by Louisa Scarr
‘I can take your mind off it.’
‘I…’ Kal goes to say something else, but she’s pressing herself up against him, her body warm and eager.
He remembers the last time they were alone together. She turned up, out of the blue, crying, her face bloody and bruised. He comforted her, sat on this sofa, as she told him about her fight with Jonathan. How he’d done this to her.
And then they were kissing. He can’t remember who made the first move, but there was no doubt that the rest of it was consensual. She was all over him, undoing his trousers, her mouth on his dick. He tried to stop her, but not really, because it felt so good, so fucking good, until he pulled her up, took her clothes off and screwed her, right there, on the sofa.
And after – shit – the guilt. What Jonathan had done to Amy was unforgivable, but screwing his best mate’s wife was not the solution. And without a condom, either. He’d only realised at the last minute, and pulled out, coming violently across her bare stomach. He had one child in the mix already; he didn’t want another. But it was okay, Amy told him by text. She wasn’t pregnant, and she hadn’t told Jonathan.
And now he’s dead. Jonny will never know, but here she is again. And she’s not hanging around. One hand is rubbing the crotch of his jeans, the other is up his shirt, and she’s kissing him, hard. He pulls away. He can’t do this.
She looks at him, her pupils wide and dilated.
‘Amy, no,’ he says, but her hand is still there, now trying to find its way into his trousers. He grabs her wrist. ‘Stop it.’
She smiles. ‘It’s okay, I want this.’
‘I don’t.’ She tries again with her other hand. ‘Stop it,’ Kal says again, standing up and moving away from her quickly. He feels sickened by what she’s doing. ‘Your husband’s just died,’ he says. ‘My friend…’
Amy sits back on the sofa, her face dark. ‘You didn’t care much about your friend while he was alive, why do you give a shit now?’
‘We shouldn’t have done that then. It was wrong.’
‘He was a bastard, Kal. A cheating, wife-beating bastard,’ she shouts. ‘He deserved to die.’
Kal shakes his head. He feels his throat tighten; a sudden sob comes up from his chest. ‘You need to leave.’
‘I’m not going. We need to do this.’ She gets up from the sofa and stands next to him on her tiptoes, trying to kiss him again. ‘I want you, Kal. I need you.’
But he places his hands on her shoulders and pushes her away. She backs off, stumbling slightly. ‘Kal…’
‘Go!’ He shouts at her this time. ‘You need help, Amy. This—’ He points to her. ‘This isn’t normal. Get some fucking help.’
She glares at him, then picks up her shoes and angrily stalks out of his house. He hears the front door slam, but he stays standing in the middle of the room. His hands are shaking, and he raises them to his face, covering his mouth.
What have I done? he thinks. What the fuck have I done?
41
The weekends are the worst, Robin’s always known that. Long drifts of time, punctuated by no more than the memories of what his life used to be like. Work fills the void for the main, and this Saturday has been no exception – hours have passed, Robin glued to his computer catching up on old case work, distracting him away from the lack of progress on Jonathan Miller.
There has been another break-in. Number five, report from the PC forwarded to Robin to follow up on. He looked at the photographs from the scene: scattered beer cans, glass shards from a smashed bottle of vodka, cigarettes stubbed out on the carpet. Much like the others. He read the witness statements: neighbours heard something the weekend before but hadn’t bothered to call it in. Owners returned home from holiday to find the mess and their laptop and iPad missing. As before, the only things that had been taken were small and portable – easy to sell, hard to trace. New evidence had been gathered and forwarded to the lab; reports had come back from the one before – nothing. No DNA, no fingerprints. From here, all they could do was wait. With no further lines of enquiry, it would have to go on the back burner for now.
And now five p.m. has rolled around, and Robin’s aware he’s still in tracksuit bottoms and a T-shirt. Unwashed, unshaved, and mere hours away from going to see Steph for dinner.
Remembering Greg’s words from the day before, he shaves, removing three days’ worth of stubble, then has a long shower, cleaning his teeth and making some attempt to style his hair, despite its desperate need for a cut. He puts on jeans then irons his one remaining clean shirt.
And as he drives towards Steph’s house, he finds himself humming along to the radio. It’s the first time he’s felt decent in days, the restorative power of the thought of a good meal, a bottle of wine and possibly a shag in his future.
He pulls up outside Steph’s house and rings the bell. Considering the amount of times he’s been here before, he’s surprised to find himself nervous, a feeling that abates the moment she opens the door.
She’s dressed in a denim shirt and black jeans, a pair of white wool slippers on her feet. She greets him with a kiss full on the mouth and encourages him in, squeezing past the bike in the hallway, the coats and technical running jackets hanging up alongside. He can smell something tempting cooking on the hob; soft music is playing in the background.
‘Shall I open this?’ she asks, holding the bottle of red that he’s brought.
‘Yep, do,’ he replies, and she reaches up, getting a glass down from the shelf. ‘You staying?’ she asks.
‘I hope so.’
And she smiles and pours him a generous serving, handing it to him, then picking up the tall glass in front of her. He can’t tell what’s in it, beyond ice and something clear, bubbling against the sides.
‘How was your day?’ she asks, and gestures for them to go through to the lounge. She sinks down on one of the sofas and he joins her. ‘You still working on the Jonathan Miller case?’
‘Yeah,’ he sighs, and takes a sip of wine. ‘Although I feel like I’m not getting very far. Just confusion, everywhere I look.’ She looks interested, so he continues. ‘I followed up with all the eyewitnesses from the party yesterday afternoon. All of them were wasted. Some remember Amy, but not Jonathan. Others say he was out in the smoking area – although,’ he says, pointing his wine glass at Steph, ‘he didn’t smoke.’
‘Anything on social media?’ Steph asks.
‘Again, some photos with Amy in the background, but nothing of Jonathan. And the photo of Kal and Jonathan that we now know was old.’
‘So he might not have been there?’
‘No. Although, as you and I both know, absence of something doesn’t prove it didn’t happen. Are his tox results back yet?’
‘Should be next week, they’re backed up at the lab.’
‘Great. Thank you,’ he adds with a smile, remembering he’s supposed to be having fun, not interrogating Steph. ‘Plus the person arriving at the hotel in Jonathan’s car wasn’t him, although we have no idea who it was.’
‘So how did he get there?’
Robin shrugs. ‘Not a clue. What about you?’ Robin’s desperate to ask, but tries his hardest to keep it casual. ‘Have you found anything from the Stevens crash?’
Steph looks at him sympathetically. ‘No. Nothing new.’ A ting from the kitchen prevents Robin from asking anything further. ‘Come through,’ she says. ‘Dinner’s nearly ready. Just need to put the veg on.’
They get up and walk back into the kitchen. Steph turns and puts the kettle on. ‘Lasagne,’ she says. ‘Is that okay?’
‘Perfect.’ Robin’s stomach rumbles in response. He can’t remember the last time he ate a home-cooked meal. He sits down at her kitchen table, laid up ready for dinner, feeling relaxed and comfortable. He’s always liked Steph’s house – minimal, her scientific mind never being one for clutter or fluff, but stylish. Photos on the wall from the places she’s been; a corkboard is on the far side of the kitchen, medals from her numerous
races and triathlons hanging from a hook below.
‘You got any events planned?’ he asks as she pours boiling water into the saucepan.
‘Half Ironman at the end of the month, then that’s it for the season,’ she says. ‘Water gets too cold in winter. You fancy joining me?’
The idea of swimming outdoors at any time of year seems insane to Robin. He can’t remember the last time he went to the gym, or even broke into a run. But he knows she’s joking.
‘I’ll give this one a miss, thanks,’ he says. ‘Maybe I’ll stand and cheer on the sidelines instead, in a warm coat with a cup of coffee.’
‘I’d like that,’ she replies with a smile. ‘You know, I often see families at these sorts of events. Some taking part, some supporting. I’ve always felt unbearably jealous of them all.’
She stops. He watches her carefully as she puts her glass on the side, then picks up a bottle of gin. It feels like a well-rehearsed comment. Not so much offered into the conversation, but forced there with a crowbar. He waits as she pours a large measure of the alcohol into her glass, following it up with tonic. He’s not sure how to respond.
‘Is it…’ Steph starts, then pauses, taking a large swig of her drink. ‘Is it something you’ve ever thought about?’
‘Having a family?’ he asks.
‘Yes.’ She looks at him at last. Her gaze is wide, almost pleading.
‘I had a family.’
‘One of your own,’ she says quietly.
‘I…’ Robin stops. ‘I haven’t thought about it,’ he lies. He knows there is a definite right and wrong answer here; this is a discussion that could go badly wrong.
‘What? Never?’ she asks.
He’s already felt the previous good mood in the room evaporating, and now he stares down at his hands, feeling her close scrutiny.
‘Do we have to talk about this now?’ he tries, but she shakes her head, her shoulders rigid.
‘I was going to bring it up later, but now is as good a time as any. I’m thirty-seven, Rob,’ she continues. Her voice has lost its friendly edge, replaced by a dogged weariness he doesn’t like at all. ‘And I would like to have kids. I’ve wasted enough time.’ The saucepan’s still furiously boiling away next to her, but she ignores it. ‘You and I— When we first met, I enjoyed our little hook-ups, because that’s all they were. But now…’ She sighs. ‘I like you, Robin—’
‘I like you too—’
‘No.’ She shakes her head sadly. ‘I really like you. More than you like me, I suspect, and that feeling’s only going to get worse. I’d rather know now, before I get in too deep.’ She walks across to the kitchen table and sits opposite him; he knows what she’s going to ask. To get to the point she danced around earlier. ‘Do you want to have children, Rob?’
‘I…’ he begins. He always thought he would. Being a part of Alex and James’s short lives confirmed that to him. He knew then that he wanted kids of his own, little people to help form and grow and love. But the hard ball forming in the pit of his stomach as he thinks about it? That he can’t deny.
The thought of a baby in his life terrifies him. The idea that he would love someone, like he loved those boys, then lose them again? It would be too much.
‘I don’t know,’ he replies honestly. ‘Probably not.’
He looks up now, and sees the emotion on her face.
She nods. ‘Then you should leave.’
‘Steph—’
‘Please.’ She’s looking down to the floor, unable to meet his gaze. ‘Just go.’
He pauses, about to protest, but there’s something final in her tone. He stands up, then gently puts his hand on her shoulder. Without looking up, she puts her hand on his, squeezes, then takes it away again.
He picks up his coat. Desperately, he wants things to go back to the way they were before this conversation happened. But he knows that’s not a possibility. He doesn’t want to lose her. Not because of the sex, but because he suspects she’s the closest thing to a friend that he has.
But he stays silent, then turns and walks out of her front door, pulling it closed with a gentle click behind him.
42
Fucking Kal. What an arsehole. Amy’s furious – how dare he? How dare he say that she needs help?
She barely remembers the drive home, takes a diazepam the moment she gets in the door, then follows it up with a large glass of Chardonnay. Fuck them all, she thinks, pulling her ridiculous dress off in the kitchen and walking into the bedroom. She already feels the welcome fuzz descending. The warm blanket of delirium that only choice pharmaceuticals can provide.
She gets into bed and pulls her duvet over the top of her. Precariously holding her wine glass at an angle, she gets her phone out and sends a text.
Fuck you, she types, then presses send to Kal. Not exactly eloquent, she admits, through her addled brain. She giggles slightly. But to the point.
She sees a message has come in from her sister and opens it up.
That detective came to see me on Thurs, it says. He knows I drugged him. He’s angry.
Amy replies: So? Has he arrested you?
She waits. Three small dots appear, then a ping. No. If he does he’ll get himself into trouble. But he’s after you.
Fucking detective. Arsehole, Amy thinks. She finishes her wine and sends a message back. What am I supposed to do about that?
Just don’t do anything stupid. Got to go, working.
Amy throws her phone away from her with disgust. She slumps back on her pillow. Fucking slut sister, she thinks. She feels her eyes closing. What does she think I’m going to do?
Then her eyes snap open. She sits up again, grabbing her phone from where it’s landed at the end of her bed. I’m a genius, she thinks, opening up a new email. And she starts to type.
43
Sunday
‘Why do you ask? Why do you want to know?’
Freya knew this would be tricky. How to explain to Trevor Stevens’ wife that they’re looking into his death again. And on a Sunday morning, at that. Freya sits in the overheated living room, perched awkwardly on the edge of the sofa, the wife opposite her.
‘We’re doing a review of all deaths down that stretch of the A32,’ Freya lies. ‘With a view to reducing the speed limit. And thank you for meeting me at such short notice,’ she continues, ‘but with my busy case load this is the only time I’m free.’
Stevens’ wife still looks confused, but nods slowly. She’s a tiny woman, her face shrivelled where time and grief have removed anything that might make her attractive. She has a skein of bright green wool next to her and two knitting needles, which she fingers nervously.
‘And Trevor was still attending AA meetings regularly,’ Freya prompts again.
‘Yes. Less than he was when he came out of prison, but still once or twice a week. And seeing his sponsor. Sure you don’t want a cup of tea?’
‘No, I’m fine, thank you.’ She does, desperately, but doesn’t feel she wants to disturb this woman any more than she should. ‘Could I have the name of his sponsor?’ Freya asks.
The wife looks at Freya as if she’s stupid. ‘I don’t know his name. That’s why they call it anonymous.’
‘Right.’ Another dead end. ‘And how was Trevor feeling, around that time?’
‘Feeling?’
‘Depressed, happy, anything different to normal?’
The wife thinks for a moment, her lips puckering. ‘The accident, the first one, you know, took its toll on Trev. He took it bad.’ She picks up the knitting, as if to start again, then lowers it. ‘He blamed himself for that family dying.’
And so he should have, Freya thinks, but doesn’t say it. She spent the last evening going through the box related to the death of Robin’s sister. The investigation was brief. Initial hit-and-run, followed by a confession from Stevens. The evidence was clear: even though five hours had passed between the crash and Stevens turning himself in, he was still over the legal limit. Stevens’ massive
Peugeot 3008 SUV had failed to stop at a red light and ploughed into the side of Georgia Riley’s tiny Suzuki Alto. They hadn’t stood a chance.
The photos were galling: the Suzuki pushed off the road, side caved in, barely recognisable as a car. Cones littered around; debris scattered across the tarmac.
In comparison, Stevens’ SUV seemed untouched.
The wife continues: ‘He thought it was an act of God that the judge only gave him three years in prison. He was desperate to make amends. He gave up drinking, joined AA, went to our local church. He sang in the choir. He had a lovely baritone.’
The wife beams at Freya and she forces a grin.
‘He’d seen a lot, Trev, from his time in the army.’ She picks up the knitting and pushes one needle next to the other then starts to work, her movements automatic. ‘Twenty years, give or take. Iraq, Germany, Northern Ireland. We went all over the place. But nothing affected him like the death of that family. He even went to see them, to apologise, but they weren’t having any of it.’
‘He did?’
‘Yeah.’ The needles continue their clicking. ‘Took a lot for him to do that. The husband had a long chat with him. And although Trev said they were far away from forgiveness, he felt better.’
‘What about the brother?’ Freya asks. ‘Did he speak to him too?’
‘Yeah.’ The mouth puckers again. ‘Robert something. He was one of yours, in the police, I remember that. Wouldn’t even open the door. Told him to…’ The wife clears her throat. ‘Eff off,’ she finishes quietly.
Sounds like Robin, Freya thinks. ‘I’m sorry I have to ask this,’ she begins. ‘But do you think Trevor was trying to kill himself that night?’
‘What? No!’ The wife looks horrified. ‘Trevor would never have done something like that. Not to me, not to Emily. His life was back on track. We were happy.’
Her fingers work the wool, and two fat teardrops roll down her cheek. Freya hands her a tissue.