.’
‘So why tell me all that about her in the pub that night?’ Robin leans back against the wall, still wary. ‘If you’re so loyal?’
‘I… I don’t know. I was curious. About Jonathan’s death. And I thought if you trusted me, if I told you what you wanted to know, then you might tell me something too.’
‘And I bloody well did,’ Robin sighs. His anger has dissipated with Liv’s explanation. He believes her. ‘So why did you steal the notebook?’
‘Amy wanted to know what you had on her. She knows you think she killed him.’
‘And did she?’
‘Fuck, how would I know? I didn’t lie, I was out with her that Monday night. And I meant what I said about Jonathan. He was a nice guy. From what I saw of him. Sweet. Normal.’
Robin suddenly feels knackered. This whole case, this whole situation. It’s ridiculous. They have nothing to prove Amy Miller killed her husband. And he’s got himself into a whole load of trouble as a result.
He slumps down at the table opposite her. ‘Give me one of those,’ he mutters, pointing to the pack of Marlboro Gold. She offers the box.
He hasn’t smoked since university, but he needs the relief. The tobacco grates at the back of his throat, the nicotine making him feel dizzy, but he relishes the feeling. She watches him through the haze and takes a sip from her tea.
‘I’m sorry for drugging you.’ She smiles weakly. ‘You looked sweet,’ she adds. ‘Asleep on your sofa.’
‘Sorry for bashing your door down,’ he offers in response. ‘Did I wake you?’
‘Trying to have a nap. Late one last night from Frankie. Had to go straight from there to the memorial.’
‘You should give it up.’ He puts the cigarette against his lips, takes another long drag in.
‘I should. But it’s good money. Most of the guys.’ She waves her hand dismissively. ‘They’re harmless enough. Take the man last night. Late fifties, single. Just wanted someone to take to a work event.’
‘Who did he say you were?’ Robin asks, curious.
‘Old family friend. But I’m sure they knew. Sad, really. I think he was just lonely.’
Aren’t we all, Robin thinks with a sting as he stubs out the cigarette. ‘So it was just the work event?’
‘Nah, had to fuck him as well.’ She laughs, bitterly. ‘Paid extra for me to call him Daddy.’ She takes another cigarette out of the packet and puts it in her mouth. ‘And I wonder why I have such a warped view of men,’ she mumbles as she clicks her lighter into flame.
36
He’s gone. More subdued than when he arrived, but most likely never to return.
Liv sits in her kitchen, herbal tea in front of her, and miserably watches the rain pepper the window. Her body is weary. She aches, and shifts position to alleviate the pressure on the parts of her she knows shouldn’t hurt.
This is no way to live her life, she thinks. She’s proud of the things she’s overcome – the alcohol, the drugs that previously dictated her life – but this? The men? Handing fifty per cent of her earnings to Frankie while she is the one being fucked and bruised and held down and fisted? She told Frankie last night she won’t go out with that guy again.
‘Next time,’ Frankie said, pulling her dressing gown around herself and lighting a fag. ‘We’ll charge him double.’
As if money could make up for this feeling. This beaten-down, hollow shell of a body.
The stripping, that’s fine. It’s a job, like any other. Never routine or dull, and on the quiet nights she has fun with the girls. There are a few, of course, who do it to support their coke habit, but most are normal women, from all walks of life. Some supporting a family, others wanting to be dancers and this is the only way they know how. And she likes the hustle, the attitude. Thrusting her boobs into some guy’s face, pretending she likes them to get tips. Private dances, two and a half minutes in her underwear, thirty seconds naked? She can do that, no problem.
But working for the escort agency, working for Frankie? Frankie is one of the good ones, that’s true, but it’s a low bar to start with.
She picks up her cigarettes and lights another. She takes a long breath in and blows the smoke out in a gracefu
l plume, and her thoughts move to Robin Butler.
She’s found she’s been thinking about him more over the past few days. She regretted it the moment she stole that notebook, and now he’s come round to her house, shouting and swearing. But he didn’t arrest her. She meant what she said to him. She’d looked at him, asleep on his sofa, drugged into oblivion, at his long eyelashes, stubble across his jaw, and she’d slowly run a finger across his face. She’d traced the line of his cheekbone, then down his neck to his collar.
And then she’d kissed him. Gently, hardly more than a peck on the lips. And he hadn’t stirred.
Normally she has an apathy towards men that mostly veers to hatred. But Robin seems different. That haunted frown. Words that seem on the edge of his lips, reluctant to say them out loud.
And what would she say to him? Hey, I’m a hooker and a stripper and I drugged you, but would you fancy going out one evening? It’s bullshit, and she knows it.
She liked Jonathan, on that one occasion she met him, and was shocked when he died. It didn’t seem right, what they said about the circumstances of his death, and she wanted to help Robin find out what had happened. But she felt torn, between the loyalties to her sister and the truth she’d told Robin.
Her phone rings next to her, and she looks at the screen, then mutes it and turns it over. It continues to vibrate, then stops. After a second, it starts again. She doesn’t want to answer it. She’s had enough of her sister’s crap. Her life had hardly been perfect before she bumped into Amy again, but now it’s a hundred times worse.
Liv’s spent her whole life making excuses for Amy. Even as children, Liv would be the one getting into fights, defending her little sister for something she’d done or said. Liv could throw a punch, but Amy was manipulative and devious. Getting other kids into trouble from schemes that she herself had come up with. Amy liked the control, and if she wasn’t in charge, then god help you.
And Liv knows why. Like her, their mother was an alcoholic. An unpredictable drunk, happy one moment, unconscious the next. Money was scarce. Food even more so. Liv had to grow up fast, keeping life normal for her baby sister, getting her dressed while mopping up vomit and smashed glass from their mother’s latest bender. Keeping Amy away from the guys. Those guys. The men that decided they wanted the younger model. Who wanted to know why they had to pay fifty quid for the run-down, worn-out lush when they could have the sixteen-year-old virgin instead. And what did it matter? She had a bit of extra cash, and they left Amy alone.