by Emmy Ellis
“This might seem a strange request, Mrs Curtis,” Burgess said, “but could you put on a pair of these gloves and make the drinks using these cups and spoons, please?” He didn’t know of any other detective in his division who insisted on this, but they bloody should. Tainting a possible abduction scene more than necessary just brought extra work and made things harder for those who sifted through the evidence. Plus, they shouldn’t really be making drinks anyway, so at least this covered their arses.
“Oh. Okay.” She appeared flummoxed, took the gloves from Shaw, and snapped them on while frowning at their bootied feet. “Um, is there something I need to worry about?” Her hands shook.
How the hell do I put this?
He’d ignore her question for now—and keep things in the present tense until he was absolutely sure Anita was their victim. DNA samples would be taken from this house for matching, and he’d ask her mother for a picture of Anita soon. “Mrs Curtis, does Anita have a boyfriend?”
She flicked the kettle on. Held out her hand for the cups, taking them from Burgess. “Already boiled this once so it’ll only be a few seconds. Um…Anita said she’d just started seeing someone, actually, but I haven’t met him yet. Why, is there a problem?” She set five cups out in a row then dragged an instant coffee canister across the worktop. Got on with sorting the drinks. All very efficient.
“Did she tell you his name?” Burgess asked.
She laughed. It sounded unsteady, or maybe showed she was exasperated that he wasn’t answering her questions. “She will eventually, I’m sure, but she’s cagey about the men in her life until she’s been with them for more than a month. Doesn’t trust they’ll stick around. Why, is he a bad lot? Is that why you’re here, because of him?”
He had to give her something. “Maybe.” Burgess would leave it at that.
The kettle was a noisy sod, the element rumbling, although the appliance appeared pretty new.
“Did she socialise much?” he asked.
“She usually goes out on a Friday night with her friends from work. They wind down for a couple of hours, then she gets a takeaway and comes home, has a glass of wine while catching up on any telly she’s missed during the week.” She laughed again. “Creature of habit.”
Interesting. So if someone had taken a shine to her, had watched her, her pattern would most probably have been the same week after week.
Mercifully, the kettle stopped boiling, and she poured the water, added milk, then nodded at the cups.
“Help yourself to sugar.” She pulled another canister over and took a clean spoon from out of a drawer. Placing it on the worktop, she leant back against the cooker and folded her arms across her belly. The gloves looked strange on her. Out of place.
Is she bracing herself for bad news? Needs to feel she’s protected by hugging herself?
“Thanks.” Shaw added one sugar to his and moved away to stand in front of the fridge and sip.
Burgess did the same. The coffee was surprisingly good for instant and went down well. Or maybe it tasted all right because he hadn’t had one since he’d been in the office with Shaw. “Very nice. Much appreciated.” He smiled. “Do you know what she was doing last night, by any chance?”
“No idea,” Mrs Curtis said. “Like I told you earlier, I haven’t spoken to her for a few days. But we had an agreement that so long as she posted on Facebook every day so I know she’s all right, I don’t trouble her, and even then, I’d wait for a couple of days without any posts before I texted to make sure she was okay. Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t worry, though. I believe adult children should contact their parents because they want to, when they want to, not because of some moral guilt trip or sense of duty.”
She shuddered. Maybe she’d suffered that kind of thing from her own parents and didn’t want her children to feel cornered like she possibly had.
“Would it be usual for her to let a man into her home after midnight?” he asked. It was a leading question—she could imagine all sorts from it—but considering what she’d be told in a few minutes, it was nothing in comparison. Shit, he hated keeping information back until he’d received some himself, but it was vital to get even a slight feel for who Anita had been while her mother was unaware and it was confirmed Anita had been the one in the alley this morning. Besides, revealing all too soon meant family members broke down and were no use to anyone. He felt bad about that, too, his selfish need for leads taking over their right to know something bad had happened.
“I suppose if her latest fella does weird shifts she might. Or maybe he just fancied coming round here. I remember those days.” She smiled, picked up a Styrofoam cup, and frowned as it touched her lips.
Not the best of cups to drink out of, granted, but needs must.
“Do you have a picture of Anita?” he asked and counted in his head, waiting for Mrs Curtis to ask why he needed one—and for the penny to drop.
“I do. Let me just get my phone.” She placed her coffee on the worktop then walked towards Shaw, where she bent down beside the fridge and picked up a black leather handbag. She dug inside, took out a smartphone, and scrolled on her screen.
Somewhere in the house another phone rang. Classic bell tone, nothing fancy. Burgess glanced at Shaw, who nodded, and Burgess left the room, leaving him to deliver the bad news if the image Mrs Curtis showed him was of the alley victim. Following the sound of the ringtone, he ended up in the living room.
Two cream leather sofas. Dark-red carpet. Cream curtains with large red flowers. Cream fluffy rug. Large flat-screen. Two oak bookshelves crammed with titles. Romances. Fireplace with a coal-effect. A nest of tables beside one sofa, same wood as the shelves. Phone on top. He filed it all away, a snapshot in his mind in case he needed to imagine the scene later.
The phone stopped ringing.
Burgess picked it up. A missed call from someone named Helen Work. It didn’t appear to need a PIN as the home screen was visible, not a locked-screen wallpaper. There was a Facebook app icon, and he pressed it. The gods were on his side—not only because it was a screen that allowed glove use but that it logged straight in. Her last post had been a meme with sage life advice. A few comments from friends agreeing with the sentiment. One of them said he’d pop round later…
We can’t get that lucky so soon, can we?
Burgess could only hope.
A scream from the kitchen wrenched his heart. A sob. A strangled cry next. “Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. Not my baby… No. Please, no…” The terrible sound of crying.
He imagined Mrs Curtis down on her knees, crumpled to the floor with the shock, the cold of the tiles seeping through her trousers and into her bones—the freeze of grief gripping her, wrapping her up so tight she could hardly breathe. Shaw murmuring. Maybe putting his hand on her back, crouching beside her. Words meant to comfort but ones that would offer none, maybe not even heard over the shouting inside her head that her baby was gone, never to be seen again except in the mortuary or in precious pictures. A series of screams came, getting hoarser with each one until just a rasping of breath, shuddering, then mournful moans, over and over.
Burgess closed his eyes. Swallowed. Shut off the memories.
He hated his job, the world, life.
Lewis and Yaqui came downstairs and joined him in the living room.
“In here next,” Burgess said. “Kitchen later. I’ve got her phone.”
They got on with searching, gloves on hands that would hopefully find something they could go on to catch the bastard who’d taken a beautiful life and snuffed it out because…because of what?
That was always the question.
One he sometimes couldn’t find the answer to.
Chapter Eight
Back in the car outside the house, after a Family Liaison Officer had arrived to stay with Mrs Curtis while her husband was on his way to collect her—forensics would arrive shortly—Shaw swiped a hand over his face. It had been tough to tell the victim’s mother the horrific news, but someone
had to do it, and he’d rather it was him than Burgess.
“Sounded difficult,” Burgess said.
“More than, unfortunately. Particularly harrowing with this one. They were best friends as well as mother and daughter, so she said. Her worst nightmare come true, this.”
“Anyone’s.”
“Hmm.” Shaw sighed.
He wasn’t going to go there, turfing Burgess’ baggage out of the suitcase. Burgess would deal with it at some point. Or not.
“Did you ring Emerson with an update when you came out here?” Shaw asked.
Burgess nodded. “He’s taking over while we get some rest, but I want to be back at work by six in the morning so we can hit the ground running. Emerson is on until eight, so we can get up to speed during the time overlap. Will you have a problem with that?”
“No. That shit’s over, I told you.” Shaw stared through the windscreen at the police car. “Sometimes I wish I was back in uniform.”
“I know what you mean, but we still used to get the job of breaking bad news. None of us are exempt from it.”
“No.”
“And I’m grateful I have you to do it for me now.” Burgess dipped his head. Ogled the footwell.
“No problem. So what’s Emerson going to be dealing with?” Shaw knew, but he liked the confirmation, to know what was happening and when so he could get to sleep without everything swirling around and keeping him awake.
“A couple of people will analyse her Facebook page, access her private messages. She has Twitter, too, Instagram and Snapchat. That TikTok thing. People in her contact list will be called. You know all this.”
“Yeah, but you know what I’m like.”
Burgess sighed. “I called in to the station for an update. Absolutely no evidence at the alley scene so far—the bastard seems to know what he’s doing. CCTV footage has been checked for the streets either end of the alley, plus in the street where the shops are. They conveniently stopped working yesterday, so no leads there. So it’s just a case of Emerson and his team continuing to find then sift through information. They’ve got the shitty end of the stick while we sleep.”
“Makes a change. It’s usually the other way round.” Shaw hoped all the hard work would be done come the morning, and he and Burgess could pick it up and sew everything together. Find the fucker.
“I’ve asked Emerson to ring me as soon as Mrs Curtis gives a positive identification—or her husband, whoever views the body.”
“Marla will be glad to be off duty then. She doesn’t like viewings, does she?”
“Who would like them? You’ve got to be an arsehole if you do, haven’t you? Seeing people so distraught… King will be on shift. He’s an arsehole, so maybe he enjoys them.”
Shaw felt rotten that they’d be in The Pig, drinking, living, letting the day’s events slough off them while Mr and Mrs Curtis faced the hardest task of their lives, the news they’d been given weighing them down so unbearably they could hardly stand under the pressure of it on their shoulders.
Kids. Shaw was never having any. Too much pain if he lost them.
Burgess started the engine. “And our work day isn’t over just yet. Marla will be waiting for us. Postmortem findings. Shit, I need to forward her email to Emerson.” He tugged his phone out and did that job. Slung his phone on the dash. Then took it off and popped it back in his pocket with a sheepish glance at Shaw.
“You’re learning,” Shaw said.
Burgess grinned then peeled out of the parking space, looking thankful they were leaving. Shaw dreaded to think what Burgess had felt when he’d heard Mrs Curtis break down. Had she sounded like Burgess’ mother when an officer had delivered similar news, a ten-year-old Burgess standing there watching it all through innocent, too-young eyes? Had it brought back a shitload of memories of his mother crumbling, knowing her husband wasn’t coming home and she faced bringing up her son alone? She’d done an admirable job at that and had remained single to this day, the love of her life irreplaceable.
“Are you all right?” Shaw asked.
“Not too bad, thanks.”
“Good.”
Shaw eyed the passing traffic through a windscreen spotted with rain. It must have tipped down while they’d been with Mrs Curtis. It was dark now, and the glow from streetlamps turned the droplets amber, the rear lights of cars red and fuzzy in the damp air. Folks scurried along the pavement, heads bent, scarves flapping, hurrying home to their nice warm houses. Life went on—was going on all around them—who knew what churning through people’s heads.
You just never know what they’re dealing with. We all appear normal, but inside tells a different story.
And wasn’t that the truth. He and Burgess would enter The Pig, looking to outsiders as though they were just nipping in for a quick pint after work, not a care in the world. Which they were, except they did care—too much, most of the time—and they’d be quietly discussing a woman’s death while others discussed what they’d be making for a late dinner once they got home.
Peas or carrots, mash or chips?
Crime of passion or random victim selection?
Burgess turned into The Pig’s car park and found a spot close to the door. They got out, Marla’s car nowhere in sight. She only lived up the road from here. Maybe she fancied more than one glass of wine and would walk home. Maybe she’d talked her assistant into coming out with her and they intended to get sloshed.
Shaw followed Burgess inside, the interior welcoming him, the atmosphere as close to a hug as he was going to get. Marla sat in a far corner, alone, a glass of red on the table in front of her. She was reading from a Kindle, a secret smile lifting her lips, her cheeks flushed. Blonde pixie hairdo in her usual messy style, a dash of red on her lips, and a change of clothes from formal to casual turned her into someone completely different from the person Shaw dealt with at work. Dark jeans and a black V-neck cashmere jumper looked good on her, as did the knee-high boots.
At the bar, Burgess ordered them both a pint of lager, a splash of lime in Shaw’s, then they headed to Marla’s table. She glanced up from reading, smiled, and turned off the device.
“Ah, you made it. Earlier than expected.” She hefted a huge red handbag onto her lap and dropped the Kindle inside. “Interrupting me at a juicy bit, I might add.”
Burgess sat beside her while Shaw plopped down opposite them, the wooden chair unforgiving on his arse and tailbone.
“Another of those bodice rippers, by any chance?” Burgess asked, shoulder nudging her, some of his beer froth slopping over the glass rim and sliding down to the base. He wiped it away with the side of his finger.
She laughed. “Hence the word juicy.”
“Oh, enough.” Burgess frowned, though it didn’t seem in disgust, more a visual reproof.
“Got to get my jollies somewhere when private company isn’t available.” She winked and reached for her wine.
Burgess winked back.
Ah, so she did have a bloke then. Was it the DCI, like everyone suspected? Shaw didn’t give a toss, not really, but then again, if the DCI was getting some between the sheets, he’d be easier to deal with. Less likely to ride their arses over this case and how quickly—or slowly—they were solving it.
“All right there, Shaw?” Marla asked.
“So-so,” he said. “Can’t complain really.”
“No, we can’t.” She took a sip. “We’re alive and well, after all.”
Shaw nodded. “I delivered the bad news.”
“Aww, shit.” Marla sighed. “Who was she then?”
“Anita Jane Curtis,” Shaw said.
Burgess gazed into his pint.
“Parents?” she asked.
“Yeah, I told the mother.” Shaw grimaced.
“Unpleasant.” Marla drank some more, a larger gulp this time. “So, shall we get the details out of the way?”
Burgess tipped his head. “Off you go.”
“Toxicology came up trumps. Speedy for once,” she
said. “Heroin overdose, inserted to the back of the neck, in the hairline. Not a drug user, I wouldn’t say—no other track marks, needle holes, or evidence of constant use. No tarantula venom in her. Internal organs healthy et cetera. No sexual abuse, and she didn’t have sex prior to death. That’s about it.”
“So he has access to drugs.” Burgess sipped his beer. “I’d say he isn’t violent, otherwise he’d have probably beaten the shit out of her, stabbed her, strangled her. Makes it even more difficult, more work, trying to find out where he got the drugs from.”
“Thankfully that’s for you lot to determine.” She placed her glass on the table then rubbed her palms up and down her thighs as if to wash the case off her hands.
Lucky Marla—her part was done.
“My theory is she was selected,” Shaw said. “Groomed by this new fella her mother said she had. And it’s obvious that fella is the bloke we’re after. The tarantula thief. He made her feel safe, secure—had to have if she let him in so late at night. Maybe he gave her no reason to mistrust him. Clever bastard.”
“Callous underneath, though, surely,” Marla said.
“Maybe, maybe not, and I know that sounds nuts. You’d think to be a killer they have to be mean, to love hurting, but some of them have other reasons.” Shaw shrugged. “And sometimes their reasons for doing this kind of crap would surprise you. It’s just an act they’re compelled to do, like we’re compelled to brush our teeth every day.”
“Most of us.” Marla shuddered. “You should see the state of some corpses’ teeth.”
“No thanks.” Burgess leant back, lifting one foot to rest it on the rung joining the table legs. He stared into space, then, “Anything from under her fingernails?”
“Nope.” Marla shook her head. “Honestly, it appears like a cut-and-dried overdose, although I’d say the drug was administered by someone else because of where the needle was inserted. Plus, if she had managed that feat, she’d have died very quickly, so why choose to die naked in an alley—and where is the needle? She’d have been holding it or dropped it when she nodded out. And why put a tarantula in her own mouth?”