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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

She bites her lip, trying to quell the giggles.

‘I’m so sorry, Robin,’ she manages at last. ‘Let me buy you dinner.’

He shakes his head; she knows he’s scowling behind the mask. Then he gestures to a large reddish-yellow mark on his leg.

‘Just not curry,’ he replies. ‘Please.’

65

Robin’s changed his clothes, had a shower, but the stink of the Miller rubbish still clings to his skin. He’s convinced it’s in his hair, under his nails, even though he was wearing a full suit and gloves. Double layer tomorrow, he resolves.

They’ve agreed on a takeaway rather than dinner out, and he hears Freya open his front door to the delivery driver as he’s finishing getting dressed. He pulls a hoodie over his head and smooths his hair down with his fingers, looking in the mirror as he does so.

He needs a haircut. He needs a shave. And when did he get so grey? In the past he’s been able to convince himself that it’s only here and there, but now he can see great tufts of it on the top, patches in his stubble. He looks old. And he feels it. Every one of his forty-one years. Or? He does the maths in his head. Christ, he’s forty-two, how did that happen?

He goes downstairs into the kitchen, where Freya has managed to find knives and forks and plates and laid the Chinese takeaway out on the table.

He sits down and takes a prawn cracker, enjoying the polystyrene-like texture as it dissolves on his tongue. She passes him the rice and he tips it out on his plate, then adds chilli crispy beef, sweet and sour pork, lemon chicken.

‘I think I over-ordered,’ Freya says, through a mouthful of something.

‘No such thing,’ he replies.

They eat in silence for a while, both of them starving.

‘How are you feeling?’ he asks tentatively.

‘About what? Jon, or…’ She doesn’t finish. She knows he’s referring to Trevor Stevens’ murder.

‘Both, I guess.’

Freya offers him the last prawn cracker and he shakes his head. ‘About Jon, okay, generally,’ she says. ‘He wasn’t a part of my day-to-day life, because of the way we were. So when I’m at work and distracted, I can almost forget. But then it’ll catch me unawares. I’ll pick up my phone without thinking, to check if he’s messaged. And that will be it.’ She laughs, awkwardly. ‘Waterworks.’

He nods. He’s not sure what to say. He remembers those early days, just after Georgia and the twins died, but their lives had been so completely intertwined that everything he did came with a paralysing tiredness. Yet he carried on, in the same way that she is.

He watches as she puts a forkful of rice in her mouth and chews. ‘Are we going to get her, Robin?’ she asks quietly.