“Hmm.” Marla raised a waving hand and glanced behind him. “Camera, please?”
A forensic-suited man appeared, and Marla stood then stepped back while he snapped images.
“Can you hang around with me now and take more as I go along?” she asked the photographer. “I’m going to have to turn her over in a bit, but first I need to check her eyes and mouth.”
Burgess hated this part. Seeing the cloudy sheen over a dead person’s eyes wrenched his stomach every time. Eyes that had once taken in the joys of life. Eyes someone had gazed into with love. And probably hate at some point.
And I don’t do emotions?
Marla pulled back the stiffening eyelids with some kind of tool and leant in to take a good gander.
“No sign of asphyxiation,” she said. “But I’m not surprised—her neck is clear of any handprints, rope, or whatever else these nutters use. But she wasn’t suffocated either. Hmm. Anyway, onto the mouth.”
She placed her thumb on the woman’s chin and gently parted the lips about an inch. Something was in there. Something dark.
“Um…?” Burgess crouched, dangling his hands between his splayed knees. The click of the camera echoed, the shuffle of the snapper’s feet grating. “Is that a black sock in there? Something fluffy at any rate. Material?”
“I’m not sure.” Marla tilted the victim’s head back, enabling her to open the mouth some more. She jerked a thumb towards her silver medical case. “Get my blunt-ended large tweezers out of there, will you, darling? In the lid. Next to the scalpel. In the elastic holder thingies.”
Burgess rose and did as she’d asked. He handed the tool to Marla, and she took it, glancing up at him, frown firmly in place.
“If this turns out to be what I now suspect,” she whispered, “you might want to look away. Phobias—they’re a bitch for some people.” She widened her eyes.
Trying to tell him something so that the photographer didn’t have a clue?
Phobias. Shit. Right.
“So you have a sock phobia, too?” Burgess asked, playing along with her game. He remained standing, not curious at all to see what Marla would pull out.
She laughed softly. “It’s an insect of some kind. A bloody big one. I can’t tell for sure but, if you want to get closer, you can see what I’m sure is an abdomen.”
Did he want to? Fuck, no. He coached himself to act professionally, though. Took a deep breath as if staring his phobia in the eye was something he could do. He cautiously peered into the mouth. “Fuck me. Okay. Um…yeah.”
He’d seen some strange things in his time, had even read about insects and whatnot being put into victims’ mouths—his friend, Bethany Smith, once a DI, now a private investigator, had encountered such a thing—but in one of his own cases? Never, thank God. But it appeared he owed God no thanks this time. The arse end of the abdomen resembled that of a wasp, only bigger. Much bigger.
Burgess controlled himself enough to keep his shudder to a minimum while the photographer took more pictures. “I’ll just…step away while you, um, take it out.”
Turning his back on Marla, he pulled out his phone to see if his partner, Shaw, had bothered responding to his earlier text message.
Nothing.
For God’s sake.
“Burge, can you get an evidence bag out of my case, please?”
He slid his phone away. Picked out a bag and opened it to make it easier for her to pop the ‘sock’ inside. He held it out behind him, relieved that she took it and he could take another step or two forwards. He was level with the victim’s feet now, and he stared down at her red-painted toenails. They’d been cut nicely, and she either had exceptionally good skin or she had enjoyed pedicures. So she’d taken care of herself. Had wanted to be pretty?
“Oh, fucking hell…” Marla said. “Would you look at that?”
“I’m not sure I want to. Socks and all that…”
“I know what you mean,” she said. “I thought I’d shit myself, but…wow, it’s large and ugly, but…wow. I’m surprised it even fitted in her mouth, but then again, the legs are all scrunched up so…”
Burgess closed his eyes for a second and blew out through pursed lips. He needed to get himself in order and turn around. The ‘sock’ would be dead anyway, wouldn’t it? Couldn’t hurt him. But the sight of those things just—
He spun round. Marla was standing now, holding out a tarantula secured in her tweezers, which were more like barbeque cooking tongs. The beast appeared smaller than it would have in life, its legs pulled up in death, but that abdomen, that other end—its torso and face or whatever?—was still too large for his liking. Just being in its presence was enough to bring on the urge to scream.
“All right, put it in the sodding bag.” Burgess shuddered, a cold sweat breaking out all over his body, and he focused on the victim’s knees. “Aside from the thing itself being fucking creepy, who the hell would put that in someone’s mouth?”
“The killer, maybe?” Marla carefully put the thing in the bag.
“Your sarcasm is on point, as usual.” He wiped a hand over his forehead, not surprised that moisture came away on his fingers. “You’re a braver person than me, I can tell you.”
Marla closed the bag and wrote out an information sticker for it. “Believe me, I had to tell myself it was a toy.”
“So it wasn’t?” He knew it wasn’t, but there was no harm in asking. No harm in pretending. Whatever got him through it would work.
“Oh, no. Real thing. Makes this case more interesting, doesn’t it? More challenging for you?” she asked.
He didn’t need
