by Emmy Ellis
“All right.”
They turned and left the tent, the weird Flemmings trailing behind them. Shaw wondered if Emerson would, in fact, steal another of Burgess’ coffees or whether he didn’t dare. So much for their plan of stopping off at Tesco after visiting Varley’s flat. Emerson would be lucky to find any coffee in that office at all.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Well, this was exciting. Gordon was in a room at the police station, waiting for his dad to come back. He felt young again, but not in the same way as he’d been while actually young. None of that worry chewed at him, no fear that he was going to get a slap from her or The Man. This was different—how his childhood feelings should have been, he imagined. He was in the care of his dad now, and nothing could spoil that.
He was sitting on a bed. It had a thin mattress covered in blue plastic sheeting. The walls were plain, no pictures or anything nice to look at while waiting for time to pass, so he stared at the door with its small hatch. Policemen opened it and peered in at him from time to time, although why they did that when a camera was sitting up there in the corner he didn’t know.
The hatch opened again.
“Where’s my dad?” he asked.
The two eyes and a nose that filled the rectangular opening belonged to a man, Gordon was sure of it.
“Your dad?” the man asked.
“Yes, the bloke who brought me here.”
“Oh, you mean Detective Varley?”
“My dad’s a detective?” That was odd. Maybe the shiny building had once been the police station and they’d moved it here. He remembered his dad had used handcuffs in the pub—so of course he was a detective. Even more exciting.
“Er, Detective Varley isn’t your dad, mate.”
“What?” His pulse pounded. “So who is he then?”
The man made a sound like he was going to cough. “Best you ask him that.”
The hatch snapped shut.
Gordon frowned, trying to work out what was going on. If the detective wasn’t his dad, why didn’t he say so in Squatter’s Rights? Why make Gordon look a fool by allowing him to continue calling him dad?
“Fucker,” Gordon muttered.
He didn’t feel like a child anymore. He felt like the Gordon who had recently scribbled in his notebooks. The Gordon before Anita and the tramps had been killed.
No. Don’t let the contentment go. Keep hold of it.
A vicious twist wrenched at his stomach.
“That didn’t last long this time, did it, Ugly Little Fucker?”
“Go away, you.”
“What are you going to do now? You’re in a police station. You can’t get out to find another me. Another Thomas, my bloody husband. That’s got to be unsettling, hasn’t it?”
Her laugh hurt his ears. Turned his blood acidic, as it always had. He drew his legs up so he could hug his shins. The clothes he had on weren’t his and didn’t smell right. The policeman who’d brought him to this room had told him to put them on. His own clothing had been taken away in a large brown paper bag, and at the time he’d thought his dad had purchased new things for him and Gordon had been fine about wearing them then.
Not now.
To stop himself from stripping off, he thought of his spider quilt, so far away in his flat where those policemen might still be. But why would they be there when his dad—“He’s not your dad!”—had found him? There was no need to worry now Gordon had been located, no need to be inside his home.
“Don’t you touch my spiders, you fuckers,” he said.
“Oh, they’re touching everything. They’ve found your weird little books, too.”
That wouldn’t have bothered him had he still been content, but the bitterness of disgruntlement was taking over, and he knew those books were going to be the end of his dream of living a happy life. How could he be content again without access to the people who could give it to him? The wife, the children, the dog? He had to get out of here so he could—
I’M GOING TO HAVE TO DO IT ALL OVER AGAIN.
“You fucking bitch. Don’t you dare come back here bothering me.”
“I’ll bother you all I bloody well like. You belong to me. Unfortunately.”
Her laughter came once more, all raw and malevolent. He clutched at the sides of his head, pushing in an attempt to squeeze the echo of her laughter out. His books—he needed one now, to write things down so her presence went away for a while. He rocked, digging his nails into his scalp, and the tears came, burning his eyes.
No. I won’t cry. Not again. Never again.
But they didn’t stop, those tears, coating his cheeks and dripping down to his chin.
“Don’t hurt me,” he whispered. “Please don’t smack me.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Shaw had buggered off somewhere or other, so Burgess read the partial report Lewis had left on his desk. Lewis had so far managed to find then contact five of the seventeen people who’d left the building at the same time as William back in the past. Only one of them, a Miss Kadis—and still a Miss after all this time—recalled seeing people other than employees in the area, and she hadn’t been interviewed. But only one of them was enough—more than they’d had in the first place. The lack of witnesses seeing anything had been the major stumbling block in his father’s case—and it had frustrated the fuck out of Burgess for many years.
He scanned the report some more.
Back then, Miss Kadis had been sent home ill after lunch, and no one had come to take a statement from her once she’d returned from sick leave. She hadn’t offered one, either, thinking her testimony wouldn’t be needed seeing as there had been so many other folks from the office who’d spoken to the police. She’d assumed a description of the woman and a small boy had been given already—and hadn’t known what anyone else had said about the incident as she hadn’t become involved with those she’d worked with, preferring to keep to herself the moment she’d realised she hadn’t fitted in there.
A woman and a child.
The woman had had brunette hair in a short bob, had been about twenty, of slight build, and a little ‘mucky’ according to Miss Kadis. The child had looked about five or six, mucky, too, with brown hair and bright-red cheeks. She’d remembered that because she’d felt sorry for him being out on such a hot day in a woollen jumper.
That had to be Emily Hornton, didn’t it? And Gordon Varley?
So Gordon’s claim to have witnessed his father’s death wasn’t something to be dismissed as the ramblings of a confused man then. Not that it would have been. No stone left unturned and all that, especially after Burgess gathered there had been a monumental fuck-up in no one returning to interview Miss Kadis.
Shaw came in, although Burgess didn’t look up. He didn’t need to. The way Shaw always wrenched at the handle before opening the door kind of gave away that it was him. What he was doing farting about over there was anyone’s guess, but Burgess couldn’t be arsed to find out or to ask him.
Instead, he tapped a pen on his desk, the words of the report going fuzzy as he let his eyes relax. “What are the bloody odds that the one woman who actually noticed others in the vicinity goes off sick, and the police don’t follow it up that she hasn’t been spoken to? In a murder inquiry, for fuck’s sake.”
Shaw strode over to the desk and plopped into the spare chair, then glanced across at Burgess, frowning as though he wasn’t sure which case Burgess was referring to and didn’t want to say.
“My father’s murder, by the way,” Burgess said.
“Why are you asking me that? You know how easily that can be done. Shit, we’ve got untied threads all over the place here, uniforms out there scouring the streets for info, coppers in here doing the same. Building a case against the suspect now, rather than looking for clues to find him. We’re overworked, tired—or at least I am anyway—so I can easily understand not remembering to call back on an ill witness when everything else is going on.”
“Fair point. Suppo
se I’m tetchy about it because it’s to do with my dad, although I’d like to think I’d be tetchy about it whoever was involved. If she’d been spoken to…”
“Yeah, well, sounds like she wasn’t.” Shaw eyed him with suspicion—that look he gave when he was summing Burgess up. “And I suppose now you’re thinking that if she had been interviewed, the woman and her child might have been found, and Gordon—let’s just say he was the child—possibly wouldn’t have gone on to kill anyone because his mother would have been arrested for murder, and he would have gone to live with his gran, leading a much more stable life, and we wouldn’t be sitting here dealing with this now.”
“Something like that, yes. You’re assuming he had an unstable life—he might not have done, you know.”
“I’d say he had, going by him telling us he’d witnessed his father’s murder. How can that kind of thing not lead to instability? And if by sheer luck it wasn’t unstable, then maybe he was just born that way. You know, odd—because, let’s face it, he was bloody odd in the pub. So, therefore, he might have killed people anyway. Might be that way inclined. You may want to get the idea of bad policing out of your head. It was a slip-up—we all make them, we’re human—and it just so happened to be an extremely relevant witness that was missed. What gets me is, how come all the other people didn’t notice the woman and her child? What, did they have their heads up their arses or something?”
Burgess chuckled. It was nice to relieve some tension. “You know what it’s like. Tunnel vision. Mind focused elsewhere. Being an adult is nothing like I thought it would be. I had no idea I’d be just as consumed by my thoughts as I’d been while a kid.” He jerked his thumb at the wall to his right and laughed a bit more. “I can wander down the corridor out there, reach the end, and wonder how the hell I got there. Probably what those people were doing. Wanted their lunch, didn’t they. A breather from work.”
“I suppose. But sixteen people who saw no one else? Christ.”
“Shit happens.” Funny how after talking about it, their opinions seemed to have switched. Burgess shrugged. “Where the fuck is that solicitor?” He picked up the phone and rang through to Emerson’s office. “Any news on when the interview’s starting?”
“Um, Varley’s had a meltdown,” Emerson said. “Been sitting there muttering to himself, by all accounts. Just had a doctor in to see him, and he went from being irritated—swearing and the like—to quiet and reserved. Doctor said he’s fine to interview, although he does want to be called back in if Varley shows signs of serious mental distress. So, in answer to your question, ten minutes. I was just on my way to get one of your coffees—could have saved you the phone call.”
Burgess slapped the phone into its cradle and walked over to his coffee machine. There were several boxes on top, but it didn’t mean they had any pods in the buggers. He picked one up, the weight too light for his liking, and peered inside.
One pod.
“Someone else has been drinking these while we’re not here,” he said. “I tell you, if I catch them at it… Or better yet, I’m going to lock them away.” He grabbed at the other boxes, surprised at their weight. He placed them down again. They hadn’t been opened. “Hang on, these are new.”
“Where do you think I’ve been?” Shaw asked. “I nipped to Tesco. Overtime is in our future, which means coffee needs to be an’ all. Plus, I owe you some. I’ve been drinking a fair bit lately.”
“You bloody beauty.” A sharp rap on the door, and Burgess said, “Come in, Emerson.” Like it would be anyone else. Bet the sod spotted Shaw with the new coffee.
Emerson walked in, eyed the pod boxes, and grinned.
“One,” Burgess said, holding up a finger. “One coffee while we discuss how the interview should go. Then no more, ever, got that?”
Emerson grinned wider. “Whatever you say, Burge.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Gordon was in a room with a man. A solicitor, Mr Quint, who’d asked him what he’d been doing the past two nights and days. Of course, Gordon had told the truth—mustn’t lie, mustn’t lie—and Mr Quint had frowned and gasped once or twice during Gordon’s explanation of his whereabouts. That wasn’t surprising—what Gordon had done was dreadful, he knew that all right—but it had been necessary, and he’d tried to tell Mr Quint that, but the man had told him that if Gordon wanted to stay out of prison, he shouldn’t tell the police the same story. Mr Quint had suggested that Gordon had been at home the whole time.
“You’re telling me to lie,” Gordon said.
“I’m asking you not to mention where you went or what you did,” Mr Quint said.
Gran had suggested a similar thing all those years ago, to not mention something, that day when she’d given him the fizzy pop.
Gordon looked at Mr Quint and his waxed hairdo that would probably still remain intact even if a windstorm blew through it. The style bore the tracks of a comb, its brownish-blond the same as the caramel inside the chocolate barrels he’d eaten one time he’d stayed at Gran’s over Christmas when she had gone out to get drunk with the man who’d liked touching Gordon’s penis.
“That’s still lying,” Gordon said.
Mr Quint sighed. Fiddled with his sky-blue tie that had a slight sheen to it. Silk, maybe. His white shirt collar was as stiff as could be—had to be dry cleaned, and Gordon should know. The black suit was of the cheaper persuasion, off the rack, but the man wore it well.
“I’m here to support you in whatever you decide to do, Mr Varley, but I strongly advise that you—”
“Lie.”
Mr Quint coughed. Blushed. “What do you wish to do?”
“Tell the truth.”
“Have you never lied, Mr Varley?” Mr Quint’s stare wasn’t very nice. His blue eyes—as blue as his tie—resembled marbles.
Gordon didn’t want to think about the times he’d lied—or answer that question. Those fibs had been as necessary as killing, but he still hated the fact that untrue words had passed his lips. He’d lied to her and The Man—which had all but crippled him at the time. To lie to her had been such a monumental thing that it had almost stopped him from doing it—and from killing her. But she’d believed him, that the heroin he’d had for her had been his gift to thank her for bringing up such a hateful son, and he’d realised the power of the spoken word to someone who was as desperate for a fix as she had been.
A means to an end, those lies. And the ones he’d told The Man, Anita, and the tramps.
While Gordon was justifying them, Mr Quint filled out a form. The solicitor’s handwriting was blocky and neat, clear to read across the table. Gordon’s name and address had been inserted into rectangular boxes, plus his birthdate and ethnicity. Mr Quint went on to write out Gordon’s truth, and he felt better that this solicitor was of the same mind as him now. That lies weren’t good.
Mr Quint paused in his writing. “All I can do in the circumstances, Mr Varley, if you insist on admitting your whereabouts and actions on those dates, is to help you get a lesser sentence. Perhaps no sentence at all if you agree to seeing a psychiatrist—and that may not be something you have any choice over should you exhibit certain behaviours during your interview.”
“Are you suggesting I’m mad?” Gordon wasn’t happy about that assumption, that he would perhaps get off because of diminished responsibility. He’d seen that on the telly.
These solicitors, they were so rude.
Gordon shook his head.
“I’m not suggesting anything,” Mr Quint said. Those eyes again. So hard-looking. He sighed once more, as though Gordon just wasn’t getting it. “It’s clear to me that you’re happy to proceed with telling the truth. Therefore, I shall represent you in the best way I can with what your actions and words dictate. I can do no more than that without you at least meeting me halfway.”
“I would like to be interviewed now.” Gordon folded his arms across his belly, still comfortably full of pie and chips. “And I want to see the man who pretended to
be my father, too. I want to know why he lied and didn’t tell me he wasn’t my dad when I made the mistake of calling him that. He made me feel silly, and I don’t let anyone make me feel silly anymore.”
Mr Quint frowned. “Do you mean Detective Varley?”
“Yes. Him. He’s my dad but not my dad.”
Mr Quint shifted his eyes and looked down at the form. “Okay… Right, well… I’ll let them know you’re ready then.”
“Thank you.”
Mr Quint collected his papers, held them to his chest, then left the room. And what an odd room it was. No pictures on the walls again, although there was a large mirror. Scuff marks at hand height blemished the cream paint. How many people had pressed their backs to the walls and splayed their fingers against them? Lots, it seemed.
Gordon got up to do the same thing. He liked being the same as everyone else.
Because being different had all but ruined him until he’d found contentment.
“But there isn’t contentment anymore, is there, you stupid prick?”
That was different. And unexpected. The Man had never spoken to him inside his head before. Gordon shivered, the wall warming his bum, his shoulders aching.
“Go away, you fucker.”
“No,” The Man said. “No, I won’t.”
Gordon didn’t know what to do. How to get the voice to go away.
“I’ll never go away, you ugly little fucker.”
Chapter Thirty
Burgess watched through the two-way mirror, startled for a second at what Varley had said.
‘Go away, you fucker.’
Burgess knew him and Shaw couldn’t be seen, but it was still unnerving that Varley might well know Burgess was there—or that someone was, at least. Or was he talking to the uniform standing by the door?
Varley tipped his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. What was he thinking? And what had he spoken about with Quint? The sound had been switched off while Varley had talked with him—confidentiality and all that, which was a pain up the arse in instances like this, when a confession to a solicitor would be all they needed to nail the bastard. Burgess could have listened in but hadn’t been able to bring himself to do so. Some rules were ingrained in him and, no matter what, he wouldn’t break them.
