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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

Butler nods. ‘And, of course, we have nothing to show he was murdered.’ He turns to face her. ‘What do we have? What are we still waiting for?’

‘We have the CCTV, social media, the mobile phone data and the telematics from the car,’ Freya says, counting them off on her fingers. ‘Khalid Riaz confirms he was at the party, and Amy Miller’s alibi has been confirmed for Monday.’

‘So just the post-mortem,’ Butler says. Freya watches as he takes his phone out of his pocket and sends a quick text. ‘I’ll chase up Steph.’

Steph? Freya thinks. Interesting her boss and the pathologist are on first-name terms. But a sinking feeling is growing in her stomach: there’s nothing to show Jon’s death isn’t precisely what it seems.

‘And then what?’ Freya asks, quietly. ‘Assuming Dr Harper doesn’t find anything odd.’

Butler shrugs. ‘Then we type it all up, and move on,’ he says. ‘No matter what our guts are telling us.’

Freya turns away from him as he starts the car, putting it into gear. She feels hot tears behind her eyes and blinks them away in frustration. She’s letting Jon down.

But Butler’s right, there’s nothing, she tells herself as they drive back to the police station. Nothing.

15

Given the situation he managed to get himself into the night before, Robin’s in no rush to go home at the end of the day. He takes a small detour, back to the house where Frankie lives. Something in him wonders whether it’s not just the administrative hub of the escort agency, but where actual transactions take place. Illegal transactions.

He parks a good distance away and kills the engine. Before leaving the police station he picked up a sandwich, a can of Coke and a Twix from the vending machine, and now sits in the darkened driver’s seat and opens the wrapping. The bread is slightly stale, the ham curled around the edges, but it’ll do – it’s more than he’s eaten all day.

The road seems quiet. He recognises Frankie’s Ford Fiesta parked outside, identified through the check on the Police National Computer. Lights are on in the house but there’s none of the activity he’d expect to see. Brothels have people – men – coming and going at all hours, but the road is silent until a single car pulls up in the drive. A woman gets out – tall, long dark hair, pretty, wearing a short, smart cocktail dress and high heels. She goes into the house without knocking; Robin makes a note of the number plate and calls it in.

Control report back immediately: car is registered to an Olivia Cross, resident of Winnall, Winchester. So not this address, despite how much she seems at home.

‘Anything more about her?’ Robin asks.