Last Place You Look

by Louisa Scarr

  ‘I’m sorry, but I wanted to be sure,’ she says.

  ‘He would never. Never,’ the wife replies.

  * * *

  Freya thanks the woman and leaves, climbing back into her car. As she starts the engine of her tiny Fiat 500, she thinks about Georgia Riley’s choice of vehicle. Would she have survived if she’d been driving something bigger? Something more solid? Suddenly, Robin and his massive old Volvo makes sense.

  So the wife doesn’t believe he was drinking. But then alcoholics can be secretive, everyone knows that. Still, it feels strange to Freya.

  She gets home, makes a cup of tea, and goes back over the files from Trevor Stevens’ death. She thinks about asking to meet Emily, the daughter, but she doesn’t want to raise any more difficult questions. She’s already called the Texaco garage and the kid confirmed they can’t find the old transactions made by the other eyewitnesses, so that’s a no go. The AA sponsor is closed off, too. So that’s it. Although maybe Steph knows more by now.

  Freya looks up at the time: 11:34. Respectable enough, even for a Sunday, and she picks up her phone and calls. As she listens to it ring, the thought flashes into her head that maybe Steph Harper is having a lazy lie-in with her boss, and her cheeks flush slightly in response. But before she goes to hang up, the phone’s answered.

  ‘Yes?’ Steph sounds out of breath, but Freya is reassured by the sound of heavy footsteps and the rush of wind against the handset. Running, rather than shagging. ‘You calling for the results, Freya?’ Steph says, getting straight to the point.

  Freya agrees. ‘If that’s okay, sorry to call on a—’

  But Steph cuts her off. ‘I’m three miles from your house. I’ll take a detour. Give me half an hour.’

  While Freya waits, she looks back through the files from the sister’s death. Forensic reports, mechanical overview of the SUV (no defects found contributory to collision), pathology results from the basic post-mortem. She skims them all until something catches her eye.

  A line, in the middle of the report about Georgia Riley’s cause of death.

  …examination revealed a gravid uterus, containing a female foetus, estimated to be 21/40…

  Oh, Robin, Freya thinks. She was pregnant? As if it couldn’t have been any worse.

  Next to her, her mobile buzzes. But it’s not her usual phone, it’s the second one, the one she used for all calls to Jonathan. She was looking at it last night. Rereading the messages between them at two a.m. when she couldn’t sleep, her mind too full of him. And now the battery is flat and she’s charging it.

  She picks it up and looks at it, recognising the number.

  You don’t give up, do you, she thinks, a fond smile for her boss. But it worries her. He’s still trying to track down the mistress, and if he’s calling the mobile, who knows what else he might be doing? It’s only a matter of time before he finds her.

  And there’s the small matter of Jonathan’s laptop. Stolen by her, potentially holding evidence from the hidden cameras that could show what happened that weekend. But hand it in now, and she’s buggered. She’s on there, too – in more ways than one. If only she knew his password, she thinks for the hundredth time.

  Her doorbell rings and she hastily hides the mobile in a drawer. She opens the door and Steph stands in front of her, sweaty, decked out in skintight Lycra, trainers on her feet, water bottle in hand.

  ‘I can’t stay for long,’ she says, getting her breath back and stepping into the hallway. ‘Don’t want to cool down too much.’

  ‘You didn’t have to come all the way over here,’ Freya says.

  But Steph shrugs. ‘Makes a nice change. I was going to call you anyway.’

  ‘You have the results from the tox screen? Was he drinking?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ Steph replies, and Freya’s disappointed. They walk through to the living room and, before Freya can stop her, Steph picks up one of the reports from the floor. ‘You’re looking into the Riley case, too?’ Steph asks.

  ‘Just wanted to know the background,’ Freya says. ‘Did you know Georgia Riley was pregnant?’

  ‘Was she? No.’ Steph’s mouth turns down, her chin wobbles, and for a moment Freya thinks she might cry.

  ‘Six months along. You okay?’ she asks softly.

  ‘Yeah, fine. Just me and Robin… we… split up.’ She shrugs miserably. ‘If we were together long enough to even call it that.’

  ‘Oh, Steph, I’m sorry.’ Freya goes to hug her, even despite her sweaty look, but Steph pulls away.

  ‘It’s fine, really, it’s fine. I knew it would happen, it was inevitable. Anyway,’ she says, pulling herself together. ‘In response to your question, Trevor Stevens had no drugs prescribed, antidepressants or otherwise. So nothing that supports your theory of a suicide. But I found something new about his death.’

  ‘What?’ Freya asks, her curiosity piqued.

  ‘I went back over the pathology reports,’ Steph continues, then takes a swig from her water bottle. ‘I reviewed all the photographs from the post-mortem. There was considerable soot in the larynx, trachea and bronchi, and evidence of heat trauma to the mucosa.’

  Freya stares at her, confused. ‘What does that mean?’ she asks.

  ‘Trevor Stevens was still breathing after he hit the tree. The injuries from the crash didn’t kill him.’ Steph looks at Freya, her face grim. ‘The fire did it. He was burnt alive.’

  44

  Robin sleeps late – a welcome change, waking up slowly, without the frantic beep of his alarm. After he left Steph, he spent the rest of the evening on his sofa, the takeaway pizza a poor substitute for the delicious-smelling lasagne he hadn’t been able to sample.

  He briefly debates calling her, but doesn’t get further than that. There’s no point. He hasn’t miraculously changed his mind; he still knows that the idea of kids terrifies him.

  He gets out of bed, walks down the stairs to his kitchen and stares into his empty fridge. He puts a coat on over his T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms, trainers on his feet and walks down to the Co-op, where he buys bacon and eggs and warm freshly baked bread. The air is cool, the sky grey, but it cheers him to be out of the house and actually getting some fresh air into his lungs. Maybe Steph isn’t so off the mark with her constant exercise, he thinks. Maybe a run could do him some good.

  But first things first.

  Home, he cooks the bacon, fries an egg, and sandwiches it between huge slabs of crusty bread. Tomato ketchup drips onto the table as he eats it, washing it down with two mugs of coffee.

  It reminds him of break-ups in his past. His first stop would always be his sister.

  Georgia would cook the same. Her bacon was always crispy to the point of being burnt, her fried eggs always broken, but he never cared. She’d sit and listen to his tales of woe: he was always the dumped, never the one doing the dumping, driving his girlfriends to the point of desperation so that they had no choice but to split up with him. He was never cruel, just neglectful. Forgetting birthdays, working overtime, constantly late. Georgia would roll her eyes, say, ‘Rob, you’ll never fall in love if you don’t try.’ Then stand up and offer him another cup of coffee.

  Later, Liam joined them for these post-mortems, enjoying the perk of his own bacon sarnie, while he half listened in contemplative silence.

  ‘Perhaps they’re just not right for you, Rob,’ he’d say at last. ‘When you’re ready, you’ll know.’

  ‘And you knew, did you, love?’ Georgia would say, dropping a kiss on her husband’s cheek.

  And he’d reply, ‘From the moment I saw you,’ looking up adoringly at his wife.

  Sitting here, remembering the obvious love between his brother-in-law and his sister, makes Robin think again about the reason they don’t speak any more.

  It was a Sunday, like this one. Robin was alone, as usual, when he heard the knock on his door. He was about to answer it, when the man’s voice shouted through.

  ‘Please,’ the voice said. ‘I just w
ant to talk,’ and Robin knew who it was.

  He’d had letters already, short calls on the phone. Trevor Stevens wanted to apologise for murdering his family. And he could go to hell.

  Robin opened the door a crack, but not enough for the man to see through.

  ‘Fuck off,’ he shouted in return. ‘I don’t want to talk to you.’

  ‘Please…’

  ‘Fuck. Off,’ Robin yelled, with so much intensity it made his throat ache, then slammed the door in his face.

  He got straight on the phone to Liam. ‘He came here,’ he said, the force of his anger still reverberating in his body.

  ‘And did you talk to him?’

  ‘No.’

  Liam paused. ‘Maybe you should, Robin,’ he replied.

  Robin was speechless. ‘You did? You spoke to that bastard?’

  ‘Yes,’ Liam said softly. ‘He wanted to apologise, so I let him.’

  ‘You’ve forgiven him? I can’t… I can’t believe you would do this to her. To the boys.’

  ‘I haven’t…’ Liam started, but Robin hung up, hurling his phone across the room in disgust.

  And that was it. The beginning of a series of arguments between them. Liam trying to explain his point of view, even sending a letter that Robin furiously screwed up into a ball and binned. He could never understand. Liam forgiving the man who’d killed his family? No. Just no.

  Robin finishes his bacon sandwich and tidies up the mess in his kitchen. Then, with nothing else to do, and the thought of a Sunday run conveniently forgotten, he pulls out his laptop and files and gets to work.

  The first thing he does is call that number again. The elusive mistress. It’s been bothering Robin from the beginning, a woman who might know more about Jonathan and how he died. They traced the number back to a pay-as-you-go mobile bought from Carphone Warehouse over a year ago. But the records show it being bought and registered by Jonathan Miller himself, no way of knowing who he gave it to next.

  The number rings, and Robin waits. He’s tried it a few times over the last week, but each time it’s been turned off. Robin’s hopeful, but it rings out to the generic voicemail again.

  He’s not sure where else to look. Freya’s been through the telematics for the car: no strange destinations. The laptop’s still missing. He even went back to some of the names from Khalid Riaz’s party, but no, they said, mistress? Not Jonathan, surely.

  If it wasn’t for the messages on Jonathan’s mobile, he’d start to wonder if she even existed.

  He looks at them again, now downloaded into an easy-to-navigate Excel document. Whoever she is, it’s clear she liked him. And the feeling was reciprocated, declarations of love from both sides. Robin feels strange, reading someone’s personal correspondence in this way, but needs must, and getting a picture of this other relationship in Jonathan’s life is vital.

  So where the hell is she? Why hasn’t she come forward? Robin keeps on coming back to that. Jonathan’s death was in the papers, along with his own name and the number of the incident room, so why hasn’t she called?

  He’s still waiting on forensics. Tox screen pending at the lab. All other lines of enquiry exhausted for now, Robin sets his sights on this woman.

  Whoever she is, Robin resolves, pouring himself another mug of coffee, he’ll find her.

  45

  Freya and Steph stand at Freya’s front door, Steph bouncing on the balls of her feet, readying herself to run home.

  ‘What a way to go,’ Steph says, zipping her top up tight under her chin. ‘Trapped by your own car, smelling the petrol. Knowing your last moments will be in all-encompassing pain and terror.’

  Freya winces in response to the vivid picture Steph presents.

  ‘Why did they miss it before?’ she asks.

  Steph shrugs. ‘Would have been a difficult decision, in terms of cause of death. His injuries from the crash were extensive. If the fire hadn’t started, I don’t think he would have lived long after.’ She turns, jogging on the spot for a moment. ‘The pathologist’s call: he went one way, I’d go another. Doesn’t make too much difference at the end of the day. The guy’s still dead; nothing would have saved him.’

  Freya watches Steph jog off down the road, then closes the door, simultaneously glad of her cosy central heating while feeling guilty for making no effort to do any exercise whatsoever. She hears her phone ring from the living room, and goes to answer it.

  ‘West? Anything?’ DCI Baker asks, without greeting.

  ‘It’s Sunday, guv.’

  ‘And you’re not working?’ Baker hears the pause. ‘As I thought. So, out with it.’

  Freya glances at the file. ‘Nothing suspicious, as far as I can tell. No evidence of suicide. Cause of death confirmed to be from the accident.’

  ‘Had he been drinking?’

  ‘Dr Harper’s still waiting on results, but I can’t find any evidence of it.’

  Baker notices the reluctance in her voice. ‘So why your hesitation?’ he asks.

  Freya’s not sure. Maybe it’s that her cop nature wants to see the crime in everything, so when there’s nothing, she can’t help looking for more.

  ‘Why did you ask me to look into this? What information was the coroner sent?’ she asks.

  ‘Not much, to be honest,’ Baker replies. ‘An anonymous email from someone who knew him from AA. Who said that there was no way he’d been drinking, and even if he had, he wouldn’t have drunk Jack Daniel’s.’

  ‘Not exactly concrete evidence,’ Freya says, confused.

  ‘No,’ Baker agrees. ‘But she threatened to go to the press, tell them what she knew.’

  ‘It’s hardly a front-page story.’

  ‘And if the coroner wasn’t such a cautious so-and-so, we wouldn’t have bothered. But he was worried, so here we are. Have you found anything new?’

  ‘Well, the wife agrees, says he wasn’t drinking—’

  ‘As she would.’

  ‘Yes. And I can’t trace the witnesses in the petrol station—’

  ‘There were witnesses at a petrol station?’

  ‘Stevens came in that night, bought fuel. He spoke to someone—’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘No idea.’ Freya’s never worked with Neal Baker before. He has a different style to Butler – more directive, questions firing at her before she has time to think.

  ‘And no mechanical reason for the accident?’

  ‘No. Just human error, no more than that.’

  ‘Good,’ Baker says, and Freya doesn’t like to argue with the finality in his voice. ‘Get your report to me by end of day tomorrow and get back to the Miller case. Between you and me, Butler’s coming up a blank. I need someone else to help him finish his enquiries and put it to bed. Will that be a problem, West?’

  ‘No, guv,’ Freya agrees, and hangs up the phone.

  She sits back on her sofa, the phone still in her hand, evidence twitching in her head. So Trevor Stevens was looking for salvation. Seeking to make amends. He reaches out to the husband, Liam Riley, has a nice chat. Not so much with Butler, but then that’s not surprising. Freya doesn’t take her boss for the forgive and forget sort. Stevens is going to AA meetings, speaking to his sponsor. There’s no evidence he was drinking, bar the burnt JD bottle in the footwell, that Freya knows he didn’t buy at the petrol station.

  So where did it come from? Freya frowns. She could try and find out: track down every single place he shopped in the days before his death? It’s possible, she thinks. She could pull his financials, contact every shop, assuming he paid by card. But it was two years ago, a tired voice says in her head. And what if he paid in cash? There’d be no trace.

  And even if he had bought it, what then? It would wrap things up nicely, but wreck the wife’s image of her dead husband. There are so many lives ruined already, why make it worse?

  Freya gets up, goes to the fridge and cobbles together some lunch from the last pieces of cheese and bread. As she eats it, she sits in front of
her laptop, running the CCTV footage again. The same couple, the man and the woman. The same faceless man, the same conversation. And no way of knowing who any of them are.

  She gets up and makes herself a cup of tea. But when she sits back down, she realises the disc has still been running. Churning out the next file, black and white again, unrecognisable customers on the screen. And that’s when she realises – it’s a different camera. She didn’t see the other one. It must have been hidden in the corner of the shop, quietly recording footage from the door.

  Barely daring to think, she scrolls through the timestamp, the clock ticking round at the bottom of the screen. Daylight outside fades; the lights switch on in the petrol station.

  More customers come in through the door, then go out of shot. They walk up the aisle, buy chocolate and sweets. Pay, chat, smile.

  Then she stops. Trevor Stevens walks in, alive and well. He goes to the bank of fridges first, taking out a bottle of Coke, then he walks away, where Freya knows he pays at the till. Then he’s back in shot, and here’s the guy.

  Freya lets her breath out in a rush. This angle’s no better. The man’s closer this time, but still turned away. There’s nothing new here. No distinctive markings on his clothes that would identify him.

  The two of them talk a while longer, and Freya sees Trevor laugh, then place his hand on the squaddie’s arm. Then they turn. And Freya’s body goes cold.

  It’s only a fragment of a second, but for that moment, the man faces the camera. And she sees him. With shaking hands, she rewinds the tape and watches again. She doesn’t dare blink. It can’t be him.

  She watches it again, and again. And each time, her brain refuses to acknowledge what her eyes are saying is true.

  Her brain just says, oh god, it can’t be. It can’t be him.

  46

  Monday

  The instruction to see Baker comes early. Robin’s barely reached his desk, coffee in hand, computer still booting up.

  ‘What does he need to see me for?’ Robin asks.

  The woman shrugs. ‘Didn’t say, just told me to get you. Personally.’