by Emmy Ellis
He usually resisted. Usually won the battle.
“I’m sorry I can’t do what you want,” he blurted. “I mean, I’m sorry I can’t open up the way you want me to. I know it’d make for a better me, but you playing therapist…not going to work.” He stared at the blank TV to watch Shaw’s reaction, not trusting himself to look at him in person.
Shaw didn’t look at him either, was perhaps seeing Burgess on the TV, too. “One day, when you’ve eventually killed the demons, as it were, you’ll be more able to loosen up. It’s a tough job being you. No offence, but I wouldn’t want to be Burgess Varley.”
“No offence taken.” And there wasn’t. He knew what Shaw meant.
“It’s a funny old world, isn’t it.” Shaw shifted forward for his wine. Sipped. Put the glass down. Rested back again, the leather chirring as he settled. “I’ve been a bit of a dick lately, playing games to wind you up, get a reaction so you’d blow your stack and finally let shit out, and I shouldn’t have put pressure on you.”
“Yes. I knew what you were doing. Trouble is, it just pushed me the other way. Pissed me right off, if I’m honest.”
Shaw laughed quietly. “I knew it would. Piss you off, that is. Still, lesson learned. Don’t sulk and act childishly to get at your secrets. Or steal your coffee.”
“Never steal the coffee. I might share more of it in the future, if you ask nicely. Now let’s get our gaming heads on so I can beat your arse.”
Chapter Eleven
Burgess woke to the sound of his mobile ringing. He shot upright, scrabbling for it in the darkness on his bedside table, but the bloody thing wasn’t there. It took a moment for the events of the previous night to sink in—too much wine (he’d had more than one glass in the end) and too much gaming—and he reached for his suit jacket, slung carelessly on the floor along with the rest of his clothes. He must have been drunk not to have hung them up. The phone chose to play silly buggers and got stuck as he tried to pull it out of the pocket.
“For fuck’s…” He got it free then swiped to answer. “Yep?”
“Morning.”
“Morning, Emerson. You got something for me?” Burgess glanced at the clock beside the bed.
Five-fifty. Sodding hell.
“You could say that.” Emerson sounded bright and breezy, the lucky bastard.
“Out with it. No pissing about. I’m not with it enough to play your usual games, mate.” Burgess scrubbed at his eyes.
“Another body.”
Well, I basically asked for blunt but…
More awake now, Burgess stood. “Shit.” He made his way out of the room to go down and make a coffee. “Another female?”
“No.” Emerson sighed.
“So what’s it got to do with our case?” Burgess went into the kitchen, the tiles sodding cold on his feet, and flicked on the light. It hurt his eyes, bloody thing. “Or does the DCI expect us to take on another one between us?” He blinked a few times, shoved a pod in the coffee maker, a cup into the slot. “Because although I appreciate that he thinks we’re good…” He pressed the button. The button that started the glorious journey to having his usual morning espresso, the shot that kick-started his brain.
“I get you,” Emerson said, “but you know we’d cope. And this one looks like it might be related.”
The Tassimo hissed and gurgled, the aroma of coffee sparking Burgess further into alertness. “Jesus. How so?” He thought he knew what was coming.
“Something sticking out of the victim’s mouth. I looked at the crime scene photos of Anita Curtis, saw her mouth had been fully closed when she was first found. This one? Maybe the killer was rushed, but there’s like a leg or something poking between the lips.”
“Ah, bollocks.” Burgess’ skin broke out in a cool film of sweat. “Same thing as before?”
“Um, no, wouldn’t say so. The leg isn’t thick enough.”
Oh, dear God…
Emerson cleared his throat. “You might want to get down here before the victim is moved. I know how you prefer seeing bodies in situ.”
“Is Marla there?”
Please let it be her and not King.
“She will be. Just waiting for her. Half an hour, she said. If I tell you the location now, you’ll forget it if you haven’t had your coffee yet, so I’ll message you the details. And I can hear it, you know, that machine of yours. What I wouldn’t do for one of those lattes at the moment.”
A rare wash of sympathy for Emerson winged through Burgess. “When you get back to the station, you can have one of mine in my office—only one, mind. I’m feeling generous but not overly so. And don’t leave the fucking used pod in the machine. Gets on my nerves.”
Emerson laughed. “Everything gets on your nerves.”
“Oh, and use your own cup.” The idea of someone using his churned Burgess’ stomach.
“Got it. And thanks. I realise the enormity of what you’ve just sacrificed. Anyway, get a move on. Want me to get hold of Shaw?”
“No. I’ll do it—and he will be coming in. He kipped on my sofa.”
“You and your bloody gaming. Right.” Emerson sighed. “You know you’re going to have to tell the DCI—”
“No. I won’t. It’s sorted, Shaw won’t be fucking about anymore. He’ll be on time from now on.”
“Good. Less hassle for you to deal with.”
“Yeah. Right. I’ll let you get on. And shit, can we use some of your protective gear in exchange for the coffee? Forgot to top my boot up again. Saves me dropping into the station first.”
“If you treated your boot to a topping up as regularly as you top your body up with coffee…”
“Piss off.”
“Yep, will do.”
The line went dead. Burgess set about making a dark roast for Shaw, and while the machine did its thing, he went into the living room to open the curtains. Shaw slept on. Burgess collected the wine bottle and glasses, clinking them on purpose to rouse the little fucker. Back in the kitchen, he stored the two inches of wine in the fridge, hand washed the glasses, dried them, and put them away.
He sipped his coffee, accessing his messages. Emerson had texted during the night with the confirmation that the female victim had formally been identified as Anita Curtis. How had the beep not woken him? It usually did whether he’d had a few or not. Then a new message from Emerson came in with the latest victim’s location.
The canal?
He finished his espresso then returned to the living room with Shaw’s drink.
He switched the overhead light on to add to the meagre sunlight struggling through the window.
“Wake up, you,” he said.
Shaw opened his eyes. Squinted. “Already awake. Your tidying up makes for a noisy alarm. News on the horizon, I take it?” He sat up and took the cup, still squinting. “Thanks. I must be in your good books. This doesn’t smell like instant.”
“It isn’t, and you won’t be in my good books until you’re up and standing beside the canal with me. Another body.”
“Balls. That’s going to make for a tight squeeze. The paths are narrow down there.” Shaw sipped, then swung his body round so he sat on the edge of the sofa.
“The killer was considerate.” Burgess recalled Emerson’s text. “He chose the patch where the ducks and swans nest. You know where I mean? Oh, sorry, no, you wouldn’t. You don’t go running down there. Or do any form of exercise except flap your gums.”
“Very funny. You’re just jealous I have the fortune of not needing to run to keep in shape.”
“I’d say ouch but can’t be bothered. Ten minutes, then we’re out of here. I’m off for a shower.”
He left Shaw to fully return to the land of the living. Standing under the spray, he loved the way the water got rid of the dried sweat that had gathered when he’d heard about another thing. If it wasn’t a sock, what was it? Going back to the zoo had obviously not been an option for the killer this time—no more missing thing reports had come in, and
he’d only taken one sock according to the CCTV footage. From what Emerson had said, it was an insect. That would be bearable, but what if it was a large common house thing? He wouldn’t even be able to handle that. He psyched himself up for feeling all kinds of shitty once he saw what was pulled out of the victim’s mouth. Nothing he could do but get on with it.
Washed and refreshed, Burgess dried off then had a quick shave. Once done, he scooted past Shaw, who had appeared in the doorway, then dressed in a shirt and suit from his wardrobe. Flinging his clothing on the floor last night had seemed a great idea at the time while half-cut, but now he frowned, the idea of his Savile Row grey double-breasted being crumpled pinging at his need to have things just so. He’d take it to the dry cleaners later if he had time.
Tie on, he listened to Shaw humming in the shower and knew another bout of generosity was in order. And fuck, much as he liked Shaw, this one still stung. Shaw’s suit was also on the floor in the living room. Gritting his teeth, Burgess took out one of his precious outfits and placed it on the bed. And there he’d been, wondering why he couldn’t afford a car similar to Shaw’s. The answer was staring him in the face from on top of the duvet. High-end suits and shirts, shoes, any clothing or footwear. If he could stop that buying compulsion, he’d be able to save for a decent car.
Or just drive around in Shaw’s.
There was that option.
Shaw came into the room, towel snug on his hips, hair every which way, dripping like mad, droplets of water still clinging to his body. He was clearly the type who didn’t dry off in the bathroom, for fuck’s sake. Burgess looked down at Shaw’s feet. Water seeped onto the pristine carpet.
Shit, if Shaw stayed over more often, there were either going to be rules set out or Burgess was going to be doing a lot more teeth gritting.
“Really getting your goat, isn’t it?” Shaw asked.
“Hmm.” Burgess tried a smile on. Didn’t enjoy it. Took it off.
“You’ll get used to it if you want someone to game with you on the regular. Or you’ll have to stay over at mine.”
“That might be more painful. Your place is chaotic.”
“We’re yin and yang. Just got to go with the flow. You’re too wound up all the time. And you can let go.”
“Hmm again.” Burgess walked over to a chest of drawers and unscrewed the lid of his aftershave. He patted some onto his cheeks. Took a deep breath. Stalled the words he didn’t want coming out of his mouth. “The suit on the bed is for you.” He shook his head at how hard that had been. “You can keep it.” And that had been even harder.
“Fuck me, what’s got into you?” Shaw dropped the towel on the floor.
Burgess winced. “For God’s sake! Cover that up.”
“Got some boxers and socks?” Shaw sat on the bed.
On the arm of the suit. What the hell?
“Top drawer, right-hand side, new with tags.” Burgess put on his shoes.
“Who keeps new with tags in their drawer?” Shaw bounded up to get them. “You, obviously, but… Good job I know all your quirks already, otherwise I’d be running the hell away, you weirdo.”
“Get a bloody move on, will you?”
Shaw pulled out a pack of six socks and a pair of boxers. “Can I keep all these socks as well? Mine have holes in.”
Oh, the pain of it… “Yes, just get sodding dressed.”
Burgess left the room, coming to terms with the fact he’d given some of his precious clothing away.
In the kitchen, he checked his phone. A text from Marla, saying she’d meet him at the scene. She was another one who was chirpy as eff in the mornings. Burgess could do with another coffee, but Shaw waltzed in, looking tidy in Burgess’ suit.
Shaw’s, it’s Shaw’s now.
“Fits nice.” Shaw tugged at the lapels.
“It would, considering how much it cost. Um… Take care of it, will you?”
“Aww, is it like a baby is leaving the nest?”
“Get lost, wind-up merchant. I see you picked out a tie.”
Shaw grinned. “I’ll keep that, too, if you don’t mind.”
Burgess nodded, about as much as he could manage. “You left your towel on the carpet, didn’t you? And your cup on the coffee table—probably not on the coaster.”
“Yep.”
“And you didn’t fold your blankets.”
“Nope.”
“You’re upsetting me.”
“I know.”
Burgess counted to ten in his head. “When we get to the canal, if anyone asks, you bought that suit. It was not mine. Got it?”
“Ah, so your generosity is going to be a secret, is it?”
“I can’t have people thinking I’m soft. Come on, you little sod, you. Out the door. We have work to do.”
Chapter Twelve
Men were busy cobbling together the frame for the forensics tent. The industrial torches were on high beams, one of them casting a shaft of light across the dark surface of the rippling canal, another piercing the gloom around the body.
Burgess stared at the dead man nestled in the knee-high grass. The ducks and swans must have taken affront at the arrival of the killer and the victim, escaping from their safe haven, possibly flapping their wings and calling out in protest. Door-to-door in the street nearby would hopefully unveil witnesses who might give a time if a commotion had been heard.
The feathered beasts now sailed up and down the stretch of water near their nests, letting out noises of complaint every so often. It’d be a while before they could return to the grassy area, and the way the swans were eyeing everyone up, the birds might get arsey in a few hours if everyone was still hanging about.
Burgess was conscious that the people who lived in the row of houses opposite the canal would likely be getting up to start their days soon. The quicker the body was out of sight the better. Come eight o’clock, coppers would be knocking on their doors and asking questions. Not the best start to anyone’s day, but it couldn’t be helped.
He glanced down to see what those residents would spot should they peer out of their windows at this moment. The man, who appeared to be a tramp, was on his back much like Anita had been, although he wasn’t naked. His clothes weren’t the best but they weren’t the worst either, dirty and worn but nothing that a good wash wouldn’t sort out. A dark stain, almost dried now, marred the groin area. Had he pissed himself prior to death? His mid-length greasy hair was spread out around his head, an incongruous fan of sorts that made him seem as though he floated in water. Eyes closed, like Anita, he could just have been asleep, although Marla had confirmed he wasn’t in any kind of sleep he’d be waking up from.
Burgess, Shaw, Emerson, and his partner, Flemmings, stood in a semi-circle at the victim’s feet, while Marla crouched at his side. Flemmings was a weird chap, all thinness and height, his nose beak-like, his greying hair flopping over his forehead, not tucked beneath the protective suit’s hood as it should be. He rarely said much, and Burgess got the impression he was plodding along until retirement, letting Emerson do all the chatting—all the legwork, too, most probably.
As the tent men worked quickly around them, Marla reached for her dreaded tongs, and Burgess winced. Shaw glanced at him, gave a tight smile, and Burgess bobbed his head in response that yes, he was okay for now. Then Shaw moved to stand behind him. Whatever it was in the victim’s mouth, so long as it was dead, Burgess was safe from falling back into the canal owing to panic. Shaw would catch him.
“I may as well get started, seeing as I’m only looking in the mouth until the tent is up. Ready?” Marla stared up at Burgess. Then, bless her heart, she glanced at Emerson, too. She was such a good sort, keeping up the charade, keeping Burgess’ secret.
Burgess coughed. “Come on, let’s see what weirdness we have today.”
“Bloody strange business, this.” Emerson shoved his gloved hands under his armpits and shuffled his feet. The booties rustled with the movement.
“Life in gener
al is strange,” Marla said. “And death, if you want to be philosophical about it.”
“Not really.” Emerson sighed. “Wicked as it sounds, I’m just counting down the time until my shift ends. No offence, fella.” He cocked his head at the victim. “But I have a latte with my name on it, and my tongue isn’t afraid to taste it.”
Burgess held back a chuckle. “Right, let’s get this over with. The photographer’s already got pictures of him as he is now, I take it?”
Marla nodded. “Best to call him over again, though, so he can take them as I work.”
“Photographer,” Burgess called.
The same one from yesterday ran over, nodding at Burgess, and got into place, standing beside Marla. She tilted the victim’s head back then opened the mouth. No trouble doing it either, as rigor hadn’t fully set in yet.
Please, Lord, don’t let it be a sock.
Whatever it was shouldn’t have been in there, but it was furry. Again. Burgess held his breath. Marla used her tongs to carefully take hold of the insect then bring it out into the open. It seemed so stark held up like that in the light, so there and un-seeable. So insect-ish and creepy. Whoever this was, they had to have read about that case Bethany Smith was on.
“A moth?” Emerson said. “A bloody big one, too. Look at the length of its wings. You can’t see it now because they’re tucked down by its sides, but I bet they’ve got quite a span on them in flight.”
“Now this is where I could shit myself,” Marla said, shuddering. “I thought the ones that used to fly around my old nan’s shed were large, but bloody hell. Imagine one of these sods coming at you. Imagine the sound of the wings flapping. Oh God.”
Burgess didn’t bother telling her to shut up. She’d shut herself up, probably realising she’d gone too far by the way she glanced up at him. He winked to let her know he was okay, that what she’d said had been okay. It wasn’t a thing, so he could deal with it.
