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

kill, you know that. But him? Is it because he looks like my father that I feel sorry for the bastard? This isn’t a man I should have compassion for. He took Anita away from her parents. He took two men’s lives away. Created chaos and mourning and so many other dreadful emotions. Yet I’m sitting here feeling fucking sorry for him, as well as the victims and their families.”

“Means you’re growing up.” Shaw wondered if that had come out right. Decided it hadn’t. “Maturing, I mean. Seeing things from all sides, all colours, not just in black and white. It won’t hurt you to have an understanding of the other side of the coin. Gordon Varley… Jesus, he’s possibly had a fucked-up life. What that does to the mind…”

“Yeah. I know. Let’s go.”

Shaw shut his mouth tightly and drove to the new canal site, silence permeating the car except for the hum of the engine and Burgess sighing and muttering “Bollocks!” every so often.

Shaw parked up. They walked together towards a break in the hedge. The white tent peered over the top of it, and Burgess slapped his outer thigh.

“For God’s sake…” he said.

“Someone else will have spare protective clothing there,” Shaw said.

“How did you know that’s what I meant?”

“Because I’ve worked with you for so bloody long.”

Burgess slipped through the break in the hedge, and a uniformed officer nodded in recognition. A stack of protective gear leant haphazardly to the left against the greenery, and Burgess handed some to Shaw. They dressed. The day—or their official shift—was drawing to a close and, resigning himself to a good few hours on the job yet, Shaw slid booties over his shoes, the sudden urge for one of Burgess’ strong coffees tugging at him.

Heading for the tent, Shaw then waited for Burgess to go inside first. Marla was there, kneeling beside the victim, and she glanced over at them. She rose to her feet, face grim.

“All right, Burge, Shaw?” She always looked good, even with the suit hood on, the elastic gripping at the outer edges of her face and pinching the skin. “Slightly different this time, although I still say it’s the same killer. This poor bloke was wearing a wig. And no penis removal. Otherwise, everything’s the same. Needle mark on the nape et cetera.”

Emerson strode over from where he’d been talking to forensics. “Hello, gentlemen.” He glanced down at Shaw’s hands. “Didn’t bring me any coffee then?”

“Should we have?” Burgess asked.

“I’d have thought so, seeing as I was brought on shift early.” Emerson smiled.

“What, like you bring me coffee when you call me in early?” Burgess asked. “Jog on, mate. And no, you’re not having one of my coffees when you get back to the station now.” A touch of a grin tweaked his lips.

Thank God he can still joke around.

“And on that note… Another tramp, by the looks of things.” Emerson raised his hand to point at the victim. “So, if our suspect doesn’t cough up any information, we’re going to need to send officers out again to chat to the homeless, see if they noticed anything odd this time.”

“Well, I’m all but done here,” Marla said. “I’ll take him back, do my thing, let you know if I find anything new. Doubt I will, though. And would you believe it? The chief suggested overtime for me. Something about wanting to keep the same pathologist for consistency.” She gave a sly smile. “I’m wondering whether my distaste for King is rubbing off on him.”

“Everyone has a distaste for King,” Shaw said.

“True.” Marla laughed. “And so they should, the tosser. Anyway, I must get on. I did want to get a drink in at The Pig tonight but I’ll just have to settle for a glass of red at home later on. Oh, the joys of our professions.” She waved them away.

“I may as well head to the station then,” Emerson said. “There’s a pod of coffee waiting for me in your office, Burge.”

“Piss off. You’re needed in the interview room.” Burgess studied the ground, or maybe the booties shrouding his fancy shoes. “Varley’s in a holding cell. By the time we get back his solicitor might have arrived.”

“You in on it with me?” Emerson asked.

“I’ll stay behind the two-way mirror, thanks,” Burgess said. “Unless you need me in there.”

“Play it by ear, shall we?” Emerson gave him a wink.

“All right.”

They turned and left the tent, the weird Flemmings trailing behind them. Shaw wondered if Emerson would, in fact, steal another of Burgess’ coffees or whether he didn’t dare. So much for their plan of stopping off at Tesco after visiting Varley’s flat. Emerson would be lucky to find any coffee in that office at all.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Well, this was exciting. Gordon was in a room at the police station, waiting for his dad to come back. He felt young again, but not in the same way as he’d been while actually young. None of that worry chewed at him, no fear that he was going to get a slap from her or The Man. This was different—how his childhood feelings should have been, he imagined. He was in the care of his dad now, and nothing could spoil that.

He was sitting on a bed. It had a thin mattress covered in blue plastic sheeting. The walls were plain, no pictures or anything nice to look at while waiting for time to pass, so he stared at the door with its small hatch. Policemen opened it and peered in at him from time to time, although why they did that when a camera was sitting up there in the corner he didn’t know.

The hatch opened again.

“Where’s my dad?” he asked.

The two eyes and a nose that filled the rectangular opening belonged to a man,