by Louisa Scarr
She was no better than them. Deceived. But she can’t believe it. She pictures his face, the last time she saw him. Smiling, happy, relieved that he was going to leave Amy. He couldn’t have lied.
She needs to get to the bottom of this, once and for all.
Freya sends a quick message, trying to track down PC Watts, then moves on to looking at the Miller financials. They received permission to view their accounts when Jonathan was first murdered, although she knows Amy has rescinded that now. Still, they have a spreadsheet, downloaded in that first week, and Freya scans it, looking back over months of boring transactions for anything interesting.
Waitrose, Tesco, Co-op. Costa Coffee. A number of expensive clothes shops. Jonathan’s pay going in – he earned more than Freya does, by miles – then Amy’s. She didn’t earn much, but enough to keep her going in the event of a divorce. Although, not if the money spent in all those clothes shops is anything to go by. Perhaps that was it. Perhaps he asked Amy for a divorce and she killed him. But how? How? Freya keeps on coming back to that.
The way he was found, in the Premier Inn. Just hanging. If someone had forced him there, there would have been signs of foul play. Defensive wounds to his hands. Even if he’d been sedated, surely he’d have fought back?
And the CCTV, showing one guy walking in. It makes no sense. Plus Amy has an alibi. Bloody Amy.
Her eyes keep scrolling down the list, and then she sees it. Mamas & Papas. Mothercare. JoJo Maman Bébé. Amy, or both of them, had been buying things from baby shops.
She clicks away, sending the report to Robin.
‘You look, I can’t see anything,’ she says to him.
He stares at her, then nods.
She goes back to her background checks – Khalid Riaz next. But she still can’t concentrate.
She hears Robin tapping. The constant beat of his middle finger on the desk, something that normally drives her mad, is, today, reassuring. He’s concentrating, which is more than can be said for her.
‘Frey—’ he starts.
‘I know, I know,’ she interrupts. ‘The baby shops.’
‘Well, yeah,’ he says. ‘But look at this.’
She turns and focuses on the line on his screen. He’s highlighted it with his cursor, turning it from white to grey.
Select Events, it reads. £250.00.
He points down – same thing a few lines below.
‘Happens weekly,’ Robin says. ‘Then stops about a month before Jonathan’s death.’
‘Who are they?’ Freya asks.
‘Before you started with me, I was called out to a possible GBH,’ Robin replies. ‘Turns out it was a swingers’ club.’ Freya raises her eyebrows in surprise. He taps on the monitor. ‘That was these guys.’
Freya frowns. She looks at the screen, then back to Robin.
‘I hate to say it,’ Robin says quietly. ‘But it looks like Jonathan Miller might have been into weird sex stuff after all.’
54
Liv stands outside Amy’s house and rings the doorbell again. She pulls her coat tighter round herself and shivers. The weather has grown cold, leaves now red and yellow, falling fast. The wind whips across the estate.
She looks around the cul-de-sac. It’s modern, but dull. Liv can’t understand why Amy would aspire to live somewhere like this. She dreams of a small cottage in the countryside. Thick oak beams, uneven floorboards, an open fire. Somewhere with character and life, not dead and empty like here.
But she still feels that flash of jealousy. She loves her own little house, and she’s proud of it. But how she got the money to put down the deposit, not so much. Every pound, every penny hard-earned with her own flesh. Fucked, sucked and pounded out of her, piece by painful piece. What she wouldn’t give to have had Amy’s life over the past fifteen years.
The door opens at last and Amy stands in front of her. Liv blinks at her normally pristine sister. Her eyes are half-closed, her hair rumpled, a fluffy white robe wrapped around her.
‘What do you want?’ Amy slurs.
‘Are you drunk?’ Liv asks, confused. It’s nearly lunchtime, early even for Amy.
‘No, my pills…’ Amy says slowly, ‘not worn off yet.’ She makes a vague gesture towards the inside of the house.
Liv takes it as an invitation inside and pushes past her. Amy shuts the door, then collects her post from the mat, shuffling into the kitchen and slumping at the table. She starts opening the envelopes, pushing the junk mail aside.
‘Make me some coffee,’ Amy mutters and Liv scowls, but turns on the expensive Nespresso machine, waiting for it to warm up. ‘Guess what I did?’ she adds.
Liv turns back sharply. She recognises that tone. The smug satisfaction, the joy that can only come from Amy doing something mean. ‘What?’
‘I wrote and complained. About that detective, coming to your house.’
‘Amy! You didn’t.’
‘He can’t do that. Bully you in that way. I won’t have it.’ Amy points back to the machine. ‘Make my coffee,’ she adds, her voice completely devoid of worry.
‘He’ll get fired! And more to the point, I’ll get arrested!’
‘It was two days ago. Have you?’
‘No, but…’ Liv turns back, clattering in the cupboard and taking out two mugs. She knows there’s no arguing with Amy. There’s no changing a woman so selfish, so convinced by her own actions. And now Robin Butler’s been caught in her cross hairs. ‘Just tell me next time, will you?’ she adds, defeated, worried, placing the coffee down in front of her sister.
Amy looks up from the piece of paper she’s been reading. She’s a bit more awake now, a smile on her face. ‘Hmm, what? Yeah, whatever, Liv. Why are you so bothered about him anyway? Since when have you been keen on cops?’
‘I’m not, it’s just…’
Amy laughs, no more than a cackle. ‘You like him, don’t you? Do you think he’ll come and sweep you off your feet? You’re no fucking Julia Roberts, Olivia! This isn’t Pretty Woman!’ Amy turns back to her post, still chuckling quietly under her breath.
Liv scowls, sitting down next to her. As much as Amy is right, it pisses her off that her sister finds it so amusing.
‘How was work last night, anyway?’ Amy asks, a bitchy emphasis on the word work.
Liv takes a sip of her coffee. A night at Frankie’s, no escorting for a change, just straight prostitution. Standing in a line next to the other girls, in her underwear, as a man walked up and down assessing them. Sweating with anticipation; Liv smelt his eagerness and he disgusted her. But still, she smiled, pushed out her breasts.
He made his choice, handed over his money. Frankie, charming and accommodating next to him, outlined the rules. No incest role play, no water sports, the rest you can agree with the girl. Extra for anal, extra for fetish.
Liv knows every girl has her own boundaries. But the temptation of the money is sometimes too great – the bigger the risk, the more they pay. She knows from experience that common sense is ignored as you convince yourself the end justifies the means, as taste and security go out the window. As he brings along a friend, flashes the cash so you forgo the condoms.
But: ‘Fine,’ she replies to her sister, who rolls her eyes at her one-word answer.
And it was. The man last night was okay. Straight sex, thrusting naked on top of her, she made the appropriate noises, faking sexual enjoyment. And now, she wonders, as her thoughts turn back to Robin Butler, will she ever be able to separate work and play properly again? Has she forgotten what genuine intimacy feels like? Has she become so good at simulating it, she might feel nothing when it’s real?
Next to her, Amy finishes her coffee and stands up from the table. ‘I’m going for a shower,’ she directs back, ‘since you’re in such a mood.’
Liv watches her go, feeling a burn of resentment. You’re so fucking lucky, Liv thinks. And for a woman whose husband has just died, she seems to be taking far too much joy from the whole process. She was like that at
the memorial: milking the sympathy.
Liv stands up, collecting the coffee cups. But in her annoyance, she knocks Amy’s and it falls, coffee dregs cascading across the table.
‘Shit,’ she exclaims, as it soaks into the pile of post and junk mail, and races to get a cloth from the sink, dabbing at the mess.
Then she stops.
She looks at the document in her hand, corner now stained brown, and pulls it further out of the envelope. It’s official-looking, addressed to Amy, the logo of a known bank across the top.
Liv nervously glances towards the stairs. Then, coast clear, she starts to read.
55
Mrs Franklin remembers Robin.
‘DS Butler,’ she says as she opens her front door. She looks normal this afternoon – no silk, no lace, just jeans and a tight-fitting jumper. Robin introduces Freya and they all shake hands.
‘Bethany, please. You haven’t reconsidered my offer?’ she asks.
Robin shakes his head and Freya looks at him curiously.
‘First time for free,’ the woman laughs. ‘We always need more men. And attractive women,’ she says, turning her sights on Freya.
Robin grins as Freya turns red. ‘That’s okay, thank you,’ Freya stutters politely, as the woman shows them in.
The house has been transformed back into a boring semi-detached. No low lighting today, no condoms in bowls on the table or vibrators on the mantelpiece. Just plumped-up cushions on the sofa and family photos next to the television.
‘How is Emma doing?’ Robin asks, of the woman who received the head injury before.
‘She’s fine, thank you,’ Bethany replies. ‘She told her husband. He was angry at first, but he’s coming round. You never know, we might have a new member. Coffee, tea?’
‘No, thank you. And your son?’
‘On his best behaviour. At least, for now. He’s allowed out with his mates again from tonight, so we’ll see.’
They all sit down on the sofas. Robin can’t help wondering what they’d see if he took a black light to the material. He pushes the thought quickly out of his mind.
‘Now what did you want to talk about? You were very cryptic on the phone.’
‘We’re hoping you’ll remember a few clients of yours.’ Robin gets two photos out of his pocket and shows them to Bethany. ‘Amy and Jonathan Miller.’
She takes them and looks closely. ‘You know I can’t break confidentiality,’ she says, but Robin notices a flicker of interest.
‘Jonathan Miller’s dead. And we believe Amy Miller is involved. So any help you can offer would be much appreciated.’
‘Dead, eh?’ She stares at the photos again. Then she hands them back, thinking. ‘How did he die?’
‘Between us,’ Robin starts, and Bethany nods. ‘Suffocated. Auto-erotic asphyxiation gone wrong.’
‘Jonathan?’ Bethany pulls a face.
‘What?’ Freya asks, a little too abruptly. Robin gives her a quick look.
‘Just, well. Didn’t seem the type. If you’d said…’ She stops again.
‘Please. Anything you can tell us.’
Bethany looks at the photos in Robin’s hand, then takes a deep breath. ‘Between us,’ she says, giving Robin a hard stare. ‘Yes, they came here. But him—’ She points at Jonathan’s photo. ‘Just the once.’
‘What happened?’ Freya asks.
‘Couldn’t get it up. Happens all the time. Too nervous, some of these blokes. But with him, it didn’t seem like he wanted to. The wife—’ She taps on Amy’s photo. ‘Was very into it,’ she says with a knowing nod. ‘But he hung back, didn’t want to even look. Some guys like to watch, you know, and that’s fine. You pay your money, and as long as everyone consents, you can do what you like. But he seemed… embarrassed. They left early, in the middle of an argument.’
‘According to our records, they came here a number of times,’ Robin says.
‘Yeah, she did. She came back, alone. Got very involved,’ Bethany replies, but her face clouds.
‘In what way?’ Freya prompts.
Bethany pauses. ‘We’re a relaxed club, we’re used to the weird and wonderful. But we have one strict rule – condoms. Even on the vibrators. The last thing you need is someone spreading something nasty—’ Robin can’t help but grimace ‘—that’s how clubs like mine go out of business.
‘But she,’ Bethany continues with a curl of the lip, ‘actively encouraged the guys to go without. She said she was on the pill, said she was allergic to the spermicide, or something, which I know was utter rubbish. Besides, we have alternatives, if that’s the case. And, you know, many of the guys didn’t mind, liked it. But then some of the girls said they were being pressured into doing the same.’
Freya tuts, showing her disapproval. ‘So what did you do?’
‘I warned her. She said fine, but then I heard about her doing it again, and that was it, she was out.’
‘Do you know if she went to any other clubs?’
Bethany shakes her head. ‘We all know each other round here, look out for each other. I warned the other organisers, but I didn’t hear of anything. Could ask around if you like?’
‘Please,’ Robin confirms.
Conversation over, the three of them get up and Bethany shows them to the door. ‘Did you ask why?’ Freya asks, as they stand in the hallway. ‘Was she pregnant?’ she adds quickly, and Robin knows she’s thinking about the baby shops, the fertility tests. ‘That would be a reason for not needing condoms.’
But Bethany frowns. ‘I don’t think so. It wasn’t that she didn’t need them, it was more that she didn’t want them. And I didn’t care,’ she continues. ‘I wasn’t sad to see her go. She was one of the more attractive ones around here, but there was just something about her. She wasn’t that popular.’
They open the door, and Bethany places her hand on Robin’s arm. ‘Any time you want to reconsider, handsome,’ she says. ‘You know where we are.’
Robin and Freya walk back and climb into the car.
‘Why do you think she was doing it?’ Freya asks, thoughtfully.
‘The risk? Trying to please the men? I don’t know,’ Robin replies. He starts the engine. ‘He didn’t tell you about any of this?’
Freya shakes her head sadly, then glances back to the house. ‘You’d never know, would you?’ she says. ‘From the outside.’ Robin shrugs. ‘Sure it’s not your thing, Sarge?’ she adds with a cheeky grin. ‘Free, easy sex? Every man’s dream.’
‘Why does everyone keep on assuming I’m into this stuff?’ Robin mutters.
‘You’ve got that air about you.’
Robin screws up his face.
‘A man with secrets,’ Freya adds darkly. ‘If only they knew.’
56
The case is getting weirder and weirder. So the person who liked the sex clubs is still alive, and the one who didn’t is dead. Freya goes back to her background checks; Robin switches from screen to screen debating where to go next.
He stares at the whiteboard, at the timeline of the weekend before Jonathan Miller’s death. The party, the quiet weekend with his wife, working from home on Monday. Robin wishes they had the laptop back from the techies, and picks up the phone.
‘When?’ he asks sharply when the voice at the other end – Robin doesn’t care who – says they haven’t got to it yet.
‘I’ll do it now,’ the voice stutters in reply.
Next to him, Freya gets up and leaves, mentioning something about PC Watts. Robin watches her go. She seems okay, more focused if anything. But he can’t help wondering what’ll happen if they don’t find a way forward for this investigation. What then?
She has the disc with the CCTV of him speaking to Trevor Stevens. When he offered to confess, he wasn’t bluffing, but he doesn’t like to think about what would become of a guy like him. Prison isn’t kind to coppers, especially ex-Major Crimes detectives.
He turns to look again at the background information Freya has started on K
halid Riaz. Nothing of note in terms of convictions, but then something interesting on file just as he turned fifteen.
An arrest for GBH, charges dropped. Biological samples taken at the time were destroyed. Seems lenient, Robin thinks. He opens up the file and starts reading.
Pictures load. Photographs of an older man, his face a mass of blood and bruises. A list of medical afflictions: broken eye socket, broken nose, broken ribs. This man took a beating at the hands of Jonathan’s best mate Kal. Then more photos, a woman this time.
She’s older, like the man, and a large black bruise takes over most of her left eye. It’s swollen shut, a cut running across her forehead. Robin frowns. So who’s this?
He starts to read, and everything becomes clear. He picks up the phone.
‘Greg?’ he says, as a monosyllabic voice answers. ‘The DNA in the car? Check for familial matches.’
57
Freya’s desperate for something to do. She can’t bear sitting at her desk any longer. She feels like Robin is always watching her, waiting for her to change her mind and turn him in. But nothing could be further from her thoughts.
She walks downstairs to the custody area. She knows PC Watts, now Sergeant Watts, is on duty but when she gets there, something is kicking off. There’s a man struggling, uniformed PCs on either side, as the custody sergeant does his best to book him into the system. The man swears profusely, and Freya watches as they all remain calm.
She’s always amazed by how smoothly the custody sergeants deal with the mess in front of them. She knows they’re a certain breed – older, happy not to be out on patrol, dealing with one scumbag at a time from the safety of their desk. She looks at Watts now – what hair he has left is grey, his large bulk resting on the tall chair as he types on the computer with two fingers. She wonders how many years he has to go before retirement, maybe two or three at most. He’s earned his peace and quiet down here, she thinks, although she’d go mad from the boredom.