Caught in the Web

by Emmy Ellis

  A knock on the door had Burgess and Shaw jumping. So Shaw was just as on edge as him. Although Burgess didn’t wish any unease to gripe at Shaw, it was good to know he wasn’t the only one feeling it. With this case being so close to home, he had wondered whether it was hitting him in places it ordinarily wouldn’t. In the heart, for instance. It was digging into emotions he wouldn’t usually feel in any other murder case.

  Burgess opened the door. Quint, one of his oldest friends from work, stood on the other side, looking anything but his usual well-put-together self. He appeared harried, unnerved, his cheeks tinged red and his eyes troubled.

  Burgess gestured for him to come in then closed the door. “What’s up?”

  “Burge, you know I don’t like telling on my clients, but this man isn’t right, I don’t think.” Quint shivered. “He’ll need a mental health assessment at some point, although I heard from the doctor that he’s okayed Varley to go ahead with an interview for now. You’ll need to get as much information out of him as you can, as quickly as you can, in case he displays more signs of mental instability. Talking of which… The suspect thinks you’re his father, did you know that?”

  Burgess nodded. “Um, yes. I’m surprised you haven’t heard—news rips through the station when it’s gossip, doesn’t it? Apparently I’m his half-brother, although DNA test results haven’t come back to confirm that as yet. But from what we’ve gathered so far, you may as well say we’re related. Which is why I’m in here and not in there with him.”

  “Sensible. Best to distance yourself.” Quint bit his bottom lip. “I just have to say—and I didn’t say it, I wasn’t in here with you, if you know what I’m saying—that if you do go in there, he’s going to want to know why you lied. About being his father.” He held up one hand, the other still holding the file to his chest. “No idea what that’s about, but he has a thing regarding not lying, it seems, or people telling lies. So just be prepared for some possible anger if you talk to him. That’s all I can really say.”

  “Thanks. I don’t plan on talking to him. If I have to for the case, fair enough, but it won’t be by choice.”

  Quint gave a short nod. “Well, I’ll just let Emerson know we’re ready to start then. I’ll mention the lying thing to him, too, by the way.”

  Quint left, and Burgess moved closer to the window. Shaw joined him at his side. Varley was still flat to the back wall, eyes closed. Was he asleep standing up or just thinking? Going by his body language, he was calm, not worried at all, his features unruffled. He was static, no jerking of his legs or tapping of his feet. Either he believed he hadn’t done anything wrong or he was so composed it was frightening.

  “Quint was letting us know Varley’s going to spill,” Shaw said.

  “I guessed that’s what he was saying. About the lying and whatnot. Makes our lives easier.”

  Burgess was grateful that Quint regularly informed him in some small way of how things were going to go. It made Burgess’ progression with suspects much smoother, knowing which path to take with questioning.

  “Shit, here we go,” Shaw said.

  Burgess held his breath. Emerson, Flemmings, and Quint entered the room. The uniform by the door approached Varley, who opened his eyes and looked at him as though startled, then seemed to relax as he maybe became aware of his surroundings.

  “Please take a seat, Mr Varley,” Emerson said while he and Flemmings sat themselves. Emerson set up the recording device.

  Varley sat without a struggle beside Quint and smiled. “I want to speak to my dad.”

  “That’s not possible, Mr Varley, because as you know, your father is deceased.” Emerson wasn’t one to beat around the bush.

  “He’s called Mr Varley, like me. He’s a detective.” Varley frowned.

  “Ah, Mr Varley is indeed a detective”—Emerson scratched the side of his nose, a signal he and Burgess employed while interviewing, to let Burgess know he might well have to come in on the discussion—“but I assure you, he isn’t your father. Now—”

  “I won’t talk to anyone but him.” Varley’s voice was that creepy childish tone he’d had in the pub. He pouted. Was he about to stamp his feet, too?

  “Shit.” Burgess blew out a long stream of air. “This isn’t going to go well.”

  Shaw shrugged. “Better he speaks to you than no one at all.”

  “Very well,” Emerson said. “I’ll see what Mr Varley is doing and whether he can spare the time to speak with you. We’re very busy, you know. Our lives don’t revolve around you.”

  Shaw laughed. “Good old Emerson. Always has to make them feel they’re not as important as they think.”

  “Might be a bad thing in this instance.” Burgess watched Emerson pause the recording then leave the room. “Us saying about an unstable life. What if he’s been ignored for most of his? Maybe he needs to feel important.”

  Emerson came in. “We can leave it five minutes or ten before you show up. Your call.”

  “I’ll come now.” Burgess went with Emerson.

  In the interview room, Burgess stood in the doorway a moment so he could study Varley’s reaction upon seeing him. The man’s eyes lit up, but then the light in them doused, indicating dark thoughts might possibly be scavenging through his mind for any unsettling feeling he might have, so they could be sparked and set off.

  Flemmings set the recorder going again. “Detective Burgess Varley has joined the interview.”

  God, that man’s voice is like a squeaky hinge.

  “Dad?” Varley narrowed his eyes.

  Yeah, you’re testing me. I get it.

  Burgess didn’t answer. Instead, he sat where Emerson had, beside Flemmings. Emerson remained by the closed door.

  Quint gave Burgess a frown and a slight shake of his head.

  Don’t lie? Oh, I won’t be lying.

  “I’m not your father,” Burgess said. “You know that. And I think you know who I really am, you just haven’t admitted it to yourself yet. Like I haven’t properly admitted who you are.”

  “But you have the same name. And you look like him,” Varley said, his voice more mannish now.

  “Your father, and my father—dead.” Burgess wasn’t in the mood for sugar-coating anything. If he did, it might mean he cared. Which he didn’t. “And as you told me and Detective Shaw Peters in Squatter’s Rights, you watched your father’s murder. Who is she?”

  Varley screwed his face up. “No, I’m not talking to you. Go away, fucking bitch.”

  “All right.” Burgess rose.

  “Not you,” Varley said. “I wasn’t saying that to you.”

  Burgess lowered back to his seat. “So?”

  “She took me to see Beautiful Lady, and Beautiful Lady slapped her. Then she took me to see my dad at the shiny building. It was so hot. And she hit him with some wood until he bled all over the place. Is your name William?”

  “No.” There were so many questions that Burgess didn’t know where to go next. He wanted to know about his father’s death more than anything, but he owed it to Anita and the two male victims to ask about them, too. And Emily and Thomas Hornton. “Did you kill your mother and your stepfather?”

  “I killed her and The Man. I sent them away so they couldn’t smack me anymore.” Varley gazed at the tabletop.

  Fuck. Abused? I didn’t want to hear that. “Why did they smack you?”

  “Because I’m a fucking ugly kid. I was in the way. She couldn’t live her life the way she wanted because I was there. And Gran wanted me, but she wouldn’t let me go.”

  “That doesn’t make sense. If she didn’t want you, why not let you live with your gran?”

  “Because she wanted to prove to Gran that she could bring me up on her own.” He paused. Frowned. “I will tell him. I will bloody tell him, you fucking bitch. Don’t you try to keep me quiet now.”

  Burgess looked at everyone around the table in turn, then to Emerson at the door, then the uniform, who stood against the right-hand wall.
Burgess shrugged and widened his eyes.

  “Did you kill Anita Curtis and two other men?” Might as well be direct.

  “I killed Anita, The Man Point Two, and The Man Point Three.”

  It was apparent that a medical assessment was needed. Burgess wasn’t prepared to go on for much longer, as Varley was getting visibly distressed, twitching his body and drumming his feet on the floor. No matter how much Burgess wanted information, no matter how vile a killer this man was, he was still a human being, and Burgess wouldn’t have any hand in upsetting him unnecessarily.

  Why change now? Why care about a killer being a human being now? Is that because he’s related to me?

  Burgess would try one more thing to secure a proper confession, then he was out of there. He opened the file Emerson had brought in with him and searched for the photos he needed.

  “Did you steal this? And this?” Burgess shuddered as he slid the images across the desk.

  Varley stared at them. “I stole the tarantula from Amazing Arachnids but bought the moth from the zoo man.”

  “I see. Mr Varley has looked at evidence numbers E-fifty-one and E-fifty-two.” Burgess slid the images beneath the folder then selected photocopies of pictures from the murder files of Emily and Thomas Hornton. “Did you kill these people?”

  “I did.” Varley sniffed. “That is her and The Man.” He closed his eyes.

  “Mr Varley has looked at evidence numbers E-fifty-three and E-fifty-four.” Burgess took out images of Anita and the two male victims. “Here we have evidence numbers E-fifty-five, E-Fifty-six, and E-fifty-seven. I am showing them to Mr Varley now. Mr Varley, did you kill these people?”

  Varley opened his eyes. “I did. I know who you are. You’re that boy in the park and the boy who stood behind Beautiful Lady on the day she slapped her. You were at the house when I was watching this morning. I thought you were William, but you’re not. Beautiful Lady is your mother?”

  You know she is.

  “You’ve got the same father as me.” Twitch. Twitch. “Piss off, bitch.” He drummed his feet harder. “I’m in the web. Caught in the web. Stop putting it on me. The spider, it’s crawling on my face. The moth’s flapping.” He calmed—chilling—and stared at Burgess. “William didn’t want me, but he wanted you. That isn’t very fair, is it?”

  “No.” Burgess didn’t know what else to say, but he glanced at Quint, all but begging him to call a halt on this interview, to stop Burgess from proceeding, from finding out more—for his own benefit. Varley’s mannerisms were bothering him. As was the idea the man might turn violent. A psychiatrist needed to take over and find out the significance of the spider and moth. “No, it isn’t very fair at all, but that wasn’t your fault.”

  “No, and it wasn’t my fault I killed all those people. She made me do it. Her and The Man. I love you, Gran.”

  If no one else was going to call time, Burgess would do it. “Interview suspended at…” He glanced at his watch then reeled off the time. “Suspect needs a break and a medical evaluation.”

  Burgess got up, not looking at Varley but at Emerson. He shrugged an apology, said, “Help yourself to coffee.”

  Emerson nodded. Seemed a shedload of sympathy was in his eyes.

  Burgess turned away.

  They had the main confession. The details could come later. Emerson could deal with Varley overnight. Burgess was going the fuck home.

  “I always wanted a brother,” Varley whispered. “Someone to hide under the spider quilt with me. But I’m glad you weren’t my brother. I wouldn’t have wanted you to get those smacks. I took them all for you instead.”

  Burgess’ eyes stung. Fuck it.

  It was pointless explaining to Varley he hadn’t taken the smacks for him. That there was no way in hell Burgess would ever have gone to live with Emily. The man wasn’t well.

  Poor bastard.

  Poor victims.

  “I was a good boy, doing that for you, wasn’t I?” Varley asked.

  “Yes,” Burgess said. “You were.”

  He didn’t add that Varley was a bad boy for so many other things. If he did, he had a feeling Varley would go off on one. Sounded to Burgess like Varley had been labelled bad from the word go.

  Burgess left the room.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  There was so much paperwork to do. Still so many things to do. Finding out who the two male victims were, for one, but there had been no further news on that. Somewhere out there were two families who had no idea their loved ones were dead, used as pawns in a game by a man who’d said his mother and stepfather had made him kill them. What kind of excuse was that? Did he even want to know?

  Burgess sighed, leant back in his desk chair, his shoes off, feet propped on the desk, although his socks didn’t have holes in them. Yeah, he was giving it a go, being more like Shaw and loosening up, but he wasn’t entirely comfortable sprawling out like this. His mother would have a fit if she saw him.

  He’d pick her up from the hotel tomorrow. Take her out for a meal and explain everything. An ideal place, a restaurant. She wouldn’t dare break down in public. But maybe she wouldn’t break down anyway, wherever he told her. She clearly had more mettle in her than Burgess had ever realised. Regardless, it was going to hurt her, but he’d bet his last quid she’d go home to lick her wounds, behind her starched net curtains where she’d again watch the world drift by without her. So many years wasted, doing that. Lost in her memories and the day-to-day workings of other people’s lives.

  Burgess was the same as her in more ways than one. Only he didn’t look through net curtains. He had work as his shield, but he did immerse himself in other people’s lives all right. Helping them, being there for them.

  Could he continue denying his past, though? He doubted it. Not now he’d discovered what he had about his father. That the idol his mother had created for herself and Burgess no longer existed, a paedophile standing in his place, something Burgess wouldn’t be able to get over easily, if at all. And he had no doubt whatsoever that Shaw would see to it that Burgess faced each snippet of pain, one at a time, until they were dealt with, buried all over again, but put to rest this time, a gravestone marking every one of them. It would be hard—terrible, in fact—but not as terrible as what Gordon would be going through. Had already been going through for endless years.

  If what Burgess suspected was right, all that abuse and confusion, Gordon’s mind would be the biggest cemetery of them all.

  “All right there?” Shaw asked from where he lounged on the other side of the desk, in the same position as Burgess, no holes in his socks either because, for fuck’s sake, they were brand-fucking-new and had once belonged to Burgess.

  Get over it. So he’s got your socks on. Your whole outfit. Your special tie. Big deal. Nothing in the grand scheme of things.

  “Yeah,” Burgess said. “Just thinking.”

  “About?” Shaw rocked his chair.

  He also circled his finger around the top of his cup, further reminding Burgess of his mother when she’d done the same thing.

  “Mum. Dad. Gordon. Not sure I want to deal with everything.” Burgess’ mind filled with questions, and they jostled there, desperate to be answered immediately. But he couldn’t handle all that at once. Slow and steady would win the race. “How Mum’s going to deal with knowing Emily was fifteen when she was with Dad. How Dad could even think about going with someone so young—whether she lied about her age or not, had she been eighteen, she was still too young for him in my eyes. And how the hell Gordon is going to cope with the rest of his life. If I thought my past was bad, my dad being killed and all that…”

  “Yeah, it’s going to be tough. Like I said before, I wouldn’t want to be Burgess Varley, but I’ll give it a good go at being your therapist, if you want. Maybe even help you get over your fear of those things you so dislike, too.”

  “I know you will.” Burgess shuddered at the thought of the things. “Just don’t push too hard, too soon, all r
ight?”

  Shaw nodded. Stopped rocking. Stopped circling his cup. “Want to go and see him?”

  “Who?” Burgess knew who.

  “Gordon. Should have been seen by the doctor by now.”

  Did Burgess want that? Should he visit with Gordon, see him as only his half-brother for a while instead of the mishmash of killer-brother he’d previously been in Burgess’ head? No, he didn’t want it, he needed it. Selfish of him, but he had to appease that part of himself that was crying out that he shouldn’t abandon family when they needed him the most. But Gordon wasn’t really family. Not in that sense.

  Shit, it was all so confusing emotionally.

  “Maybe for a short while,” he said. “With you outside the door. And the peep hatch has to be open.”

  “You’re scared of him?” Not a reproach or a jibe from Shaw, just a gentle query.

  “I think so. We still don’t know what he’s capable of, how angry he might get. But the fear comes from what might happen in another way. That I’ll have feelings other than hate for a killer—and I’ve never wanted that. Since Dad…well, knowing how broken a family is after a loved one has been murdered… Wouldn’t I be a hypocrite in giving the bloke sympathy, when all these years I’ve hated every killer out there for what they do?”

  Shaw shrugged. “I feel sorry for him. So what? Doesn’t mean I care less for the victims or their families. Just means I have it in me to see all sides. To understand. Maybe you should look at it that way, too, eh? Gordon had a family—fucking dysfunctional, but hey. Gordon was an innocent party once. For whatever reason, he killed to make things better, I’m assuming. Mental illness isn’t something we can fully explain. What makes sense to Gordon won’t make sense to us—or it might make sense once we know his logic, just that it isn’t lawful sense, if you get me. To him it was right, and I think he needs help in seeing it wasn’t right—if he can handle that.”