Caught in the Web by Emmy Ellis (most read books in the world of all time TXT) 📗

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.”

“Thanks.”

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