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

was a coincidence earlier? It’s looking likely it might not be.”

“Hmm.”

“We need to find the woman. The child. Who’d be what, about thirty-five now, thirty-six?” Shaw asked.

“Same as the bloke in the picture with Anita, yes.” Burgess swallowed to ease the tightness in his throat. If this were all true, his half-brother was…

Fuck it. Fuck. It.

“You might be taken off the case,” Shaw said.

“I know.”

“But we could keep what you’ve remembered quiet for as long as we can, you know, if you want to stay on and catch him.”

“How? How the hell do we not share this information now?”

“Look, what if we go with it on our own for today, then if we find the woman and her son, you talk to the DCI. Say you didn’t believe it at first, that you thought, which you did, that the dates and the bloke looking similar to your dad was a huge coincidence?”

“I can live with that.” Burgess nodded. “I honestly forgot about that conversation until just now, so I can say I didn’t remember without it being a lie.”

“Were you there when she called round? The woman and the child?”

“I think so. Something I’ll delve into more once we’ve got this over and done with—seeing my mother, I mean.”

“All right.”

Burgess looked through the passenger-side window at the house. It had been considered posh back in the day, people probably thinking it belonged to folks who had a bit of money behind them. Burgess’ childhood had been pretty privileged. He’d never gone hungry, never had dirty clothes, always had a full belly. Now the building appeared as a house the same as any other from that decade, lost amongst the newer builds that had sprouted up on the outskirts of the estate. His family home was somewhat dated now he came to think of it. But his mother had always carried that air about her, like she was well-to-do, her house a status symbol and proof she wasn’t like them, other women who struggled to get by day to day.

She’s a snob. Might as well face it.

And she’d passed her pristine clothing obsession down to Burgess, the need for his home to be spotless. That memory—there was more to it and how it affected him. How he’d thought it had been his father’s death that had prevented him from committing to anyone in a relationship—the fear of losing them. Perhaps it had more to do with infidelity and receiving the crushing news that your husband had another child with someone else. It must have stuck in his mind, that, stopping him from going into a permanent pairing.

Accept that and deal with it later.

He sighed. “Best be getting on with it then.”

Out of the car, Burgess led the way up the path, no longer feeling like the copper turning up to give bad news about a death, but one sent to rip an old woman’s soul apart all over again with things from the past that would have remained hidden if a man hadn’t taken it upon himself to murder two people.

How strange life was. How clever, how sneaky to hold secrets then spew them out years down the line.

He knocked on the door—he’d relinquished his keys when he’d moved out, and besides, his mother wouldn’t want him just walking in. She had standards, she’d always said, and opening the door to him instead of him just waltzing in was one of them.

The shape of her approaching was a fuzzy silhouette through the mottled glass, then the handle turned down and she opened the door, surprise on her face that her son was standing there.

“Burgess. How lovely to see you!”

You won’t think that in a minute.

“Mum.”

She stepped back, arm extended, gesturing for them to go inside. “And Shaw. To what do I owe this pleasure?” She patted her hair, something she’d always done, and smoothed her lips over each other, ensuring her pink lipstick was evenly spread.

Burgess went inside first. “Just a few questions. Thought you’d be able to help with a case we’re on.”

Shaw came in and closed the door, and Burgess followed his mother into the kitchen at the back.

“Oh, not those dreadful murders,” she said, busying herself with the coffee machine.

“Afraid so.” Burgess sat at the pine table.

Shaw followed suit, sitting on the opposite side, near the door. “Terrible business.”

“Oh, I’m sure it is,” she said. “That poor woman. And this morning it’s a man, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Burgess said.

“I saw it on the news.” She poured from the coffee carafe into china cups, added cream and sugar, then placed the cups on saucers.

Burgess thanked God he hadn’t gone as far as to have those in his house, the saucers. She joined them at the table, perching beside Burgess.

Maybe it’d be easier that way, to question her so he didn’t have to look directly into her face. Maybe it would be better if Shaw did the talking. Not so personal. Accusatory. Burgess glanced at Shaw, who nodded, getting the gist of it.

A conversation ensued, coffee sipped along the way, his mother chatting about the things Burgess had done as a child, stories Shaw had listened to on numerous occasions, the poor bastard. Shaw laughed in all the right places, and his mother tittered in her tinkling way, eyes gleaming with happiness from the past.

And we’re about to ruin it all.

“So, what can I help you with?” she asked. “Although I think I have an idea. Those murders bring back memories, you know.”

They do?

Shaw cleared his throat. “This news may be painful for you. I wanted to warn you about that straight off. It seems this case is related to your husband.”

Seems the killer’s related to him, more like.

Burgess wanted to laugh. The absurdity of it, the