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

shops in the street behind Burgess. The scent of washing drifted by—Letty’s Launderette was already open for business then.

Marla, her body covered in a white forensics suit, the hood concealing her short blonde hair, hunched over the victim.

While she worked, Burgess waited for someone to bring him a suit so he could join her and find out a little of what was going on. If Burgess had been his normally astute self he’d have dumped a new stack of protective gear in his car boot, but he’d forgotten to top them up when he’d used the last one the other day. Couldn’t be at the peak of his game all the time, could he, what with all that paperwork sitting on his desk and a cold case continually plaguing his mind. And with Shaw acting a lazy, inconsiderate dick—not his usual character, either—and annoying the hell out of Burgess in the process… Now there was this case to add to everything else, and once again, guilt attacked him for thinking he could really have done without a new murder inquiry on his plate.

If that’s what this is.

Who was he trying to kid? Of course it was murder. Why else would a naked woman be on her back in an alley? Taking a fucking rest?

Shit.

He was dying for a cigarette. He’d finally given up a year ago. What he wouldn’t do for something to take the edge off his nerves. A good screw would deal with that, but he didn’t have the time. Or he didn’t make the time. He tended to work late, work early, on the job during his days off, too. No life. Typical copper. A sad, walking cliché.

He’d laugh, but it wasn’t funny.

A uniform came over, green and new to the job if Burgess was any judge, and handed him a suit, booties, and gloves with a shaky “There you go, sir.” He scuttled off, just behind Burgess, no doubt to man the street and make sure no one without authority breached the police cordon.

Suit and booties on, latex gloves clutching tightly at his fingers, Burgess took a deep breath then strode towards Marla. He was tired but he’d plod on, as usual. Nothing else he could do, was there. It wasn’t like he had someone at home he’d rather be with. Or someone permanent in his life. Married to the damn job, not a person.

Another cliché.

He stopped to the left of the victim, beside her upper arm. He always hated thinking of them that way—a victim—but that was what the dead woman was, no point in being gentle about it. In an ideal world, and if he were an ideal person, he’d prefer to see her as a woman who’d once been full of life, but that led to emotions, and he didn’t do those too well.

“Morning.” Marla looked up at him. “Not a nice day for it.”

She glanced through the tent opening at the sky, probably thinking, as Burgess had done when he’d arrived on the scene, that if they didn’t get a move on it’d piss down in a minute.

“No.” He smiled. Just. “Did you have a late night? Bags under your eyes bigger than a supermarket carrier.”

“Such an eloquent way with words.” She moved her head to stare at him. “My new puppy kept me up. Whining. Needed lots of cuddles. So I ended up staying the night at his place.”

“Don’t tell me, you held his paw until he dozed off.” It wouldn’t surprise him at all. “Soft-hearted bugger, staying with him. Puppies—or as normal people call them, new lovers—are a lot of hard work.”

“They are, but some are worth the trouble.” She raised her eyebrows and gave him a pointed glare. “And whether I held his paw or not is none of your business.” She blushed but smiled. “Anyway, how do you know that’s what I held?”

“I’m a detective.”

“Very funny.”

“I can be.” He winked.

“For your information, I held his co—”

“Um, no more. The visual is too much.” He sighed. “So, what do we have here?”

“And there was me enjoying our chat, thinking you were going to tell me you spent the night with a puppy yourself.” She raised her eyebrows farther.

He wasn’t going to answer that one. She knew he didn’t have it in him to find a woman for a relationship. “You’re not only a soft-hearted bugger, but a nosy one. Anyway, can’t stand about gossiping too much on work time, can we. The DCI will have our guts for garters. Or mine, anyway, now that you’re exempt from his wrath. Good move, getting that puppy.”

“He likes garters.” She gave him a conspiratorial grin. “Red frilly ones draped over his face. But that’s gossip for after work. In The Pig and Whistle later, say, six o’clock?”

“Yeah, providing this case doesn’t…well, you know how it goes.”

She nodded. “I’ll be there anyway, whether you turn up or not, so it’s no biggie. Now”—she pointed at the victim—“this appears as though she’s just asleep, so we have no obvious cause of death.”

He studied the frosty-skinned dead woman. On her back, arms down by her sides, legs straight and together, she could have already been in position on the mortuary slab, waiting for her postmortem. No bruising to indicate an assault and battery. Blue tinge around her lips—on most of her skin, actually. Eyes and mouth closed, brunette hair brushed nicely. Clean. Straight bob, recently styled.

“And it’s unnerving for me,” Marla went on, “if the cause of death is not immediately apparent. She’s perfect, no marks to give anything away. I’ll have to do a more thorough inspection once I’m at the morgue, but I can tell you she’s been dead a while, so death occurred around about two a.m., poor girl. Rigor is starting. She’s what, twenty-five-ish, something like that? What do you reckon?”

Burgess