by Louisa Scarr
She desperately wants a joint. Something to take the edge off how she’s feeling. But Robin Butler is still hanging around, and she doesn’t trust him not to arrest her. If she gets caught consuming the very substances she’s supposed to be researching, she’ll have her licence taken away. She’ll be thrown out of the university, and then her life really will be over.
There’s a soft tap on the door and her PhD supervisor pokes her head round.
‘Sophie?’ she says. ‘I thought I saw your light on. I heard about Finn, I’m sorry. How are you?’
‘I’m…’ Sophie’s not sure how to answer that question. ‘I’m doing okay,’ she manages after a pause.
‘Why don’t you take some time off? Be with Finn?’
Sophie’s already been to the hospital to see him this morning and sat next to his bed while he slept. When he was awake, he was dull – little movement or thought, like some part of his brain was missing.
She doesn’t like to admit it but being around Finn makes it all worse. While she’s here, she can pretend her life is normal. That he is at the lab across the road, and they’ll go for dinner tonight, maybe out with some friends.
‘That’s okay. I want to keep busy,’ Sophie replies.
‘I can handle everything here.’
‘But there’s that funding application you wanted doing. And the results from the second study to look at, and—’
‘I insist,’ her supervisor says firmly. ‘Take a fortnight off. At least.’ She gives a final smile and leaves Sophie alone.
Slowly, Sophie shuts down her computer and puts her stuff in her bag. Then she pauses, paying attention to the twitch at the back of her mind. Being so close to the lab creates a pull, reinforcing her desire to find out what was going on behind those innocuous four walls. What might have caused Finn to be where he is today.
She feels a flare of anger and stands, picking up her bag and striding out of her office. She walks quickly across campus, pace increasing, until she gets to Finn’s lab. She tries the handle but it’s locked, so she presses the bell, waiting for the answering buzz as the latch is released.
She pushes into the building.
The lab is strangely quiet. For the last few months it’s been a hive of activity. Computers whirring, the click of fingers on keys, lively discussion and debate. And Simon Sharp and Finn at the centre of it.
Sophie knew the two of them had their disagreements, but their friendship was built on mutual respect. ‘Debate is essential for growth,’ Finn once said to her. ‘Without challenge, how will we ever improve?’
Finn likes a good dispute. Smiling, he would listen to the person next to him grow more and more furious as he presented the counterargument, one point after another. Or he’d hold a finger up in the air as if to say, hold that thought, then walk away to do research and further reading. His PhD students loved him – even more so once Sharp joined the mix.
She spots Ian Calloway on the far side of the lab and walks over. He’s head down over a laptop, an array of electronics scattered around him; he looks up as he hears the sharp clatter of her heels on the tiled floor.
‘What was going on, Ian?’ she shouts.
His face hardens. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘With Finn. And Simon.’ He stares at her blankly. She grits her teeth. ‘Don’t tell me that everything was okay here, that there weren’t problems. I knew. I saw what it was doing to him.’
Ian’s eyes narrow. ‘You’d seen him drinking, had you?’ he challenges.
She stops, hands in fists. ‘No… I…’
‘So, you knew he was under pressure. Big fucking deal. Had you seen how he wasn’t eating? How he was working through the night, sleeping in his office?’
‘Why didn’t you stop him? Why didn’t you tell me?’ she pleads.
‘We knew how important this project was to him. It was everything,’ he stresses, and Sophie knows what he’s saying. More important than you. ‘But we didn’t know he was drinking,’ Ian continues, quieter. ‘And we didn’t know that he was so out of control he would kill Simon.’
‘He didn’t kill Simon!’
Ian gives her a patronising look. ‘Didn’t he?’ He flicks windows on his laptop and pulls something up. He points at it, turning to Sophie. ‘We found this on his computer.’
‘Why were you going through Finn’s stuff?’
‘After the police came and found all the alcohol, we wanted to know exactly what we were facing. So we went through his hard drive. Look.’
Sophie leans down next to Calloway. The screen shows a Word document, its title clear: Cloud Particle Doppler Spectra from the Updraft of a Mesoscale Convective System. And the author: Dr S. Sharp.
‘This was Finn’s research, our research,’ Ian says angrily. ‘And Sharp was intending to publish it under his name. Finn knew.’
Sophie’s mind is reeling. ‘But he wouldn’t… Finn would have never…’ Then she stops. ‘You haven’t shown this to the police.’
Ian pauses.
‘You haven’t, Ian! Please say you haven’t!’
Ian bows his head. ‘I’m sorry, Sophie. But we had to.’
‘Who did you send it to?’ For the first time Sophie hopes that Robin has been involved. At least he’ll be on Finn’s side.
‘DI Craig, the one in charge.’ Ian looks sheepish. ‘We gave her a copy of his entire hard drive.’
Sophie turns on her heel and walks quickly away from the lab, angry tears threatening. It was motive, clear motive. But to kill over this? Over some silly weather equipment?
Yet, Sophie knew. That silly weather equipment was everything Finn lived for. And he would have done anything to protect it.
27
At last, Robin’s home. He dumps his bag in the hallway, kicking his shoes off into the messy pile. He opens his fridge. He stares inside, trying to get some inspiration for what to cook from a lump of cheese, half a shrivelled pepper and some mouldy mushrooms. He gives up, closing the fridge and walking into the living room.
The place is still a mess. Dust sheets cover his sofa and television. He pulls at a length of wallpaper; it comes away with a satisfying rip. He knows he should get a move on, but he can’t be bothered. Perhaps he’ll get a man in after all. All that sense of achievement for a job well done just isn’t worth the hassle. He glances out of the window. The weather is bright but cool, and he feels the need to get outside, do something to shake off the excess energy.
Robin hasn’t been for a run for a few days, and his muscles feel stiff. A few niggles at first, a twinge behind his knee, but after half a mile he gets into his stride. The bassline beats through his headphones, The Prodigy – a good choice given the mood he’s in. He needs something fast and noisy to take away the thoughts in his head.
He’d spent the rest of the day at the hospital, sitting silently next to Josie. Robin had watched her like a hawk, but she seemed the same concerned mum she’d been all week. Robin saw no evidence that she was hiding anything; only the strain from being with Finn in hospital was apparent.
And Finn? He wasn’t improving. He was still quiet – rarely talking, barely acknowledging Sophie when she arrived later that day, pale-faced and uncommunicative.
There is radio silence from Craig. The policeman on the door had been replaced, but apart from that, there is no movement on the case. It looks like Finn is going to be in hospital for some time, but Robin also knows this only gives Thames Valley Police a chance to collect more evidence against him. In normal circumstances, detectives have twenty-four hours after an arrest to request an extension, release or charge. But the countdown doesn’t begin until Finn is judged well enough to be taken into custody, and knowing his state now, it could be a while.
Being on the other side of the fence is infuriating. He has a new-found empathy for relatives.
His watch beeps, marking off two miles, and Robin makes a turn for home. As a kid, he was always sporty – kicking a ball around, getting on the rugby team
without a problem – but he had never been into running. He can see why people like it. The soothing repetitive thud thud of his feet on concrete, letting his mind wander as he works out the frustrations of the day.
When he couldn’t bear it any longer at the hospital, he’d made his excuses and left. Josie looked up as he grabbed his coat.
‘See you tomorrow,’ she’d said, before turning back to Finn. And he’d nodded, but he now wonders whether he will. How long can he keep on driving up the M3 to be there for them? There’s no change in Finn’s condition, and he’s too far from the hub of the investigation to be any use.
His mind keeps coming back to Finn’s words. It was my fault. What had he meant? Were his comments about Jacob merely the confused ramblings of a disordered mind or something relevant to the case?
Robin turns the corner into his road and does a final sprint for home. He stops, resting his hands on his hips as he gets his breath back. There’s another runner in the distance, coming closer: a woman, lithe and fast. For a moment he thinks it might be Steph and he lifts a hand, before he realises it’s someone completely different. She waves back, even though she doesn’t know him, and Robin watches her go.
It’s strange to think about Steph after all this time. He knows she’s been avoiding him, another pathologist attending when one’s been needed at his crime scenes. He misses her, and despite wanting to call her, he’s respected her need for distance. He knows why they split up – she wanted kids, he didn’t – and nothing’s changed.
Except now it has. He’s done his best not to think about Freya’s news about Liv, but he knows he needs to speak to her. What if it is his? Robin’s not sure how he’ll feel, if that’s the case. Co-parenting with Olivia? What a strange thought. And completely terrifying.
Since Robin’s sister and her twin two-year-old boys were killed six years ago, Robin’s dismissed all thoughts of a family of his own. He simply couldn’t bear the idea of losing someone else he loves. But now that it might be forced upon him? He isn’t the sort of man to just walk away.
He goes into his house, downs a pint of water, then heads for the shower. After he’s dressed, he knows what he needs to do and takes out his laptop, sitting at his kitchen table and logging on to the Police National Computer, looking up Olivia Cross. Using the PNC for personal use is definitely not allowed, but it’s related to an old case and he knows he could justify it, if needed. He quickly scribbles down her address, noting it’s in a small village on the outskirts of town. A nicer place to live, he thinks to himself. Better schools.
He goes to log off, then stops. His leg twitches nervously; he taps his middle finger on the desk. The PNC is the database for all police activity, covering the whole of the UK, and without thinking about it further, he types in Finlay Mason. A list of possible matches comes up, and he selects the one with the correct date of birth.
There’s nothing. His address is current, one registered vehicle. No previous convictions. But that’s not a surprise.
He does a search for Josie. No record. Then: Sandra Dean. Nothing.
He knows Devon and Cornwall Constabulary will have their own local system, so if anything happened in 1992, something might be on there. But he’ll need authorisation from a superior officer to access it. Maybe Baker would approve it, but how would he explain the request without potentially getting Finn into more trouble?
Then a memory flashes. Glandular fever. That was it. His dad had said that Finn was ill with glandular fever, and that’s why he was late starting back at school that September. He leans back in the chair. He remembers now; it had seemed strange at the time. He’d ignored his dad’s instructions to stay away and sneaked round the back of the house, hissing Finn’s name. And the face that had appeared at his open window hadn’t looked ill. Pale, thin. But not sick enough to be off school for a month.
Robin frowns, sitting at his kitchen table. This isn’t helping. But what was he expecting? To remember some key evidence from that time? And of what? That Finn was involved with the murder of some random kid? That Josie covered it up?
It’s ridiculous. He’s looking for a problem when there isn’t one.
He sighs and closes the lid on his laptop. Then he hears the doorbell ring. He gets up and answers it, pleased to see Freya on his doorstep.
But the moment she sees him, she bursts into tears.
28
On the drive there, Freya had rehearsed what she was going to say to Robin, over and over in her head. She was going to stay calm. Explain rationally how she was feeling and why. Then ask for his help.
But the moment she sees his face – his careworn, familiar, hangdog face – she bursts into tears.
He ushers her into the house in dismay, and seats her at his kitchen table.
‘What’s wrong? What’s happened? Is it Smith? What’s he done?’
Despite her tears, Freya laughs. ‘Why does everyone assume it’s Josh? No, it’s me. Just me.’
She accepts the offer of a drink and waits while Robin fusses with the kettle and a cup. Eventually, he puts the tea down and sits in front of her.
‘Is it something I’ve done?’ he asks.
‘No, not at all. How’s Finn?’ she says, feeling awful for not remembering to ask sooner.
‘No change. But don’t worry about that. What’s going on?’
‘It’s about…’ She pauses. How to explain how she’s feeling, when she’s not even sure herself? ‘It’s about Jonathan and Amy and… and what happened.’
He leans back in his seat. ‘None of that. None of that,’ he stresses again, ‘was our fault.’
‘I know, I know. It’s just…’ She starts crying again. ‘It was though, wasn’t it? If I hadn’t drugged Amy, then she wouldn’t have died.’
‘You don’t know that.’
‘I do! She wouldn’t have fallen and banged her head. I… I feel so fucking awful about it. All the time.
‘But it’s not just that,’ she says quickly, seeing Robin about to speak. ‘It’s the whole thing. I didn’t realise how miserable Jonathan was. I should have noticed… got him out. Helped him. Instead, all I could worry about was me, and the fact that he was still married, and how wronged I was.’ She laughs harshly. ‘The poor little mistress.’
Robin’s forehead furrows. He leans forward towards her. ‘That wasn’t your fault either, Frey.’
‘Oh, but it was, Robin. It was.’ She wipes her eyes. ‘And now all I can think about is her. I can’t sleep. And Amy Miller is the last person I want on my mind.’
‘Hmm,’ he replies in agreement. He turns the empty mug round in his hands. ‘When was the last time you had a break, Freya?’ he asks, at last.
‘A break?’
‘Yeah. A holiday. Time off work.’
She thinks back. Maybe… Easter? But then a manslaughter case came in and they both got called into work. She remembers going to see her parents for the weekend, and it was cold. So—
‘Christmas?’ she replies.
He shakes his head. ‘You didn’t have Christmas off. We were both working.’
‘We went to the pub on Christmas Eve?’
‘A few drinks with your boring skipper doesn’t count as a holiday.’ He stops again, thinking. ‘Come with me down to Devon.’
‘Pardon?’
He says it so quietly she thinks she’s misheard.
‘I’m going back home for a few days. Come with me.’
‘What…? We can’t… I can’t…’
‘It’s the weekend. Baker won’t mind. He’ll make sure Smith gives you the time off.’
Freya’s struggling to get to grips with what Robin’s proposing. It sounds like… It sounds like he’s asking her to come on a minibreak with him, but that can’t be right, surely? And Baker would never approve that – a sergeant and his DC going for a dirty stay in a hotel? Now why did that thought cross her mind? She feels her cheeks reddening in response.
In her silence, Robin carries on talking. ‘So, this
may sound ridiculous, but Finn said something today. He mentioned some little kid that died when we were fourteen and that it was his fault. And I know it’ll be his addled brain talking, but the kid did die, and Finn was there, and…’
His voice trails off and he looks at her. Her brain is slow to catch up, but when she does, she takes a relieved gasp of air.
‘You want me to come with you to help investigate!’
‘Yes, well, kind of. Off the books, but…’ Then he twigs. ‘Oh fuck, no, Freya. I wasn’t inviting you to come with me because… not like that!’
‘Oh, well, good!’
‘Separate hotel rooms, I promise.’
‘Phew!’ Freya says, with an awkward laugh.
Robin looks slightly chagrined. ‘Okay, okay, you don’t need to be quite so horrified at the thought.’
Freya laughs, properly this time. ‘You’re just not my type, Sarge.’
She glances across to Robin, grinning. And then an image pops back into her head. The impulsive kiss between them last year. That sudden attraction. Being so very close, almost half-naked with her boss. Weird, awkward, wrong – and barely weeks after Jonathan had died.
Freya feels her face flush and notices Robin look away, no doubt remembering the same thing.
‘Fine,’ she says, focusing on the here and now. And she realises it’s not a bad idea. Even though it’s still detective work, of sorts, the thought of being away makes her feel instantly better. ‘Clear it with Baker, and I’ll come.’
Robin smiles. ‘Deal.’ Then he looks at her seriously. ‘And maybe go and see your GP?’
‘And say what?’
‘Not the detail you told me. But that you’re not sleeping. That you’re depressed.’
‘I don’t want to take any drugs,’ Freya says firmly.
‘Okay, your choice. But they help me.’ He stands, picking his mobile up. ‘I’ll call Baker,’ he says, and walks away towards the living room.
