by Louisa Scarr
She watches him go, her mouth half-open. For the most part, her boss is tight-lipped, keeping any detail about his personal life to himself. They still haven’t talked about what happened last year between him and Steph. He doesn’t ever mention any sort of love life, or friends. And then he’ll go and do something like this. Share something so private it will catch her off guard and make her think about him differently.
He’s a person, like any other. And one she likes being around, very much.
The thought of going on a trip with Robin lifts her spirits. She knows it’s going to be a crappy budget hotel. She knows he’ll insist on driving. But, she thinks, it might just be fun.
29
Saturday
The cottage is on a quiet rural street – detached, brick, with four windows evenly spaced across the front. A practical Vauxhall Corsa sits on the gravel driveway. There are two small trees in pots either side of the blue-painted front door.
For a moment, Robin sits in his car and looks at it, unwilling to move. But he needs to know. He gets out and walks slowly towards the door, then raps twice with the shiny silver knocker.
He hears footsteps, then the door’s opened.
The woman in front of him smiles.
‘DS Robin Butler,’ she says. ‘I wondered if you’d turn up.’
‘Hi, Liv, you’re looking…’ His gaze drops immediately to the massive bump.
‘Fat, yes, I know.’ She laughs. She moves out of the way of the door. ‘Come in.’
Like the exterior, the inside of the house is neat and clean. Robin remembers her house from before – she’s clearly gone up in the world.
‘I like the new place,’ he remarks.
‘Thanks. Drink?’
‘No, I won’t be staying long.’ He hovers in the kitchen doorway, feeling uncomfortable. Now he’s here, he’s not sure how to say it.
She’s watching him closely, a smile playing on her lips. It’s clear she knows exactly why he’s there.
‘How have you been, Robin?’ she asks.
‘Is it mine?’ he blurts out.
‘Is what yours?’
‘Liv, come on. You know what I’m asking.’
She lowers herself slowly into one of the kitchen chairs. She points to the one next to her and he sits down.
‘How, exactly, do you think this baby’s yours?’ she asks slowly.
‘That night I was drunk and you stayed over. You said we didn’t sleep together—’
‘There you go then.’
He regards her cautiously. ‘So you’re saying nothing happened.’
‘Did it?’
She’s toying with him, and he doesn’t like it. ‘Liv, please. I need you to be honest with me.’
She leans back in her chair and sighs, rubbing the large bump. ‘Look. I didn’t ask you to come here. I don’t want anything from you. So, what’s the problem?’
‘The problem is, if this is my baby, I don’t want to be one of those shitty dads that abandons his kid.’
‘So what are you going to do? Propose? Make an honest woman of me?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Liv.’
‘So you’re going to throw a bit of cash my way, is that it?’ She gestures round the room. ‘I don’t need your money, I’m doing okay. One advantage of my sister dying is that she left behind something more valuable than her shitty, spiteful company. If it wasn’t for DC West showing up at my college, you would never have known.’
‘So whose is it, Liv?’
‘You weren’t the only guy around at the time, Robin,’ she says, her voice sharp. ‘If you remember, I literally had a queue of guys lining up to fuck me. And do a lot more besides.’
‘So we did sleep together. Why did you tell me we didn’t?’
‘Because you were clearly so horrified at the idea.’ She shrugs. ‘Life is a lot easier when you can live in ignorance. Didn’t you prefer it before your pretty little detective told you the news?’
He stays silent. He can’t deny it. The idea of having a child, especially one with Liv, was not something he was relishing.
‘So get out, Robin,’ Liv continues. ‘We didn’t need you before, and we don’t need you now. Me and this little guy will be fine without you.’
‘It’s a boy?’
Liv sighs. ‘Yes. Look, you’ve done your bit. You’re guilt-free, Detective Butler. You turned up at my door and I told you to sod off. So go.’
He stands up, but pauses.
‘Go,’ she repeats.
He walks out of the house, his head bent. What did he think would happen? That she would fall into his arms, grateful and desperate?
Liv’s right, she’s doing okay. The house is nice, and by all reports she’s carving out a new career for herself.
But he can’t just leave. He pulls out his notebook, scribbling his number on one of the pages. He hurries back to her front door, then pushes it through the letter box.
It’s up to her now. Out of his hands.
But the thought doesn’t provide the relief he was expecting. If anything, the worry is worse.
30
‘Ready?’
Freya heaves a large suitcase into the boot of Robin’s Volvo, then nods. Robin looks at it dubiously.
‘You know we’re only going for a few nights, right?’
Freya points to Robin’s tiny holdall. ‘Unlike you, I’m not planning on wearing the same T-shirt three days straight.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
They get into the car and set off on the journey. It feels strange going with Robin down to where he grew up – but nice. She can relax, knowing he’s in charge.
They listen to Radio 2 as the interminable roundabouts of the A31 make way for endless rolling green hills, bordered by high hedges. As they go, Robin explains all the events of the past few days.
‘So Finn said it was his fault?’ Freya repeats. ‘That this boy died?’
‘Yes. But Josie’s adamant it was an accident. And that Finn barely knew him.’ Robin pauses to negotiate a junction. ‘The more I think about it, though, the odder it seems. It’s the only time in Finn’s history where things were a little…’ He stops, looking for the right word. ‘Off-kilter. Apart from this one,’ he adds, grimly.
‘And you can’t find anything on the internet?’
‘It was a long time ago. The newspapers are vague. And the online court registry doesn’t go back that far.’
‘To the days when you wrote on slates with chalk and only had a skipping rope to play with?’
‘Fuck off.’ Robin takes his eyes away from the road for a second and smiles. ‘I phoned the library. They said all the old coroner court records are on microfiche. We’ll have to go down there.’
‘How old-school.’ She looks out of the window for a second. A huge wall dominates their left-hand side and they pass a statue of a grand stag, looking out majestically across the landscape. She feels like she can breathe again. Last night, for the first time in what seems like forever, she slept a full six hours. More than she’d got in months.
‘When was the last time you went home, Robin?’
‘It’s been a while.’ He taps his finger to the song on the radio. ‘Nobody’s down there any more – only Josie and Sandra. And I’ve not been in a hurry to relive the memories.’
‘Why did you move away?’
‘University. Georgia went to Bournemouth Uni, so when it came to deciding where to go, I did the same.’ He glances back to Freya with a rueful smile. ‘My eighteen-year-old self wouldn’t admit it, but I missed her. And Finn was going to Reading, so it seemed like a good fit.’
Robin leans forward and fiddles with the controls on the radio, switching the setting to CD and turning the volume up loud. A tactic to change the conversation, she assumes, but she doesn’t mind. Songs blare out from the speakers, tunes Freya only vaguely recognises.
She’s heard this stuff before in Robin’s car. She leans forward and opens the glovebox, looking a
t the CDs. Placebo. Garbage. Muse.
‘You should think about upgrading to modern-day,’ she half shouts, holding the plastic cases out to him. ‘Get an iPod at least.’
But Robin’s not listening to her, cranking the volume up again on the stereo and singing along to the music. The change in her boss is surprising, his usual hesitant air completely gone as he half shouts, half sings along to the lyrics, almost word-perfect.
‘What is this shit?’ she laughs over the noise.
‘Beastie Boys! You don’t know it? Consider this your education, Freya West!’
They continue on to long, straight roads, getting stuck behind lorries and tractors until the dual carriageways provide an opportunity for Robin to put his foot down. The old Volvo rattles along cheerfully; Robin hums along to the music, his fingers tapping the beat on the steering wheel.
They drive through Bridport, then Honiton, then onto the M5, where Freya spots the sign for Exeter Services.
‘Here!’ she shouts to Robin.
‘But we’re nearly there.’
‘I need to pee!’
He sighs and turns off down the slip road, pulling up in front of the Moto service station.
‘Get me a packet of Monster Munch then. Flaming-hot flavour,’ he shouts after her as she climbs out of the car. ‘And a coffee.’
She raises a hand in acknowledgement and walks into the services.
It feels like a holiday. The long car ride, standing in WHSmith choosing crisps and chocolate, stretching her legs after two hours sitting down. People around her with their families, getting food before continuing their journeys. She joins the lengthy queue for Costa. Work feels like a world away, even though she’s here with Robin.
As if reading her thoughts, her phone rings and she looks at it. Josh Smith, it says on the screen. She answers it.
‘Hi, Josh.’
‘Hi.’
There’s a slightly awkward pause, like Josh has forgotten what he called to say.
‘I… Baker said you were on assignment with Butler.’
Freya hesitates. She wonders what Robin told their DCI. ‘Just for a few days,’ she replies. ‘And it’s the weekend. What are you doing at work anyway?’
He laughs, on to more familiar subjects. ‘You know the job, nothing stops.’
‘Any progress with the freezer?’
‘A bit. Fingerprints are back. A whole load of partials, most with no hits, but one match on the system. We’re trying to track him down now.’
‘That’s progress. Are you thinking it’s from one of the people who dumped it?’
‘Yeah. Although we can’t find anything on CCTV.’
‘But Thorpe wasn’t dead until the night of the storm – Steph confirmed it,’ Freya challenges. ‘Are you thinking the original dumpers went back to dispose of the body?’
‘Yeah. And I know… As hypotheses go, it’s not a good one,’ Josh admits. ‘And we’re still trying to locate the vic’s next of kin.’ He pauses. ‘Listen, Freya…’
‘Hmm?’ She gives the coffee order to the woman behind the counter, only half listening.
Another gap. ‘Don’t worry. It’s fine. See you when you get back.’
Freya says her goodbyes and pockets her phone, as the woman passes over the coffees. She wonders what Josh was about to say, but then dismisses it.
Robin’s waiting for her in the car, talking to someone on the phone. She climbs in awkwardly, coffees in hand, and he raises an eyebrow as he talks, his face breaking into a big smile when she pulls the packet of Monster Munch out of her pocket.
He hangs up.
‘That was Josie,’ he explains. ‘The doctors say Finn has a risk of seizures from the alcohol detox. They’ve prescribed some drugs to help.’
‘Shit,’ Freya replies. ‘But no other change?’
‘None.’
‘And Josie’s happy with our trip to Devon?’ Robin ignores the question, opening the packet of crisps and eating one, crumbs dropping messily on his lap. ‘You haven’t told her, have you?’ Freya surmises from his silence.
He shakes his head, his mouth full. He chews. ‘Don’t want to rock the boat if there’s no reason.’
‘And where have you told her you’ve gone?’
‘Home. I haven’t lied about that. I just said I felt it was time to visit Mum’s grave.’ He starts the engine again and hands her the packet of Monster Munch to hold. The smell is overpowering, but tempting.
‘And she believed you?’
‘I think she has bigger things to worry about right now.’ He reaches over and takes a crisp.
‘I thought you were on a health kick,’ she asks.
‘What makes you think that?’
‘The running? Drinking less coffee? Not getting pissed?’
He looks slightly embarrassed. ‘Just thought I should look after myself better.’ He grins, then puts one in his mouth. ‘But we’re on holiday, Frey,’ he says, with a spray of crisp crumbs. ‘Normal rules don’t apply.’
They head off down the motorway again, Robin posting Monster Munch into his mouth at frequent intervals. Freya’s phone beeps again, from Josh. A text message this time.
Hi Freya. What I meant to say earlier was I had a great time with you at the pub on Wednesday, and I’d love to do it again. But without my stupid mates, this time?
She stares at it. Then another beep.
When this case is over, and it’s allowed, do you want to go out with me? xx
‘Who’s that?’ Robin asks.
Freya looks at the texts. She knows Josh would have seen the notification showing that it’s been read, but she’s not sure how to respond.
‘Josh,’ she replies. ‘About the case.’
Robin nods and goes back to his crisps, taking them off her and balancing them precariously in his lap, one hand on the wheel. There’s a fine layer of crumbs down his jumper now, a greasy trail on his fingers.
She looks at the message again, then reaches over and takes the packet, putting the last crisp in her mouth.
‘Hey!’ Robin protests.
‘You’ve had enough.’
She thinks about Josh. She finds him attractive, when he’s not being a dick as her superior officer. She enjoyed the night out, too. But his reputation as a bit of a player precedes him. And to put her heart on the line, go out with someone again? She’s not sure she’s ready.
So she leaves the message unanswered. And as she looks out of the windscreen, the sign comes into view.
They’ve arrived in the village of Kingskerswell, Devon. Where Robin and Finn grew up.
31
Robin feels strange as they drive down roads, past houses and landmarks that he knows so well. Past the Sloop Inn on the corner; the primary school he and Finn went to. The football field and the cricket pavilion where he spent his days, and the playpark where he and Finn and the other teenagers spent their evenings, drinking cider. Everything seems odd and familiar, all at once.
He pulls into the car park of the pub and brushes the crisp crumbs off his front.
‘Where’s the library?’ Freya asks, and Robin points to the small low building on the other side of the road. ‘It’s tiny. Are you sure they’ll have what we need?’
‘I spoke to them yesterday,’ Robin confirms. ‘They were going to get them in.’
Sure enough, when they arrive, they’re greeted warmly by the librarian on duty: an older lady with short grey hair, a neat cardigan and a necklace made out of colourful oversized buttons. She smiles tenderly when Robin introduces himself.
‘I remember you, Robin Butler,’ she says. ‘I taught both you and your sister when you were little.’
‘You did?’ Robin struggles to gain any recognition from her lined face.
‘Mrs French.’
‘Oh… no.’ Robin remembers a serious woman, playing piano in assembly, unsuccessfully trying to teach him how to sing in primary school. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he tries again. ‘Music was not my forte.’
She takes his dismay with good grace. ‘You could say that.’ She turns to Freya. ‘Tone-deaf, this one,’ she adds, and Freya laughs. ‘Spent most of his time gazing out of the window at the football field. Who could have guessed you’d come here on police business?’ Robin ignores the warning glance from Freya; he knows he’s pushed the boundaries of the truth. ‘I have everything you need. Come through.’
They’re shown into a small back-room. Every wall is lined with shelves and piled high with books. Teetering stacks rest on the floor. In the middle of it is a small table, with a large black contraption on top.
‘So, the machine’s here,’ Mrs French says. She flips a switch on the side and the screen jumps into life. ‘You know how to work it, right?’ Robin nods. ‘And microfiche here. I’ve requested all records from the coroner’s court starting from the summer of 1992. Could you be more specific than that? I could help.’
‘No, that’s fine. This is fantastic, thank you.’ Robin’s feeling cagey about the reason for their visit. He knows that village gossip is fast to make its rounds and has no wish to become a part of it.
‘A cup of tea, then?’
‘Yes, please.’
As Mrs French bustles off to make the tea, Robin and Freya sit down at the machine.
‘So, how does this work?’ Freya asks, and Robin blinks at her.
‘You’ve never used one of these?’
‘Not for a while, no. I’m a bit younger than you, you know.’
Robin rolls his eyes. ‘So, microfiche is basically pages of a document, but shrunk down in size. And this machine magnifies them.’
Freya opens the large books, where the microfiche have been neatly filed away in rows. She pulls one of the fragile plastic pages out and holds it up to the light. Robin can see the miniature images in black and white. She puts it back and runs her fingers across the dates.
‘So what are we looking for?’
‘Start with July and we’ll go from there.’
‘Robin,’ Freya says. ‘There must have been hundreds of deaths passing through the courts. We can’t possibly look through all these pages.’
Mrs French returns with the tea, and Freya gives Robin a cheeky smile.
