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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

Freya frowns. A lead that’s dead before it’s even started.

‘I can show you if you like?’ Freya stares at him, and he points to the camera behind the desk. ‘The CCTV? I kept the video. Assumed you lot would come back for it, but you never did.’

It’s getting late by the time Freya makes it home. She puts her key in the lock and pushes it open, switching the lights on as she goes, excitedly clutching the evidence bag now containing the disc with the footage.

She quickly makes dinner, boiling up pasta and mixing in some sauce, then boots up her laptop, sitting down, bowl in front of her. She opens the CD tray and the disc loads slowly, the symbol whirring on the screen. Why didn’t anyone follow up at the time? she wonders, waiting for it to load. Must have got missed, been one of those things.

The video starts automatically and she sees the garage shop, unchanged in the two years that have passed. The camera angle captures the middle aisle of sweets and chocolate, the fridges at the back, but the main door is out of shot, the quality crap and grainy. A few customers come in; Freya recognises the grey hair of Thomas Kinnaman, bobbing at the front of the video. She looks up the timings in her notes, then winds it forward. Then, there he is. Trevor Stevens, in black and white.

He walks to the front of the shop, sure and steady. Freya watches the wordless video as he smiles and speaks to the garage owner. She sees the couple Kinnaman mentioned before: the man comes to the front, waits behind Stevens to pay. The woman stays at the back, barely in shot. Because of the rain that night, everyone has their hoods up, their faces down. There’s not much to go on.

Then the other man appears at the back. He faces the fridges, then turns slightly to the side to speak to Trevor Stevens as he leaves. Freya cranes forward, shovelling a forkful of pasta into her mouth, chewing slowly as she watches. But there’s nothing to identify the guy. He’s taller than Trevor Stevens, Freya can see that, but, like the others, his black hood is up and she can’t see any of his face. Stevens smiles, gestures outside, then the two of them go out of shot.

That’s it. Shit. Nothing.

She sits back in her chair, finishing the last few mouthfuls of her dinner. Dead end. She’s already asked Kinnaman to track down the purchases made by the other potential eyewitnesses, and he gave her a doubtful look. ‘Files could be anywhere,’ he said, and Freya had a suspicion he wouldn’t look far.