BooksBarbecue
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

Something still feels wrong about this case, but he can’t put his finger on what. Yes, everything is lining up as it should. Nothing contradicts the wife’s story. The hotel have confirmed she was at work all day on the Monday; Freya was going to follow up with the sister, calling in to interview her on her way home, and check the restaurant they apparently went to. They’ve even spoken to the Domino’s delivery guy from the Saturday night – one large pizza, half and half (Mighty Meaty on one side, Chicken Feast on the other), and a side of garlic bread. All delivered Saturday night at 7:54.

He takes his shirt off, pulling it over his head still done up, and throws it towards the washing basket. It misses, falling in an untidy heap on the floor, and he leaves it there, with a lone sock from yesterday’s attempt.

His phone starts to ring, and he looks at it. Liam, it says on the screen, and he silences it then puts it back down on the bed where it continues to buzz angrily. Eventually it stops, and he waits, slowly undoing the belt on his trousers, until it beeps again, showing a new voicemail.

‘Sod off,’ he mutters at it. ‘Take the fucking hint.’

He’s paused, glaring at the phone, and now looks at the belt in his hand. It’s a normal black leather belt – a buckle at one end, holes at the other. The same type he knows Jonathan Miller used that night. He pulls it out of his trousers and holds it, looking at the buckle, then at his own closed bedroom door.

He takes a few tentative steps towards the door. It has a hook on the back, the same as the one in the hotel. What was going through Jonathan Miller’s head that day?

He picks up his beer again and finishes it, then replaces the empty bottle on the side. He feels a pleasant buzz from the alcohol, two bottles drunk in quick succession on an empty stomach. He looks at the belt again.

Slowly, he threads one end through, holding the buckle in his left hand, the loose end in his right. He looks at it, thinking. Did Miller have the buckle at the back or the front of his neck? His mind goes to that awful crime scene, the belt tight under his chin. The back.

He lifts the belt and puts it over his head. The leather is hard and uncomfortable as he pulls the buckle tight. He feels slightly foolish, slightly silly. How did Miller feel on that Monday evening? Was he excited, nervous? Turned on?