Last Place You Look

by Louisa Scarr

  ‘Have you compared the DNA on the porn to the trace in the car?’

  ‘No, you want us to—’

  ‘Yes. Please,’ Robin adds as an afterthought. ‘And the fingerprints, too. Call me as soon as you know.’

  ‘Will do. What are you thinking?’ Greg asks, curious.

  ‘It’s too precise.’ Robin holds his hand out, fingers splayed, copying the handprint on the porn. ‘Too perfect.’

  ‘You think someone staged the crime scene?’ Greg replies. ‘What were they hiding?’

  Robin stands up and throws his empty coffee cup in the bin. ‘A murder,’ he says, striding out of the lab without a goodbye.

  39

  Saturday

  Freya wakes early, has a shower and leaves her house before breakfast. She’s keen to get on the road. She knows where she’s going.

  She spent the rest of Friday in her living room, reading through the contents of the large brown boxes. There was a lot there – photographs, reports, Burton’s scribbled handwriting in investigatory notebooks – and none of it contradicted what he’d told her that morning. They’d been thorough. The reports documented every aspect about the scene in minute detail – the camber of the road, the conditions, the torrential rain, the wind speed and direction. Maps showed the location, and a full GPS scan had been taken, recreating the entire scene in a computer program. She loaded up one of the CDs and flicked through hundreds of photographs of the crash.

  But she knew nothing substituted seeing it all in real life. She pushed the paperwork aside and looked closely at the crime scene map. That would be her plan for tomorrow. She’d see for herself. Start the investigation from the beginning.

  * * *

  Now, air crisp with the beginning of autumn, she enters the postcode into her satnav and follows the instructions – down the motorway, then onto increasingly smaller roads. She picks up a coffee and an almond croissant on the way and eats it, dropping greasy fragments of pastry onto her lap as she drives.

  She passes a small Texaco garage on the right, then drives for another mile until she spots it. Pulling into a dirt road further up, she takes one last gulp of coffee, then hastily sweeps the mess from her clothes as she gets out of the car.

  It’s a fast road, derestricted speed limit, windy and deserted. Grey tarmac, white lines down the centre. Trees on one side, tall hedge on the other, farmer’s field beyond. She pulls her coat tighter around her, grabs a few of the crime scene photos, then walks down the grass verge towards the deadly tree.

  There’s nothing marking it out as the site of a fatal accident. From the crash investigator’s report, she imagines Trevor Stevens driving down here that night, losing control, sliding and hitting the tree. The tree in question is a broad oak, untarnished, acorns littering the road below it, undergrowth grown up around it again. It’s wide and sturdy. In the fight of vehicle versus tree there could only be one winner.

  She looks down the road, and as it starts to drizzle, she walks back to her car and sits inside. She pulls the file out of her bag and reads the report again, looking at the photos accompanying it.

  Sitting there, she takes in the scene in all its cold, hard reality. She holds the photo up, comparing it to the quiet roadside she looks at now. Fire engines took ten minutes to get there; by the time they arrived the flames had erupted into a fury. Freya agrees with their assessment of the speed; he must have been going at quite some lick. The tree is embedded almost completely in the front of the car, metal sandwiched round the blackened engine, the bonnet gone.

  Freya wonders how much Trevor Stevens would have been cognisant of the accident. Whether he was conscious at all after the crash. Whether he knew what was about to happen. How he would die.

  And then, for the first time Freya thinks, was the crash deliberate? Was Trevor Stevens trying to kill himself?

  She doesn’t remember seeing any statements from the family in the file boxes. She vaguely remembers there’s a wife and a daughter, and makes a mental note to go back and check. And then she remembers the petrol station.

  * * *

  She starts the engine, and drives the mile or so back. She pulls into the forecourt. It’s an old-style garage with a petrol station attached. Not one of the posh, corporate ones with a Jamie Oliver sandwich bar or Costa Coffee, but a display of chocolate running down the middle of the shop and a fridge at the back with cold drinks.

  A bell announces her arrival, and she walks to the teenager behind the till.

  ‘Fuel?’ he asks, looking out to the forecourt.

  ‘Detective Constable Freya West.’ She holds up her ID and he glances at it, confused. ‘I’m here about an incident that happened a few years ago. The accident about a mile away, down the A32?’

  ‘I didn’t work here then,’ the kid says, and Freya curses silently. She should have called ahead. ‘You’d have to speak to my grandad.’

  ‘Your grandad?’ Freya repeats, feeling a glimmer of hope.

  ‘Yeah. He retired last year.’

  ‘Could you call him?’

  Freya expects the kid to pick up the phone, but instead he bellows ‘GRANDAD!’ at the top of his voice, making her jump. They wait for a second, then he does it again.

  ‘WHAT?’ a corresponding voice hollers back.

  ‘Police want to speak to you!’ The boy smiles innocently at Freya. ‘Give him a moment. It takes him a while to haul his arse out of his chair.’

  They wait in silence, and Freya eyes up the shelves. She fancies a Dairy Milk, maybe a can of Diet Coke to wash down her breakfast. She looks again, and she can’t see any beer or wine.

  ‘Do you sell alcohol?’ she asks him.

  ‘Not got a licence.’

  ‘And your CCTV? How long do you keep it for?’

  ‘A month,’ the boy replies, and Freya’s disappointed, although she expected as much. ‘I remember that accident, though. The car that caught fire?’ Freya nods. ‘It was all anyone talked about round here. Some people say they heard the boom when the petrol tank blew.’

  The side door opens, and an older man shuffles through. He has a stick in his hand, and a shock of grey hair sticking up at the back of his head. He smiles, and Freya can see the similarities between him and his grandson.

  ‘She wants to know about the car accident,’ the kid says.

  ‘She?’ The old man directs to the teenager. ‘Go and get us a coffee,’ he says and the boy goes without question. The man holds out his hand to Freya. ‘Thomas Kinnaman, and you are?’

  ‘DC Freya West,’ she replies as she shakes his hand. His skin is dry and papery, but his grip firm. ‘Do you remember that day?’

  The old man invites Freya to the other side of the cash desk, and settles himself on a wooden chair. ‘Not much happens round here, could hardly forget. The man came in, you know?’

  ‘He did?’ Freya’s surprised; she doesn’t remember reading it in the report.

  ‘Yeah. Nice bloke. I thought you lot would visit, but you never did.’

  ‘You didn’t call them?’ Freya asks. ‘They were looking for witnesses.’

  ‘I left a message, no one phoned back. Reporters caught on though, spoke to a few of them. I looked up the records. He bought a bottle of Coke and a Ginsters, plus a full tank. Paid for it on his credit card.’

  ‘How did he seem?’

  ‘Not drunk, if that’s what you’re asking.’ The grandson comes back in with two mugs. He holds one out to Freya and she takes it. It looks weak and milky, but it’s hot and caffeinated so Freya doesn’t argue. The grandson settles back behind the till, staring at his phone.

  ‘I read the reports in the paper, and I was surprised at the time,’ the man continues. ‘We had a quick chat about the rain, then off he went. And believe me, I’ve seen my fair share of guys that shouldn’t be driving. Called the cops on a few. But he wasn’t one of them.’

  He takes a sip from his coffee. ‘Ah, that’s better,’ he murmurs appreciatively. ‘Did you ever track down the ot
hers?’

  ‘Sorry?’ Freya frowns.

  ‘The other people that were here at the same time. A woman and a man, married couple, I think. And a squaddie, I heard them talking. Said he was in the army.’

  ‘What did they look like?’ she asks, trying to contain her enthusiasm.

  ‘Woman was…’ Kinnaman pauses, then shakes his head so furiously his jowls wobble. ‘Nope, can’t remember. We get so many folks through here. That was a long time ago.’

  Freya frowns. A lead that’s dead before it’s even started.

  ‘I can show you if you like?’ Freya stares at him, and he points to the camera behind the desk. ‘The CCTV? I kept the video. Assumed you lot would come back for it, but you never did.’

  * * *

  It’s getting late by the time Freya makes it home. She puts her key in the lock and pushes it open, switching the lights on as she goes, excitedly clutching the evidence bag now containing the disc with the footage.

  She quickly makes dinner, boiling up pasta and mixing in some sauce, then boots up her laptop, sitting down, bowl in front of her. She opens the CD tray and the disc loads slowly, the symbol whirring on the screen. Why didn’t anyone follow up at the time? she wonders, waiting for it to load. Must have got missed, been one of those things.

  The video starts automatically and she sees the garage shop, unchanged in the two years that have passed. The camera angle captures the middle aisle of sweets and chocolate, the fridges at the back, but the main door is out of shot, the quality crap and grainy. A few customers come in; Freya recognises the grey hair of Thomas Kinnaman, bobbing at the front of the video. She looks up the timings in her notes, then winds it forward. Then, there he is. Trevor Stevens, in black and white.

  He walks to the front of the shop, sure and steady. Freya watches the wordless video as he smiles and speaks to the garage owner. She sees the couple Kinnaman mentioned before: the man comes to the front, waits behind Stevens to pay. The woman stays at the back, barely in shot. Because of the rain that night, everyone has their hoods up, their faces down. There’s not much to go on.

  Then the other man appears at the back. He faces the fridges, then turns slightly to the side to speak to Trevor Stevens as he leaves. Freya cranes forward, shovelling a forkful of pasta into her mouth, chewing slowly as she watches. But there’s nothing to identify the guy. He’s taller than Trevor Stevens, Freya can see that, but, like the others, his black hood is up and she can’t see any of his face. Stevens smiles, gestures outside, then the two of them go out of shot.

  That’s it. Shit. Nothing.

  She sits back in her chair, finishing the last few mouthfuls of her dinner. Dead end. She’s already asked Kinnaman to track down the purchases made by the other potential eyewitnesses, and he gave her a doubtful look. ‘Files could be anywhere,’ he said, and Freya had a suspicion he wouldn’t look far.

  She stands up, clearing away her dirty plate into the dishwasher, then wonders what to do with the rest of her Saturday night. She knows her friends are out, a text earlier asking if she was going to join them, but she doesn’t have the energy.

  Most days she likes the peace and quiet. Space to do what she wants after a long day. To put her feet up and watch something mindless on TV. But today, more than ever, she misses Jon.

  Communication between them was brief and sporadic. But she always knew he was there if she needed him. Sometimes it was just a quick message on WhatsApp. Sometimes she’d tweet, a cryptic message that only he’d understand, knowing he’d look and smile, and sometimes reply. And when they were together, they’d talk. About work, about everything. And now. Now there’s nothing.

  It’s the silence she can’t stand. She has an urge to call Butler, find out how he’s getting on with the case, but he’ll ask about what she’s doing and she doesn’t want to lie.

  Instead, she pulls up Steph’s number and presses the green button.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Steph, it’s Freya.’

  ‘Mmm-hmm,’ Steph replies.

  ‘You busy?’

  ‘Yep, give me a moment.’

  There’s a rustling, and Freya hears Steph making excuses. Then footsteps.

  ‘Okay, we can talk now.’

  ‘You with Butler?’

  ‘Yep.’ Steph’s responses are short and to the point. Freya assumes her boss can’t be far away.

  ‘Have you found anything new on the Stevens case?’

  ‘Nope. I’ve reviewed the MRIs and X-rays taken at the time – nothing inconsistent with the findings.’

  ‘Multiple injuries consistent with road traffic collision?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘What about blood alcohol?’

  ‘Not tested the samples yet,’ Steph whispers, ‘although I’m not optimistic. Don’t pin too many hopes on it. Did you go to the crash site?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Freya moves the photos about in front of her. ‘Listen, Steph. Was there anything you found that would indicate suicide?’

  ‘Suicide? No. Why?’

  ‘Nothing on the road, nothing to cause an accident.’

  ‘Perhaps a deer jumped out. Perhaps it all happened too fast. Consistent with lowered response times due to drinking.’

  ‘Could you check his medical records, in case he was prescribed antidepressants or anything?’

  ‘Sure.’ Freya hears a male voice in the background. ‘I have to go. I’ll look later and text you.’

  Freya hangs up. Hearing Butler’s voice makes her miss her boss. That sounding board, someone to talk to about stuff like this. And she’s envious of Steph. Not because she’s with Butler, but because they have each other.

  Her gaze shifts to the pile of brown boxes in the corner of the room, and the one from his sister’s death that she hasn’t yet looked at. He lost his parents, one by one, and then his sister and his nephews. She finds it hard to understand that level of loss, how he could have got over something like that. Perhaps he hasn’t, the voice in her head says.

  She stands up and goes over to the box, then crouches down and takes off the lid. It feels like an intrusion, looking into his life like this, but there’s an itch of curiosity she wants to scratch.

  It won’t take long, she tells herself. Just a quick look.

  40

  Kal looks out into the darkness of the club, beer in hand, music deafening. The bass is so loud he can feel the vibrations in his chest. He watches his mates out there, dancing, flirting, drinking, but has no wish to join them.

  Since Jonathan died, he’s felt heavy. A weariness. A sadness ingrained in his bones that no amount of alcohol or powder or partying can fix. A woman standing at the bar catches his eye and smiles. Newly single, his latest girlfriend swiftly departing as his normal generous and fun nature gave way to grief, he manages a quick smile back and she walks towards him. She’s leggy and young and dark, his type, but as she puts her hand on his arm and her mouth next to his ear, he finds himself shaking his head, no. She retreats with an angry frown, and he turns, walking down the stairs and out of the club without a word to his mates.

  He walks quickly through the cold night air, flagging down a taxi, and arriving home earlier than he’s ever considered in the past. It’s barely eleven, and he still feels the last line of coke buzzing in his veins. There’s no way he’ll sleep now. He goes to the fridge, taking out a beer, then lies on the sofa, intending to while the hours away with a violent film, something nasty and over the top. Help him forget about Jonny.

  Kal has an overwhelming urge to cry. While he and Jonny hadn’t been close for years, it was more due to circumstances than want. He worked long hours in the City, commuting in from Winchester every day. Jonny had a simpler life, closer to home. Kal knew that Jonny couldn’t match his drinking – and drug-taking, if he was being honest – and the money Kal splashed around always made Jon nervous. Jonny had always been a cautious guy, ever since their time at university together. He was the one who made sure Kal got home when he was wasted. He st
opped the fights; he called the taxis. He paid when a tip was forgotten.

  Kal was ashamed to admit now that that side of Jon always made him a bit embarrassing in front of his City friends. Everyone there was more relaxed. But he’d always known that Jon was there for him. Jon – and Amy.

  But she’d forced him to take sides. Amy had shown Kal a side of Jon that Kal hadn’t liked. That he couldn’t forgive.

  Next to him, his phone buzzes, loud and distracting. He picks it up, expecting a torrent of abuse from his mates for leaving them, but it’s Amy.

  You in town? the message says.

  He considers leaving it, but feels a flash of sympathy towards her. He replies: Home.

  You okay?

  No. He’s surprised at his honesty. But if anyone can understand how he’s feeling, it’s her.

  I’m coming over.

  Don’t, he types back, but there’s no response.

  Fifteen minutes later there’s a knock on the door. He opens it, wearily.

  ‘You shouldn’t have come, Amy,’ he says, then frowns. She’s wearing a tight dress, breasts pushed up, high heels, more than her usual amount of make-up. ‘You been out?’ he adds as she walks into the house.

  ‘What have you got to drink?’ she asks.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Vodka tonic. You got any blow?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Pity.’ She walks away from him, into the living room, and he makes her the drink. He carries it through, where she’s sitting on the sofa, heels kicked off, legs crossed, showing a long expanse of toned thigh. She taps the sofa next to her with a smile.

  He passes her the drink and sits down slowly. She’s behaving strangely, even for Amy. Drunk, maybe, or on something else, it’s hard to tell. She takes a sip from her glass, her eyes fixed on him.

  ‘How can I help?’ she asks, her voice almost a purr.

  ‘I’m fine, Amy. I just… I can’t stop thinking about him.’ He stops. He can’t even begin to articulate what happened to his best friend.