by Louisa Scarr
‘Personally?’ Robin gets up and follows her. This can’t be good news, and sure enough, Baker’s face is grim when he walks into the office.
‘Sit down, Robin,’ he says.
Robin does as he’s told. ‘What’s this about?’
‘I’ve had a complaint.’
‘What? Who from?’ Robin can feel his face flushing, anger surging round his veins.
‘Amy Miller.’
Shit. This is not going to be good, Robin thinks, but waits for Baker to speak.
Baker runs a hand across his shaved head, clearly exasperated. ‘At least, we think that’s what this is.’ He points to the piece of paper on the desk. ‘It’s barely intelligible, making some accusation about you and her sister, someone called Olivia Cross. You know who that is?’
‘She’s a witness, yes.’
‘Says you’ve slept with her.’
‘That’s bollocks,’ Robin explodes.
‘Says she’s been to your house.’
‘That’s… Fuck.’
‘So that part is true?’ Baker asks, but doesn’t wait for Robin to reply. He leans forward across the desk. ‘Listen, Rob, and I say this to you as a friend, not your boss. Get your shit together. I have no choice but to pass this to Professional Standards, but to tell the truth, they’ll have a hard time making sense of this collection of—’ he glances down at the paper again ‘—ramblings. She sounds mental. So get your story straight. Fast. And for crying out loud, conclude all you can on her husband’s supposed murder before PSD close it down. You hear me?’
Robin knows when he’s beaten. ‘Yes, guv.’
‘Now piss off.’
Robin doesn’t wait to be told twice. He walks quickly back to his desk, then picks up the phone, leaving a message for Greg to hurry up with the forensic checks on the car and the porn.
The complaint from Amy Miller still burns, but it confirms one thing to him – she’s nervous. He must be on the right track. Something happened that day at the Premier Inn. And it wasn’t a nasty accident with a belt.
He thinks about the data they have. The telematics from the car, geotagging on the phone. Maybe if they can compare the two, find some points that correspond – places both his car and his phone went so it would definitely be Jonathan Miller – it would lead them somewhere new.
He picks up the phone and calls Greg again.
‘For fuck’s sake, I got your message, Butler. I can’t make them go any faster.’
‘No, it’s not that. Listen, if I send you two sets of Excel data, can you run one of your whizzy formulas? See if any of the GPS coordinates match?’
‘Yeah, run a VLOOKUP, simple. As long as it’s an identical sequence of information.’
‘Can you do that for me, if I send you the spreadsheets?’
‘Or maybe an Index Match…’
‘Can you do it?’
‘Yeah, sure.’
‘Now?’
A sigh from Greg. ‘You owe me, you dick. A proper introduction to the lovely Freya West, if nothing else.’
‘Deal.’
Robin quickly emails them across, then sits back in his chair to wait. He taps his biro on the desk for a moment, then gets up and carries his mug to the kitchen to make a coffee. When he gets back, the email’s waiting for him.
He opens it, his hand reaching for the mouse even before he’s sat down.
Greg’s merged the two spreadsheets into one. Hundreds of lines of data. GPS coordinates in columns, some highlighted in yellow.
‘You genius, Greg,’ Robin mutters as he opens Google Maps and starts typing them in.
It’s slow work, and dull. Every location identified has to be checked against the list of known addresses for the people in Jonathan’s life. His house, Kal’s house, Waitrose, his office. Where’s his DC when you need her to do the shit work? he thinks.
And where is West, anyway? Surely she should be done on her special assignment soon. How long does shitty admin work take? When he asked her about it, she was evasive; there was definitely something she wasn’t telling him. He’s not worked with Freya long, but from knowing her around the office her default position is articulating whatever’s on her mind. There is no filter between her brain and her mouth. So if she is quiet, then…
Robin stops and sits back in his chair. He’s assumed her unusual demeanour is a result of his influence. His less than cheery manner, driving the poor woman down. But maybe it isn’t that. He’s known DCs committed to an investigation, but this has been next level. She seems… emotionally invested.
He remembers her crying when they had to notify Amy Miller of Jonathan’s death. Her protestations that she knew him, sure, but not well. The supposed sickness the next day. The detailed knowledge that Jonathan Miller had had a mole removed six months before. He didn’t think much about it at the time. But now?
He leans forward, then types her address into Google, looking up the GPS coordinates. Then, testing his basic Excel skills to the limit, he tries a search. Nothing. He remembers Greg’s words, identical sequence of information, shortens the number and tries again.
And then he sees it.
And everything makes sense.
47
Freya hears the ring of her doorbell and looks up in surprise. Since viewing the video the day before, she hasn’t left the house. She barely slept, tossing and turning all night, debating what to do. Every now and again, going back to the laptop, rewinding, then starting from the beginning, hoping to see something different on the grainy black and white image. But she knows it’s him.
The doorbell rings again, and this time she gets up and walks to it. She looks through the spyhole, then jumps back. She stops, her hand over her mouth.
‘Freya! Open the door. I know you’re home.’
Shit. But she has no choice. Slowly, she pulls the lock back and opens it.
‘Sarge…’ she begins, but Butler steams his way past her into her house. She closes the door, then turns to face him. He has a pile of paper in his hand, and he thrusts it towards her.
‘It was you,’ he says. His eyes are narrowed, his stance defensive. She’s seen him this angry before, but never directed at her.
‘What are you…’ she starts, then looks at the paper in her hand. It’s a spreadsheet, rows of numbers, and then a printed-out map. Showing her address.
‘I compared the GPS coordinates logged from Jonathan’s car to the ones on his phone. And your address comes up. Over and over again. It was you. Don’t lie to me.’ Her boss shakes his head, furiously. ‘Not now.’
She walks past him into the kitchen and sits down at the table. He follows her.
‘I need an explanation, Freya,’ he says. ‘I need to know why I shouldn’t suspend you.’
‘Sit down,’ she says. He’s still standing in the doorway, staring at her. ‘Please, Sarge.’
He pauses for a second, then does as she asks.
‘Was it you?’ he asks. She nods, staring at the table. ‘Were you the woman having an affair with Jonathan Miller?’
His tone is softer this time, and to her horror she finds tears blurring her vision.
‘We were in love,’ she manages. ‘He was going to leave Amy.’
‘But why?’ Butler says. He gets up and fetches a piece of kitchen towel from the side and hands it to her, sitting back down, his concern battling against his anger. ‘Why did you stay on the case? Hearing all those details? That must have been…’ He shakes his head, resigned and tired. ‘No one should see their loved one like that.’
Freya wipes her eyes and blows her nose. ‘I knew if I told you, I’d be off the investigation. And I knew that there was no way Jon killed himself. Especially like that.’
He stops, staring at the floor. She can see he’s thinking, no doubt trying to decide what to do with her. ‘Why didn’t you trust me to do my job?’ he asks at last.
Freya looks at him. ‘It’s not that. I did. I just…’ She dabs at her eyes again. ‘When we left the h
ouse on that first day, you thought it was DV. You thought he’d been abusing her, and I knew it wasn’t true. I didn’t trust her. I thought she’d manipulate you, the same way she manipulated Jon.’
Freya stands up, then walks to the living room. She reaches under the sofa and pulls out the laptop.
Butler sees it and sighs, long and loud. ‘Oh, Freya.’ He takes it out of her hand and sets it on the table, looking at it. ‘It’s Jonathan’s?’ Freya nods, miserably. ‘Where did you get it?’
‘I nicked it. From his house. I didn’t want you to find it and know about me.’
‘But… oh shit.’ He shakes his head. ‘How are we going to explain this?’ He looks at her, worry clear on his face. ‘Baker will suspend you. He’ll have to. Tampering with evidence. Interfering with a police investigation. Burglary?’
‘I know.’ Freya stares at the bit of kitchen roll clutched in her fingers. Then she looks up at her boss. She knows she has to tell him. ‘But that’s not the worst thing that’s happened this week.’
She pulls her own laptop over and opens the lid. The video is still showing on the screen. She sees her boss glance at it, then back at her, confused.
‘I found this,’ she says.
48
Robin’s anger has faded. Seeing the devastated look on Freya’s face just confirmed what he already knew – that she had made a terrible mistake, but that she’d done it out of her love for this guy. And he knows what love can make you do.
But now this laptop’s in front of him his anger has turned to confusion. He looks at the video on Freya’s computer. It’s paused, two grainy figures in what seems to be a shop.
‘The special assignment that Baker gave me?’ she starts. ‘It was this.’ She points at the screen. ‘Looking into Trevor Stevens’ death.’
‘Trevor…’ he begins, but a horrible feeling is starting to grow.
‘The man that killed your sister and her twins, yes.’
‘But, why?’
He knows why; Steph told him. But she also told him that she’d found nothing new. Everything had been burnt to a crisp in the fire. So, what has Freya been doing?
He listens to her waffle on. Talking about anonymous emails, someone from Trevor’s AA group telling the coroner that Stevens couldn’t possibly have been drinking. That the sort of alcohol was wrong, or some other such bollocks. Freya has been to see Stevens’ wife, who said the same thing.
‘So, what?’ Robin interrupts. ‘That’s hardly reason to reopen the inquest.’
‘No, but this is.’
Freya turns the laptop round to face him, then presses play. He feels her eyes watching him, as his fix on the screen. And that’s when it dawns on him.
It’s a petrol station, not a shop, and that’s Trevor Stevens. And the other guy, the one in the black hood and jeans.
‘That’s you,’ Freya says, softly.
He stares at the video. He can hardly breathe as he watches the man talk to Trevor Stevens. Laughing, joking.
‘You follow Stevens out of the petrol station, Robin,’ Freya continues. He notices her voice is shaking. ‘What happened? What did you do?’
Robin can’t bear to watch it any more. He reaches forward and slams the lid of the laptop shut. He looks at Freya. She’s staring at him, her eyes wet, her face drawn.
‘Is that you?’ she asks quietly.
He knows she desperately wants him to say no. To come up with a reasonable explanation as to why that man looks so much like him. Or an alibi, anything, so she can breathe again. But there’s no point in lying.
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘That’s me.’
He sees her body sag. Then he adds the words that he’s kept quiet for so long. Words he thought he would take with him to the grave.
‘I killed him. I killed the man who murdered my sister.’
Part 3
49
Oh, shit. Oh shit oh shit oh shit.
Freya feels the words loop in her head. Now he’s said it, confessed to murder, she realises she didn’t think through what she’d do next. This isn’t just some criminal they’ve arrested on the streets; this is Butler. Her boss.
She slumps down in the chair opposite him. It’s warm, too warm: she can feel damp patches under her arms, a faint sheen of sweat rising on her forehead. The room is quiet; the silence is deafening.
She knows he wants to talk. She can tell by the look on his face: his eyes constantly shifting focus, the internal monologue desperate for escape. Two hard lines appear between his eyebrows as he stares at the tabletop.
He’s a detective, a sergeant in the Major Crimes Unit. She feels the anger growing. This isn’t what they do. Killing? Murder? They arrest the criminals; they don’t become one. But then these past few weeks have shown her just what she herself is capable of.
‘What did you do?’ she asks. ‘Tell me.’
He looks up. She can see the conflict behind his eyes.
‘Are you sure you want to know?’ he replies, softly.
Does she? Maybe she should walk away now, leave the disc and the video with him and pretend none of it happened. But she’s in too deep, with Jonathan, with everything she’s done already. And her professional curiosity can’t resist. She has to know what happened, on that fateful night in the rain.
‘Yes,’ she replies.
He nods slowly, then she watches in disbelief as his face collapses. His mouth turns down, his chin wobbles and he stares up at the ceiling, jaw clenching, trying hard not to cry.
‘What did you do, Robin?’ Freya asks again.
Butler meets her gaze for a second. His eyes are red-rimmed, his face tainted with grief.
Then he starts to talk.
And she thinks: I could never do that. Kill someone. Never.
But something in the back of her mind hesitates. She thinks about Jon. About his death, strung up in that hotel room, naked, all dignity destroyed. She thinks about Amy Miller. About the evidence they don’t have, the truth they don’t yet know.
And something whispers: Are you sure?
Are you sure?
50
Freya sits opposite him, quiet, her soft blue eyes fixed on his face. He expected anger, judgement, even fear. This sympathy is unnerving.
And now the confession is out of his mouth, he doesn’t feel as he thought he would. He imagined that if someone else knew, he’d panic. That he’d run, or cry, or— Something other than the way he’s feeling now.
All he feels is relief. A sense of calm. An inevitability that what will be, will be.
‘What did you do, Robin?’
She uses his first name. It sounds strange coming out of her mouth, but correct, like a level of familiarity has been breached. He killed someone and she knows it. There will be no ‘sarge’ now. She’s the one in charge.
‘You got anything to drink?’ he asks.
She nods and points towards the fridge. He opens it and looks at the bottle of white.
‘You got anything stronger?’ he asks, but she shakes her head. It’ll do. Robin twists the bottle open then pours two large glasses, handing one to Freya. He takes a large gulp, then another, sitting back down at the table.
‘He came to see me – Trevor Stevens.’ Freya nods; she must have worked that bit out too. ‘He talked about redemption, and forgiveness, and God, and I couldn’t stand it. I refused to let him in the house. He shouted all of this through the door.’ Robin takes another swig of wine. ‘And then he said that he was rebuilding his life. That he was going to AA and making amends. And all I could think was, you can’t bring Georgia or the boys back, can you?’
Robin reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet. He opens it and takes out a worn, folded photo, putting it in front of Freya. He noticed that the newspaper article he’d kept was gone. Taken, he assumes, by Olivia Cross. Stored as a reminder of what he’d done, that he must never go to those depths again. But this photo, thankfully, Liv left.
‘That’s them,’ he says. She looks at i
t, then back at him. ‘That’s my sister Georgia, and Alex and James.’ He points to each one in turn. ‘They’re dead, and he was alive, and happy.’ He meets Freya’s gaze. ‘He was fucking happy, Freya, happy. I couldn’t stand it. So that’s when I started following him.’
‘To do what?’ Freya asks.
‘I don’t know.’ He shakes his head, correcting himself. ‘I did know. I wanted to catch him doing something illegal. Arrest him for breaching the terms of his parole. Get him sent back to prison.’
Freya’s staring at the photo now, her finger tracing their faces.
‘So I followed him,’ he repeats. ‘Not all the time, just when I could. He was dull. He went to the supermarket, to his AA meetings, nothing untoward. And then that Friday I watched him go into an off-licence and buy the Jack Daniel’s. I shadowed him to an underground car park, and watched him drink the whole bloody thing.’ He glances at Freya. Her eyes are locked on him, barely blinking. ‘Then he started his engine. I couldn’t believe he was driving drunk again, Freya. So I trailed him to that petrol station. I wanted – no – I had to confront him. I was furious. But then he didn’t recognise me.’
‘Weren’t you at his court case, at the sentencing?’
‘Yeah.’ Robin nods and swallows more wine. It burns at the back of his throat. ‘But it was clear he was pissed. He was holding it together well, but his eyes were all over the place.’
She frowns. ‘There was no evidence of that in the path report…’
‘I know, I read it. But he was, I swear. I watched him drink it. I could smell it on him. And the anger…’
Robin feels his hands ball into fists, remembering the feeling from that night. It was worse than the thought that Trevor Stevens was alive and happy – knowing that he was doing it again, that he would kill someone else.
‘Why didn’t you arrest him?’ Freya says, the question he’s asked himself so many times since.
‘I… I don’t know,’ Robin replies. ‘I told myself I should go with him, see what he’d do next. Potentially make it worse for him. But I think, in my heart, I just wanted him dead.’ The stark truth. Out loud. ‘I didn’t want him back in prison, or to have his licence revoked. I wanted him dead.’