by Louisa Scarr
The door opens and Liv stands there, the chubby baby in her arms screaming blue murder.
‘Come in, come in,’ she says, and goes back into the living room, slumping onto the sofa.
He follows her through, moving a pile of baby clothes off one of the chairs and sitting down. Liv’s normally pristine house is a complete mess, every surface covered, discarded glasses and mugs strewn around.
‘How are you doing, Liv?’ Robin asks over the noise of the screaming.
Liv herself is equally dishevelled, hair tied roughly back from her face, a line of something white and curdling down her shoulder. But she smiles widely, her eyes bright.
‘Fucking knackered,’ she replies. ‘This one feeds on the hour, every hour. Doesn’t care whether it’s night-time or not.’ She reaches up and undoes her top, then expertly pushes the baby towards her breast. Robin tries hard to focus on her face. ‘But we’re good, aren’t we, Lucas?’
‘Lucas? That’s a lovely name,’ Robin replies. He offers his present. ‘I got you something. Or rather, for Lucas.’
‘Thank you. I’ll open it later, if you don’t mind. Got my hands full.’
‘Course.’
They sit in silence for a moment, the baby sucking happily on Liv’s breast. Robin debates making his excuses. He’s not sure why he’s here, except for the fact that Liv had texted him, inviting him over.
‘Robin,’ she begins. ‘I wanted to thank you. For everything you did when he was born.’
Inwardly, Robin sighs with relief. Liv has always been unpredictable. But this? This is fine.
‘I… I don’t know,’ she continues. ‘I panicked. I don’t know what I would have done without you there.’
‘I didn’t mind, Liv. It was quite an experience.’
‘I bet!’ she laughs. ‘When you woke up that morning, you hadn’t expected to watch someone be cut open and a baby pulled out.’
‘A lot of things I’d never expected have happened recently. Seeing Lucas here being born is probably the best.’
‘Well, good.’ Then a look passes across Liv’s face that he can’t interpret. ‘Listen. There’s something you should know.’
‘What?’ he asks, warily.
Liv points to the bookshelf at the side of the room. ‘Over there, in the small blue pot.’
Robin gets up slowly and goes across. He looks to where she’s pointing and finds a light blue ceramic jar.
‘Inside,’ Liv says.
He picks it up and tips the contents into his palm. His stomach drops. It’s a black memory stick. He’s seen one like this before. He turns slowly, holding it between two fingers.
‘Take it,’ Liv says.
‘What’s on it?’ But he knows. Of course he knows.
Amy had one just like it. With footage from the CCTV of the garage. Footage proving he met with Trevor Stevens mere minutes before he had his fatal car crash.
‘Amy gave it to me,’ Liv confirms. ‘The night she died.’
Lucas has finished feeding and she holds the drowsy baby in one arm, while re-dressing herself with the other. It’s such a surreal conversation to have in these circumstances. Death, murder – and newborn babies.
‘And what have you done with it?’ Robin asks quietly.
‘Nothing,’ Liv replies. She winds Lucas, then deftly swaddles him in a blanket and places him in the carrycot on the floor, before sitting carefully back down on the sofa. ‘And I don’t intend to. This is Amy’s shit, not mine. Having it in my house feels dirty. I don’t want it any more.’
Robin carefully puts it in his pocket. ‘There’s no other copy?’
‘Not as far as I know.’
‘Thank you, Liv.’
But Liv shakes her head. ‘Robin, I don’t know what you did, or what went on between you and Trevor, and I don’t want to know. You and I have spent a bit of time together over the last year or so, and I pride myself on having a good sense about people. And I think you’re one of the good ones.’ Robin shakes his head, but stays quiet. ‘You did the right thing for Jonathan. And you did the right thing for me. That’s all the evidence I need. Okay?’
Robin nods slowly. ‘Okay.’
Liv smiles. ‘Now make me a cup of tea, will you? I’m gasping.’
* * *
It’s late by the time Robin leaves. The sky is getting dark, night closing in. He’s stayed with Liv far longer than he intended, taking brief childcare duties while she had a shower (although Lucas slept the whole time, so Robin didn’t have to do anything), then tidying up the mess in her kitchen.
They talked, a bit. Liv mainly gushing about her baby, Robin about the twins. It felt good. Therapeutic even, to see her doing so well.
There’s no doubt in his mind now that he wants to be a father. The pride he heard in Liv’s voice, the hope, the new joy in her life. He doesn’t fear it now, more a worry he might miss out. Because who is he possibly going to meet? he thinks. You don’t leap straight to parenthood. You go on dates, like the look of someone, fall in love, move in together. Sandra was right – women don’t just drop into your lap. You have to make the effort.
But it won’t be with Liv. Robin leaves her house with no doubt in his mind that that’s it. There’s nothing between them, and there never will be. She doesn’t want it and nor does he.
For a moment he sits in his car outside her house, wondering where to go next. It’s late; Freya must have finished at work by now, and he realises how much he’s looked forward to seeing her every day. Her easy smile, her gentle teasing, making him laugh.
Robin knows it takes a lot for him to feel truly at ease with someone, and this past fortnight he’s felt at his best being with her again. She’s the first person he sees every day, the last person he speaks to at night. Never anything untoward, never anything his DCI would disapprove of, but still. It’s there.
He picks up his phone and texts her.
Took longer than expected with Liv. You still at work?
He waits. Three dots rotate on the screen and he smiles, imagining her texting, the concentration on her face.
It beeps.
Left hours ago! At pub.
He replies.
What pub?
A slight pause.
O’Neill’s.
He starts the engine of his car and heads back. He’s not usually one to socialise with work colleagues, but today he fancies it. To be around people, have a pint and listen to the conversation. He hopes Mina will be there; he wants to catch up properly about her kids. And to see Freya.
He parks up at home, then starts walking towards the pub. The atmosphere in town is buzzing. It’s a Friday night, and people are out in the streets, enjoying dinner on the tables outside on the High Street, listening to the buskers next to the Buttercross. He crosses the road quickly and walks up to O’Neill’s.
The pub is full; Robin can hear the chatter of conversation and laughter before he’s even opened the door. And then he sees her. Through the large glass window, he watches Freya as she stands next to a high table, a glass of wine in her hand. Her long blonde hair is loose, and she’s laughing; Robin realises in a sharp moment of clarity how beautiful she is.
He places one hand on the door handle. And then he notices who she’s with. Josh Smith is standing next to her. He’s in the same white shirt from the funeral, tie now discarded, collar open wide at the neck. But on Josh this casual look seems classy, attractive, when Robin knows on him it would just look a mess. Josh leans forward and says something into Freya’s ear. She laughs in reply, then puts her hand on his arm.
Robin pauses. This is more than two workmates out for a drink. This is something else. He remembers Josh asking her out when they were away in Devon, and her coy response. She likes him, he can tell.
He taps his middle finger on the door handle, thinking. Freya deserves this. A man like Josh, who can make her happy. Someone attractive and fun and quick to smile. Uncomplicated; exactly everything Robin isn’t. He looks at Freya. At the
line he shouldn’t cross.
And Robin Butler turns and walks slowly home.
Acknowledgements
Finn’s story has been on my mind for years, so a big thank you to Louise Cullen at Canelo for letting me write it. Your guiding hand on the manuscript made it the altogether better novel it is today. Thank you also to Francesca Riccardi, Siân Heap, Claudine Sagoe, Jenny Page, Nicola Piggott and Iain Millar; they are an incredible bunch at Canelo.
Thank you to Ed Wilson, for steering me through the crazy, and to Hélène Butler and the rest of the team at Johnson and Alcock.
This book pulled on more experts than ever before, and I couldn’t have written it without their guidance:
Thank you to the usual suspects – to Dr Matt Evans for all things medical, and PC Dan Roberts for all things police. (Matt, I’m sorry, there really was quite a bit with this one.) On the meteorology side, thank you to Dr Alec Bennett, Dr Marie Bennett and Professor Giles Harrison. To Dr Sam Batstone, thank you for providing the solution to what was wrong with Finn and for everything related to WKS. Thank you to Steph Fox for your help (and graphic photographs) on the blood spatter scene.
Thank you to Anne Roberts and Maria and Isaac for the guided tour of Kingskerswell, and to Shake, Damian Sciberras and Ed Kernahan for the technical guidance on cameras. Thank you to Aidan Riley and Robin Nash for everything Navy, and Ali Burns for everything TA (even though the whole plot line got cut, sorry.) For the valuable information on servers and IT, thank you to Sophie Harper and Simon Ricketts. Thank you to Charlie Roberts for spotting the gaping plot hole that everyone else missed, just in the nick of time. And finally, thank you to Susan Scarr and Laura Stevenson.
As always, all mistakes, deliberate or otherwise, are down to me and me alone.
Last but not least, thank you to Chris and Ben. And let’s not forget Max, who has destroyed my peace and quiet in ways only a small black spaniel knows how.
Butler & West
Last Place You Look
Under a Dark Cloud
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About the Author
Louisa Scarr studied Psychology at the University of Southampton and has lived in and around the city ever since. She works as a freelance copywriter and editor, and when she’s not writing, she can be found pounding the streets in running shoes or swimming in muddy lakes.
Also by Louisa Scarr
Butler & West
Last Place You Look
Under a Dark Cloud
First published in the United Kingdom in 2021 by Canelo
Canelo Digital Publishing Limited
31 Helen Road
Oxford OX2 0DF
United Kingdom
Copyright © Louisa Scarr, 2021
The moral right of Louisa Scarr to be identified as the creator of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Ebook ISBN 9781800323476
Print ISBN 9781800323483
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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