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Back Last Place You Look Save as PDF
Chapters (85)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. Prologue
  4. Part 1
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. Part 2
  23. 18
  24. 19
  25. 20
  26. 21
  27. 22
  28. 23
  29. 24
  30. 25
  31. 26
  32. 27
  33. 28
  34. 29
  35. 30
  36. 31
  37. 32
  38. 33
  39. 34
  40. 35
  41. 36
  42. 37
  43. 38
  44. 39
  45. 40
  46. 41
  47. 42
  48. 43
  49. 44
  50. 45
  51. 46
  52. 47
  53. 48
  54. Part 3
  55. 49
  56. 50
  57. 51
  58. 52
  59. 53
  60. 54
  61. 55
  62. 56
  63. 57
  64. 58
  65. 59
  66. 60
  67. 61
  68. 62
  69. 63
  70. 64
  71. 65
  72. 66
  73. 67
  74. 68
  75. 69
  76. 70
  77. 71
  78. 72
  79. 73
  80. 74
  81. Epilogue
  82. Acknowledgements
  83. Canelo Crime
  84. About the Author
  85. Also by Louisa Scarr

Robin stands up and throws his empty coffee cup in the bin. ‘A murder,’ he says, striding out of the lab without a goodbye.

39

Saturday

Freya wakes early, has a shower and leaves her house before breakfast. She’s keen to get on the road. She knows where she’s going.

She spent the rest of Friday in her living room, reading through the contents of the large brown boxes. There was a lot there – photographs, reports, Burton’s scribbled handwriting in investigatory notebooks – and none of it contradicted what he’d told her that morning. They’d been thorough. The reports documented every aspect about the scene in minute detail – the camber of the road, the conditions, the torrential rain, the wind speed and direction. Maps showed the location, and a full GPS scan had been taken, recreating the entire scene in a computer program. She loaded up one of the CDs and flicked through hundreds of photographs of the crash.

But she knew nothing substituted seeing it all in real life. She pushed the paperwork aside and looked closely at the crime scene map. That would be her plan for tomorrow. She’d see for herself. Start the investigation from the beginning.

Now, air crisp with the beginning of autumn, she enters the postcode into her satnav and follows the instructions – down the motorway, then onto increasingly smaller roads. She picks up a coffee and an almond croissant on the way and eats it, dropping greasy fragments of pastry onto her lap as she drives.

She passes a small Texaco garage on the right, then drives for another mile until she spots it. Pulling into a dirt road further up, she takes one last gulp of coffee, then hastily sweeps the mess from her clothes as she gets out of the car.

It’s a fast road, derestricted speed limit, windy and deserted. Grey tarmac, white lines down the centre. Trees on one side, tall hedge on the other, farmer’s field beyond. She pulls her coat tighter around her, grabs a few of the crime scene photos, then walks down the grass verge towards the deadly tree.

There’s nothing marking it out as the site of a fatal accident. From the crash investigator’s report, she imagines Trevor Stevens driving down here that night, losing control, sliding and hitting the tree. The tree in question is a broad oak, untarnished, acorns littering the road below it, undergrowth grown up around it again. It’s wide and sturdy. In the fight of vehicle versus tree there could only be one winner.

She looks down the road, and as it starts to drizzle, she walks back to her car and sits inside. She pulls the file out of her bag and reads the report again, looking at the photos accompanying it.