Caught in the Web by Emmy Ellis (classic english novels .TXT) 📕

the dressing table. Inside is a comb and brush—make sure they’re definitely in there. Take the box back to the station to have it processed as evidence—I need a DNA done on the hairs. Speak with the DCI and ask him to authorise that test. Tell him I’ll explain later.”

“Okay, sir.”

Burgess turned then followed Shaw down the stairs. Said to the officer just inside the doorway, “Do not move. Do not let anyone but police inside. Lewis will be here shortly.”

Then they were out on the pavement, Burgess staring across at Squatter’s Rights, Shaw beside him. Traffic had decided to pick up—sod’s law, that—and Burgess ran out into the middle of the road, stopped, and held his hand up so two cars coming in opposite directions slowed to a halt. Shaw made it across, and Burgess joined him, out of breath from adrenaline and a little bit of fear. Yeah, fear was there. He didn’t know what he’d find inside that pub—who he’d find. Gordon Varley might be unstable. He might lash out at them.

Should have brought a couple of uniforms with us.

At the pub door, Shaw glanced up then down the street, assessing the area. Burgess checked out the lower windows. Gordon Varley stared back at him through one of them.

Burgess’ stomach seemed to plummet right down into his toes. His skin grew clammy, and his heart rate hammered out an unholy tune, something the Devil might dance to.

“Shit, he’s right there,” Burgess whispered. “The seat by the window.”

Shaw looked. “He appears confused.”

“I couldn’t give a fuck. I’m going in.”

Burgess shoved through the doorway and into the building, his pulse erratic in his neck. As routine, he scanned his surroundings. People chatted and laughed, their obliviousness something Burgess was jealous of. He turned right to set eyes on the man who had been on his mind too bloody much the past two days. It was like staring at himself a few years ago, before wrinkles had climbed aboard his face and made themselves at home. Like staring at his father.

His mother came into his mind then. She must have crapped bricks seeing this man standing by that hedge, thinking her husband was back from the dead.

Gordon Varley sat there, knife and fork in hand, the remains of a pie and chip dinner perched on the table.

Who calmly eats his dinner after killing someone?

Stepping forwards, Burgess stood in front of the table and glared down at him. “Gordon Varley?”

“Yes, Dad?” he said.

Taken aback, Burgess lost the ability to speak. Varley smiled. It creeped Burgess out the way Varley’s face had transformed from a man in his thirties to a kid of about ten. And his voice. It had been soft. Childlike.

A shudder rippled down Burgess’ spine, then back up again to maraud his scalp with slithering fingers.

“Are you all right, Dad? Do you need to sit down? It must be a shock to see me after all these years.” Varley placed his knife and fork on his plate side by side then rested his hands on his lap. “I’m so glad you came. Did you come to celebrate with me?”

That weird voice again. Like the recording of a possessed kid was coming out of the man’s mouth. It didn’t fit with the image of the bloke sitting before him. He was good-looking, had a trendy top on, and his hair, although somewhat untidy, was in the style of the current time.

“Gordon Varley, I need you to come down to the station with me so we can have a little chat.” Burgess would forego reading him his rights—for now.

He sensed other customers staring. There was a distinct hush compared to when they’d walked in.

“The police station?” Varley tilted his head.

“Yes, the police station.”

Burgess unclipped the cuffs from his belt beneath his suit jacket. Held them in front of him to gauge Varley’s reaction.

None whatsoever.

“Stand up, please, Gordon.”

Varley rose in what seemed like slow motion, his movements fluid, indicating he either wasn’t bothered by what was happening or he was as bewildered as his face now suggested. “I’ll need to put on my hat and coat. Gran said if you wear a coat inside, you won’t feel the benefit, and if you go out without one on, you’ll get a bad cold. Would you have told me that, Dad?”

This man was clearly unstable. God knew what he’d been through in life to have ended up this way. And Burgess didn’t trust him about the coat and hat. It could be a ploy to get his hands on a weapon hidden in one of the pockets.

“We’re only going over the road to the car,” Burgess said. “You won’t catch a cold without your coat for the length of time we’ll be outside.”

“But Gran said—” A plaintive wail.

“Come on.” Burgess gritted his teeth. Fuck it, but he felt sorry for him, despite his best efforts not to.

Varley rounded the table, glancing at his coat and hat as though desperate not to leave them behind. On his guard, Burgess stepped backwards. Shaw had positioned himself at the door, his stance telling Burgess he was ready to pounce if necessary.

Stopping in front of Burgess, Varley studied him, his head jerking side to side—a bird checking out his prey? Or a bird just fascinated by what he saw? “How are you alive? She killed you. I saw it. You saw me there. So how are you here?”

It was hurting Burgess to look at him. For so many reasons. To listen to him. This man thought Burgess was their father. This man, from what he’d said, had seen their father’s murder.

He’s also a murderer, remember that. Keep it professional.

“Turn around, please.”

The man’s eyes—Christ, they were soul-wrenching. Full of misunderstanding. Confusion. Trust? It was like staring into his father’s, the same flecks