by Emmy Ellis
“Shit. If I have to remove myself from the case…” Burgess took his phone out, hovering his finger over his contact list icon. “You’ll go with whatever I say?”
“You know I will.”
“All right.”
He connected the call. Spoke to the boss, annoyed that his voice trembled, going with the version that his mother had contacted him to speak about the murders from years ago, and while she had, the use of his father’s birthdate and the resemblance to him from the photo had become clear in his mind.
“So things have taken a personal turn then. Hmm.” The DCI paused for the longest time.
Too long.
The boss sighed—getting ready to impart words Burgess wouldn’t want to hear? Burgess held his breath, coaching himself to accept the DCI’s next utterance with grace instead of pouting and stamping his feet. Burgess knew the rules. They weren’t bent often, and he didn’t think they’d be bent now.
“Are you up for remaining on the case?” the DCI asked.
Fuck. Wasn’t expecting that.
“Yes.” Burgess was surprised there was even that option. “If I can’t handle it, you’ll be the first to know and Shaw can take over, but I don’t envisage anything making me want to pull out.”
“Fine by me. There’s no one other than Emerson available as a lead detective anyway, and he can’t work twenty-four seven.”
“No.” And you won’t shift your arse and get your hands dirty these days.
“You possibly being related to the killer isn’t a problem for you?”
Prickles of anger jabbed up Burgess’ spine. Not directed at the boss, but at the reference to his so-called brother. He had no sodding brother in his eyes. “No. He’s no relation of mine. He’s a murderer, nothing more. You know how I feel about scum like him.”
“Good answer. And yes, I know how passionate you are about putting arseholes behind bars, which is why I’m allowing you to stay on the case. No one better, in my opinion.”
Maybe being with Marla has mellowed the man. Maybe all those garters being draped across his face has given him a different perspective.
Burgess shut the images out of his head. “So you’ll authorise a watch on my mother’s house?”
“Of course. That lad. Denton, is it? He’s one to watch rise up the ranks. Good copper, him.”
“He’s taking her to a hotel at the moment. The only one I trusted to do so without asking a boatload of questions or telling someone else on the team what he was doing before I’d given him the go-ahead to speak about it.”
“Then you two either sit tight until he gets back or arrange for someone else to take your place. We can’t risk the suspect returning and us missing him. He may not even return, but for him to have been there in the first place tells me there was a need for him to be there. What that is…that’s for you to find out.”
Burgess thought about losing Denton off his team if he put him on stakeout detail. “I’ll request another couple of uniforms for surveillance. Denton’s been diligent so far, digging in and finding valuable information. I need him.”
“Whatever you think’s best. I have to go. Lunch in my future.”
The call went dead, leaving Burgess staring at his phone. Granted, the boss had done his stint for years in Burgess’ position, but it seemed the bloke did nothing but ponce around having lunch and chewing Burgess’ arse off if pressure filtered down from someone higher up the chain about cases not being solved fast enough. The DCI had forgotten what it was like to be in the thick of things, all the jigsaw pieces scattered, some missing, everyone scrabbling to make the full picture.
After making the request for two uniforms in plain clothing with an unmarked car to sit it out in the street, Burgess turned to Shaw. “This is fucking weird, the lot of it.”
“You’re telling me. Aren’t you worried he knows who you are? Should you be staying at my place until this is all over?”
Burgess grimaced. “What, and have the mess of your gaff irritating the shit out of me as well as the case? No, thank you—but cheers for the offer.”
“I’ll stay at yours then.” Shaw gave that look of his that dared Burgess to argue the toss.
That Shaw wanted to be with him round the clock, to make sure he didn’t come to harm, was admirable. A proper good mate, Shaw was.
“I can just about manage that—if you clean up after yourself.” Burgess succeeded in giving a smile and a short laugh.
Weird how he was stuck in a beyond strange situation and could still find it in him to see the funny side of things. Years of practice, he supposed. Years of looking for the brightest side in the darkest of circumstances. Now he thought about it, things had been black since he’d been ten years old really. And to think that the arrival of those coppers telling his mother that her husband was dead had come to this years later…
Yeah, Burgess could admit he’d joined the police force with a different kind of force inside him, compelling him to find killers and bring them to justice. To find his father’s murderer and see him locked behind bars. Yet another cliché to add to the long list. But he was glad now that he’d joined up. If the recent events had played out while Burgess was an accountant or working in construction or whatever, he’d have felt just as useless as he had back then, unable to do a bloody thing to make things better. At least now he was in the thick of the investigation and knew exactly how the case was progressing. He wouldn’t have to ask what the fuck was being done to find the creepy shit who’d frightened his mother.
The question burning inside his mind, though, was who had killed his father? Was his death connected to the murders sixteen years ago and the recent ones? He needed to get back to the station and look up those files. Start putting two and two together.
The uniforms were taking a sodding age to arrive. It pissed him off something chronic.
“We can’t just sit here,” he said, tetchiness sparking his nerve endings. “You ring in for updates on house-to-house going on at the canal, see if anyone spotted anything. I’ll give Marla a buzz.”
Burgess got out of the car. Both of them talking inside the vehicle would piss him off even more. He needed to concentrate without Shaw’s voice bothering him. Needed some fresh air.
Leaning his arse against the door, he dialled Marla, scanning up and down the street. Nothing but houses and empty gardens. “Got anything for me?”
“Why did I know you’d be ringing me instead of letting me just get on with things, Burge?”
“Because I always bug you.”
“You do, but I love you anyway. It’s looking the same as Anita Curtis at the moment. King came in just now, by the way, saying my puppy told him he had to take on the other bodies waiting to for a postmortem so I could concentrate on the canal man, plus go over Anita for a second time. Something I should know? Because having King in the vicinity…my skin’s crawling.”
Trusting Marla implicitly, Burgess rattled off the latest information. “I know I don’t need to say it, but keep it to yourself. I haven’t had a chance to inform the team yet.”
“Bloody hell. Are you all right?”
He shrugged as though she could see him. “It’s a killer who needs to be found, simple as that. And Mum’ll be fine at the hotel. Bit of a break for her, even though she’ll be worrying. But if the recent murders are linked to the other two from years ago—and, come on, they have to be—then we won’t have another body to deal with. Only two were committed back then, according to Mum. So unless I find out differently, you can breathe a sigh of relief that the tramp bloke is the last one.”
“But to find out you have a brother—to find out this way. And your poor mother…”
He imagined sympathy on Marla’s face, how, if they were talking in person, she’d have wrapped him up in a hug and stroked his back. He was suddenly glad this conversation was taking place over the phone. He couldn’t deal with compassion. Had to stay strong. Focused.
“I know, Mar, but life is fucking weird
, as we’re well aware.”
“You’ll let me know if you need to meet up at The Pig tonight, won’t you?”
“Will do, but I need to speak to the surveillance coppers who have just turned up. I’ll catch you soon.”
He ended the call and walked over to the red Fiat that had been parked between two other cars over the road from his mother’s. After speaking to the policemen inside, having given them explicit instructions to be vigilant, not take a cheeky nap, and to ring him the second they spotted anyone acting suspiciously, he returned to his car. Revved the engine. Drove away from his childhood home with Shaw telling him the house-to-house by the canal had turned up jack shit and they were in the same position as they’d been earlier with regards to the male victim’s death.
Burgess didn’t answer, his head too full of bullshit swimming around in there. What the hell was the best approach here? He ignored the questions his brain threw at him and concentrated on a game plan.
Inform the team of the latest.
Catch up with any data they’d found since this morning.
Read his father’s case file. Again.
Read the files of the first two murders.
Search for others committed around that time, see if there were any more comparisons.
Find the fuckface who’d stood beside the hedge in his mother’s street and stared at her as though he was fascinated by her. That was how she’d described it. That the bloke had looked at her in wonder. Burgess knew the expression. A killer tended to become obsessed, to either view a victim with a weird kind of awe or hatred. Neither emotion was good. Hence the hotel. Keeping her safe.
His mother had quickly gone into the living room to call Burgess then had peered through her starched net curtains. The man had remained there for a moment or two, seemingly undecided, thinking, perhaps. Then he’d taken off, and fucking hell, Burgess’ mind gave him a too-late image of a man turning down another street as he and Shaw had belted it back up the road towards her house.
Black jacket. Beanie hat. That beard. The same sodding clothing as the man caught on CCTV in Anita’s street.
Burgess had been that close to the killer and hadn’t realised.
Now that he had, he felt sick.
He slammed the heel of his hand on the centre of the steering wheel.
“He was right there,” he said to Shaw, pointing down the road at the corner. “Right there, and we didn’t have a clue.”
Chapter Twenty
Shaw had accessed the old cases on his computer with relative ease. With such unique points to plug in, it had taken no time for the search to produce what he’d been after. No cases in this town, other than those of sixteen years ago, had insects placed in the mouth. He no longer felt it had anything to do with Bethany Smith’s old case.
With the team briefed on the latest information, the place was abuzz with activity and renewed enthusiasm. Burgess had his father’s file to go through again, and once he’d made himself and Shaw a coffee from the Tassimo, he’d stated he wanted quiet to concentrate.
That was all right. Shaw liked quiet himself while reading.
Case Number: 285-762-5
Name of Deceased: Emily Louise Hornton
Age of Deceased: 35
Victim Location: Christchurch Lane—alley between Good Groceries and Letty’s Launderette
So there was a name for the first female victim in the first case, something solid to go on. Something they could dig into and hopefully produce much-needed results. The cases had to be linked, and if they weren’t, and the recent murders were copycats of the past—wouldn’t there still be a link just with that? Wouldn’t the killer have chosen the old murders for a specific reason? The similarities were too strong to be passed off as such, in Shaw’s mind. Same sort of insects in the mouths. Same locations.
Oh fuck. And the same type of look.
Shaw studied the photographs of Emily Hornton, some in situ in the alley, others on the morgue table. She was a brunette, same as Anita Curtis, although Emily’s hair wasn’t as clean. Their features were scarily identical.
He clicked on another open tab and checked the second victim.
Case Number: 285-875-2
Name of Deceased: Thomas Hornton
Age of Deceased: 37
Victim Location: Canal Lane—south side, directly opposite Wingman Street
He read on for a moment, then, “Shit, they were married.” He glanced up to stare over at Burgess. “The first two victims were bloody married.”
“What?” Burgess leant back, which jogged his chair, his hand going up to his chin.
“Female killed on one day, male the next. Um, exactly the same dates as our victims, just sixteen years ago. Fucking hell.” Adrenaline surged through Shaw, pumping his blood fast, sending it thundering around his veins.
“Christ…”
Shaw scanned Thomas’ document some more. Studied the pictures. Same trampy style. Same features. “Victims’ features are very similar to our victims. And they had a son—or she did at any rate.” Oh God… He dared to take a peek at Burgess.
He’d gone pale. “It can’t be that easy, surely. All this is too…convenient. Answers don’t usually fall into our laps like this.”
“Sometimes life has a funny way of working.” Shaw shrugged. “Sometimes we ignore what’s there because we can’t believe it’s that easy, then we go on and create more work, put in more effort trying to disprove what’s right in front of us. Not this time. We’re going with this—it’s all we have. And it’s too much comparable information for us to sling it to one side because we think it’s easy.”
“Hmm.” Burgess sipped his coffee. “How old were the victims?”
“She was thirty-five, he was thirty-seven. She had the…thing in her mouth, he had the moth. She was in the alley, him at the canal.”
What’s he trying to do with the ages? Prove that not everything is the same? Doesn’t matter if they’re not—this is the break we need.
“And the age of the kid at the time of death?” Burgess prodded.
Ah, okay. He’s working it out. Probably seeing if the kid who came to his house years ago could be this man.
“Twenty. So she had him young.” Your dad seems to have been a fucking paedo. “Making him, what, thirty-six now.” Shaw let a shiver rampage all over him. It’s him. He switched back to Emily’s file. “She was naked, heroin overdose.” Then to Thomas’. “He was dressed, heroin overdose. Big coincidences here if you insist on arguing the evidence as being too convenient.”
“They’re not coincidences, I realise that. Can’t be—too many of them at once.” Burgess drank more coffee. Didn’t he trust himself to get up and scan the files over Shaw’s shoulder? Did he want to hear it secondhand so maybe it didn’t seem so in his face?
It’s like he doesn’t want to be hurt.
“Thomas’ penis was left intact, though,” Shaw said.
“The only discrepancy apart from the ages being different?”
Shaw flicked back and forth between the files. “Seems so. Also, there were prior offences for the earlier murder victims. Our Anita had none—and we don’t know who our second victim is yet to be able to check on his past. Emily had been brought in several times for soliciting. Thomas had been up for drugs—selling them.”
“So it seems Anita and our man were chosen for their resemblance.”
Shaw nodded. “The kid’s name is Gordon. Um, ah, Gordon Varley. So she registered him with your dad’s surname.” He winced, keeping his attention on the screen. “Not a suspect during that time. He was apparently staying with his grandmother—Emily’s mother—for those two days and nights. She verified his alibi, saying he always stayed there for those two nights every year since he’d been a younger lad, and they’d kept up the tradition. Says something about it being Emily and Thomas’ wedding anniversary at that time. No murderer found. It’s been put down to Thomas killing his wife then killing himself. Apparently, they had a volatile relatio
nship.”
“Convenient way to put a case to bed.”
“But maybe the only logical conclusion the police had at the time. You know how it goes. But in Marla’s report, she said if people jabbed themselves with a needle in the back of the neck, with that amount of heroin, they’d nod out and drop the syringe. No syringe found in any of the cases. So, it’s murder for the first canal man, too?”
“So are we to believe that this Gordon…ah, Varley…killed our two latest victims? Like, he’s reliving their deaths by recreating them? He was that traumatised by the originals that something has sparked him off sixteen years later?”
“We can assume so, yes.” Or he killed all of them.
“And is there any mention of my father being his father, too, other than the surname?”
“No, but I’ll try to find out for sure.” Shaw picked up the phone. “Denton, I need you to look into the birth of a Gordon Varley.” No problem saying the surname now that the rest of the team had been given the shocking news. He reeled off Gordon’s birthdate from Emily’s file. “I need to know if his father is listed on his birth certificate. That would be William Varley with the same birthdate as was used on our mystery man’s Facebook profile.” He put the phone down. Turned to Burgess. “Thought it better that you didn’t have to do that.”
“Thanks. Again. Seems I’m saying that a lot lately.”
“It’s what I’m here for. And I’ll just search for Gordon’s present address now.” Shaw smiled. “All right?”
“Yeah.” Burgess got up and made more coffee.
He’ll run out of pods at this rate.
“Want another?” Burgess asked.
“If you can spare it.” Shaw grinned. “Before we go off to this address once it pops up, maybe we should detour to Tesco. Buy some more.” Put off meeting your half-brother so you’ve got more time to get yourself used to the idea.
“We’ll go to Tesco after. We should visit him as soon as possible.”
Shaw nodded. “Fine. Whatever you want.”
