by Emmy Ellis
“But you—”
“No, Burgess.” She tightened her hold on his hand. “I’m old enough and wise enough now to realise that the fantasies I spun were just that. Fantasies. If I’d been more of a realist, I would have moved on afterwards instead of pretending he was as perfect as I tried to be. I’m glad we’re talking this way. I could have gone to my grave never voicing what I’ve always known. He was a good man but he was also human. Imperfect. And his other son, who is perhaps your killer… Will this ruin your career?”
“It doesn’t matter if it does.” Burgess shrugged. “If it turns out it is Dad’s son, better that we catch him than leave him to kill again. I can either find other work in this field if the press make a mockery of it all, or I can ride it out.”
“What kind of life must the poor child have had if he’s turned into this?” she asked.
“Not your problem.” Burgess looked at her then. “Absolutely no guilt about this, do you hear me? The boy wasn’t your responsibility, he was his.” He cursed himself for letting animosity slip into his tone. For showing her how he was feeling about his father and what he’d done. “How the child was brought up is no concern of yours.”
“But I’ll think about him now, the boy. Whether, if I hadn’t slapped her face and sent her on her way, we could have welcomed him into our home. My selfishness in not wanting to accept the product of your dad’s affair has meant…” Her eyes finally filled.
“No. Stop that. Now.” He glared at her, knowing she’d take heed at his sternness. “I’m not looking at him as my brother or some messed-up man who needs empathy, I’m looking at him as a murderer. No matter how he was raised, it’s no excuse for what he’s done. And what you need to understand is that it isn’t just nurture that causes a man to kill. It’s nature, too. We have to see him for what he is—a bad person, either way.”
“Okay.” She got up, collected their cups, and went to the worktop to pour some more drinks. “What happens now? Do I need to give another statement at the station?”
“Nothing happens at the minute.” Burgess glanced at Shaw, who shook his head—at the sadness of it all, most probably. “No one knows we’re investigating this lead, and we’d like to keep it that way until we have solid proof. The reason we came here today was based on someone using Dad’s birthdate and seeing a picture of a man who resembles him. It’s tenuous—best we keep it quiet for the moment.”
“And Burgess will maybe get taken off the case once this comes to light,” Shaw said. “So because he wants to look into it himself… Well, you can see why it’s being hushed up.”
She handed them fresh cups but instead of sitting with them at the table again, she leant against the worktop. “Such a dreadful mess, don’t you think? Those poor people, killed like that.” She sipped and gazed at the ceiling. “And do you know, my first thought when the murders came on the news was that they’re similar to those committed years ago. I should have called you as soon as I saw the latest news but felt silly. Gosh, I remember it well, because I was working nights at the time—do you remember that, too, when I did evening shifts for the battered women’s society, taking calls? I’m surprised you didn’t recall these cases yourself.”
Burgess nodded, agreeing with her. Why the heck hadn’t he remembered them?
“I used to walk home late at night, and everyone was so afraid of being out after dark. Two people were killed, a man and a woman, the same as what’s going on now. Oddly, they were found in the same places as the recent cases, but one had a spider in her mouth and the man had a moth, so it’s nothing like this case, really. Just me being silly.”
Brain going a mile a minute, adrenaline surging through him, Burgess sat up straighter.
Spider. Moth…
“What year was that? Can you remember?” he asked.
“God,” she said. “Must be fifteen or sixteen years ago? I left that shift just after the murders and switched to daytimes—safer—so yes, sixteen years. That’s right, because I left there permanently two years later, early retirement.”
“Shit.”
“Burgess! Please.” She frowned at him. “I brought you up better than that.”
He didn’t say sorry. She might have brought him up better, but he was his own man and a product of a society she’d never allowed herself to be in. He’d run around the streets like other teens, smoked cigarettes for years and even weed once. He’d been pissed up and had staggered home, spewing into the sink when he hadn’t been able to make it to the toilet. All things his mother would consider foul. She didn’t know any of it—and didn’t need to. The harping on she’d employ if he admitted parts of his past wasn’t worth the hassle it would bring his way.
He picked up his cup, blowing the coffee then sipping. They should go back to the station and sort through his father’s old file, the files of the other two dead people, but he needed a moment to process what she’d said. Some bloke—his brother, it seemed—had killed two people, possibly four. If he was mid-thirties now, that would have made him twenty or so at the time of the first murders. A young age to be bumping people off, but not unlikely or unheard of.
Could he dare to imagine all four murders were linked, committed by the same person? Or had the killer read about the first two and copied them or Bethany Smith’s case? And of course, no member of the public would have called in about the insects this time round because they weren’t aware of the finer details of the latest kills just yet. And who the fuck hadn’t done a search on older cases to see if anything matched the recent ones yet? It was standard procedure. Did his team need him to action every little thing, for Pete’s sake?
Was it time to release the insect information at a press conference? If so, it would mean contacting the DCI and letting him know what Burgess and Shaw knew.
Bugger. Unless I ask someone to shift their arse, actually do what I asked in a timely manner and do that previous case check, make out I got the info that way?
Or could he just say his mother had mentioned it?
Yes.
“What I’ll need to do is make out you asked me to visit you,” he said to her. “And you told me about the similarities based on the locations of where the victims were found.”
“That’s fine. Absolutely fine.” She bobbed her head fast, the movement swaying her hair, not grey but blonde, courtesy of her hairdresser, who called at the house each Saturday morning, a tradition sticking around with her generation but basically unheard of these days for everyone else. “Because I was going to call, so we wouldn’t be lying.”
“That’s right.”
He drank more coffee, watching Shaw over the rim of the cup, trying to catch his attention. Shaw turned his way, gave a slight nod, and Burgess knew he’d be in on this with him. The lying. Not for the first time, Burgess was struck by how loyal Shaw was. To him. Their time together all these years as work partners had forged a tight bond, which wasn’t unusual between police officers, but with respect and caring added to the mix, Burgess was thankful he’d landed such a solid partner.
Coffee gone, Burgess stood. “We’ll need to be off in a bit, Mum, but we’ll hang around for a while. Me and Shaw will need to hash out a few things before we move forward. You’ll be okay once we’ve gone, though, won’t you?”
“Of course,” she said. “Aren’t I always?”
That was what he was worried about. She had always been okay. On the outside. The inside? He dreaded to think. But he couldn’t allow that to enter his mind now. He had a killer to catch and, brother or not, he was going to fucking catch him, come hell or high water.
Chapter Seventeen
She dragged him along a street where posh people lived. “You need to keep your mouth shut when we see this woman, Ugly Little Fucker. You got that?”
“Yes,” he said.
She squeezed his fingers so hard they mashed together and hurt. He thought the bones might break. He’d had one of those before, a broken bone, when she’d yanked at his wrist and twisted
it. She’d told the hospital he’d fallen, and he’d worn a cast for six whole weeks. It had started out white but ended up beige from the filth in their home. And no one at school had wanted to sign their name on it like they had that time Jimmy Tamlins had broken his.
He took in the sight of all the houses with their clean driveways and well-kept gardens. It was such a far cry from where he lived that he thought he might be dreaming. The area was kind of similar to Gran’s, but Gran’s wasn’t quite as rich-looking as these places. He remembered Jimmy bragging about living in this street.
I don’t know which house it is.
She hauled him up a path between a driveway and short-cut grass. Flowers bordered the small lawn, bobbing their pretty, colourful heads as if weighed down by the heat of the sun. He imagined the stems as their necks, bowed in a perfect arc. Did he resemble those flowers when he got told off? When he stared at the floor and waited for the hits to rain down on him? He was sure he did. It was a shame he wasn’t as pretty as the flowers. Maybe she would love him then.
Heat blazed, his skin itching beneath the woolly jumper she’d forced him to put on before they’d left the house. The cuffs were damp from sweat, and the neck, and the wool was heavy, dragging down his shoulders.
Pressing a golden doorbell button, she squeezed his hand harder. “Remember, mouth shut. Oh, and give her your best pleading face. You know the one. You make me look at it often enough every time you’re bad.”
He didn’t know what she meant about his face but nodded anyway.
The door swung open, and the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen stood on the threshold. She was just like the fairy godmother in the book at Gran’s, all blonde hair hanging down in waves, pink lipstick, and twinkling blue eyes. A boy stood behind her, a few metres back in the hallway. Wasn’t that the kid he’d seen in the park that time? When she had tugged him away, muttering that it was all right for some, whatever that meant?
He blinked then returned his attention to the pretty woman.
“Yes?” Beautiful Lady said. “Can I help you?”
“I may as well come straight out with it instead of beating around the fucking bush,” she said. “I’m tired of this kid, and William needs to take some responsibility for a change. I mean, I’ve brought him up alone so far with no money from your old man. About time he dipped his hand in his pocket instead of inside other women.”
“William?” Beautiful Lady’s hand shot up to a silver locket that rested against her chest. Her blouse must be silk—it looked that expensive. It rustled with her movement. “What has William got to do with your boy?”
Beautiful Lady’s cheeks went as pink as her blouse, and he thought she might be about to cry, because her eyes were shining, different from how they’d been when she’d first opened the door.
“Duh,” she said. “He’s his father.”
Beautiful Lady winced. It took a second or two for her to stop her mouth from opening and closing. “I really do think you have the wrong house, the wrong William, dear. Perhaps you mean George Williams over the road in number nine?”
“What, you don’t think I know who I’ve shagged?” she said. “Like I’d forget the difference between someone called William and George? Like I’d forget that William has a mole on his bollocks and he likes a finger up his arse? On your bloody bike, missus.”
He glanced between her and Beautiful Lady, confused. What was a mole? What were bollocks? And why would anyone want a finger up their bum? He didn’t want that. One of her boyfriends had done that to him once. It had hurt.
“Oh! Really!” Beautiful Lady said. “You’re disgusting. Please go away.”
“Go away? Yeah, I bet you’d love nothing more than for us to scuttle off,” she said. “Woman of your sort wouldn’t want to admit her bloke shagged around, let alone produced a kid out of it. An ugly kid, I’ll give you that, but he’s still William’s, and I can’t be doing with looking after him no more.”
“Dear Lord… I really do think you have the wrong house.”
Beautiful Lady stopped playing with her locket. The sun glinted off it, paining his eyes, and he squinted, catching a glimpse of the boy again, who had moved closer to the door. The kid’s eyes were wide, and his white T-shirt was like the sun, a bit blinding, and it was so clean it must have just come out of the packet. To have a T-shirt like that. To live in a house like this with Beautiful Lady as your mother.
The idea of it brought a lump to his throat.
He remembered the face he was supposed to give so stared up at Beautiful Lady with what he hoped was the right expression. She shifted her attention from her and looked down at him, her features showing what he imagined was shock at his ‘fucking ugliness’.
“Oh God…” Beautiful Lady whispered. “No…”
“You see it, don’t you?” she asked. “Yeah, you see it all right. Take him. Go on, take him. Let William have a go at feeding and clothing him, the bastard.”
Beautiful Lady raised her arm, to play with the locket he thought, but she swung it, and her hand connected with her face. The door slammed shut, and she let go of his hand—the relief was instant—and planted her fists on her cheeks.
“That fucking bitch,” she said. “Right, that’s it. He’s going to pay for this.”
She strutted off down the path, and he had to run to catch up. They walked for a long time, the heat of the day tiring him, his tongue dry, then they came to a building gleaming with windows—the whole place was made out of them—the world opposite reflected in the surfaces. Thin white clouds. The almost-white sun. The cars parked nearby, the warehouses painted red.
Where are we?
He didn’t know, but a few men and women streamed out through a glass doorway, heading for the cars.
“William?” she called.
A man looked over at them, his mouth gaping, and he gazed around him as though he wanted to run. She had a habit of making people want to do that. The man walked over, stopping about a metre in front, his lips pursed and his cheeks scarlet.
We have the same colour hair and eyes, and the same shaped nose.
“What the hell are you doing here?” the man called William asked.
“I’ve been to see your wife. Your other son.”
“What?” The red of William’s cheeks disappeared so fast, white replaced it. “What did you say?”
“Oh, don’t give me that crap,” she said. “Like you didn’t know you have another boy. You saw me in town just after I had him. Don’t tell me you forgot that because I won’t believe you. Unlike years ago, when I believed you were going to leave her and we’d set up house together. I’m not that stupid young girl anymore. Take him. Take the fucking kid. I’ve had enough.”
William laughed, but it wasn’t like he found what she’d said funny. “Take him?”
“Are you dim these days or what? Yeah, take him.”
William glanced around again—nervous?—and he jerked his head. “Over here. We need to discuss this in private.”
“Where no one can overhear your dirty secret, you mean.”
She gripped his hand and squeezed it again—ow, ow, please don’t keep hurting me—and they followed William to the warehouses. All the other people who’d come out of the shiny building were gone now, leaving behind a feeling of abandonment, as if the world had ended and only her, William, and himself were left.
William led them behind the warehouse farthest away. Debris littered the ground, like building work had been in progress but had been left for another day. Planks of wood and chunks of concrete sat dismissed, lonely and scattered at random. Some grease-spotted, empty bakery bags shifted along lazily, and a Coke can rattled from a sudden, welcome breeze, pushing it all along the dusty surface.
I don’t like it here.
For the first time ever, he wanted to go home. He didn’t understand that, because he hated home. Home was a bad place, but this place was worse.
“Well?” she asked. “Aren’t you at least going
to say hello to your son?”
William peered at him then turned away. “My son is at home with his mother.”
“Um, excuse me? Your son is here with his mother.”
“I don’t believe you, and if this is your way of getting me back after all these years, it won’t work. We’d never have made it, you and me. You were just…just a fling.”
William swiped sweat off his forehead. His hand was shaking. He didn’t look right, standing in this strange, dirty place with a light-grey suit on. A suit! William must do a posh job that paid lots of money. And those black shoes. The toes were coated in sandy grime that had ruined their shine, but it was obvious they’d cost a fair bit. The soles weren’t flapping away for a start. William also had a dark-grey tie on, and he loosened the knot, that knobbly thing at his throat bobbing up and down. Was that a bone? All men had one, but little boys and women didn’t.
Will I get one of those when I’m older? When I’m a man?
He couldn’t envisage being a man like this one, who was meant to be his dad but wasn’t. He didn’t have a dad, she had said so every time he’d asked where his was, but it seemed he did have one now. It was confusing, her change of mind, as was everything in his life. He frowned and gave William that face she’d told him to give to Beautiful Lady, but it was pointless as William wasn’t paying him any attention.
“You need to leave me and my family alone,” William said.
“This is your family, too.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Why didn’t you stick to your promise?” She sounded as though she was pleading, nothing like her usual self. She sidled up to William and rubbed a finger up and down his arm. “Why didn’t you meet me that night? I waited. I sat there until three in the morning, thinking you were running late because your wife had gone mad when you’d told her about us being together.”
