Caught in the Web

by Emmy Ellis

  She repeated her question.

  Was he all right? If being all right meant he didn’t have to watch out for her, and that he was at Gran’s house instead of at home, then yes, he was.

  He nodded.

  “Are you sure?”

  Gran was good at prodding, but he’d never let on before about what happened when he wasn’t with her, and he wouldn’t let on now. Not any major details anyway. Gran wasn’t allowed to know those. If she found out, The Man would make her have an accident, and accidents weren’t good. If Gran had one, it would mean he hadn’t been a good boy, that he’d done something he shouldn’t, and, so The Man had said, the blame would all be on his ugly-fucker shoulders.

  He nodded again.

  “It’s just that…just that a friend of mine knows someone who lives in your street, and she said you were seen crying at your bedroom window the other night. Did you get told off, is that it?”

  “No, I never get told off.” Lies were good if they were for covering up what she did. What The Man did. “I always do as I’m told, me.”

  “Yes, you do. So why were you crying?”

  “I had a bad dream.” And it was like a bad dream, living there, so that hadn’t been a lie this time.

  “Oh dear. Do you want to tell me about it?”

  He shivered. “No, thank you.”

  Gran handed him a sandwich. It was already lunchtime, and that was sad. She’d picked him up from school yesterday and brought him back to her house. He’d been tired from his week in class and the trauma of home in the mornings and evenings, but he had the whole weekend, the coming week, and the following weekend of freedom to look forward to with Gran, and now some of it was gone. Her and The Man had gone away on holiday. She had married The Man while he’d been at school yesterday, and the holiday was called a honeymoon.

  He stared at his sandwich. The bread would be soft—Gran always had soft bread—and the ham was the sort that was cut off the bone, bought from the butcher’s shop. Gran used butter, too, not the cheap margarine that sat in a tub at home—the tub just for him as she wouldn’t eat that ‘crap’, she preferred the more expensive stuff, and if he dared touch it, The Man would soon be told all about it.

  “Thank you.” He smiled up at Gran.

  She gazed down at him, her eyes wet, then sniffed and went to the fridge, where she poured him a glass of fizzy pop. He didn’t know what to say—she had told him he couldn’t have it because it made children hyper, and hyper wasn’t good.

  Gran placed it down beside his plate, and the scent of the cola wafted up his nose. His mouth watered. It smelled so tempting.

  “I’m not allowed that,” he said.

  “I know, but I won’t tell if you won’t.”

  Worry gnawed at his stomach. “I’m not allowed to lie to Mum.” He hated having to say that word, mum, but he’d had no choice. If Gran knew he thought of her as her or she, she’d ask more questions.

  “But it isn’t lying if you just don’t say anything, is it?” She rested a hand on his shoulder.

  Did every adult have signals? She put her hand on his shoulder if other people were around, and it usually meant he had to keep his mouth shut. Should he not speak now? He wasn’t sure what to do. This was all so confusing.

  “What do you think?” Gran asked.

  Relieved his dilemma had been solved because Gran had asked a direct question and would expect an answer, he said, “What if she asks what I had to eat and drink here? She does sometimes.”

  “You could forget you had the pop?” She stroked his hair away from his eyes.

  He frowned. Gran was encouraging him to lie, and he didn’t understand, because she’d always told him to tell the truth. Why was it different this time?

  “Or I could tell your mum that you’d said you weren’t allowed, but I’d said that when you’re on holiday, you get to eat and drink all the things you don’t usually eat and drink. And you’re on holiday here, so do you think that answer would be okay?”

  Would it?

  “I think so. Maybe,” he said.

  “That’s settled then. You can eat and drink whatever I give you, but only if you like it. I wouldn’t expect you to eat anything you hated. It wouldn’t be very nice to do that. People who force others to eat or drink things they hate aren’t very nice people.”

  Gran was so different to her.

  She gave him things he hated on purpose.

  “Does anyone make you eat or drink things you don’t like?” Gran asked.

  “No,” he said. “I like everything.”

  “I see. It’s just that I thought… Never mind.”

  “I love you, Gran.”

  “Oh.” She lifted a hand to her mouth, slapped it across her lips, and her eyes went wide. They watered. “Oh. Well. That’s lovely, that is. I love you, too, and I wish I could have you living with me all the time, I really do.”

  “Why would you want me living here?” Why, when he was an ugly little fucker who should never have been born? Why, when he was a pain in the arse and was nothing but trouble?

  “Because…because I get lonely, and you’re such good company.”

  More confusion. Gran said things that didn’t make sense. How could he be good company? She didn’t want him to be with her at all. She only suffered with him because she had to. The teachers said nice things to him, too, but she had told him they were paid to say that ‘shit’ and had to be nice to children.

  “Mum wouldn’t let me,” he said.

  “I’m not so sure about that now,” Gran muttered and walked off to the sink. She plunged her hands into the bubbly water and washed a dish.

  He ate his sandwich, desperate to drink the pop but not daring to. It was too much, keeping the pop-drinking to himself, wasn’t it? A responsibility he didn’t think he could handle. Or the resulting slaps if she found out he’d had some, no matter that Gran would smooth the way with her food-and-drink-on-holiday idea.

  So he settled for sniffing the cola instead. He could sort of taste it by doing that.

  And it was good.

  He hadn’t meant to drop off. His heartrate accelerated. Had he been asleep for long? Had he ruined everything by napping? He scrabbled up from the sofa where he’d given himself permission for a short rest before he went through the rest of the day’s itinerary. An automaton, he walked to the clock on the wall above the fireplace and stared at it. Worked out he’d only lost half an hour and that everything would still be okay. Relief poured into him. During this week he had to be on the ball, more so than he’d been as a child. He had to make sure he did everything to the letter—and those things he shouldn’t be doing…but was going to do anyway.

  He smiled at that. At being able to break laws and rules.

  It had taken him all this time, all these years of adulthood, to realise he was the master of his life, not her or The Man. They had no hold over him now. Although that was a lie, wasn’t it? They did have a hold—otherwise, why was he doing this? Why had she started talking to him in his head again? Yes, he knew all about the mental states some abused people were left with after a traumatic childhood. He knew why he’d put this plan into action. His therapist had explained it all to him, the mental states, back in his early twenties when sorting his mind out had been Gran’s way of fixing all the things that had been broken.

  Demon slaying, that was what he was doing, what all this was.

  Anita Jane Curtis had been a substitute for her.

  Enough of that. Time to go.

  He gave his face a quick wash, popped on a thick puffy coat, plus a beanie hat and gloves, owing to the cold weather. Didn’t bother with his sunglasses by way of a disguise, though. Living dangerously again. Risking his face being seen on CCTV again. Doing something he shouldn’t while doing something else he shouldn’t.

  He laughed so much his stomach muscles hurt.

  Out in his car, number plates the originals—I don’t care, I really don’t—he drove to the zoo. Parked up. Paid
for an entry ticket. Strode inside holding a map then came to a stop to study it, although he didn’t need to. The map was imprinted in his mind. Every walkway, every patch of shrubbery, every animal cage, and every food stand. All of it, right there, clutched by his brain cells.

  He spent time with the gorillas, the penguins. Visited the tigers and lions, then headed where he needed to go. It was nearing three-thirty, and time was of the essence if he was going to collect the creature before the zoo worker finished his shift at four.

  His stride purposeful, he entered the area he had to be in and went behind the building the zoo worker had mentioned. There were bushes there and a stand of trees, plus a wheelie bin against the wall.

  He peered through the trees at the train track for the old engine that took people around the zoo on a sight-seeing tour every half an hour. Once it went past in a minute or so, the worker would come out.

  The clatter of the wheels on the track echoed through the air, as did the chatter of the people riding on the train. Out of sight at the moment, it was drawing closer—he could tell by the loudness of the shrieks and laughter. And there it was now, toot-tooting and chugging along, the open-sided red-and-green carriages filled with people, the black funnel belching smoke. He’d have thought no one would want to come to the zoo while it was so cold out, but maybe the sun had inspired them to get off their backsides and give the kids something to do on their first day of half term.

  Gran had brought him here once, and he’d been so hap—

  No.

  No.

  No.

  With the train gone, excitement obliterated the pain that had threatened to engulf him if he’d thought of Gran. Butterflies dashed about in his stomach—how amusing—although butterflies weren’t really the source of his hilarity. Something else was, but the analogy was there, not lost on him.

  The zoo worker came around the corner of the building, head bent, attention on the ground. He was a burly so-and-so, meaty shoulders and arms, thick blond hair, and his green uniform T-shirt stretched taut across his wide chest. He had a black sack in hand, and he lifted it to place it on top of the wheelie bin.

  As agreed, the worker didn’t glance at him.

  I wonder if he trusts me to leave the money behind?

  He’d contacted the zoo man on the off chance he’d be willing to earn some extra cash. Christmas wasn’t far away, and everyone liked a bonus around that time, didn’t they? To his delight, the bloke had been all for it, even going so far as to tell him where the outer fence was broken so he could get inside to collect the tarantula.

  It seemed everything had fallen into place once he’d decided to slay those dragons. Although…he had to admire the zoo bloke. He had balls being prepared to do this after the tarantula theft had undoubtedly been discovered this morning.

  Alone again now that the worker had disappeared, he walked to the bin and opened the sack. As promised, what he needed was in a small transparent Tupperware tub. He slid it into the inside pocket of his coat then brought out his own Tupperware containing the money. He placed it in the sack, tied the top up, his thick gloves making the job peskier than usual, then left the area.

  He wandered in the direction of Amazing Arachnids. Spotted a police presence. Smirked and made his way to the exit. Back in his car, he was tempted to inspect what he’d collected but decided to wait until he arrived home. After that, he could have some dinner—beef, carrots, onions, gravy—and dumplings, mustn’t forget those—then wait for the night to come.

  Tonight.

  Ah, how he loved the idea of tonight.

  Chapter Seven

  “Want me to save the juicy details for The Pig or would you prefer them now?” Marla asked.

  In the station car park, Burgess held his phone between his face and shoulder while he dug in his pockets for his car key. “Might not make The Pig at six, sorry. Maybe later. Say, eight? Something’s come up. Got a visit to make. Can you email me your findings?”

  “Yep. So…what’s come up? Anything in your boxers?”

  He laughed, locating his key and clicking the fob to unlock the car. “Not likely.”

  “I’ll still be there at eight if there’s a promise of gossip.”

  “The puppy?” He got into the car and shut the door.

  “No, he’s not coming,” she said.

  She cut the call, and Burgess chucked his phone on the dash.

  Shaw got in and removed it, resting it on his lap. “You know how I hate it sliding from one side to the other with your mad driving.”

  Burgess started the engine then reversed out of his space.

  “Marla, I take it?” Shaw asked.

  “Yep. Postmortem is done, but we’ll talk through her notes when we meet her at The Pig later.”

  Shaw slid on his seat belt. “Oh. Right.”

  Burgess pulled out onto the road and clicked on his blue flashing lights, then gunned it towards their destination. He swerved around some tosser who clearly didn’t know—or care—what blue lights meant. “Fuck’s sake. Look at him. And here’s another arsehole. Move out of the bloody way!” He veered around that car, too, thankful everyone else ahead understood he was a police officer. “Run the info by me that you got through just before we left the station, please? Already forgotten half of it.”

  “So, from the footage… Our man knocked on the door then went inside thirty-two Willow Avenue. Rented by a Miss Anita Jane Curtis, twenty-four, who works at Revens and Boller—solicitors on Graft Street. She’s a receptionist. Family live nearby, but no contact with them since last week, according to her mother. That isn’t unusual, apparently, although it is unusual if she doesn’t post on Facebook every day. As of yet, she hasn’t posted today.”

  “And how the hell are you able to keep that in your head after only one skim-read of the details?” Burgess turned right then a quick left. Willow Avenue was about a minute away.

  “Always been like that.” Shaw flipped Burgess’ phone over and over in his hands. “It’s going to be her, isn’t it? Our victim?”

  “I expect so, yes.”

  “Fuck.”

  “I know. God knows what state the mother will be in when we get there. I was vague on the phone when I asked her to meet us, but she’s had time to digest that the police don’t usually contact you unless there’s something wrong.”

  “Best to be vague under the circumstances,” Shaw said. “I wonder why she didn’t ask about why we’re meeting at her daughter’s house—and why we needed to go there to look for her phone? I mean, you’d think she’d have asked. Maybe she didn’t like to.”

  “Maybe. People take things in different ways. Mother might be in denial—you know, telling herself nothing’s wrong until she hears it from the horse’s mouth kind of thing.”

  Burgess drove into Willow Avenue, browsing the house numbers. That fucker, that killer, had walked down this road and had gone straight up to her front door. CCTV showed he had knocked. Had been allowed in. So she’d known him? At that time of night, he’d bloody hope so.

  Otherwise, why would she have let him inside at almost one o’clock?

  Number thirty-two was on the left. An average two-bed house—brown brick, white front door, vertical blinds at the windows. Small drive created in one half of the front garden, the other half short grass, a paved path in between. Same as at Burgess’ mother’s.

  Must go and see the old dear.

  Sitting kerbside was a police car, two uniformed officers inside, waiting, per his instructions, for him and Shaw. On the drive sat a silver Punto, which had been seen clearly on CCTV, as was its registration number—Shaw’s earlier check had shown it belonged to Miss Curtis. Shit was adding up, and Burgess wished it wasn’t. All right, they may well have their murder victim’s name now, but it meant destroying her mum, and he wasn’t fond of that malarky.

  Burgess parked in front of the police car. “If it’s her…?”

  “Yes, I’ll tell the mother.”

  “Thank
s.”

  Burgess shuddered at the idea of doing that himself then got out, went to the boot, and took out some polystyrene cups and a couple of plastic spoons.

  Shaw appeared by his side and held up some latex gloves he must have taken out of the glove box. “Forget these? Although I knew you wouldn’t forget those.” He pointed at the cups and spoons. “Good quirk to have.”

  “Thanks. Saves hassle later down the line.”

  Burgess gestured for the officers to join him on the pavement after they’d taken protective gear from their car, and Shaw then led the way up the garden path. Rapping on the door churned Burgess’ guts—Christ, this is rough—and it was opened by a woman who looked similar to the victim, although her hair was longer.

  Burgess went into analytical mode as he took her in.

  Pale face apart from two patches of redness on her cheeks, damp eyelashes, no makeup. Wringing her hands. Wedding and engagement ring, necklace with no pendant, Fitbit on the left wrist. Short-sleeved white blouse, black trousers, low-heeled shoes.

  “Mrs Curtis?” He held up his ID. “I’m Detective Inspector Burgess Varley. With me is Detective Sergeant Shaw Peters, Officer Lewis, and Officer Yaqui. May we come in?”

  “Of course.” She stepped back then turned and walked down the hallway towards a kitchen. “Would you like tea, coffee?”

  “That would be lovely, but could you hold off on that for just a moment, please?” he asked.

  Making their drinks was an ideal suggestion. She’d need something to do while being questioned. Take her mind off whatever it was she might have been thinking prior to their arrival—which was probably exactly what Shaw was going to tell her.

  Fuck.

  Burgess nodded at Lewis and Yaqui—an emergency warrant had already been obtained to search the property. The officers slid on booties and gloves then went upstairs, while Burgess and Shaw put on booties then followed the woman into the kitchen.

  Pale wood Formica cabinets, black speckled worktops—standard for a rented property. Black SMEG fridge. All other appliances brushed steel, black trims. Silver mug tree, four black cups, two out of the usual set of six missing. Roman window blind, black again, white back door, fenced garden to the rear.