“You could say that. We’ll need to contact someone about it,” he said, more to himself than her. “Find out what kind it is and where they can be purchased. I’ll need to maybe see pictures of them.” Bloody hell. Can I do this? “I don’t get how the killer could even have dealt with such a thing.”
“Nowt as queer as folk,” she said, going back down on her knees. “They do the strangest things. Anyway, I need to inspect the back of the victim, then she can be loaded up. I’ve thankfully got a clean slate this morning, so I’ll get on with her examination straight away once I get back. You, my dear friend, have a job and a half on your hands, I’d say, because apart from the sock stumbling block you have, as far as I know, there’s no identification with her. No bag, nothing. Unless someone finds it nearby. Or in the wheelie bins. Oh, hang on.”
Burgess didn’t dare ask if she’d spotted another creature. “What?”
“Let me just check her vagina so you’ve got more to go on.”
He turned away for that, too, angry that the woman’s dignity had been lost the moment she’d been left here. On show for anyone to see. An assessment of her body carried out in front of people. He shook his head so he didn’t allow any more tender emotions in and waited for Marla to speak.
“No sign of anything untoward,” she said. “But I’ll know for sure later.”
“Thanks. Six o’clock, The Pig, if I don’t hear from you sooner,” he said.
“Yes. And what a glorious glass of wine I’ll have there. Already looking forward to it. Later, Burge.”
Chapter Two
It had been a successful rise to stardom for Harry. And Anita Jane Curtis.
He was pleased. More than pleased. How easy it had been. Too easy, really, when he thought about it. Some women really did need to watch themselves. Learn how to spot the signs that someone wasn’t on the level. With all the warnings around these days, on social media especially, he’d have thought the ladies of today would have it all worked out. Don’t go off with strange men you hardly know. It was a simple rule, wasn’t it?
Clearly not.
Then again, he wasn’t strange—or didn’t appear so at any rate. He supposed he was an average-looking man. Brown hair buzzed short at the sides, much longer on top and swept over, held in a sculpted wave-crest by wax. Neatly trimmed hipster beard—something he’d considered shaving off when he’d started his latest mission. Evidence issues. But living dangerously for once, not doing as he should, had spurred him on to keep the face fuzz. And anyway, once this was all over he could shave it off and appear completely different if he wanted to.
His eyes weren’t too far apart, weren’t too staring or anything that could be described as chilling by potential witnesses. He owned a mouth that wasn’t thin or hard but bordered on full, his lips soft. Yes, he was the complete opposite of what people would expect him to be. None of this, “I knew from the moment I saw him there was something off about him.” More like, “I never would have guessed. I mean, look at him, he’s gorgeous.”
He laughed at that. How many times had a woman said that to him, that he was gorgeous? It was absurd, him being thought of as handsome, considering for most of his childhood he’d been called an ugly little fucker, but the women thinking of him in an altogether different way gave him an advantage. When he’d broken his own rule and had gone to pubs while searching for someone like Anita Jane Curtis, women had gravitated towards him. Except they’d been the type he didn’t need. Loud. Brash. Look at my sexy tits, why don’t you? My selfie pout. Livers soaked in vodka and Red Bull, legs reduced to cooked noodles by the stuff.
Those who drank tea were more his type. Sensible drinkers. Women who didn’t flaunt their chests and leave nothing to the imagination.
Nice girls.
Good girls.
Anita Jane Curtis. A classy lady.
He stretched out in bed, glad he had no work to slog through this week. He’d had a long but wonderful night, and it was time to sleep part of his time off away. Mondays were the best day of the week for him—he worked Saturdays so didn’t go in on Mondays—yet for so many it was one of doom. All those people putting memes up on Facebook. Monday, I hate you. Monday, you’re an evil bastard.
Wrong.
“Monday, I love you. Monday, you’re a beautiful bitch.”
He laughed again, turning onto his side to stare through the window of his flat. The city spread out, rooftops no longer covered in a light frost, mist hovering over them. The sun, hidden by dense, bruised clouds, was probably working her arse off to penetrate the atmosphere and burn all that mist away. She’d have one hell of a job. Rain had already fallen, but it seemed there was more to come. If he were lucky, the pelt-down would have drenched his treasure before anyone found her.
And she was a treasure. Even after death. She’d gifted him so many riches emotionally, something no one else had given him in his life so far, apart from Gran. He was brimming with hope for the future. It no longer appeared as a bleak stretch of years but bright and full of happiness.
As a kid, he never would have guessed long-term contentment would be his. But here it was, filling him up again, smoothing the ragged edges of his once-confused soul. Infusing him with such pleasure he thought he might burst from it. All because he’d followed his heart and
