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

Instead, he tapped a pen on his desk, the words of the report going fuzzy as he let his eyes relax. “What are the bloody odds that the one woman who actually noticed others in the vicinity goes off sick, and the police don’t follow it up that she hasn’t been spoken to? In a murder inquiry, for fuck’s sake.”

Shaw strode over to the desk and plopped into the spare chair, then glanced across at Burgess, frowning as though he wasn’t sure which case Burgess was referring to and didn’t want to say.

“My father’s murder, by the way,” Burgess said.

“Why are you asking me that? You know how easily that can be done. Shit, we’ve got untied threads all over the place here, uniforms out there scouring the streets for info, coppers in here doing the same. Building a case against the suspect now, rather than looking for clues to find him. We’re overworked, tired—or at least I am anyway—so I can easily understand not remembering to call back on an ill witness when everything else is going on.”

“Fair point. Suppose I’m tetchy about it because it’s to do with my dad, although I’d like to think I’d be tetchy about it whoever was involved. If she’d been spoken to…”

“Yeah, well, sounds like she wasn’t.” Shaw eyed him with suspicion—that look he gave when he was summing Burgess up. “And I suppose now you’re thinking that if she had been interviewed, the woman and her child might have been found, and Gordon—let’s just say he was the child—possibly wouldn’t have gone on to kill anyone because his mother would have been arrested for murder, and he would have gone to live with his gran, leading a much more stable life, and we wouldn’t be sitting here dealing with this now.”

“Something like that, yes. You’re assuming he had an unstable life—he might not have done, you know.”

“I’d say he had, going by him telling us he’d witnessed his father’s murder. How can that kind of thing not lead to instability? And if by sheer luck it wasn’t unstable, then maybe he was just born that way. You know, odd—because, let’s face it, he was bloody odd in the pub. So, therefore, he might have killed people anyway. Might be that way inclined. You may want to get the idea of bad policing out of your head. It was a slip-up—we all make them, we’re human—and it just so happened to be an extremely relevant witness that was missed. What gets me is, how come all the other people didn’t notice the woman and her child? What, did they have their heads up their arses or something?”

Burgess chuckled. It was nice to relieve some tension. “You know what it’s like. Tunnel vision. Mind focused elsewhere. Being an adult is nothing like I thought it would be. I had no idea I’d be just as consumed by my thoughts as I’d been while a kid.” He jerked his thumb at the wall to his right and laughed a bit more. “I can wander down the corridor out there, reach the end, and wonder how the hell I got there. Probably what those people were doing. Wanted their lunch, didn’t they. A breather from work.”

“I suppose. But sixteen people who saw no one else? Christ.”

“Shit happens.” Funny how after talking about it, their opinions seemed to have switched. Burgess shrugged. “Where the fuck is that solicitor?” He picked up the phone and rang through to Emerson’s office. “Any news on when the interview’s starting?”

“Um, Varley’s had a meltdown,” Emerson said. “Been sitting there muttering to himself, by all accounts. Just had a doctor in to see him, and he went from being irritated—swearing and the like—to quiet and reserved. Doctor said he’s fine to interview, although he does want to be called back in if Varley shows signs of serious mental distress. So, in answer to your question, ten minutes. I was just on my way to get one of your coffees—could have saved you the phone call.”

Burgess slapped the phone into its cradle and walked over to his coffee machine. There were several boxes on top, but it didn’t mean they had any pods in the buggers. He picked one up, the weight too light for his liking, and peered inside.

One pod.

“Someone else has been drinking these while we’re not here,” he said. “I tell you, if I catch them at it… Or better yet, I’m going to lock them away.” He grabbed at the other boxes, surprised at their weight. He placed them down again. They hadn’t been opened. “Hang on, these are new.”

“Where do you think I’ve been?” Shaw asked. “I nipped to Tesco. Overtime is in our future, which means coffee needs to be an’ all. Plus, I owe you some. I’ve been drinking a fair bit lately.”

“You bloody beauty.” A sharp rap on the door, and Burgess said, “Come in, Emerson.” Like it would be anyone else. Bet the sod spotted Shaw with the new coffee.

Emerson walked in, eyed the pod boxes, and grinned.

“One,” Burgess said, holding up a finger. “One coffee while we discuss how the interview should go. Then no more, ever, got that?”

Emerson grinned wider. “Whatever you say, Burge.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Gordon was in a room with a man. A solicitor, Mr Quint, who’d asked him what he’d been doing the past two nights and days. Of course, Gordon had told the truth—mustn’t lie, mustn’t lie—and Mr Quint had frowned and gasped once or twice during Gordon’s explanation of his whereabouts. That wasn’t surprising—what Gordon had done was dreadful, he knew that all right—but it had been necessary, and he’d tried to tell Mr Quint that, but the man had told him that if Gordon wanted to stay out of prison, he shouldn’t tell the police