Under a Dark Cloud

by Louisa Scarr

  Mina sits down next to her.

  ‘He’s pissed we’re taking so long,’ she says.

  ‘What did he expect?’ Freya replies. ‘Here, this is last night.’

  They both squint at the screen. As with the CCTV from Riverside, they can see the wind gathering speed, rain starting to pour as the storm takes hold. Mina points.

  ‘What do you think? That guy there?’

  It’s the first image they’ve seen of the victim alive. He’s the only one out in the storm, walking slowly, arms wrapped around his body. It’s clear he’s wearing just a few thin clothes, with no coat to protect him from the rain. He sits down in the doorway of the station building, taking shelter.

  Then Freya watches as Norman charges out through the double doors and strides up to him, arms waving wildly. He points away from the building. The man gets up slowly and Norman stands with his hands on his hips, watching him shuffling off into the night.

  ‘What a dick,’ Mina whispers. ‘Where was this guy supposed to go, in weather like that?’

  Freya frowns as the man disappears out of shot.

  ‘That’s exactly what we need to find out,’ she replies.

  11

  Finn looks very small in his hospital bed. Robin watches him through the glass panel in the door of his single room, as Josie sits next to him. He looks more himself – wearing a spare pair of glasses, cleaned up and less bloody – and Robin has an abrupt thought that everything is normal, that this is a normal visit to see his friend, in normal circumstances.

  But then the uniform standing guard next to him hands back his warrant card. ‘You’re cleared to go in,’ he says, giving him a long look.

  He’s given his statement to Craig’s team of what happened when he went into the van, then nipped to the shopping centre, picking up extra clothes to tide him over for a few days. And he came here via the McDonald’s drive-in, ravenously destroying a burger in a few bites.

  Finn and Josie look up as he comes into the room.

  ‘Hi, Finn,’ Robin says. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Terrible,’ Finn replies. He manages a small smile. His face looks pale, a fine layer of sweat on his forehead. ‘Is Simon holding the fort?’

  Josie holds tight to her son’s hand. ‘Let’s concentrate on getting you better, sweetheart,’ she says with a warning glance in Robin’s direction. ‘We’ll worry about Simon later.’

  Robin sits in the chair next to his bed. ‘Do you remember what happened last night?’ he asks.

  Finn furrows his brow. ‘I was filming the storm. Then things get a bit muddled.’ He reaches up and rubs his eyes behind his glasses; Robin notices his hands are shaking. ‘Where is Simon, anyway?’ Finn continues. ‘We need to talk. There must be loads of data to go through.’

  Robin puts his hand on his friend’s arm. ‘Soon, Finn.’ He indicates to Josie. ‘We’ll be back in a sec. I need to talk to your mum.’

  Robin takes Josie’s hand and ushers her out into the corridor.

  ‘That’s all he’s been saying,’ she whispers to Robin. ‘He seems so confused. He keeps talking about Simon.’

  ‘What do the doctors say?’

  ‘They’re still running their tests. They’ve done an initial CT and bloods, but they say they need to take him for an MRI. They mentioned memory loss. Something about a psycho… a psychotic episode, triggered by stress? They asked if we have schizophrenia in the family.’

  ‘And do you?’ Robin asks.

  ‘No! And they asked about drugs, so I told them about the LSD and the marijuana.’

  ‘Good.’ Robin frowns.

  ‘Could the drugs have caused this? What they’re saying he did to Dr Sharp?’

  ‘I don’t know, Josie, I’m sorry. I’ll try to find out what I can. Is Sandra still around?’

  ‘Yes, she’s gone to find somewhere to stay tonight.’ Josie reaches forward and takes Robin’s hand. Her own is cold, shaking. ‘He’s all I have,’ she says, her voice trembling. She looks back through the window, towards her son. ‘I know he’s a grown man and over six foot, but he’s still my baby. I couldn’t… I can’t… If anything happens to him…’

  Robin feels the weight of the responsibility. The pressure makes his shoulders tense, his head hurt.

  He covers her hands with both of his, squeezing tight. ‘I know, Josie. I know.’

  * * *

  Day revolves into evening. Lights are turned on, curtains closed. Nurses tend to Finn. He gets worse, at one point throwing up in a bowl. He tries to sleep, but he’s restless and irritable. A doctor comes in, talks about doing more tests, but can’t offer any more in terms of prognosis. He mumbles something about the psychiatrist coming by in the morning.

  Josie tells Robin to leave.

  ‘I’ll stay,’ she says. ‘This chair’s comfy enough for me.’ He tries to persuade her to come with him, but he knows his attempts are futile. Sandra has reserved him a room in the local Travelodge, and he heads there.

  He checks into the hotel, slumping down on the bed as soon as he gets inside his room. He rubs his eyes. He needs to get some sleep. But first he needs to know what’s going on.

  Robin calls DI Craig’s number, but gets no response. He tries again, leaving a voicemail. Eventually, she calls back: brief and to the point.

  ‘Forensics are still going over the van, Butler,’ she says. ‘The body’s been taken away. Have they done his MHA?’

  Mental Health Assessment. Standard procedure for anyone threatening suicide. Finn needs to be cleared prior to being deemed fit to detain or even be interviewed by the police. ‘He has bigger problems than that, Craig,’ Robin replies. ‘His memory’s gone.’

  ‘What’s he saying?’

  ‘Nothing coherent. He just seems out of it. Sometimes he can’t understand what we’re saying, or he acts like he doesn’t hear us at all.’

  Finn asked a few more times about Simon Sharp, but Josie and Robin continued to be evasive. At one point Finn dropped back even further in his mind, talking about needing to leave, to get ready for the storm. None of it made sense.

  ‘Have they found a murder weapon?’ Robin asks.

  A pause. He knows Craig is reluctant to share. ‘Yes,’ she says at last. ‘A penknife, a posh one. Seems to be Sharp’s – has his initials engraved on the side. The main blade was out. It’s with forensics now.’

  Robin sighs and ends the call. He knows it’s only a matter of time before the results come back. There’ll be biologicals, fingerprints – something – tying Finn to that murder. He remembers the bloody crime scene. Simon Sharp’s body lying on the floor, his neck slashed to pieces. Whatever had gone on in there had been violent and nasty.

  He calls Baker next, aware that he’s been missing his calls all day. His DCI answers instantly, his tone direct.

  ‘What’s the update, Butler?’

  ‘Sorry to call you so late, guv,’ Robin begins.

  ‘Cut the crap, Robin,’ Baker interrupts. ‘You know I’m still working. When are you coming back?’

  Robin imagines his boss sitting at home in his study, files in front of him on his impressive polished wooden desk. He’s been to Neal Baker’s house many times, both on a personal basis and in a professional capacity. He’s met his wife, knows his kids. And Robin also knows that Baker’s gruff style doesn’t mean he doesn’t care, far from it.

  ‘I need a few more days yet,’ Robin says. ‘It’s not looking good.’

  ‘Craig filled me in.’ Baker pauses, and Robin can imagine him running his hand across his shiny bald head. ‘Do you think he did it?’

  ‘I… I don’t know. The evidence says he did.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘I just can’t believe it. Finn’s not that sort of man. He can’t even kill spiders.’

  There’s another long pause. ‘Listen, Robin,’ Baker says, his voice low. ‘I’ve known you long enough to know that your instincts are good. If there’s something off, then follow it. I’ve persuaded Craig to ke
ep you informed. But ask yourself this – are your personal feelings getting in the way of your professional judgement?’

  Robin sits up, leaning against the headboard. Are they? There’s a reason you don’t work on cases too close to home – emotions interfere. Is this what’s happening here?

  Baker takes the pause as confirmation. ‘And you know that any evidence you find will be inadmissible because of your relationship with Finn. Make sure one of their team is with you at all times.’

  ‘Yes, guv.’

  ‘Anyway, Butler, that wasn’t the only reason I called. We need to talk about West.’

  Robin frowns. ‘Freya? What about her?’

  ‘This isn’t the right time, and when you’re back we’ll have a proper conversation, but I’ve noticed her overtime is off the scale.’

  ‘She mentioned she’d picked up some extra paperwork on the side.’

  ‘This is more than that, Robin. She hasn’t had a day off in four weeks. It’s got to the point I said I couldn’t pay her for the extra hours and she said that was fine, she’d come in anyway. What’s going on?’

  ‘I… I don’t know, boss.’ Robin’s confused.

  ‘Is she trying to get a promotion and thinks this is the way to do it? Because it’s too much. There’s dedication and then there’s burnout. And I think she’s heading for the latter.’

  ‘I’ll talk to her,’ Robin confirms, and the call’s over.

  He looks at the phone in his hand, his thumb hovering over Freya’s number. Fuck, he should have known what she was doing; he shouldn’t need to have Baker telling him. But Freya can be secretive; he knows that from the Jonathan Miller murder, if nothing else. But what is she up to?

  He touches the green symbol and calls Freya. It rings for a bit, then cuts to voicemail. He hangs up without leaving a message. He glances at the clock, just gone half nine, and wonders where she is. Must be at home, asleep. She can’t still be at work. Even given what Baker said, that’s beyond devotion to the job.

  Before Robin started working with Freya, he preferred to tackle cases alone. Constables would filter through his working day, some forced to work with him when the caseload got too much, but none he could stand. They all knew about him, knew his history. The death of his sister, his time off work after. And his manner since had hardly been approachable. He knew the whispers that had gone around the station. Lost it. Gone nuts. Stay clear.

  But Freya hadn’t cared about any of that. She took the piss, ignored his blunt manner. And, better still, she got the job done. Between the two of them, they tackled case after case, starting with the death of Jonathan Miller, a man who turned out to be Freya’s lover – a fact she kept from him for the majority of the investigation.

  He knows Jonathan’s murder hit her hard. Not to mention the subsequent death of Amy Miller, his wife, three weeks later.

  He picks up his phone again, then puts it back down. He’ll call her tomorrow. She has a life of her own, he tells himself, leave her alone. He just wishes he had someone else to speak to.

  The only other person Robin can call is Liam, his brother-in-law. He’s been missing his calls all week. But Robin knows Liam will be in bed well before this point: always up at the break of dawn for an early-morning workout. He’s reconnected with Liam over the last few months, sharing nights of football and pizza in front of the TV, trips to the pub – even the occasional run together, although Liam’s athleticism well exceeds his own. And Robin likes it. It keeps him close to the memories of his sister and his nephews; the two of them sharing stories over a beer, grief starting to evolve into something else. Something Robin can cope with.

  Contemplating Liam now, thoughts of Trevor Stevens enter his head. The man who killed his sister. Who criss-crossed his life, resulting in actions and consequences that Robin had never even imagined possible.

  Robin thinks about everything that happened after his sister died. And if he could behave in that way, what was Finn capable of?

  What circumstances could have driven Finn to murder?

  12

  Sophie wearily puts her key in the door and pushes it open. She goes into her flat and closes the door behind her, dumping her bag and coat on the floor then standing in the hallway for a moment, unsure what to do.

  She is exhausted. Her body is grimy with sweat, her clothes sticking to her skin. She feels empty – not just because she hasn’t eaten all day, but emotionally, her mind drained.

  Even though they haven’t said anything, Sophie feels the judgement from Robin and Josie. Why hadn’t she known about the state of Finn’s flat? Why hadn’t she tried to stop him taking the LSD? Why hadn’t she encouraged him to eat better, to look after himself? She had tried to speak to Finn, tried to get him to open up. But he’d been so stressed, so busy. She hadn’t wanted to pile on more pressure. And he is a grown man, she tells herself. Finn is a forty-three-year-old adult, an intelligent man, who can make his own decisions. But still. That feeling of guilt remains.

  She can’t believe what has happened. She went to bed last night excited about what the future might hold. Finn was on the edge of making a huge breakthrough in his field. If the new technology had worked, he would have made a name for himself. He could have worked anywhere in the world, in the most prestigious universities, talking about and teaching what he loved. And she would have gone with him. She would have never left his side.

  Finn is different to her usual boyfriends. In the past, she caught the eye of flashier types: men with nice cars and even nicer homes, who would barely listen when she mentioned what she did for a living. They didn’t challenge her – she knew she was smarter than them, and as long as they didn’t realise it, she could do and say what she liked.

  But on one faculty night out, Finn had turned to her and simply said: ‘You’re wrong.’

  ‘Pardon?’ Sophie had replied.

  ‘What you just said, about the coffee? That’s actually true.’

  She’d been talking about a story she’d read on Twitter, which claimed that scientists who work with cockroaches often become allergic to pre-ground coffee. She’d scoffed at the people that believed it, prompting superior laughter from all around her. But not from Finn.

  ‘Many scientists develop allergies to the things they study,’ he’d explained. ‘And the cockroaches that infect large piles of coffee beans are too expensive to remove, so they just grind them up into the coffee.’ He’d stared at her, with those dark eyes of his, a small smile touching the edges of his mouth. ‘But that’s America for you, Ms Hall,’ he’d finished.

  Sophie knew that some people found him strange. His manner, that blunt challenge, his clinical approach to information and knowledge. But she thought he was fascinating. She could tell there was more to him than that self-imposed distance. That the air of arrogance was simply shyness and a lack of confidence.

  She’d actively sought him out. Looking for him in the canteen at lunchtime, tracking down his lecture timetable. She did her research this time. She’d asked around, found out what he was like.

  Nobody who knew him had a bad word to say. Witty. Serious. Clever. And best of all: single. She’d asked one of his PhD students why – he’d looked blank. ‘Just never seems interested,’ was the response.

  Sophie wasn’t used to waiting around for something. She’d had maybe half a dozen conversations with Finn, and he was polite and interested – but he hadn’t asked her out.

  So one day she went to his office when she knew he would be there. His door was open, and she felt her heart jump slightly as she knocked then poked her head round.

  ‘Finn?’ she’d said, and he’d looked up from his desk. He’d stared at her over the top of his glasses.

  ‘Sophie…’ he’d replied, pointing towards the chair next to him. ‘What brings you to the exciting world of meteorology?’

  ‘I…’ Sophie hesitated. She’d never done this before – ask someone out. Men always came to her. With flowers and overblown conviction. ‘I was wo
ndering if you’d like to go out sometime? With me?’

  ‘Out where?’ he’d replied, initially confused. Then the penny dropped and his mouth parted in surprise. ‘On a date?’ he’d asked.

  Sophie wondered if she’d got it wrong. Perhaps he wasn’t interested in her. Perhaps he was gay.

  ‘Yes,’ she’d replied. ‘On a date.’

  He’d grinned – an expression that opened up his whole face – and she realised she had never seen him smile like that before. Then it was gone again, and he’d looked almost embarrassed.

  ‘I’d like that,’ he’d said quietly. ‘Very much.’

  They kept it simple. To the cinema. No need to talk to each other if they couldn’t think of anything to say. But they chattered through the adverts, then through the trailers, finally being shushed by the older couple behind them.

  Remembering that first date brings fresh tears to Sophie’s eyes. That was over eighteen months ago, and she’d never regretted a day. There is nobody like Finn. Nobody as clever or as determined. Nobody who looks at her the way he does. To him she is more than some silly hippy chick, researching pot and cancer. When he looks at her, he sees her.

  And they never stop talking. About politics. About their work. He challenges her to think about what she is saying. When she first met Robin, she was nervous. She drank too fast and said too much, and she knew why Robin hated her. But after, Finn just said, ‘Opinions should be based on fact.’

  She’d turned on him, eyes blazing. Determined to take her bad mood out on someone.

  ‘What do you mean?’ she’d shouted.

  ‘Your opinions on the police force. You don’t know Robin. You don’t know how hard he works. What motivates him,’ Finn had answered quietly. ‘You were rude, and it made you look foolish.’ And he’d walked away, leaving her fuming.

  But he was right. She should have apologised, she knew. She resolved to make it up to him, but good grief, Robin Butler could hold a grudge. In his eyes she wasn’t good enough for Finn. And the events of today only proved it.