Caught in the Web

by Emmy Ellis

  “I can go and find him.” He heard the desperation in his voice but ploughed on just the same. “I can tell him I won’t let his wife know. I’ll keep it a secret. I just want—”

  “No.” Gran slammed the hand with the napkin onto the table. “No, love.”

  He widened his eyes at her, shocked at the way her words had sounded so…so bloody harsh. Shocked at the fact she’d done something so unusually violent in slapping her hand down like that. “Why not?”

  She sighed. Bit her bottom lip. Held the napkin so tight her knuckles blanched. “Because he’s dead, my darling.”

  Dead. The one word he hadn’t wanted to hear. He could have handled his father being alive, could have handled rejection, but to have no chance at any kind of relationship… Could he handle that?

  “What?” It came out as an insipid whisper. Something prodded at the back of his mind, but he couldn’t grasp it to bring it into the forefront. “What?”

  “He was killed. I’m so sorry.”

  “Killed?” He didn’t understand. Didn’t understand at all. Did he?

  “I think… Oh God, love, I never wanted to have this conversation. Especially not today. We’re meant to be celebrating.”

  “But we’re having it, so you may as well tell me everything. I’ve never liked my birthdays, and neither did she, so celebrating wasn’t an option. Go on. Tell me what you were going to say. It can’t be any worse than what I’ve been through so far, I can assure you.”

  “Don’t. I can’t bear to think of you being brought up in the way I suspect and I didn’t do anything much about it. I was weak. I should have—”

  “This isn’t about you, Gran! This is about me. Fuck your guilt. What’s done is done.” He disliked himself for being so rude to her, so mean, but fucking hell, she needed to complete her sentence.

  And she did.

  “God forgive me, but I think your mother murdered him.”

  He woke sweating, panic careening through his body. He was just the same as her. A killer. Wasn’t it enough that she’d fucked up his life—fucked him up in the head? Why had she also taken away his one shot at living a normal life? He wished he’d known this before he’d done away with her. He could have made her pay more, could have stabbed the hell out of her, showing her all his rage instead of letting her float to Hell with heroin in her veins.

  A thought struck him then.

  I’m going to find my sibling. I’m going to…

  But how could he? He didn’t know his father’s name.

  Did he?

  Did Gran ever tell me? I don’t remember. Damn me for shoving my memories in a compartment and forgetting all about them.

  What.

  A.

  Fool.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Shaw sat in the front row in the incident room, arms crossed over his belly. The rest of the team settled into their seats around and behind him. Burgess stood with his back to everyone, studying the whiteboard. Shaw didn’t envy him this part of the job, where all eyes would be on him.

  Did Burgess just shiver then? It wouldn’t surprise Shaw, what with a picture of a tarantula being up there beside one of Anita Jane Curtis. Was the DI forcing himself to look at it in an attempt to rid himself of his phobia?

  Shaw glanced around. The other officers from the night shift seemed a bit worse for wear, and the daytime lot appeared as though they hadn’t slept a wink. The case heavy on their minds, maybe. Insomnia—he knew all about that.

  The air smelt of coffee, each copper holding a Styrofoam cup from the machine in the hallway, a Costa bought on the way in, or a mug from the break room. Shaw had nabbed another of Burgess’ precious stash, and it sat by his feet in a cup Burgess would want to strangle Shaw for using.

  The bloody man had so many quirks it was hard to keep up with them. Still, he wouldn’t be Burgess if he didn’t have them. Shaw gave the man in question his attention, seeing by the set of his jaw and the rigidity of his shoulders that Burgess was on edge.

  “Right.” Burgess turned to face the assembly. “Quiet, please.” He waited to be obeyed. “We need to all get on the same page, so the DCI has asked me to head this meeting. As you’ve probably gathered from the buzz and chatter, we have another victim. Unidentified as yet—that’s something one of you will be working out. We feel this morning’s case, and this one”—he tapped the board beside Anita’s picture—“are linked, because of items placed in their mouths and heroin overdoses, although we don’t have solid proof that the male victim was injected with that drug yet, just a tiny hole found in the back of the neck by Marla. So we’ll be assuming until the toxicology report comes in, but I’m going to go ahead and say they are linked so we don’t waste any time.”

  He went through how the male victim had been found, and where, and his feeling that the male had been a tramp owing to the man’s appearance.

  “That doesn’t necessarily mean he’s a tramp, though, because as we’re aware, there are plenty in society who choose the grunge look. If he is homeless, this makes us finding him harder,” he said, “but uniforms already out there this morning are going to homeless haunts and asking around. If we go back to Anita for a moment, now that my team have been able to review any notes that came in overnight, has anyone got anything new we can go on?”

  Officer Denton, the only one standing other than Burgess, raised his hand. “On her last Facebook entry, a meme, a man left a comment about seeing her later. I’ve followed his trail, and he’s only friends with Anita—no other friends whatsoever, which sets alarm bells going off. He commented on memes Anita put up and became friends with her six months ago. In the last few weeks, he’s been leaving love hearts at the end of his comments, and she’s been leaving him three kisses.”

  “Interesting,” Burgess said. “So we could say their relationship progressed from friends to something more? Which may explain why she allowed him into her home so late at night.”

  Denton continued. “I checked her private messages, and they’ve been talking on there. I’ve printed the conversations off for anyone who needs them.”

  “Thank you.” Burgess stepped forward to take one. He glanced down, scanned the first page. “I agree with your assessment. Anything else?”

  “His profile picture is of a penguin with a red hat on.”

  Shaw’s blood ran cold. “The zoo icon?”

  “I think so, or it resembles it,” Denton said. “He doesn’t have any personal information that leads anywhere—what he does have is all lies, I suspect—and the birth date he supplied puts him at sixty-two.”

  “What is that birth date, please?” Burgess picked up a fat marker pen.

  Denton reeled the information off.

  Burgess’ face paled. “Say that again?”

  After Denton repeated himself, Burgess frowned then turned to write the date in the killer’s section on the board. “Any more info?”

  “He doesn’t have his location on or stated in his profile, sir, and that’s about it until I can get onto Anita’s other social media apps and look for signs of him being friends with her on those.”

  “So do we basically have a dead end on whether he lives in this city permanently?” Burgess asked.

  “Not necessarily, sir.” Denton swallowed. “He knows the zoo pretty well, I’d say. The area, too—just a sense I get, though—so if he doesn’t live here permanently, maybe he did at one time in the past. I’ve guessed his age to be around the mid-thirties mark from enhancing the CCTV from Anita’s street after the zoo theft. Although the image of him is fuzzy, it gives us an idea of what he looks like. I put a copy of the picture on that desk there.” He pointed.

  “Thank you.” Burgess looked at it for a moment then attached it to the whiteboard.

  Grainy it was, and the face was in profile, but the man definitely wasn’t old.

  “Looks a bit like you, sir,” someone called from the back.

  Titters. Throats being cleared. Burgess studying the image with his
back to the room. Now Shaw came to think of it, the profile was similar, but that did nothing except give everyone an extra visual to go on.

  Burgess returned his attention to those gathered. “We already have someone poking into whether the moth found in the male victim’s mouth is from the zoo. If it is, and what with the penguin profile picture, there seems to be a definite link there.” He frowned. “It’d be interesting to find out, when we catch him, why his date of birth puts him at that age and why, if Anita met him online at first, she’d want to make friends with someone in a different generation. It’s clear she met him in person, let him into her home and knew him to be younger. Unfortunately, she’s not here to answer that question, but he’s still out there somewhere, and I intend to find him before someone else gets murdered.”

  “Sir?” Officer Yaqui.

  Burgess raised his eyebrows at him. “Yes?”

  “Forensics did a more extensive search of Anita’s house and found a picture. A large copy of it is on the desk.” He nodded towards it. “It’s of her and a man—wishful thinking that it’s our killer, but you never know. Me and Lewis didn’t find it yesterday as we only did a surface sweep, as instructed, because at the time we were only looking for her handbag and phone. The photo was located under her mattress, so I’m thinking that if she lived alone and still put it under there, she either had a habit of hiding things since childhood, or someone was likely to question her if the image was on show. Speculation on my part only, sir.”

  “Good speculation, Yaqui,” Burgess said. “Indeed, why hide a picture in your bedroom when you live alone?” He lifted the picture from the desk. His body jolted, and he blinked. Raised his head and glanced over at Shaw.

  Something’s wrong. Shaw tried to ask if he was all right by using his eyes, but Burgess shifted his gaze and busied himself tacking the new image at the top of the board in Anita’s section.

  Fucking hell…

  The man with Anita definitely looked like Burgess.

  “So, we need to know the identity of this man,” Burgess said, the back of his neck flushed, his hand shaking. Once again, he faced the room. Flushed cheeks, too. “Has anyone else got any other pertinent information before we crack on for the day?”

  “No prints results have come back from Anita’s house search yet, sir,” Lewis said. “Slow as usual. But forensics did find two used cinema tickets under the mattress with the photo, along with a cash receipt for the food eaten there. Two hot dogs, a large shared popcorn, and two Cokes. Seems to me she was collecting things to do with her relationship with the man. Not unusual, and the hiding of them might not be actual hiding.” He glanced at Yaqui as if in apology for having a different opinion to him. “It might be because those things are special to her and the affair was private for some reason—maybe he’s married or whatever—and the placing of them under the mattress reinforces the secrecy, if that makes sense.”

  “Fair point,” Burgess said.

  “Financial Forensics are still going through her bank statements, credit card bills, but last I checked before end of shift yesterday, nothing glaring stands out.” Lewis grimaced. “I asked Tom from night shift if any progress had been made there, and he said no, so it’s a waiting game on whether anything of significance is discovered in that area.”

  Shaw sighed. It was crucial to find as much evidence as they could right off the bat, but with the cogs moving so slowly, it was rare that anything much came in from forensics during the early stages. Frustration usually set in until a break came along, and for now the team would have to follow the regular drill and keep searching.

  “Right, well, if that’s it, we’ll go with business as usual,” Burgess said. “You all know your tasks in a case like this, and I’m sorry you have the added pressure of an extra body to deal with, but it is what it is. What I want to know is why the victims are so different. What’s the link? Someone needs to sort out a map with the body locations on it—I expect to see it pinned up here by this afternoon. What also needs checking is similar cases in the past. Anything comes up on that, ring me immediately. There’s a press conference arranged for this afternoon, but the DCI will be dealing with that. I’d like to remind you that under no circumstances must there be a revelation that insects have been used. We’d like to keep that quiet for now. Also, can someone look into an insect case headed by DI Bethany Smith a while back—was there anyone involved who could know our killer, or has he read about that case and decided to copy it somewhat?” He clapped. “On you go.”

  While chairs scraped, feet shuffled, and officers filed out, Shaw remained where he was. He picked up his coffee and sipped—a bit cold now, but he dared not waste it. With the room empty, he waited for Burgess to stop pacing. Thought it prudent he kept his mouth shut for the moment, or until Burgess had worked through whatever was on his mind. The picture of the man with Anita, most likely.

  The minutes stretched. The coffee was gone. Burgess still paced.

  “Out with it,” Shaw said.

  “It might just be a coincidence.” Burgess sighed. Slumped down into a chair beside Shaw. “I’ll just say it, stupid as it might sound. The birth date is the same as my father’s, and the picture of Anita with the man—it’s like looking at my father. He even has the same sort of beard.”

  Shaw jerked his head back at the news. “Coincidence it might be, but we have to follow all leads. And if it comes to nothing, at least we followed it up.”

  “Hmm.” Burgess fiddled with his fingers. “Dredging up the past, though…”

  “I know.”

  “So we’ll keep it between us until we know anything concrete?”

  “All right.” Shaw stood.

  “Thing is, my father’s murder has been a cold case for so long, and I’ve read the details to death and come up with nothing. Will me taking another look do anything? And that man, the one in the picture. If he looks like my dad…”

  Shaw sighed heavily. “You’re going to have to speak to your mother, you know that, don’t you.”

  “Fuck. I don’t want to bring it all back for her. And how the hell do I ask whether it was likely he had another kid, all based on us getting a birthdate and seeing a picture of a bloke who resembles him?”

  “If it wasn’t you or your mother involved, what would you do with that information?”

  “Run with it. Full pelt.”

  “Then we run, whether it seems fantastical or not.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Burgess couldn’t get the image of that man out of his head. It squatted in the forefront, there even with his eyes open. His father—that was all he could see, exactly how he remembered him, too, before he’d been killed. Burgess had been led to believe that his father was a good man, one who’d doted on his wife and child. If this recent shit was anything to go by, and if it turned out this wasn’t just Burgess seeing things wrong, the man had been anything but good for a while. The killer having the same birthdate, let alone looking like Burgess’ old man, was too close to home and couldn’t be swept under his mental carpet.

  Having his memory tainted, his father toppling from the pedestal Burgess had put him on, was a shock to the system. He needed coffee. A strong one. And maybe he’d have the urge to smoke again at some point. This was big news. Disturbing news. But if it meant finding Anita and the male victim’s killer, he’d have to grit his teeth and get on with it.

  Shaw was right. They had to run with it.

  Shit.

  Shaw was driving Burgess’ car. Not trusting himself to do so, his hands shaking too much, Burgess glared through the windscreen, trying to work out how the hell he’d approach his mother with this. Remaining by herself since his father’s death, over the years his mother had elevated her late husband to idol status, which had rubbed off on Burgess. No bad word could be said about him in her presence, and she verged on the point of being livid if anyone tried to point out even his mildest foibles.

  It would be a tough visit.

  Shaw parke
d outside her house, the one Burgess had grown up in, and a slew of memories assaulted him, smacking into his gut and slapping his cheeks. He hated coming to this place. The reminder of how he’d felt at ten years old always came back, no matter the occasion for him spending time there, and since he’d become a policeman, each time he walked up the garden path, he imagined the two coppers from all those years ago coming to deliver the bad news.

  ‘Your husband has been found, Mrs Varley.’

  ‘Oh, thank God. Is he all right?’

  ‘Unfortunately, I have some bad news for you.’

  ‘No. No. Oh God, no…’

  Burgess shut his eyes.

  What was happening to his mum? She was on the floor in the living room, resting on her side. Two policemen dressed in navy-blue suits stood over her, then one crouched—the one in the pinstripes—and put a hand on her shoulder. She screamed as though he’d hurt her, and Burgess wanted to step forward and kick the man in the leg. Burgess was rooted to the spot, though, his young limbs weak, and he needed a wee.

  “Leave her alone,” he shouted, face wet, although he didn’t know why. “Leave my mum alone.”

  He swiped at his cheeks, but more wetness came, and a sob crawled up his throat and out of his mouth. It joined his mum’s, and she thumped the carpet, her eyes scrunched so tightly they looked sewn up.

  “How?” she wailed. “Why did this happen to him?”

  The pinstriped policeman helped her to stand then led her to the sofa—her eyes were still cry-sewn—where he sat beside her and placed an arm around her shoulders. She leant into him, hands up by her chin, and opened her eyes to stare at Burgess.