by Louisa Scarr
‘How precisely did I do that?’ Amy scoffs. ‘Given I’m assuming you have CCTV? And you’ve found nothing in my car.’
She was right. They checked the CCTV for the whole weekend and neither Jonathan’s car nor her Audi were seen.
‘Your work van,’ Freya says, and both Robin and Amy turn to her. ‘You transported the body in your work’s van. Nobody would think anything strange of a catering van from a hotel turning up at the trade entrance. And then you shipped the body in on a catering trolley.’
Amy raises her eyebrows. ‘Not just a pretty face, are you, sweetheart? But the question remains, can you prove it?’
Robin watches as Freya’s whole body tenses. No, they can’t, he knows. There is no CCTV at the trade entrance, no cameras in the corridors. And a dead body wrapped in cling film leaves nothing behind.
Amy stares at Freya, her eyes amused.
‘Do you know how long a strangled man takes to die?’ she says. ‘No more than a few minutes—’ a glance to Robin, a small smile ‘—hypothetically. But fuck, it feels like longer.’
Next to him, Robin hears Freya start to cry, but he doesn’t dare look away from Amy. He doesn’t want to break her concentration.
‘Holding a belt up high enough, it takes effort. Listening to him gasp and choke, the bag going in and out…’
‘You’re a monster,’ Freya whispers.
‘He promised!’ Amy shouts suddenly. ‘He promised me everything! A perfect life. Kids. Love. And – what? Nothing!’ Her composure has gone, her cheeks are bright red now, leaning forward into Freya’s face. ‘You know he couldn’t even get it up some days. Wouldn’t even try.’
Robin looks across at Freya. She’s sobbing now, tears rolling down her face, dripping from her chin. ‘So why didn’t you divorce him?’ she cries, her voice stuttering and wet. ‘If he was so useless?’
‘What? So you could have him?’ A look of pure disgust crosses her face. ‘Did you honestly think you and Jonathan would be together?’ Amy continues. ‘Living in domestic bliss? Happy?’ she mocks. ‘Fuck that. Fuck you. Anyway, he was worth plenty dead.’
‘His fertility results came back, Amy,’ Robin says. ‘There was nothing wrong with him.’ Her head whips round. ‘It was all normal.’
She shakes her head. ‘No. We couldn’t have children. It was his fault.’
‘No, Amy. It wasn’t.’
And that’s when Robin realises. The unprotected sex at the swingers’ club. It was to get pregnant. He feels sick. The lengths this woman had gone to, to try and create some sort of perfect life for herself. Sleeping with random men. Deceiving Jonathan’s best friend. And then killing her husband.
‘Why did you make him get tested?’ Freya says. ‘When you didn’t even care about the results?’
‘For you two, for the police,’ Amy snarls. ‘To show you what a devoted couple we were. How we were trying for kids. And he went along with it, although I knew he didn’t want to. He’d have done anything. Anything to avoid pissing me off. But what did it matter, in the end?’
Then Amy leans forward, facing them both. Her demeanour has changed. The anger has faded, the arrogance returned.
‘Can you prove I committed murder, DS Butler?’ she says quietly. Calmly. Too calmly. ‘Because I can prove you did, Detective. I can prove you killed Trevor Stevens.’
And Robin’s blood runs cold.
72
Amy sees Butler turn white, his mouth open in surprise. And the woman, too. So, she knows? That’s interesting.
They think they’re so smart, Amy thinks. Look at the state of them. Butler looks worse today, if that can be possible. He has a painful-looking black eye on his left side, and his face is grey and drained. West looks the same – bloated, red eyes. This is the woman Jonathan wanted? She’s a fucking mess.
West stands up suddenly. ‘I need a drink,’ she mutters.
‘On duty?’ Amy mocks.
‘I don’t give a shit, where’s your alcohol?’
‘Make yourself at home,’ Amy scoffs sarcastically, gesturing back to the kitchen. ‘Wine in the fridge, spirits in the cupboard.’
West leaves in the direction Amy has pointed. Amy watches her go, then turns her attention back to Butler.
She’s surprised, Amy will give them that. They’ve got most of it right.
She remembers that Friday night. Jonathan was late back, and she knew where he’d been. Quiet, secretive, barely meeting her gaze. He’d been with her. And then he turned and said, ‘Amy, this weekend, we need to talk. Properly talk. About us.’
And she knew.
The way he’d been asking about their weekend plans. He was going to leave her. Her! Jonathan, with his defective sperm and his inability to give her a baby. Except that wasn’t true, was it? Everything functioning normally, how ironic. Still, all the more reason to kill him.
She went downstairs and carefully dissolved her ground-up pills in his whisky. Diazepam and zopiclone, perfect for knocking someone out. She waited as he downed his drink. Watched, as his body grew wobbly and weak, and he collapsed on their bedroom floor. She made sympathetic noises as he slurred and complained about not feeling well. She stood in front of him, prepared. Ready.
She put plastic gloves on, the ones she used for preparing food at work, then picked up their oven gloves, gently placing them over his hands.
He looked at them, confused, his eyes unfocused.
‘What are you doing?’ he said, his voice almost incoherent.
She took the tape and wrapped it quickly round both gloves, securing them together.
That was the touch she was particularly proud of. His hands were bound, and as he struggled pathetically, she knew there would be no marks found later. Nothing the pathologist would notice.
And then she took the plastic bag and put it over his head.
At that point, Jonathan realised what was going on. That he was in trouble. He wriggled, his legs kicking out against the carpet, but his movements were sluggish. Everything was in slow mode, information not feeding properly to his brain. She quickly did up the zip tie – one of her industrial-sized freezer bags, easy to close – then secured it round his neck with another length of tape. He lifted his bound hands to his face, redundantly trying to pull at the bag as it went in and out with each breath. She watched his eyes widen. His mouth gaped; the inside of the bag misted with condensation. His breathing came faster and faster as he panicked.
It was starting to stick to his face now. The plastic sealed tight against his cheeks and forehead as the air inside was depleted of oxygen. Jonathan sucked harder. Amy could see his chest rising and falling, as he tried to take heavier and heavier breaths.
For a moment she just watched, fascinated.
It wasn’t as she had expected. She’d thought she would feel something towards her dying husband, but the only emotion she felt was pity. That his life would come to this. Suffocating, painfully, on his own bedroom floor.
But it wasn’t over yet. She took the belt – his belt – in her gloved hands, pulled the end through the buckle then stood in front of him and looped it over his head. She pulled it tight as his hands came up again, desperate and useless. She took a big step onto the bed, and tugged up.
He was heavy. Heavier than she’d thought he would be, but she didn’t need to do much now. She didn’t need to kill him this way – the bag would do that for her – but she needed the marks on his neck. She needed it to look like a hanging. He was weakening. His eyes still open, his mouth barely moving, his hands collapsed in his lap.
The plastic bag moved inwards, one last time, and his body gave an involuntary twitch. And then he stopped.
Amy stared at him. She tried to find a pulse on his neck, but there was nothing. Just to be sure, she left him lying there while she continued with her preparations.
She pulled at his body so he was lying stretched out on his back, his hands still bound in front of him. Then she fetched the cling film from the drawer.
> She had debated how many rolls she would need. Seventy-five metres was a lot, surely? She took the roll out of the box, peeled back the end, then, starting at the bottom, started to wrap. She covered his socked feet, then up his trousers. She took his keys and wallet out of his pocket as she went, double-layering, just to be sure. And as she got to his hands, she snipped away the tape and took off the oven gloves. She looked at his wrists. Nothing. No marks at all – and she gave a satisfied smile. She carried on wrapping, rolling his body first one way and then the other. No more than a large hunk of meat, getting ready for storage.
To do his torso and his head, she pushed him up to a sitting position, finishing at his shoulders. She got a new roll, then looked at him, his head still encased in the plastic. She took the scissors again, and gently cut away the bag.
His eyes were wide open, but now glassy and empty. His skin was red, slightly wet from the condensation in the plastic. The marks around his neck were clear and pronounced; she left the belt there, pulled tight.
And then it was done. She stood back and surveyed her handiwork. A clear plastic mummy on her bedroom floor. No trace would escape. Her husband, hermetically sealed.
She picked up Jonathan’s phone and unlocked it using the code she had seen him use so many times before. She sent a message to Kal: On our way, mate.
Then she tidied herself up, checked her reflection in the mirror, and left her house to go to the party. Fashionably late, when she knew everyone would be pissed out of their minds. Nobody would miss her husband. Everyone would believe her when she said he was over there, in the smoking area, talking to so-and-so. Self-absorbed pricks.
She went to the party, and she left her husband dead on the bedroom floor.
Late Friday night, in the early hours of the morning, she carefully transferred his body onto a hand trolley. It was one they used at work for moving the large sacks of food around, and slowly she manoeuvred it down the stairs and out into the garage. The freezer was standing by. Empty. Not too cold, to avoid the telltale signs of freezing, but chilly enough to slow down his decomposition. Panting with exertion, she lugged him inside and closed the lid.
The rest was easy in comparison. The posts on social media. Driving Jonathan’s car around – documenting his weekend trips. To the dump. Off for a walk. Then, Sunday morning, she moved him to one of the trolleys in the back of her van, ready for transport via the loading bay to the Premier Inn that Sunday night. She’d already checked into the room under a fake name, booking it out until Tuesday. Plenty of time.
And she knew Kal would do what she asked. She knew about his childhood, had listened to him tell the stories when he was drunk, growing maudlin and weepy. She just needed to push the right buttons, make it look like Jonathan was an abuser. And he helped her, as she knew he would.
The chest freezer was turned up and loaded with food. Back to normal.
It was perfect. Until these two started digging.
But she knows about them. She knows about Freya’s little secret – the affair with the victim, how she shouldn’t be working on this case.
And DS Butler? He acts like he is superior, but he is the same. He is a cold-blooded murderer, just like her.
DC West comes back into the room, three glasses of dark brown whisky balanced in her hands. She hands one to Amy.
‘I never was one for hard spirits, but I’ll make an exception for you two,’ Amy comments, taking a sip of the brown liquid.
‘I spoke to the old guy in the petrol station,’ Amy says to them both. ‘I pretended to be your colleague. He didn’t even ask for ID, silly old fool. He told me about the CCTV.’ Amy looks at Freya, takes another gulp of the whisky. This is nice, she thinks, why hasn’t she tried it before? ‘Where is that now, DC West? Do you have it?’
Freya just lowers her head to the floor. Beaten.
‘He gave me the details for the other people that were there that night. And, do you know, I went to see them and they remembered that day. The accident had cemented it in their minds. And they remembered you.’
She points a shaking finger at Butler. ‘I showed them your photo, and they said you were there. You spoke to the dead guy.’ The detective shakes his head slowly. ‘And Liv told me how Stevens had given up drinking. How he never drank Jack Daniel’s. And I put two and two together.’
‘So what?’ Butler growls. ‘That doesn’t prove shit.’
Amy sips her drink slowly, enjoying holding the detectives in her power. ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she says sweetly. ‘Did you assume there was only one copy of the CCTV?’
She sees their faces change in surprise and laughs. ‘I said you’d lost it. And did they have a spare?’ Her vision feels hazy and she blinks, trying to focus her eyes. ‘The old man said no, but I got the impression his grandkid knew differently. I went back later.’ She winks at Freya. ‘Amazing how resourceful a nineteen-year-old can be with the prospect of a blow job.’
She sees the repulsion on West’s face; she hates these detectives. She’ll enjoy destroying their careers, watching Butler go to prison.
She feels herself sway slightly and leans back on the sofa, finishing the last of the whisky. She lets the glass drop to the carpet. ‘I’ll raise a complaint, another complaint,’ she continues. She smiles, but her mouth feels dopey; it’s hard to get the words out. ‘…to the police commission,’ she manages, ‘give them the CCTV, and they’ll investigate. They’ll pull your medical records, they’ll follow up. And your life will be over, DS Butler.’
Amy raises a hand to point at them, but her limbs won’t obey. Her brain feels muddled. All she wants to do is sleep, her eyelids heavy.
She looks down to the whisky glass, then slowly back to Freya.
‘What have you done?’ she slurs. ‘What did you do to me?’
‘No more than you deserve,’ West says.
Then her eyes close and everything goes dark.
LOCAL WIDOW FOUND DEAD AT HOME
Local resident Amy Jane Miller, 37, a chef at the Hotel Continental, was found unresponsive on Friday night in her home in Ashcroft Drive, Winchester. Miller is the widow of Jonathan Miller, 39, who died earlier this month following a tragic accident in the Premier Inn in Winnall.
Amy Miller was pronounced dead at the scene. The coroner has opened an inquest, but initial reports speculate cause of death as a subdural haemorrhage, sustained from a blow to the head from a fall. The large amounts of prescription medication found in her blood are believed to be a contributory factor in the accident.
Olivia Cross, her sister, said she was depressed following the heartbreaking death of her husband and would frequently resort to prescribed medication to help her cope. Cross added, ‘Amy and Jonathan were a devoted couple. Amy was struggling to live her life without Jonathan by her side.’
Ms Cross last saw her sister alive at her house, on the afternoon of Friday 2 October. Later that night, Ms Cross entered Mrs Miller’s house again, this time using a spare key, and found her dead on her kitchen floor.
DS Robin Butler, Investigating Officer on the Jonathan Miller case, stated, ‘We were saddened to hear of the untimely loss of Amy Miller on Friday night. We ask that if anyone knows anything about the death of either Jonathan or Amy Miller to come forward and assist us in our enquiries. All information will be treated with the strictest confidentiality.’
Investigations are ongoing.
73
Monday
‘Jesus Christ.’ Baker looks at them both across the desk. ‘What a mess.’
Freya glances at Robin. She doesn’t dare speak.
‘Our accidental death turns out to be a murder,’ Baker continues, ‘and then the main suspect has a tragic accident the moment we let her out of custody. And you didn’t notice anything suspicious when you were there Friday night?’
‘No, guv. As my report says, we rang the doorbell, but she didn’t answer. It’s unfortunate,’ Robin mumbles.
‘Damn right it’s unfortunate. I want to see the
video from her interview, all the recordings from her time in custody. The IOPC are going to be all over this, and I don’t want anyone accusing us of anything dodgy.’
Freya nods.
‘And where are we on the evidence relating to the Miller murder? Jonathan Miller,’ Baker adds for clarification.
Freya looks to Robin.
‘Forensics have come back on the burnt plastic bag we found in the Miller rubbish,’ he says. ‘The tape edges match up perfectly to the roll we found in their garage, and the inside of the bag contains saliva and DNA from Jonathan Miller.’
‘And we think she suffocated him?’
‘Yes, guv. We think she killed him on the Friday night, then staged the rest of the evidence to look like he was still alive.’
‘Clever,’ Baker mutters, then looks up quickly. ‘Do we have anything else to back this up?’
‘Khalid Riaz has confirmed that the photo on Twitter was an old one from months ago, and he’s willing to plead guilty to a count of preventing unlawful burial of a body if we take assisting an offender off the table.’
Freya knows Kal was released from the psychiatric unit this morning and attended an interview with another DS and his solicitor. He was a mess, full of remorse for hiding the murder of his best friend.
‘Do we know why she did it?’ Baker asks.
They found pregnancy tests and ovulation kits in the bathroom cabinet. And Riaz confirmed again how he’d slept with Amy, drunk, unprotected, same as she had at the swingers’ parties. Robin relays this to their DCI.
‘All this because she wanted to get pregnant?’ Baker replies, incredulously.
‘We think it was more than that, guv,’ Robin says. ‘We’ve learnt that her childhood was a mess, unpredictable, and we believe Amy was desperately trying to create a perfect life to compensate for that.’ Freya remembers the obsessively clean and tidy house, the diazepam Amy took for anxiety, the zopiclone to help her sleep. ‘So when Jonathan Miller couldn’t get her pregnant, it tipped her over the edge.’
‘Well, let’s leave the amateur psychology here, shall we,’ Baker replies. ‘We know for sure Jonathan Miller had a healthy life insurance policy. Money is a motive I can properly get behind. A cool million, right?’