by Emmy Ellis
Chapter Twenty-One
It didn’t feel right, watching the tramps again. Gordon should have been at home enjoying the rest of his week’s holiday, not standing here freezing his bollocks off. The beanie and his jacket helped, but being so still meant the cold seeped into the core of him. And the wind zooming through the tunnel wasn’t helping matters either. Still, he had to select a man now or risk his future turning into a stretch of bleakness and wretchedness instead of happiness.
There was a man who would do nicely once he had the wig on. He appeared similar, although his mouth might be a little too wide. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, though—beggars, ha—and Gordon was all but begging here. The tramp had been listening once when Gordon had approached The Man Point Two, even having the cheek to butt in on the conversation and say he wouldn’t mind a hot shower and a warm bed for the night if the offer was open to him, too. It hadn’t been, but now it was.
He approached The Man Point Three, who waved as Gordon drew near. He clearly recognised him, then. That was fine. So long as the dirty so-and-so went with him and he died, it didn’t matter if the police snooped around and were given Gordon’s description. All that did matter was the calm and wellbeing. Whether he spent it in prison was neither here nor there anymore. Just being happy was what he needed.
“You can live in a castle with all the money in the world, Gordy, and still be as miserable as sin.” Gran, a superb and astute woman. “But if you’re content inside, it doesn’t matter where you live. How you live. If a person is content, everything else falls into place.”
“Are you content, Gran?”
“No, but I’m hoping to be one day, when you’re grown up and out of her house, because once you’re out of there, you’ll be content.”
He hadn’t been, not until they had been disposed of the first time. But Gran had been right. He’d lived in contentment for sixteen years—apart from a blip when Gran had died—and although he’d expected more time than that, it had been wonderful.
He had limited hours for dealing with The Man Point Three, and daylight wasn’t ideal to be doing what was needed, although the afternoon was trundling along and darkness would be descending pretty soon. But it had to be done today so the dates were correct—he could not go past midnight.
“Hi,” Gordon said, smiling wide at The Man Point Three. “Are you up for that shower and a good long sleep tonight?”
A good long sleep. LOL.
“Too bloody right.” The Man Point Three dragged his arse up off the ground then led the way—the wrong way.
“Come on,” Gordon said. “I live down here.”
“But you and Ian went along there yesterday.” The scummy git frowned and pointed.
So The Man Point Two had been called Ian. Thanks for the information.
“We did, but I had to get some supplies in, didn’t I?” Gordon said. “You know, some bacon and whatever for breakfast. I’ve got enough in my fridge now, so no need to nip into Tesco today. And Ian’s waiting for you. Suggested I come and get you, he did. Reckons you’d like to watch Star Wars with us later.”
“That’ll be great. Brilliant.”
Ian hadn’t managed to watch Star Wars like he’d wanted to. Shame.
Gordon turned away and walked off, the other tramps grumbling that they hadn’t been asked to join them. One of them muttered that he was glad Ian was still at Gordon’s house as he’d been worried, what with there being word of a murder this morning—and because there’d been a murder, they could do with having somewhere safe to go tonight.
Not going to happen, sorry.
The Man Point Three came abreast of Gordon, and they ambled up the path until the buildings that had replaced the red warehouses came into view in the near distance. The shiny offices opposite had dull eyes again. They disturbed Gordon.
Maybe they’ll sparkle once The Man Point Three is gone.
Cheered by that, he walked faster.
“Do you have any brown at your place?” The Man Point Three asked. “Ian said you always have some.”
Gordon smiled at him. “I have a syringe in my pocket, actually. When we get to the canal, I’ll let you have a dose. Better that we shoot up where no one can see us, eh?”
“This is going to be the best night of my life, I can feel it,” the vagabond said and grinned, showing heroin-ravaged teeth.
Don’t smile like that. It makes you not look the same.
Gordon itched to take the wig out of the carrier bag and insist that his companion put it on right this second, but they were in full view of a few people who appeared to be on their way to the park just up the path. If The Man Point Three didn’t want to wear it, he might make a scene.
After a while of moseying along in companionable silence, they reached the new buildings, and Gordon guided him until they walked through the hedge and came to stand beside the canal.
“Lovely place in the summer, this,” The Man Point Three said, his arms jerking where he obviously needed a fresh fix. “Used to love coming down here as a lad.”
“I came here as a kid, too.” Gordon took the wig out of the bag. “Do me a favour, will you, and put this on?”
The Man Point Three laughed. “Whatever will get me the brown, man. I’m used to doing all sorts for that.”
I bet you are.
He took the wig and settled it on his head, transforming his features immediately. This was who Gordon should have picked last time. Funny how hair could change a person so much. A vision of The Man stood in front of him in all his manky glory.
“Move along there just a tad.” Gordon gestured to where she had been while tossing the blood-stained plank into the water.
“What, along here, like?” He shuffled sideways, watching Gordon all the while with what appeared to be trusting, wide eyes.
“Yes, right there is perfect. Now for the brown, eh?” Gordon produced it from his pocket, knowing from how her and The Man had reacted upon seeing such a large syringe full of their favourite drug that this tramp would think he’d died and gone to Heaven.
Well, he’ll be dying, but not necessarily reaching Heaven, although I’ll come as close to it as I’ll ever get with the contentment.
“You have the first half, I’ll have the second,” Gordon said. “Sterile needle, so no worries there. Sister’s a nurse, see. I get clean stuff from her.”
You’re not supposed to lie…
But I have to.
“Oh right.” The Man Point Three danced on the spot. “On you go then.”
“And there’s this amazing place I jab myself—back of the neck. Gets straight into your veins and starts working immediately. Instant hit.”
The Man Point Three turned, no questions, his back facing Gordon, and parted the wig at his nape. “Bloody looking forward to this.”
Me, too.
“Here we go, then,” Gordon whispered.
He uncapped the syringe and approached The Man—yes, he was just The Man now—who had been such a source of unhappiness in his life. The wig had become sufficiently tangled and messed up while in the bag, and Gordon got a flashback from the past of The Man standing there just like this, waiting for his fix. Trusting Gordon to give it to him. Believing Gordon wouldn’t hurt him. And why would The Man think Gordon would? Hadn’t The Man scared him enough that doing him wrong wouldn’t have entered Gordon’s mind?
Gordon administered the whole shot and suggested The Man Point Three have the hit from his high while lying on the ground. After the tramp’s position was correct, Gordon waited for the heroin to take effect. He looked across at the once-sparkling building. The sun wasn’t strong enough, nor had it been able to push past the heavy clouds today, so those blank eyes were still there.
Gordon stared that way for a while, listening to him gurgle and splutter. Then Gordon shrugged and turned his attention to The Man, who’d closed his eyes, and his breathing had become shallow to the point that Gordon had to squint at the bloke’s chest to see if it had stopped a
ltogether. A faint blue tinge had taken over The Man’s skin, which seemed clammy, but Gordon wasn’t going to touch him and find out for sure. Then, chest refusing to rise and fall any longer, The Man was gone for the third time.
Gordon crouched. Opened The Man’s mouth, hating the fact it was filled with frothy saliva. Then he took out his Tupperware tub, put the moth into the foamy chasm, and closed the lips.
Job done, he spun for home, a spring in his step.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Burgess had filled in the whiteboard with the most recent information—the birthdate, name and address of Gordon Varley, the data about the first two murders, and question marks beside the use of insects in the mouths. He’d imagined the fact that he had a relative he’d known nothing about—or had shoved to the back of his mind as a child—would be paramount in his thoughts, but the insects were what intrigued him the most. What the fuck were they all about?
While waiting for Shaw to find Varley’s address, he sat alone in the front row of seats in the incident room, getting his thoughts together. Everything else apart from the insects seemed obvious to him. He’d said as much to Shaw, hadn’t he? Their killer had clearly—to Burgess, anyway—chosen to recreate the death of his mother and stepfather, for reasons known only to the killer. Whether they’d find the answers they sought remained to be seen. Rarely, in Burgess’ experience, did a killer give up all the information when caught then questioned. Maybe the team would get lucky on that aspect, too, but Burgess doubted it. Some people enjoyed holding back, in knowing all the details, dangling carrots to the officers who so desperately wanted to understand so they could close the case with all the threads tied up nicely, none left dangling to torment them throughout their careers.
There were so many threads in this case that Burgess was sure to be tormented beyond the grave, too.
If he let himself.
Was my father’s death connected to those of Emily and Thomas Hornton?
Or had Burgess’ dad’s departure from the earth been just ‘one of those things’ that couldn’t be fully explained? A random attack? Wrong time, wrong place? He’d been bludgeoned with a flat instrument—possibly, the file had stated, with a wooden plank from the nearby construction site, as a couple of splinters had been found in the wounds. A dredge of the canal back then had found no such instrument, and it had been surmised that the plank, if it had been thrown into the water, had floated in the current and could have ended up anywhere.
What Burgess had never understood was that his father had left his office building to go and eat his lunch in his car—left his place of work with a stream of others—and no one had come forward or stated when interviewed that they’d seen anyone sinister-looking in the area at that time.
Was that the issue? Sinister-looking? Shouldn’t the question have been ‘Was anyone other than fellow office workers in the area?’
Something that needs revisiting. A check to see if the employees are still around, giving them a ring and rephrasing the original question.
He imagined everyone leaving the office that day, heads bent low, intent on having an hour away from work, not admiring their surroundings. That was the problem, not only these days but years ago. No one took any notice of anything except for what they were doing. Well, it seemed so in his father’s case.
So, no leads, just a suited, middle-aged man who’d ended up dead on the dusty ground, the sun baking the blood and matter on his head and face, flies swooping down to lay eggs on him the moment they’d scented William Varley’s blood.
William Varley. Easier to think of him that way.
Someone tapped on the door, and Burgess turned his head to glance over his shoulder. Shaw stood on the other side of the window beside the door, his face sliced into sections by the grey venetian blind slats. Burgess stood, shook the thoughts of his father from his mind, and approached the door.
Gordon Varley is not my brother in the usual sense of brothers.
He’s to receive no empathy from me.
He’s what I believe to be a killer.
With those thoughts firmly cemented in his head, he left the incident room, Shaw by his side, and checked with Denton for the latest information.
“Witness from twenty-two Wingman Street, opposite the canal, has phoned in, sir.” Denton held up a printout. “He’s only just managed to call us as he left for work in the early hours, about twelve-fifteen, to go to work. After his shift had ended, he went straight home to bed, then a while later got up for a wee, looked out of his window, and saw the forensic tent. He got hold of his neighbour for details on what’s going on.”
“Right.” Get on with it, will you?
Denton jabbed a finger at the printout. “He saw two men on the canal path while he was getting ready for work. Glanced out of his window about midnight, he says. It was too dark for him to see any features at that time, but he knew they were blokes by the shape of them. Anyway, he walks to work along the canal, and he went past them, although they didn’t appear to notice him. They were talking about brown, then our victim said, ‘Will we watch Star Wars soon?’” Denton glanced at the printout. “Then the other bloke said, ‘We’ll be seeing our own stars in a minute, and I’ll have won my war.’ Witness says he remembers it clearly because it was such a weird conversation to be having. Anyway, he took them to be two tramps and carried on walking. But he did get a good look at them both that time and reckons he could identify anyone for us if needs be. Said although it was dark, he made out their features well enough.”
Euphoria raced through Burgess. That was what they needed, someone who could state they’d seen the killer.
“Bring the witness in,” Burgess said. “Get his statement down as soon as you can. Take Yaqui with you to collect him. Show the witness the picture of our man with Anita Curtis and watch his face when he sees it—don’t just take his word for it if he says he recognises him. Faces and expressions speak louder. I’m just off with Shaw to collect Varley. Unless it can’t wait, leave off contacting me until we’re back, all right?”
“All right, sir.”
“Bloody good work, Denton.”
The officer beamed, blushed, and as Burgess walked away towards Officer Lewis, Denton called over to Yaqui and let him know they needed to collect a witness then interview him. Yeah, the DCI had been right. Denton was one to watch blossom in his career.
“Lewis,” Burgess said, stopping beside his desk, where a computer screen showed a long list of Wingman Street addresses and the names of the occupiers. “I need you to stop whatever it is you’re doing and switch to something else for me. Access this case number.” He recited 457-890-58.
Lewis brought up a new screen and typed in the numbers. The man had a wicked mind for remembering information. Burgess had expected to have to repeat that number.
“Go to the witness tab,” Burgess said. “See that list there? I need you to check whether the residents still live at those addresses, and if they don’t, find out where they are now. Once you’ve done that, I want you to get their phone numbers. Call them all if you can and remind them of the murder in question—read the file to get the gist of it. Ask them this question: ‘Was anyone other than your colleagues in the vicinity at that time? Anyone whatsoever?’ I’ll be back, hopefully, soon. Any information you get can wait until I return.”
“Yes, sir.” Lewis was already bending his head, getting to work.
“Come on,” Shaw said. “Let’s get this over and done with.”
Burgess followed Shaw from the building then to Burgess’ car. His partner held out his hand for the keys, obviously having it in mind that he was doing the driving. Sensible, seeing as Burgess wouldn’t be able to concentrate on the road yet again.
Once they were off, Shaw said, “Want me to deal with this? With him?”
Burgess shrugged. “Makes no odds to me. Play it by ear. He’s nothing to me, remember that.”
He wondered for a brief second whether he was convincing himself or Sh
aw.
“Want to know where he lives?” Shaw asked.
“Nope. You’re driving, you take us there.”
They arrived back at the alley where Anita had been found. Shaw parked up outside the launderette.
“Taking a quick look down there again or something?” Burgess asked.
“No. He lives up there.” Shaw pointed.
Gordon Varley rents a flat above Letty’s Launderette?
That was a bit sick, in Burgess’ opinion, but yet another piece of information that made total sense. The lack of working CCTV meant Varley had undoubtedly known where the wires were on the building—wires that had been cut, it had been discovered. Other wires, too—those that would have shown the street the shops were situated on, and Varley returning home after putting Anita in the alley. Burgess had checked the gathered information earlier, and officers had been door-to-door, but no one had answered at Varley’s address.
“He’s fucking warped,” Burgess said. “How can a person stand himself, living right beside the very place he’s dumped a body? Does it give him satisfaction? Is he not afraid we’ll inevitably get hold of him for questioning?”
“No idea. Apparently, Varley’s having a week off work from the launderette, so our lot have been unable to catch him there. We’d have ended up looking more closely at him anyway, even if your mother hadn’t mentioned the previous two murders.”
Yeah, they’d have caught him regardless, and that went some small way to making Burgess feel better. Less useless and more optimistic about a positive outcome. And Burgess wished he’d known about Varley’s place of work sooner. He knew the bloody boss. Had been in there more times than he could count. Couldn’t, as far as he recalled, remember seeing Varley in there, though, going by the picture of him and Anita.
“And that’s his car in front of us,” Shaw said. “Red Golf.”
“So he could well be in then.”
Burgess’ insides churned like a bastard, coiling him up yet at the same time setting him free of so many things he’d tried not to think about before the recent murders had been committed. He was getting somewhere with his father’s case as well as this one, and that would give him no end of contentment if he could solve what the hell had gone on back then. That was all he wanted—peace and wellbeing that would come with knowing he’d brought William Varley’s killer to justice. And giving his mother closure.