Last Place You Look

by Louisa Scarr

  She stands up, stretching out her aching back. Not for the first time, she doubts whether they’re going to get anything useful out of this fetid pile. She thinks about the results from Steph, and how Trevor Stevens demolished Robin’s life in the same way that Amy has ruined hers.

  Robin sees her stop and pauses.

  ‘You okay?’ he asks.

  ‘Yeah, just… Who was that guy?’ she asks him, after a moment. ‘The one that came to see you in the police station last week?’

  He pulls the mask down from his mouth for a moment and pauses, one foot scuffing in the mess on the floor. ‘Liam,’ he says at last. ‘My brother-in-law. It was the anniversary of their death last Thursday.’

  ‘And you’ve fallen out?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How come?’

  He frowns, and Freya wonders if she’s overstepped the mark. Then he speaks, his voice quiet, barely more than a whisper: ‘I don’t understand why he’s not more angry than he is.’

  Freya remembers the callous words from the PCs, back when they found the hidden cameras. Like shut down… he wasn’t the same. She wonders if it could happen to her. Maybe it has already. Would she be the same person if she fell in love again, now she has lost Jon?

  ‘Perhaps he is angry,’ Freya says. ‘Just expresses it differently.’

  ‘Or perhaps he changed, and I didn’t.’

  ‘In what way?’

  He sighs and shakes his head solemnly. ‘Maybe I was always this much of a miserable bastard, but I was too busy to notice.’

  It’s a strange place for them to have a heart-to-heart. Both standing in white crime scene suits, a heap of stinking rubbish between them. She desperately wants to comfort him, but has no idea how.

  ‘You’re not—’ she begins, but he interrupts her.

  ‘Come on,’ he says, putting the mask back over his mouth. ‘Let’s get this done.’

  Freya takes the hint, conversation over, and bends down again to the last bin liner. She assumes the bags Robin opened first were the oldest, because when they get to this last one, it somehow doesn’t smell as bad as the others.

  Robin helps her lay out a new sheet of brown paper, and they open up the black bag fully, pushing everything out. Robin moves the rubbish around while she photographs the contents. There’s the coffee again, but there’s something else permeating the detritus. It’s a smoky, charred smell, like old barbecues.

  She wrinkles her nose.

  ‘Anything?’ Robin asks. She can only make out a small portion of his face above the mask, the black and red swelling still growing above his left eye.

  ‘No, nothing.’ She crouches down and pokes in the waste. Potato peelings, the plastic box from something, maybe a punnet of strawberries. More indescribable mess. Internally she hopes nobody ever digs around in her rubbish; god knows what they’d find.

  ‘Freya.’

  She turns. Robin’s kneeling down with his back to her on his side of the room. She stands up and joins him.

  He’s staring at something on the ground. It’s black, shrivelled; she can’t make out any form or shape.

  ‘What is it?’ she asks.

  ‘I think it’s plastic. Or it was.’

  Robin picks it up between two fingers of his gloved hand and holds it up to the light. She grabs the camera and takes a few photos, then looks more closely.

  It’s clearly the source of the smell of burning, the plastic contracted into a small black ball. There are a few edges where the fire didn’t catch, clear plastic, perhaps some sort of bag. And at one end is a clump of something grey. Tape.

  Robin looks at her. His eyes stare, wide and wild.

  ‘I know what happened,’ he says slowly. ‘I know what happened to Jonathan.’

  70

  Slowly, carefully, they bag the evidence. Freya writes a note and gives it all to one of the DCs to take down to the lab.

  ‘Put a rush on it. Please,’ Freya begs.

  But before they can do anything else, Robin’s mobile rings. She waits as he answers it, watching his face change from interest to barely concealed boredom.

  ‘Yes, fine. Will do,’ he says. ‘Send me the details.’

  He hangs up and she looks at him quizzically.

  He sighs. ‘There’s been another break-in. Last night. That’s the sixth now, and Baker’s getting twitchy. He wants us to go down there.’

  ‘And do what?’

  ‘Interview the neighbours. Personally. See if anyone heard anything.’

  ‘He said that?’

  ‘No, some lackey. But the message was the same.’

  His phone beeps, and he looks at the address. His mouth drops open and he turns the screen round to face her.

  ‘You’re kidding me…’ she starts.

  The address: ten Ashcroft Drive. Amy Miller’s next-door neighbour.

  * * *

  They walk out of the police station, ready to drive to the house. Freya feels strange, like every event is conspiring to take them closer to Amy Miller. But before they go, Freya stops him.

  ‘You can’t go like that,’ she says, pointing to his tracksuit. ‘You need proper clothes.’

  They drive to Robin’s house and he gets out.

  ‘Do you want to come in and wait?’ he asks. She pauses, then follows him inside.

  He closes his front door and turns to look at her. His eyes are dark, his face solemn. Things feel odd between them. Slightly charged, like the atmosphere before a thunderstorm, an excess of energy in the air. She feels him hesitating, doubting himself.

  Then, without thinking, she steps forward and kisses him.

  The first thing she thinks is, he’s not like Jonathan. Then the second: I don’t care. He’s clumsy, slightly rough, and they stagger, half fall into the living room and then onto the sofa, her on top of him. She hears him make a gasp of pain, and goes to pull away, but he kisses her again, one hand in her hair, the other under her shirt. She does the same to him, the crappy police tracksuit top coming over his head easily. Shoes are kicked off, her shirt over her head. She feels sober, so very aware of what she’s doing, but almost powerless to stop it. Just wanting to be next to someone, wanting to be with him.

  Wanting to be with Jonathan.

  And then suddenly she’s crying.

  She feels the sob reach up from her chest, grab her insides and pull. The gulf overwhelms her. The emptiness, the black hole knowing that she’ll never, ever hold him again. She notices Robin move away, realising something is wrong, then pulling her close, wrapping his arms around her.

  It’s not about sex any more. She squeezes her eyes shut, her hands ball into fists and she cries, her face pushed hard into his chest. They’re both half-naked, and she’s conscious of the inappropriateness, the awkwardness of all this, but she can’t stop herself, caught in the flood of loss and sadness. She misses him. She misses him so fucking much.

  Robin isn’t Jonathan. And nobody will be Jonathan, ever again.

  71

  Robin holds Freya tightly, feeling both completely devastated for her and overwhelmingly uncomfortable at the same time. After a while, she sits up, mumbling apologies, then grabs her shirt and runs off. He hears the slam of the bathroom door.

  He pulls himself up slowly, wincing as his ribs protest. He leaves the wretched grey tracksuit top on the floor and goes to his bedroom. He gets dressed in his own clothes, jeans and a shirt, all the while listening out for signs of Freya emerging from the bathroom.

  He feels shit. For taking advantage, for kissing her back, for— Oh, fuck, all of it. She is his DC, his subordinate. He should not be coming on to people who work for him, let alone newly bereaved, vulnerable ones. Although, given there’s so much wrong with their situation at the moment, perhaps one more mistake wouldn’t have made much difference.

  He finishes getting dressed then goes into the kitchen, flicking the kettle on. He listens to it boil, taking two mugs from the cupboard, putting in teabags and milk. He’d prefer co
ffee, but a mug of warm reassuring sugary tea seems more suitable. He turns as he hears footsteps behind him.

  Freya stands in the middle of the kitchen, once again fully dressed, her face puffy, her eyes bloodshot.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says.

  ‘No, I’m sorry. It was all me,’ Robin replies.

  She attempts a smile, then her gaze shifts to the mugs.

  ‘You making one for me?’

  ‘You want one?’

  ‘Please.’

  Tea made, they sit at Robin’s kitchen table in an awkward silence. He sweeps what seem to be prawn cracker crumbs onto the floor. What would Georgia think, looking at the state of him now? He knows what would be going through her mind. She’d look at him, eyebrows raised, mouth pursed. Then she’d say, Pull yourself together, Rob, you’re embarrassing yourself.

  He also knows what she’d say about him ignoring Liam. Georgia always was a better person than him. More patient, more forgiving. But for killing the twins? Never. He takes a sip of his tea. She would have died for those boys, a hundred times over. As would he, he realises.

  But he also knows that deep down, a small part of the anger he feels towards Liam is fury at himself. The part he played in Trevor Stevens’ death pulls at him; it creates a constant state of conflict in his head. He is a police officer, through and through, and has been one for nearly twenty years. Yet look what he did.

  Liam is no more than a convenient conduit for his rage.

  He looks at Freya.

  ‘You up to this?’ he asks. ‘Going back to that house?’

  She pushes her tea away. She knows what he’s talking about. She stands up, pulls her shoulders back, then looks at him.

  ‘Absolutely,’ she says.

  * * *

  The day is getting late. Rush hour traffic has abated, and they drive in silence through rain-drenched streets. They pull up outside ten Ashcroft Drive. The lights are switched off, the front window barricaded with cheap plywood where the vandals had got inside. Robin’s been informed that the owners have been and gone, inspecting the damage. They won’t be able to rent that place out again any time soon. Robin mentally schedules a visit out to their main residence tomorrow. It’s no doubt some posh place in the sticks, Robin and Freya playing the part of the all-important detectives who will reassure and pacify them. Meanwhile they have their orders from Baker: have a look around. Interview the neighbours. For fuck’s sake, do something, he exclaimed, in contrary to the scarce investigation that had come before.

  Robin glances at the house next door, thinking about Amy Miller inside, then looks over at Freya.

  ‘You know we can’t arrest her this time,’ Robin says. ‘We’re still waiting on forensics. Nothing to justify a warrant until we hear back.’

  ‘We’ll just ask her about the break-in,’ Freya replies. ‘And then leave.’

  They stare at the Miller house. They can see lights on; there’s a good chance she’s there. Robin turns and looks across to the empty field on the other side, to the dark silhouettes of sleeping bulldozers.

  They both get out of the car and walk slowly towards the house.

  At the door, Robin turns to Freya. ‘You sure you want to do this?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes,’ she replies, and reaches for the doorbell.

  As it rings, he feels a flutter of worry ball in his stomach. They wait, hear footsteps, then the door opens.

  Amy Miller stands in front of them.

  She’s wearing jeans and a casual T-shirt, but it looks expensive, ironed and crisp. Her hair is perfectly in place, her make-up precise and natural.

  She glares at them.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘We need to talk to you,’ Robin starts.

  ‘This is police harassment. I’ve done all the talking I wanted to yesterday. You know you can’t ask me anything now, not without my lawyer present.’

  ‘We know. This is about the break-in next door.’

  ‘I didn’t hear anything. I was asleep.’

  ‘Not even the front window smashing?’

  ‘No.’ She pauses. ‘I took sleeping pills last night. I thought I’d need them, after my traumatising day in the hands of the police.’

  They all stare at each other. Then a look of disgust crosses Amy’s face and she goes to close the door.

  ‘You missed something, Amy,’ Freya says. Amy stops. ‘You thought you were careful, but not enough. We found it.’

  Robin takes a sharp breath in. He glances across to Freya – the anger is clear on her face and he can tell all previous good intentions have disappeared.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Amy snaps. Robin knows he should pull Freya away, but he can see her words are getting to Amy. She’s curious. Her arrogance won’t let her believe her plan hasn’t worked.

  ‘Let us in and we’ll tell you about it.’

  ‘You’re bluffing.’

  Freya shrugs. ‘Fine. We’ll see you and your solicitor at the station tomorrow. And tomorrow, we’ll make sure you’re charged with murder.’

  Robin watches Amy hesitate. Then she opens the door wide, turning and walking through to the living room. They follow her, and as they go Robin looks into the kitchen. It’s spotless, as it always has been. Draining board empty and gleaming, counters clear, except for a small white package sitting on the side. Robin recognises it as a bag from a pharmacy, no doubt replacing the prescribed drugs they seized. He gets a small flare of satisfaction knowing they’ve inconvenienced her, even by a tiny amount.

  He follows Freya into the living room. Amy waits, perching on the edge of the sofa, watching them, poised. He slowly sits down opposite her, next to Freya.

  ‘So? What amazing proof do you have? I know you have nothing else from that camera, because you would have used it already.’

  Robin hesitates. He tells himself that this is okay. That they’ll put the evidence to her and she’ll agree to come in for a voluntary interview. But he knows there’s bugger all chance Amy Miller will comply. This is a woman who no comment-ed her whole way through her formal police interview – what are the chances she’ll nod meekly and come with them again? Slim to nothing. But Robin senses Freya’s impatience, and he feels it too.

  ‘We know you killed him,’ Robin says.

  Amy’s eyes narrow. She’s thinking, and glances across to Freya.

  ‘You’re close, you two?’

  ‘We’re colleagues,’ Robin replies, blankly.

  ‘You’re more than that. Have you slept with her?’ Amy directs to Robin.

  Freya fidgets beside him but stays silent. ‘No,’ he says firmly.

  ‘But you know about her and my husband, right?’ Amy says, and Robin thinks, fuck. If Amy tells her lawyer about Freya and Jonathan’s affair, their whole investigation won’t be worth shit. Freya won’t withstand the scrutiny. Nor Robin.

  Everything about this is wrong. They’re police. They should leave now, return to the station, wait for forensics, get the arrest warrant and interview Amy properly. In a video-equipped interview room, with her solicitor present. Then they’ll call the CPS, charge her with murder, and she’ll never leave.

  But Robin has experience of taking justice into his own hands. He knows sometimes there are situations where there’s no going back. And this is one of those.

  ‘Tell us how you killed him, Amy,’ he repeats.

  She meets his stare, and a smug smile appears on her lips.

  ‘Let’s say I did,’ she says quietly. ‘Hypothetically. How might it have happened?’

  Robin feels a jolt of anticipation. He slowly breathes in, trying to hide his nerves. He thinks about what they found, in the rubbish. The melted plastic bag. The screwed-up tape.

  ‘You drugged him. And then you suffocated him.’

  He feels Freya tense next to him. Keep quiet, he wills her. Keep quiet.

  Amy Miller gives a slow nod. ‘Okay, then. Where? When?’

  ‘In this house. Upstairs.’ There were cameras in the r
est of the ground floor, except in the kitchen, Robin knows. ‘And not on Monday. Way before that.’ He watches Amy’s expression, sees a flicker of something cross her face. Amusement? Satisfaction? He’s not sure, but he knows he’s on the right track. ‘Friday night.’

  ‘Friday night we were at a party with Kal. Everyone saw us, everyone confirmed.’

  ‘No, Amy,’ Robin says slowly. ‘Everyone saw you. And they were all so drunk by that point, they assumed Jonathan was there too, but he was already dead.’

  ‘Your pathologist can prove that, can she?’ Amy asks. She leans back in her chair, crossing one skinny leg over the other. ‘No, I didn’t think so. And answer me this. Why didn’t he struggle? Why didn’t they find evidence of defensive injuries in the post-mortem? I’ve seen the report, DS Butler. My solicitor has it. He has all of your so-called evidence. The only findings in that post-mortem were consistent with how he was found – asphyxiated in that hotel room. Sex play gone wrong.’

  ‘Jonathan was never into that shit, and you know it,’ Freya snaps.

  ‘But you can’t prove it, can you?’ Amy says again.

  ‘We have the plastic bag. We have the tape that you wrapped round his neck. And the ends of the tape will perfectly match up with the roll we seized from your garage,’ Freya says, clear, confident.

  ‘So fucking what?’ Amy replies. She’s still calm, although two matching red spots have appeared on her cheeks. ‘How did he get to the hotel? What about his movements on social media? Why is there no evidence of Jonathan anywhere except in that hotel room?’

  But Robin knows. ‘You wrapped his body in cling film, and then at some point over the weekend you drove it to the hotel.’