Shaw was right. They had to run with it.
Shit.
Shaw was driving Burgess’ car. Not trusting himself to do so, his hands shaking too much, Burgess glared through the windscreen, trying to work out how the hell he’d approach his mother with this. Remaining by herself since his father’s death, over the years his mother had elevated her late husband to idol status, which had rubbed off on Burgess. No bad word could be said about him in her presence, and she verged on the point of being livid if anyone tried to point out even his mildest foibles.
It would be a tough visit.
Shaw parked outside her house, the one Burgess had grown up in, and a slew of memories assaulted him, smacking into his gut and slapping his cheeks. He hated coming to this place. The reminder of how he’d felt at ten years old always came back, no matter the occasion for him spending time there, and since he’d become a policeman, each time he walked up the garden path, he imagined the two coppers from all those years ago coming to deliver the bad news.
‘Your husband has been found, Mrs Varley.’
‘Oh, thank God. Is he all right?’
‘Unfortunately, I have some bad news for you.’
‘No. No. Oh God, no…’
Burgess shut his eyes.
What was happening to his mum? She was on the floor in the living room, resting on her side. Two policemen dressed in navy-blue suits stood over her, then one crouched—the one in the pinstripes—and put a hand on her shoulder. She screamed as though he’d hurt her, and Burgess wanted to step forward and kick the man in the leg. Burgess was rooted to the spot, though, his young limbs weak, and he needed a wee.
“Leave her alone,” he shouted, face wet, although he didn’t know why. “Leave my mum alone.”
He swiped at his cheeks, but more wetness came, and a sob crawled up his throat and out of his mouth. It joined his mum’s, and she thumped the carpet, her eyes scrunched so tightly they looked sewn up.
“How?” she wailed. “Why did this happen to him?”
The pinstriped policeman helped her to stand then led her to the sofa—her eyes were still cry-sewn—where he sat beside her and placed an arm around her shoulders. She leant into him, hands up by her chin, and opened her eyes to stare at Burgess.
He stared back, wide-eyed at the state of her. She was never in a state. Always looked nice. Clean. Perfect hair, perfect makeup.
Now? Cheeks red. Lashes soaked. Mascara running. Lips quivering. Fingers knitted. Light-pink blouse marred with dark wet spots. Black trousers with a crease pressed into them, the hems shivering as much as she did. One foot bouncing, bouncing, bouncing.
The policeman glanced at Burgess, sympathy in his eyes. “Best you leave the room, son.”
Burgess glanced at his mother for confirmation. She nodded, and he turned, walked out, pressing himself to the wall in the hallway, right beside the door.
“How?” his mother asked again. A whisper.
“I’m sorry to say he was murdered, Mrs Varley.”
“Oh, dear God…”
“I have to ask. Is there anyone you can think of who held a grudge? Did Mr Varley have any enemies?”
“No. He was a good man. Everyone loved him.” Her voice was cracked. As broken as she was.
“Has anything out of the ordinary happened recently? Maybe he was acting out of character. As though he had something on his mind?”
“No. Nothing.”
Burgess imagined her shaking her head, denying anything could possibly be wrong in their world. She did that a lot. Everything had to be perfect. Just so.
“Any small thing will help, Mrs Varley.”
Burgess stood there for what seemed the longest time, no voices coming from the living room, just sounds of his mother crying, his heartbeat pattering too fast. He slid to the carpet and sat hugging his knees. Murder meant someone was dead. His dad was dead, was that it? Never coming back? Never giving any more hugs?
That didn’t sound very nice. Not very perfect.
“A woman. She came here this morning,” his mother said. “I don’t know her. She was young. Needed a bath. Her hair was greasy. She…she had a boy with her. Five or six years old, I think. She said… She said he was William’s. That…that they’d had an affair and it was high time he was looked after by his dad. That she’d had enough”—a sharp sob that must have hurt—“of the ugly little fucker.”
“Right. What happened then?”
“I think I told her not to be so ridiculous, that she must be mistaken—I can’t remember my exact words. But she told me things. Things about William that she’d only know if…if she’d seen him naked. And I… I’m so sorry, but I slapped her around the face and slammed the door. Oh God, I hit someone.”
“Understandable in the circumstances. Take your time, Mrs Varley.”
“I don’t believe her. She must have seen him somehow—maybe he went swimming and she saw…certain things on his body.”
“Did Mr Varley swim often?”
“No. No. Never. But that has to be it. He went swimming, didn’t he?”
“Are you all right?” Shaw asked.
Burgess opened his eyes. They stung, as did the knowledge he’d buried for so long. Oh, he’d known it had been there all along, hiding in the recesses of his mind, but his young self had filed it away as something he didn’t need to know about as he’d grown older.
Now he knew again, and Christ, what was he supposed to do about it?
“Um, I just remembered something,” he said and related everything, the telling just as raw as the remembering.
“Blimey. So what you thought
