Fuck.
Burgess nodded at Lewis and Yaqui—an emergency warrant had already been obtained to search the property. The officers slid on booties and gloves then went upstairs, while Burgess and Shaw put on booties then followed the woman into the kitchen.
Pale wood Formica cabinets, black speckled worktops—standard for a rented property. Black SMEG fridge. All other appliances brushed steel, black trims. Silver mug tree, four black cups, two out of the usual set of six missing. Roman window blind, black again, white back door, fenced garden to the rear.
“This might seem a strange request, Mrs Curtis,” Burgess said, “but could you put on a pair of these gloves and make the drinks using these cups and spoons, please?” He didn’t know of any other detective in his division who insisted on this, but they bloody should. Tainting a possible abduction scene more than necessary just brought extra work and made things harder for those who sifted through the evidence. Plus, they shouldn’t really be making drinks anyway, so at least this covered their arses.
“Oh. Okay.” She appeared flummoxed, took the gloves from Shaw, and snapped them on while frowning at their bootied feet. “Um, is there something I need to worry about?” Her hands shook.
How the hell do I put this?
He’d ignore her question for now—and keep things in the present tense until he was absolutely sure Anita was their victim. DNA samples would be taken from this house for matching, and he’d ask her mother for a picture of Anita soon. “Mrs Curtis, does Anita have a boyfriend?”
She flicked the kettle on. Held out her hand for the cups, taking them from Burgess. “Already boiled this once so it’ll only be a few seconds. Um…Anita said she’d just started seeing someone, actually, but I haven’t met him yet. Why, is there a problem?” She set five cups out in a row then dragged an instant coffee canister across the worktop. Got on with sorting the drinks. All very efficient.
“Did she tell you his name?” Burgess asked.
She laughed. It sounded unsteady, or maybe showed she was exasperated that he wasn’t answering her questions. “She will eventually, I’m sure, but she’s cagey about the men in her life until she’s been with them for more than a month. Doesn’t trust they’ll stick around. Why, is he a bad lot? Is that why you’re here, because of him?”
He had to give her something. “Maybe.” Burgess would leave it at that.
The kettle was a noisy sod, the element rumbling, although the appliance appeared pretty new.
“Did she socialise much?” he asked.
“She usually goes out on a Friday night with her friends from work. They wind down for a couple of hours, then she gets a takeaway and comes home, has a glass of wine while catching up on any telly she’s missed during the week.” She laughed again. “Creature of habit.”
Interesting. So if someone had taken a shine to her, had watched her, her pattern would most probably have been the same week after week.
Mercifully, the kettle stopped boiling, and she poured the water, added milk, then nodded at the cups.
“Help yourself to sugar.” She pulled another canister over and took a clean spoon from out of a drawer. Placing it on the worktop, she leant back against the cooker and folded her arms across her belly. The gloves looked strange on her. Out of place.
Is she bracing herself for bad news? Needs to feel she’s protected by hugging herself?
“Thanks.” Shaw added one sugar to his and moved away to stand in front of the fridge and sip.
Burgess did the same. The coffee was surprisingly good for instant and went down well. Or maybe it tasted all right because he hadn’t had one since he’d been in the office with Shaw. “Very nice. Much appreciated.” He smiled. “Do you know what she was doing last night, by any chance?”
“No idea,” Mrs Curtis said. “Like I told you earlier, I haven’t spoken to her for a few days. But we had an agreement that so long as she posted on Facebook every day so I know she’s all right, I don’t trouble her, and even then, I’d wait for a couple of days without any posts before I texted to make sure she was okay. Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t worry, though. I believe adult children should contact their parents because they want to, when they want to, not because of some moral guilt trip or sense of duty.”
She shuddered. Maybe she’d suffered that kind of thing from her own parents and didn’t want her children to feel cornered like she possibly had.
“Would it be usual for her to let a man into her home after midnight?” he asked. It was a leading question—she could imagine all sorts from it—but considering what she’d be told in a few minutes, it was nothing in comparison. Shit, he hated keeping information back until he’d received some himself, but it was vital to get even a slight feel for who Anita had been while her mother was unaware and it was confirmed Anita had been the one in the alley this morning. Besides, revealing all too soon meant family members broke down and were no use to anyone. He felt bad about that, too, his selfish need for leads taking over their right to know something bad had happened.
“I suppose if her latest fella does weird shifts she might. Or maybe he just fancied coming round here. I remember those days.” She smiled, picked up a Styrofoam cup, and frowned as it touched her lips.
Not the best of cups to drink out of, granted, but needs must.
“Do you have a picture of Anita?” he asked and counted in his head, waiting for Mrs Curtis to ask why he needed
