“Who would like them? You’ve got to be an arsehole if you do, haven’t you? Seeing people so distraught… King will be on shift. He’s an arsehole, so maybe he enjoys them.”
Shaw felt rotten that they’d be in The Pig, drinking, living, letting the day’s events slough off them while Mr and Mrs Curtis faced the hardest task of their lives, the news they’d been given weighing them down so unbearably they could hardly stand under the pressure of it on their shoulders.
Kids. Shaw was never having any. Too much pain if he lost them.
Burgess started the engine. “And our work day isn’t over just yet. Marla will be waiting for us. Postmortem findings. Shit, I need to forward her email to Emerson.” He tugged his phone out and did that job. Slung his phone on the dash. Then took it off and popped it back in his pocket with a sheepish glance at Shaw.
“You’re learning,” Shaw said.
Burgess grinned then peeled out of the parking space, looking thankful they were leaving. Shaw dreaded to think what Burgess had felt when he’d heard Mrs Curtis break down. Had she sounded like Burgess’ mother when an officer had delivered similar news, a ten-year-old Burgess standing there watching it all through innocent, too-young eyes? Had it brought back a shitload of memories of his mother crumbling, knowing her husband wasn’t coming home and she faced bringing up her son alone? She’d done an admirable job at that and had remained single to this day, the love of her life irreplaceable.
“Are you all right?” Shaw asked.
“Not too bad, thanks.”
“Good.”
Shaw eyed the passing traffic through a windscreen spotted with rain. It must have tipped down while they’d been with Mrs Curtis. It was dark now, and the glow from streetlamps turned the droplets amber, the rear lights of cars red and fuzzy in the damp air. Folks scurried along the pavement, heads bent, scarves flapping, hurrying home to their nice warm houses. Life went on—was going on all around them—who knew what churning through people’s heads.
You just never know what they’re dealing with. We all appear normal, but inside tells a different story.
And wasn’t that the truth. He and Burgess would enter The Pig, looking to outsiders as though they were just nipping in for a quick pint after work, not a care in the world. Which they were, except they did care—too much, most of the time—and they’d be quietly discussing a woman’s death while others discussed what they’d be making for a late dinner once they got home.
Peas or carrots, mash or chips?
Crime of passion or random victim selection?
Burgess turned into The Pig’s car park and found a spot close to the door. They got out, Marla’s car nowhere in sight. She only lived up the road from here. Maybe she fancied more than one glass of wine and would walk home. Maybe she’d talked her assistant into coming out with her and they intended to get sloshed.
Shaw followed Burgess inside, the interior welcoming him, the atmosphere as close to a hug as he was going to get. Marla sat in a far corner, alone, a glass of red on the table in front of her. She was reading from a Kindle, a secret smile lifting her lips, her cheeks flushed. Blonde pixie hairdo in her usual messy style, a dash of red on her lips, and a change of clothes from formal to casual turned her into someone completely different from the person Shaw dealt with at work. Dark jeans and a black V-neck cashmere jumper looked good on her, as did the knee-high boots.
At the bar, Burgess ordered them both a pint of lager, a splash of lime in Shaw’s, then they headed to Marla’s table. She glanced up from reading, smiled, and turned off the device.
“Ah, you made it. Earlier than expected.” She hefted a huge red handbag onto her lap and dropped the Kindle inside. “Interrupting me at a juicy bit, I might add.”
Burgess sat beside her while Shaw plopped down opposite them, the wooden chair unforgiving on his arse and tailbone.
“Another of those bodice rippers, by any chance?” Burgess asked, shoulder nudging her, some of his beer froth slopping over the glass rim and sliding down to the base. He wiped it away with the side of his finger.
She laughed. “Hence the word juicy.”
“Oh, enough.” Burgess frowned, though it didn’t seem in disgust, more a visual reproof.
“Got to get my jollies somewhere when private company isn’t available.” She winked and reached for her wine.
Burgess winked back.
Ah, so she did have a bloke then. Was it the DCI, like everyone suspected? Shaw didn’t give a toss, not really, but then again, if the DCI was getting some between the sheets, he’d be easier to deal with. Less likely to ride their arses over this case and how quickly—or slowly—they were solving it.
“All right there, Shaw?” Marla asked.
“So-so,” he said. “Can’t complain really.”
“No, we can’t.” She took a sip. “We’re alive and well, after all.”
Shaw nodded. “I delivered the bad news.”
“Aww, shit.” Marla sighed. “Who was she then?”
“Anita Jane Curtis,” Shaw said.
Burgess gazed into his pint.
“Parents?” she asked.
“Yeah, I told the mother.” Shaw grimaced.
“Unpleasant.” Marla drank some more, a larger gulp this time. “So, shall we get the details out of the way?”
Burgess tipped his head. “Off you go.”
“Toxicology came up trumps. Speedy for once,” she said. “Heroin overdose, inserted to the back of the neck, in the hairline. Not a drug user, I wouldn’t say—no other track marks, needle holes, or evidence of constant use. No tarantula venom in her. Internal organs healthy et cetera. No sexual abuse, and she didn’t have sex prior to death. That’s about it.”
“So he has access to drugs.” Burgess sipped his beer. “I’d
