by Emmy Ellis
Marla, her body covered in a white forensics suit, the hood concealing her short blonde hair, hunched over the victim.
While she worked, Burgess waited for someone to bring him a suit so he could join her and find out a little of what was going on. If Burgess had been his normally astute self he’d have dumped a new stack of protective gear in his car boot, but he’d forgotten to top them up when he’d used the last one the other day. Couldn’t be at the peak of his game all the time, could he, what with all that paperwork sitting on his desk and a cold case continually plaguing his mind. And with Shaw acting a lazy, inconsiderate dick—not his usual character, either—and annoying the hell out of Burgess in the process… Now there was this case to add to everything else, and once again, guilt attacked him for thinking he could really have done without a new murder inquiry on his plate.
If that’s what this is.
Who was he trying to kid? Of course it was murder. Why else would a naked woman be on her back in an alley? Taking a fucking rest?
Shit.
He was dying for a cigarette. He’d finally given up a year ago. What he wouldn’t do for something to take the edge off his nerves. A good screw would deal with that, but he didn’t have the time. Or he didn’t make the time. He tended to work late, work early, on the job during his days off, too. No life. Typical copper. A sad, walking cliché.
He’d laugh, but it wasn’t funny.
A uniform came over, green and new to the job if Burgess was any judge, and handed him a suit, booties, and gloves with a shaky “There you go, sir.” He scuttled off, just behind Burgess, no doubt to man the street and make sure no one without authority breached the police cordon.
Suit and booties on, latex gloves clutching tightly at his fingers, Burgess took a deep breath then strode towards Marla. He was tired but he’d plod on, as usual. Nothing else he could do, was there. It wasn’t like he had someone at home he’d rather be with. Or someone permanent in his life. Married to the damn job, not a person.
Another cliché.
He stopped to the left of the victim, beside her upper arm. He always hated thinking of them that way—a victim—but that was what the dead woman was, no point in being gentle about it. In an ideal world, and if he were an ideal person, he’d prefer to see her as a woman who’d once been full of life, but that led to emotions, and he didn’t do those too well.
“Morning.” Marla looked up at him. “Not a nice day for it.”
She glanced through the tent opening at the sky, probably thinking, as Burgess had done when he’d arrived on the scene, that if they didn’t get a move on it’d piss down in a minute.
“No.” He smiled. Just. “Did you have a late night? Bags under your eyes bigger than a supermarket carrier.”
“Such an eloquent way with words.” She moved her head to stare at him. “My new puppy kept me up. Whining. Needed lots of cuddles. So I ended up staying the night at his place.”
“Don’t tell me, you held his paw until he dozed off.” It wouldn’t surprise him at all. “Soft-hearted bugger, staying with him. Puppies—or as normal people call them, new lovers—are a lot of hard work.”
“They are, but some are worth the trouble.” She raised her eyebrows and gave him a pointed glare. “And whether I held his paw or not is none of your business.” She blushed but smiled. “Anyway, how do you know that’s what I held?”
“I’m a detective.”
“Very funny.”
“I can be.” He winked.
“For your information, I held his co—”
“Um, no more. The visual is too much.” He sighed. “So, what do we have here?”
“And there was me enjoying our chat, thinking you were going to tell me you spent the night with a puppy yourself.” She raised her eyebrows farther.
He wasn’t going to answer that one. She knew he didn’t have it in him to find a woman for a relationship. “You’re not only a soft-hearted bugger, but a nosy one. Anyway, can’t stand about gossiping too much on work time, can we. The DCI will have our guts for garters. Or mine, anyway, now that you’re exempt from his wrath. Good move, getting that puppy.”
“He likes garters.” She gave him a conspiratorial grin. “Red frilly ones draped over his face. But that’s gossip for after work. In The Pig and Whistle later, say, six o’clock?”
“Yeah, providing this case doesn’t…well, you know how it goes.”
She nodded. “I’ll be there anyway, whether you turn up or not, so it’s no biggie. Now”—she pointed at the victim—“this appears as though she’s just asleep, so we have no obvious cause of death.”
He studied the frosty-skinned dead woman. On her back, arms down by her sides, legs straight and together, she could have already been in position on the mortuary slab, waiting for her postmortem. No bruising to indicate an assault and battery. Blue tinge around her lips—on most of her skin, actually. Eyes and mouth closed, brunette hair brushed nicely. Clean. Straight bob, recently styled.
“And it’s unnerving for me,” Marla went on, “if the cause of death is not immediately apparent. She’s perfect, no marks to give anything away. I’ll have to do a more thorough inspection once I’m at the morgue, but I can tell you she’s been dead a while, so death occurred around about two a.m., poor girl. Rigor is starting. She’s what, twenty-five-ish, something like that? What do you reckon?”
Burgess shrugged. “I can never tell these days. Some women look older, some younger. Girls appear like women…”
“Hmm.” Marla raised a waving hand and glanced behind him. “Camera, please?”
A forensic-suited man appeared, and Marla stood then stepped back while he snapped images.
“Can you hang around with me now and take more as I go along?” she asked the photographer. “I’m going to have to turn her over in a bit, but first I need to check her eyes and mouth.”
Burgess hated this part. Seeing the cloudy sheen over a dead person’s eyes wrenched his stomach every time. Eyes that had once taken in the joys of life. Eyes someone had gazed into with love. And probably hate at some point.
And I don’t do emotions?
Marla pulled back the stiffening eyelids with some kind of tool and leant in to take a good gander.
“No sign of asphyxiation,” she said. “But I’m not surprised—her neck is clear of any handprints, rope, or whatever else these nutters use. But she wasn’t suffocated either. Hmm. Anyway, onto the mouth.”
She placed her thumb on the woman’s chin and gently parted the lips about an inch. Something was in there. Something dark.
“Um…?” Burgess crouched, dangling his hands between his splayed knees. The click of the camera echoed, the shuffle of the snapper’s feet grating. “Is that a black sock in there? Something fluffy at any rate. Material?”
“I’m not sure.” Marla tilted the victim’s head back, enabling her to open the mouth some more. She jerked a thumb towards her silver medical case. “Get my blunt-ended large tweezers out of there, will you, darling? In the lid. Next to the scalpel. In the elastic holder thingies.”
Burgess rose and did as she’d asked. He handed the tool to Marla, and she took it, glancing up at him, frown firmly in place.
“If this turns out to be what I now suspect,” she whispered, “you might want to look away. Phobias—they’re a bitch for some people.” She widened her eyes.
Trying to tell him something so that the photographer didn’t have a clue?
Phobias. Shit. Right.
“So you have a sock phobia, too?” Burgess asked, playing along with her game. He remained standing, not curious at all to see what Marla would pull out.
She laughed softly. “It’s an insect of some kind. A bloody big one. I can’t tell for sure but, if you want to get closer, you can see what I’m sure is an abdomen.”
Did he want to? Fuck, no. He coached himself to act professionally, though. Took a deep breath as if staring his phobia in the eye was something he could do. He cautiously peer
ed into the mouth. “Fuck me. Okay. Um…yeah.”
He’d seen some strange things in his time, had even read about insects and whatnot being put into victims’ mouths—his friend, Bethany Smith, once a DI, now a private investigator, had encountered such a thing—but in one of his own cases? Never, thank God. But it appeared he owed God no thanks this time. The arse end of the abdomen resembled that of a wasp, only bigger. Much bigger.
Burgess controlled himself enough to keep his shudder to a minimum while the photographer took more pictures. “I’ll just…step away while you, um, take it out.”
Turning his back on Marla, he pulled out his phone to see if his partner, Shaw, had bothered responding to his earlier text message.
Nothing.
For God’s sake.
“Burge, can you get an evidence bag out of my case, please?”
He slid his phone away. Picked out a bag and opened it to make it easier for her to pop the ‘sock’ inside. He held it out behind him, relieved that she took it and he could take another step or two forwards. He was level with the victim’s feet now, and he stared down at her red-painted toenails. They’d been cut nicely, and she either had exceptionally good skin or she had enjoyed pedicures. So she’d taken care of herself. Had wanted to be pretty?
“Oh, fucking hell…” Marla said. “Would you look at that?”
“I’m not sure I want to. Socks and all that…”
“I know what you mean,” she said. “I thought I’d shit myself, but…wow, it’s large and ugly, but…wow. I’m surprised it even fitted in her mouth, but then again, the legs are all scrunched up so…”
Burgess closed his eyes for a second and blew out through pursed lips. He needed to get himself in order and turn around. The ‘sock’ would be dead anyway, wouldn’t it? Couldn’t hurt him. But the sight of those things just—
He spun round. Marla was standing now, holding out a tarantula secured in her tweezers, which were more like barbeque cooking tongs. The beast appeared smaller than it would have in life, its legs pulled up in death, but that abdomen, that other end—its torso and face or whatever?—was still too large for his liking. Just being in its presence was enough to bring on the urge to scream.
“All right, put it in the sodding bag.” Burgess shuddered, a cold sweat breaking out all over his body, and he focused on the victim’s knees. “Aside from the thing itself being fucking creepy, who the hell would put that in someone’s mouth?”
“The killer, maybe?” Marla carefully put the thing in the bag.
“Your sarcasm is on point, as usual.” He wiped a hand over his forehead, not surprised that moisture came away on his fingers. “You’re a braver person than me, I can tell you.”
Marla closed the bag and wrote out an information sticker for it. “Believe me, I had to tell myself it was a toy.”
“So it wasn’t?” He knew it wasn’t, but there was no harm in asking. No harm in pretending. Whatever got him through it would work.
“Oh, no. Real thing. Makes this case more interesting, doesn’t it? More challenging for you?” she asked.
He didn’t need to see her face to know pity and understanding would be in her eyes.
“You could say that. We’ll need to contact someone about it,” he said, more to himself than her. “Find out what kind it is and where they can be purchased. I’ll need to maybe see pictures of them.” Bloody hell. Can I do this? “I don’t get how the killer could even have dealt with such a thing.”
“Nowt as queer as folk,” she said, going back down on her knees. “They do the strangest things. Anyway, I need to inspect the back of the victim, then she can be loaded up. I’ve thankfully got a clean slate this morning, so I’ll get on with her examination straight away once I get back. You, my dear friend, have a job and a half on your hands, I’d say, because apart from the sock stumbling block you have, as far as I know, there’s no identification with her. No bag, nothing. Unless someone finds it nearby. Or in the wheelie bins. Oh, hang on.”
Burgess didn’t dare ask if she’d spotted another creature. “What?”
“Let me just check her vagina so you’ve got more to go on.”
He turned away for that, too, angry that the woman’s dignity had been lost the moment she’d been left here. On show for anyone to see. An assessment of her body carried out in front of people. He shook his head so he didn’t allow any more tender emotions in and waited for Marla to speak.
“No sign of anything untoward,” she said. “But I’ll know for sure later.”
“Thanks. Six o’clock, The Pig, if I don’t hear from you sooner,” he said.
“Yes. And what a glorious glass of wine I’ll have there. Already looking forward to it. Later, Burge.”
Chapter Two
It had been a successful rise to stardom for Harry. And Anita Jane Curtis.
He was pleased. More than pleased. How easy it had been. Too easy, really, when he thought about it. Some women really did need to watch themselves. Learn how to spot the signs that someone wasn’t on the level. With all the warnings around these days, on social media especially, he’d have thought the ladies of today would have it all worked out. Don’t go off with strange men you hardly know. It was a simple rule, wasn’t it?
Clearly not.
Then again, he wasn’t strange—or didn’t appear so at any rate. He supposed he was an average-looking man. Brown hair buzzed short at the sides, much longer on top and swept over, held in a sculpted wave-crest by wax. Neatly trimmed hipster beard—something he’d considered shaving off when he’d started his latest mission. Evidence issues. But living dangerously for once, not doing as he should, had spurred him on to keep the face fuzz. And anyway, once this was all over he could shave it off and appear completely different if he wanted to.
His eyes weren’t too far apart, weren’t too staring or anything that could be described as chilling by potential witnesses. He owned a mouth that wasn’t thin or hard but bordered on full, his lips soft. Yes, he was the complete opposite of what people would expect him to be. None of this, “I knew from the moment I saw him there was something off about him.” More like, “I never would have guessed. I mean, look at him, he’s gorgeous.”
He laughed at that. How many times had a woman said that to him, that he was gorgeous? It was absurd, him being thought of as handsome, considering for most of his childhood he’d been called an ugly little fucker, but the women thinking of him in an altogether different way gave him an advantage. When he’d broken his own rule and had gone to pubs while searching for someone like Anita Jane Curtis, women had gravitated towards him. Except they’d been the type he didn’t need. Loud. Brash. Look at my sexy tits, why don’t you? My selfie pout. Livers soaked in vodka and Red Bull, legs reduced to cooked noodles by the stuff.
Those who drank tea were more his type. Sensible drinkers. Women who didn’t flaunt their chests and leave nothing to the imagination.
Nice girls.
Good girls.
Anita Jane Curtis. A classy lady.
He stretched out in bed, glad he had no work to slog through this week. He’d had a long but wonderful night, and it was time to sleep part of his time off away. Mondays were the best day of the week for him—he worked Saturdays so didn’t go in on Mondays—yet for so many it was one of doom. All those people putting memes up on Facebook. Monday, I hate you. Monday, you’re an evil bastard.
Wrong.
“Monday, I love you. Monday, you’re a beautiful bitch.”
He laughed again, turning onto his side to stare through the window of his flat. The city spread out, rooftops no longer covered in a light frost, mist hovering over them. The sun, hidden by dense, bruised clouds, was probably working her arse off to penetrate the atmosphere and burn all that mist away. She’d have one hell of a job. Rain had already fallen, but it seemed there was more to come. If he were lucky, the pelt-down would have drenched his treasure before anyone found her.
And she was a treasure. Even after
death. She’d gifted him so many riches emotionally, something no one else had given him in his life so far, apart from Gran. He was brimming with hope for the future. It no longer appeared as a bleak stretch of years but bright and full of happiness.
As a kid, he never would have guessed long-term contentment would be his. But here it was, filling him up again, smoothing the ragged edges of his once-confused soul. Infusing him with such pleasure he thought he might burst from it. All because he’d followed his heart and listened to his gut. Those memes had told him to do that. To love himself. Search for what he wanted and go for it. An inner calling, some might say, but he preferred to think of it as a careful inspection of his goals in life, his aims, and realising that the unconventional was the path for him when things got to be too much. That he was an odd duck in an alien pond and should embrace it rather than try to be someone he wasn’t.
Whoever had written those sage pieces of advice, putting them in handwritten font onto a background usually showing a calm and reassuring scene, were geniuses. He followed a Facebook page that posted an inspiring quote every day. Downloaded them onto his phone where he saved them in his images folder so he could look at them if things weren’t going well. They brought him back into happiness mode again for a while, but they couldn’t compare to what he’d just done, what he’d accomplished.
Sleep had eluded him so far. Since leaving Anita Jane Curtis on her cobblestone stage, he’d been wired, ready to party, dance like no one was watching, but no clubs were open at this time of the morning. So he’d returned home and danced on his Chinese rug in front of the fireplace, scrunching his toes on the flattened pile and sipping fake champagne. The bubbles, how they’d gone up his nose. The taste of the celebratory drink was long gone, though. Toothpaste sat in its place on his tongue, and the sweat of the night’s exertions, as well as dancing, had been washed away in his shower. He smelled of Anita Jane Curtis’ flowery bodywash and spicy perfume, mementoes he’d taken from her house last week along with her toothbrush.