“For fuck’s…” He got it free then swiped to answer. “Yep?”
“Morning.”
“Morning, Emerson. You got something for me?” Burgess glanced at the clock beside the bed.
Five-fifty. Sodding hell.
“You could say that.” Emerson sounded bright and breezy, the lucky bastard.
“Out with it. No pissing about. I’m not with it enough to play your usual games, mate.” Burgess scrubbed at his eyes.
“Another body.”
Well, I basically asked for blunt but…
More awake now, Burgess stood. “Shit.” He made his way out of the room to go down and make a coffee. “Another female?”
“No.” Emerson sighed.
“So what’s it got to do with our case?” Burgess went into the kitchen, the tiles sodding cold on his feet, and flicked on the light. It hurt his eyes, bloody thing. “Or does the DCI expect us to take on another one between us?” He blinked a few times, shoved a pod in the coffee maker, a cup into the slot. “Because although I appreciate that he thinks we’re good…” He pressed the button. The button that started the glorious journey to having his usual morning espresso, the shot that kick-started his brain.
“I get you,” Emerson said, “but you know we’d cope. And this one looks like it might be related.”
The Tassimo hissed and gurgled, the aroma of coffee sparking Burgess further into alertness. “Jesus. How so?” He thought he knew what was coming.
“Something sticking out of the victim’s mouth. I looked at the crime scene photos of Anita Curtis, saw her mouth had been fully closed when she was first found. This one? Maybe the killer was rushed, but there’s like a leg or something poking between the lips.”
“Ah, bollocks.” Burgess’ skin broke out in a cool film of sweat. “Same thing as before?”
“Um, no, wouldn’t say so. The leg isn’t thick enough.”
Oh, dear God…
Emerson cleared his throat. “You might want to get down here before the victim is moved. I know how you prefer seeing bodies in situ.”
“Is Marla there?”
Please let it be her and not King.
“She will be. Just waiting for her. Half an hour, she said. If I tell you the location now, you’ll forget it if you haven’t had your coffee yet, so I’ll message you the details. And I can hear it, you know, that machine of yours. What I wouldn’t do for one of those lattes at the moment.”
A rare wash of sympathy for Emerson winged through Burgess. “When you get back to the station, you can have one of mine in my office—only one, mind. I’m feeling generous but not overly so. And don’t leave the fucking used pod in the machine. Gets on my nerves.”
Emerson laughed. “Everything gets on your nerves.”
“Oh, and use your own cup.” The idea of someone using his churned Burgess’ stomach.
“Got it. And thanks. I realise the enormity of what you’ve just sacrificed. Anyway, get a move on. Want me to get hold of Shaw?”
“No. I’ll do it—and he will be coming in. He kipped on my sofa.”
“You and your bloody gaming. Right.” Emerson sighed. “You know you’re going to have to tell the DCI—”
“No. I won’t. It’s sorted, Shaw won’t be fucking about anymore. He’ll be on time from now on.”
“Good. Less hassle for you to deal with.”
“Yeah. Right. I’ll let you get on. And shit, can we use some of your protective gear in exchange for the coffee? Forgot to top my boot up again. Saves me dropping into the station first.”
“If you treated your boot to a topping up as regularly as you top your body up with coffee…”
“Piss off.”
“Yep, will do.”
The line went dead. Burgess set about making a dark roast for Shaw, and while the machine did its thing, he went into the living room to open the curtains. Shaw slept on. Burgess collected the wine bottle and glasses, clinking them on purpose to rouse the little fucker. Back in the kitchen, he stored the two inches of wine in the fridge, hand washed the glasses, dried them, and put them away.
He sipped his coffee, accessing his messages. Emerson had texted during the night with the confirmation that the female victim had formally been identified as Anita Curtis. How had the beep not woken him? It usually did whether he’d had a few or not. Then a new message from Emerson came in with the latest victim’s location.
The canal?
He finished his espresso then returned to the living room with Shaw’s drink.
He switched the overhead light on to add to the meagre sunlight struggling through the window.
“Wake up, you,” he said.
Shaw opened his eyes. Squinted. “Already awake. Your tidying up makes for a noisy alarm. News on the horizon, I take it?” He sat up and took the cup, still squinting. “Thanks. I must be in your good books. This doesn’t smell like instant.”
“It isn’t, and you won’t be in my good books until you’re up and standing beside the canal with me. Another body.”
“Balls. That’s going to make for a tight squeeze. The paths are narrow down there.” Shaw sipped, then swung his body round so he sat on the edge of the sofa.
“The killer was considerate.” Burgess recalled Emerson’s text. “He chose the patch where the ducks and swans nest. You know where I mean? Oh, sorry, no, you wouldn’t. You don’t go running down there. Or do any form of exercise except flap your gums.”
“Very funny. You’re just jealous I have the fortune of not needing to run to keep in shape.”
“I’d say ouch but can’t be bothered. Ten minutes, then we’re out of here. I’m
