by Emmy Ellis
“All right. Good. Thanks.” Burgess ended the call.
Shaw came into the room. “Nothing elsewhere so far except for the books in here so— What’s wrong?”
“Another body.” Burgess hit Emerson’s name on his phone contacts and spoke as soon as the man answered. “Sorry to call you in early, but I need some help here.” He brought Emerson up to speed. “So as you can see, I can’t be two places at once, even though I want to be.” His phone bleeped with a call waiting. “Two seconds, got another call.” He switched over. “Yes?”
Denton again. “The suspect accessed Facebook, sir. He now has his location on. He’s over the road from you in Squatter’s Rights.”
“What the fuck?”
Burgess’ mind swam, and he looked at the school book spines. Blue, burgundy, that bloody beige colour again. Should he apprehend the killer or visit the body? Shit. Shit. “Thanks, Denton. Tell Lewis to get down to the suspect’s flat. I need a more senior officer on site.” Then he went back to Emerson’s call. “Emerson, you’ll have to view the body. Suspect has been located.” He reeled off the latest victim’s whereabouts. “Can you let the DCI know what’s going on, thanks.” He swiped his screen to close the call.
Shaw stared at him, eyes wide, mouth ajar. “Where is he?”
“Only over the fucking road. In the pub.” Burgess snapped off his other glove then shoved both into his pocket. He raced from the room and into the kitchen, where one of the officers poked through the freezer. “The suspect’s over the road. I need you here. In charge until Lewis arrives.”
The officer tipped his head. “Yes, sir.”
“Main job, those notebooks in the living room. Get what you need from your car and bag them up individually. I need them taken to the station sharpish.”
Am I stalling? I should be in the pub by now.
“Get a move on, will you?” Shaw said from the doorway.
Burgess raised a hand then went in search of another officer, who he found in the bedroom. The sight of a quilt covered in spiders took Burgess by surprise, and he backed out, averting his gaze.
“You,” Burgess said, digging in his pocket for some keys. “I need you to go to my mother’s house, all right?” He told him the address and handed the keys over—thank God she’d given him some when he’d dropped her at the hotel. “Can you remember that?”
The officer nodded.
“I want you to go into her bedroom,” Burgess went on. “First door on the right at the top of the stairs. There’s a wooden box on the dressing table. Inside is a comb and brush—make sure they’re definitely in there. Take the box back to the station to have it processed as evidence—I need a DNA done on the hairs. Speak with the DCI and ask him to authorise that test. Tell him I’ll explain later.”
“Okay, sir.”
Burgess turned then followed Shaw down the stairs. Said to the officer just inside the doorway, “Do not move. Do not let anyone but police inside. Lewis will be here shortly.”
Then they were out on the pavement, Burgess staring across at Squatter’s Rights, Shaw beside him. Traffic had decided to pick up—sod’s law, that—and Burgess ran out into the middle of the road, stopped, and held his hand up so two cars coming in opposite directions slowed to a halt. Shaw made it across, and Burgess joined him, out of breath from adrenaline and a little bit of fear. Yeah, fear was there. He didn’t know what he’d find inside that pub—who he’d find. Gordon Varley might be unstable. He might lash out at them.
Should have brought a couple of uniforms with us.
At the pub door, Shaw glanced up then down the street, assessing the area. Burgess checked out the lower windows. Gordon Varley stared back at him through one of them.
Burgess’ stomach seemed to plummet right down into his toes. His skin grew clammy, and his heart rate hammered out an unholy tune, something the Devil might dance to.
“Shit, he’s right there,” Burgess whispered. “The seat by the window.”
Shaw looked. “He appears confused.”
“I couldn’t give a fuck. I’m going in.”
Burgess shoved through the doorway and into the building, his pulse erratic in his neck. As routine, he scanned his surroundings. People chatted and laughed, their obliviousness something Burgess was jealous of. He turned right to set eyes on the man who had been on his mind too bloody much the past two days. It was like staring at himself a few years ago, before wrinkles had climbed aboard his face and made themselves at home. Like staring at his father.
His mother came into his mind then. She must have crapped bricks seeing this man standing by that hedge, thinking her husband was back from the dead.
Gordon Varley sat there, knife and fork in hand, the remains of a pie and chip dinner perched on the table.
Who calmly eats his dinner after killing someone?
Stepping forwards, Burgess stood in front of the table and glared down at him. “Gordon Varley?”
“Yes, Dad?” he said.
Taken aback, Burgess lost the ability to speak. Varley smiled. It creeped Burgess out the way Varley’s face had transformed from a man in his thirties to a kid of about ten. And his voice. It had been soft. Childlike.
A shudder rippled down Burgess’ spine, then back up again to maraud his scalp with slithering fingers.
“Are you all right, Dad? Do you need to sit down? It must be a shock to see me after all these years.” Varley placed his knife and fork on his plate side by side then rested his hands on his lap. “I’m so glad you came. Did you come to celebrate with me?”
That weird voice again. Like the recording of a possessed kid was coming out of the man’s mouth. It didn’t fit with the image of the bloke sitting before him. He was good-looking, had a trendy top on, and his hair, although somewhat untidy, was in the style of the current time.
“Gordon Varley, I need you to come down to the station with me so we can have a little chat.” Burgess would forego reading him his rights—for now.
He sensed other customers staring. There was a distinct hush compared to when they’d walked in.
“The police station?” Varley tilted his head.
“Yes, the police station.”
Burgess unclipped the cuffs from his belt beneath his suit jacket. Held them in front of him to gauge Varley’s reaction.
None whatsoever.
“Stand up, please, Gordon.”
Varley rose in what seemed like slow motion, his movements fluid, indicating he either wasn’t bothered by what was happening or he was as bewildered as his face now suggested. “I’ll need to put on my hat and coat. Gran said if you wear a coat inside, you won’t feel the benefit, and if you go out without one on, you’ll get a bad cold. Would you have told me that, Dad?”
This man was clearly unstable. God knew what he’d been through in life to have ended up this way. And Burgess didn’t trust him about the coat and hat. It could be a ploy to get his hands on a weapon hidden in one of the pockets.
“We’re only going over the road to the car,” Burgess said. “You won’t catch a cold without your coat for the length of time we’ll be outside.”
“But Gran said—” A plaintive wail.
“Come on.” Burgess gritted his teeth. Fuck it, but he felt sorry for him, despite his best efforts not to.
Varley rounded the table, glancing at his coat and hat as though desperate not to leave them behind. On his guard, Burgess stepped backwards. Shaw had positioned himself at the door, his stance telling Burgess he was ready to pounce if necessary.
Stopping in front of Burgess, Varley studied him, his head jerking side to side—a bird checking out his prey? Or a bird just fascinated by what he saw? “How are you alive? She killed you. I saw it. You saw me there. So how are you here?”
It was hurting Burgess to look at him. For so many reasons. To listen to him. This man thought Burgess was their father. This man, from what he’d said, had seen their father’s murder.
He’s also a murderer, remember tha
t. Keep it professional.
“Turn around, please.”
The man’s eyes—Christ, they were soul-wrenching. Full of misunderstanding. Confusion. Trust? It was like staring into his father’s, the same flecks in the irises, the same shaped lids, same length and curve to the lashes.
Gordon spun round, and Burgess applied the cuffs, confused himself. How come Gordon wasn’t asking why they needed to be clamped around his wrists? Again with the childlike thing—he was doing as he’d been told. Where were the protestations of innocence? Every person he’d arrested had stated they hadn’t done anything, even when no charges had been spoken. Why the submissiveness? Where was the arrogance? Where, for fuck’s sake, was the struggling to get away?
Giving Shaw the nod, Burgess waited while his partner took Varley by the arm. Then Burgess picked up the beanie and coat and followed Shaw and Varley from the building. Out on the pavement, he was pleased the traffic had thinned, so getting their suspect across the road proved easy. Shaw deposited Varley in the back of Burgess’ car then clicked on the child locks.
Standing beside the vehicle, Shaw puffed out a long breath. “Weird.” He shook his head. “Never seen anyone behave like that before.”
“I think he needs a medical assessment myself. This may well just be a game to him, though, the way he’s acting.” Burgess sighed. Peered down the street. Clutched Varley’s coat and hat to his chest. “Ah, here’s Lewis. Time to get the ball really rolling.” He got out his phone and rang the station. “Varley here. Call off the surveillance team outside my mum’s place, will you?” he said. “It’s not needed anymore.”
And thank fuck for that.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Shaw leant against the wall in the booking-in area. Burgess and Varley stood side by side in front of the desk. Fuck, they looked so alike it was unnerving. The sergeant was filling in details on his computer, glancing up with an expression of curiosity when Burgess gave him Varley’s name. Burgess glared at the copper—hard—and business as usual resumed.
People rarely questioned Burgess. Or pushed him.
Not if they knew what was good for them.
After a burly uniform had appeared and guided Varley away from the desk to the holding cells, Burgess came up to Shaw. He leant on the wall, too, the top of his arm on it, so they faced each other.
“Might be better to let him stew,” Shaw said quietly. “We have to wait for the duty solicitor to arrive anyway. We’ve got time to view the latest victim, even if just for a short while.”
“Thought the same myself. I shouldn’t have this need to go to each scene, but I always do. Let me just ring Mum first.” Burgess connected the call and waited for her to answer. “All right, Mum?”
“I’m fine, dear.”
“Good. Just a quick call to let you know we’ve got him, okay? Do you want to go home now?”
“Can I stay another night? They’ve got good television programmes.”
“Ah, I see. Yep, by all means, take advantage of it and enjoy tonight’s entertainment. I’ll come and collect you tomorrow. See you then.” Burgess pushed off the wall and headed for the main doors, wondering how he kept it all together. As always, on the outside he was stoic, and no one would know what shit was going through his head. And there would be shit now, lots of it, not only to do with the case but emotionally. His father. His mother. His half-brother. It was a lot to expect anyone to cope with, but Burgess was made of strong stuff. But how much stronger would he have to be before this was over? Could he find the strength to get through this?
Yeah, he reckoned he could. Besides, this wasn’t about him, and he cursed himself for thinking as he had. Anyway, if he needed support, Shaw would give it to him. Always had, always would, mates until the end.
Shaw followed Burgess outside, clutching his keys in a tight fist—so tight the teeth dug into his palm. Burgess got in the passenger side, Shaw in the driver’s seat. They sat in silence for a few moments, Shaw not knowing what the hell to say. Unusual for him. He’d normally belt out some quip or other, but in these circumstances, he walked on eggshells.
“He thinks I’m his dad,” Burgess said.
“He does—or he’s making out he does anyway.”
“And he watched his murder.”
“So he said. Do you believe him?” Shaw kept his gaze fixed ahead at the wall surrounding the car park. Someone had sprayed ‘Pigs’ on it in white aerosol paint outlined in black.
“I think I do. Or I will if he gives us any information on it during the interview. Must have been hard, that. To see it all.”
Shaw imagined Burgess had visualised his father’s murder a million and one times. He would finally—hopefully—get to find out how it had really gone down, and Shaw didn’t envy him that exact knowledge. It would be like opening a wound all over again, only this time it would hurt more, because scar tissue was a tough wanker that tended to be sore to the touch when gouged at.
“Must have been,” Shaw said. “No telling what that does to a kid’s mind.”
“So why go on to kill someone yourself if you know how it feels to have watched a murder? I don’t get it.”
“Minds that have been twisted by something so horrific… He’ll have some kind of logic with regards to it all. We can surmise he killed his mother and stepfather. Had to be a good reason for that. People don’t just off their parents. I’m not validating what he did, but if he saw your dad being killed, maybe he thought it was okay to do that to someone else. We learn by example. If he wasn’t told that killing is wrong… Do you see where I’m going with this?”
“I see it. And I don’t like it. I don’t usually give a flying fuck why they kill, you know that. But him? Is it because he looks like my father that I feel sorry for the bastard? This isn’t a man I should have compassion for. He took Anita away from her parents. He took two men’s lives away. Created chaos and mourning and so many other dreadful emotions. Yet I’m sitting here feeling fucking sorry for him, as well as the victims and their families.”
“Means you’re growing up.” Shaw wondered if that had come out right. Decided it hadn’t. “Maturing, I mean. Seeing things from all sides, all colours, not just in black and white. It won’t hurt you to have an understanding of the other side of the coin. Gordon Varley… Jesus, he’s possibly had a fucked-up life. What that does to the mind…”
“Yeah. I know. Let’s go.”
Shaw shut his mouth tightly and drove to the new canal site, silence permeating the car except for the hum of the engine and Burgess sighing and muttering “Bollocks!” every so often.
Shaw parked up. They walked together towards a break in the hedge. The white tent peered over the top of it, and Burgess slapped his outer thigh.
“For God’s sake…” he said.
“Someone else will have spare protective clothing there,” Shaw said.
“How did you know that’s what I meant?”
“Because I’ve worked with you for so bloody long.”
Burgess slipped through the break in the hedge, and a uniformed officer nodded in recognition. A stack of protective gear leant haphazardly to the left against the greenery, and Burgess handed some to Shaw. They dressed. The day—or their official shift—was drawing to a close and, resigning himself to a good few hours on the job yet, Shaw slid booties over his shoes, the sudden urge for one of Burgess’ strong coffees tugging at him.
Heading for the tent, Shaw then waited for Burgess to go inside first. Marla was there, kneeling beside the victim, and she glanced over at them. She rose to her feet, face grim.
“All right, Burge, Shaw?” She always looked good, even with the suit hood on, the elastic gripping at the outer edges of her face and pinching the skin. “Slightly different this time, although I still say it’s the same killer. This poor bloke was wearing a wig. And no penis removal. Otherwise, everything’s the same. Needle mark on the nape et cetera.”
Emerson strode over from where he’d been talking to forensics. “H
ello, gentlemen.” He glanced down at Shaw’s hands. “Didn’t bring me any coffee then?”
“Should we have?” Burgess asked.
“I’d have thought so, seeing as I was brought on shift early.” Emerson smiled.
“What, like you bring me coffee when you call me in early?” Burgess asked. “Jog on, mate. And no, you’re not having one of my coffees when you get back to the station now.” A touch of a grin tweaked his lips.
Thank God he can still joke around.
“And on that note… Another tramp, by the looks of things.” Emerson raised his hand to point at the victim. “So, if our suspect doesn’t cough up any information, we’re going to need to send officers out again to chat to the homeless, see if they noticed anything odd this time.”
“Well, I’m all but done here,” Marla said. “I’ll take him back, do my thing, let you know if I find anything new. Doubt I will, though. And would you believe it? The chief suggested overtime for me. Something about wanting to keep the same pathologist for consistency.” She gave a sly smile. “I’m wondering whether my distaste for King is rubbing off on him.”
“Everyone has a distaste for King,” Shaw said.
“True.” Marla laughed. “And so they should, the tosser. Anyway, I must get on. I did want to get a drink in at The Pig tonight but I’ll just have to settle for a glass of red at home later on. Oh, the joys of our professions.” She waved them away.
“I may as well head to the station then,” Emerson said. “There’s a pod of coffee waiting for me in your office, Burge.”
“Piss off. You’re needed in the interview room.” Burgess studied the ground, or maybe the booties shrouding his fancy shoes. “Varley’s in a holding cell. By the time we get back his solicitor might have arrived.”
“You in on it with me?” Emerson asked.
“I’ll stay behind the two-way mirror, thanks,” Burgess said. “Unless you need me in there.”
“Play it by ear, shall we?” Emerson gave him a wink.
