Read Nameless Kill Online

Authors: Ryan Casey

Tags: #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Police Procedurals, #Thrillers & Suspense, #Murder, #Thrillers, #Thriller, #Mystery, #Crime, #Detective, #Police Procedural, #Series, #British, #brian mcdone

Nameless Kill (10 page)

BOOK: Nameless Kill
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“Price,” he said, quickly, without even thinking. “It’s Brian McDone. Detective Inspector McDone. I‌—‌I just need some help. If you’re in. It’s…‌I need some help with the case I’m working on. The girl down at Avenham Park. I believe you could help us. I think it’s linked to‌—‌”

“Alright, alright. You don’t have to fucking shout so loud.”

The voice came from Brian’s right, around the side of the house where the rich green ivy covered the brick. Brian recognised the voice‌—‌or the growl, so throaty and assertive. He poked his head around the corner and looked to the bottom of the driveway towards the purple BMW.

It was there that he saw Dale Price walking right towards him.

Except…‌no. This wasn’t Price. Not unless he’d lost a hell of a lot of weight‌—‌and he was already skinny as it was. No, Price had brown eyes, didn’t he? This guy had piercing blue eyes. He was wearing an oil-stained white t-shirt with a Hard Rock Cafe Manchester logo on the front and three quarter cut-off jeans, also sprinkled with specks of oil. His face was narrow. He had balding, white hair. He looked like Price. A lot like Price.

Brian scratched the back of his neck, which was growing prickly. “Um, is‌—‌does Dale live here? I’m‌—‌I’m a former colleague of his. We…‌We’re looking for help. Help on a case. Help on the‌—‌”

This Price lookalike chuckled. He wiped his hands with a greasy, stained towel. He stunk of sweat, which dripped down his head. “Won’t find my brother here,” he said. “Sure he’d love to chat to you but he took off.”

Brian felt like he’d stumbled into a brick wall. “Took…‌took off? What does that mean?”

This man‌—‌Price’s brother‌—‌reached for back of his head and scratched. “Oh he takes off every now and then. Wouldn’t speak to any of yous anyway. Allergic to journalists and cops.” Price’s brother didn’t look Brian directly in the eyes, instead peering over the road at something or another. “But I can take a message. Pass it on to him.”

Brian’s stomach sank even further. Price was gone. He wasn’t home. Which meant that the investigation was going to be delayed even more. They’d have to further investigate African Connection today. But they still didn’t know who the girl was. Nobody had come forward. All they had was a pink hat, some fucking rug, and some antlers. Oh, and a leather collar from Pet Supremo. Great help.

“Like I say,” Price’s brother said, eyes still drifting behind Brian, smile shaking. “You can always‌—‌”

Price’s brother’s voice was interrupted by the honking of a car horn behind Brian. It honked repeatedly, once, twice, then again.

Brian swung around. He saw that Brad was the one pressing the horn. He was pointing. Pointing ahead of the car, just down the road.

“What on earth is‌—‌”

But Brian didn’t listen to Price’s brother because he was already jogging towards the road.

When he reached the end of Price’s driveway, Brad still honking on his horn, he looked down the tree-laden road to see what the hell it was that had Brad so riled.

And then he saw it. Just down the street, wearing a white t-shirt, short white shorts, and with grey, thinning hair. He was jogging away. Jogging at a snail’s pace, not looking back as he moved across the grass ridge at the side of the pavement.

Brian smiled. “Price,” he called. “Either you come back to us or we to you. I don’t want to harass you, I just want to talk. Like old times.”

Brian rested on the warm metal of Brad’s car as Price’s jog slowed down. He looked back once, wide-eyed, before turning ahead again and picking up the pace.

“Okie dokes,” Brian said, reaching for the car door. “Suit yourself.”

“Oh fuck it.”

Brian looked ahead. Price had stopped jogging. He was leaning down, hands on his knobbly knees, panting as if he’d run a marathon.

But he’d stopped. He looked like a fly caught in a trap.

He raised himself up. Stretched out his arms. Then, he staggered back in the direction of his house, back in the direction of Brian, Brad, and his helpless brother.

He sneered at McDone when he reached him. Sneered with that liney, hateful face of his. “Always were a relentless fuck. Better make this quick, McDone.”

Chapter Sixteen

Price’s living room was so typical of the man who Brian used to call “boss.”

On the cream wallpapered walls, there were photographs. Photographs of Price meeting with the mayor, photographs of Price shaking hands with‌—‌shit, was that the Queen? He’d kept that one quiet, if so. Then again, Price always was the sort of guy who’d go on Photoshop and paste his head into a picture like that, meeting with a famous person. Except Price wouldn’t be doing it for a joke. He’d be deadly serious.

As Brian and Brad‌—‌who had insisted on coming in after his helping hand with the horn honking‌—‌took a seat on the soft green leather sofa, Price scooped a glass ashtray from the wooden coffee table in the middle of the room. There was a smoky haze just above the carpet, a haze that tickled the back of Brian’s throat with its strong smoky smell.

Price didn’t seem to mind, as he slipped a cigarette out of his packet and lit up, staring out of his large patio windows and into his well-trimmed garden, smoke drifting from his mouth.

“What you doing here?”

Price didn’t turn to look at Brian when he spoke. There was no attempt to ask him how he was, ask whether he wanted a drink, anything like that. But that wasn’t Price. It would’ve been a surprise if he had shown any common courtesy. But then again, he hadn’t been expecting to see Price wearing a white t-shirt and short white shorts, either.

Brian rubbed his hands down his black trousers. In the corner of his eye, he could see Brad’s head bobbing, inspecting the room with that hawk-eye of his, probably building up a character profile of Price, just like he had with Brian and all of the other officers.

Problem was, Brad was scarily accurate more than half the time.

“Just wanted to ask you a few things about an old case,” Brian said. He stared at Price, who still had his back to him, smoke puffing from his mouth. “Thought you’d be able to give us a hand with‌—‌”

“Nothin’ you couldn’t already get off the fucking system?” Price spun around. Glared right at Brian.

“I just…‌I figured it’d be better. Better to hear it from you.” Although Price was no longer his boss, no longer a police officer, and evidently just a lonely old man living in a donated room in his brother’s house, his snapping still intimidated Brian. He felt a lump in his chest when Price had spun round and glared at him. Took him a few moments to breathe deeply and remind himself how the hierarchy worked these days.

“Right. Right.” Price stubbed the cigarette in the black mush at the bottom of the ashtray, bending it in half although he’d barely had a smoke of it. “And we were such good friends. Such good friends that you just couldn’t help but come see me. Hear you’re a DI these days?” A slight smile crept up Price’s face. An all-knowing smile, like the sort that fortune tellers made when they were about to read your future.

“Yes,” Brian said, clearing his throat. Doing so made him realise how dry it was, how much he could do with a brew or a glass of water. Not that he’d ask Price for one. He’d probably poison him. He could hear Price’s brother clunking around with cutlery in the kitchen. Probably working on the poisoned concoction as they spoke.

“Huh,” Price said, lifting the folded cigarette then holding it just before his lips as he realised it was damaged. He dropped it back down into the glass ashtray and, after fumbling around, placed the ashtray back on the edge of the coffee table. “And how’s that going for you?”

Brian was getting irritated by Price’s constant questions now. He was supposed to be the investigating officer here. He had the authority to ask questions. He was here for a reason‌—‌to look into the Yemi Moya case that Price was CIO on in 2001. He wasn’t here for small-talk.

At least Brad was keeping quiet. His breath reeked of alcohol, as always, but he was keeping his mouth shut at least.

“Dale,” Brian said, not looking at Price as he said his first name‌—‌one gamble was enough for one word, “you’ve no doubt heard about the‌—‌”

“Avenham Park,” Price said, sitting down in the green leather chair at the opposite side of the room and leaning forward onto the edge. His all-knowing smile widened some more. “Where you upto with that?”

“We’re‌—‌” Brad started.

“Okay,” Brian butted in, not wanting Brad to give away any signs of weakness. Brian couldn’t bear the thought of Price thinking he’d made a superior DI or CIO than him. At least Brian hadn’t taken bribes in the past. At least he hadn’t covered up murders. He knew that. Price knew that. But actions spoke louder than words, especially in this room, silent but for the clinking of cutlery in the kitchen, the twitching and shuffling of Price and Brad.

“The reason we’re here is an old case,” Brian said. He shuffled forward to the edge of the soft, green sofa, which was fast becoming uncomfortable. “Yemi Moya. You arrested him in‌—‌”

“2001,” Price said. He held his fingers together and looked up at the greying white ceiling. He nodded. “Yeah, I remember Yemi. Filthy bastard. Got what he deserved when he…‌Well. When he slipped in the showers.”

“I thought he hung himself?” Brad said.

Price’s eyes scanned Brad head to toe and back again all within the space of a second, a look on his face like he’d been interrupted telling a story. “Hung himself. Slipped in the showers. Slit his wrists. Take your pick. Same outcome.”

Brad held his narrow mouth open for a few seconds before closing it. He didn’t pursue what Price had said. He’d obviously understood the implications. Yemi Moya was a pervert. No, worse‌—‌a child
murdering
pervert. Child murdering perverts and prisons didn’t go together like butter and bread.

And the guards were often the knives that came down to slice the bread in two.

“Remember the very look on that filthy cunt’s face when I caught him.” Price chuckled. He slipped another cigarette out of the packet but didn’t light it, instead moving it around between his fingers, which looked skinnier and bonier than ever. “When the evidence pointed back to him. When we made him watch his own evidence.” The smile dropped from his face. He lowered his head and glanced back out of the window.

“What evidence did you have?”

Price was silent for a few seconds. Brian didn’t like this silence. He noticed a clock ticking away now. Tick, tick, tick. Thank God for that clock or the room would be completely frigging silent.

“Dale, what‌—‌”

“A video,” Price spat. He placed his cigarette between his shaking, dry lips, and this time he did light it. He took a puff, adding to the smoggy, bitter taste in the air, and looked back at Brian and Brad. “Found it in the sick fuck’s VHS collection. Stuffed inside a fucking Lady and the Tramp box.” He gulped. Took another puff on his cigarette.

Brian felt a tingling up his arm. Price’s eyes were watering. Price was a man who Brian never saw any genuine emotion from, so whatever was on that tape was serious.

“Harry Brydle was on the tape?” Brad asked, making himself heard.

Price nodded just once, and very sharply. “Poor kid. That poor kid. And‌—‌” He paused. Took another inhalation of smoke. “And Yemi.” He rubbed his temples. Didn’t make eye contact with Brian or Brad. “And‌—‌and some other older people.”

Brian’s stomach felt like it had been punched repeatedly. His worst fears about Yemi Moya had been confirmed‌—‌a child raping murderer. But the others. The others that Price referred to. Who were they?

“These others,” Brian said. “Who…‌Did you…”

Price laughed again. Laughed and shook his head. A cloud of smoke drifted over and surrounded his gaunt, ageing face. “That’s just the thing, McDone. And you’ll learn this when you climb through the ranks, kid.” He pointed at Brad when he said this. “Sometimes the bad guys get away. Sometimes, no matter how much you fucking search and search, they’re just better at hiding than you are looking for them. Like rats, you know? If you see a rat in your house, you know there’s others around. But they’ve done studies. They’ve‌—‌they’ve done studies where they’ve put rats in houses and watched where they go to hide when they’re scared. But they couldn’t fucking find ‘em. No matter what, they couldn’t find ‘em on‌—‌on heat sensors, anything like that. Rats are designed to hide. And these fuckers are rats.”

For a moment‌—‌just a split second‌—‌Brian sympathised with Price. He’d insisted Michael Walters was punished for Nicola Watson’s murder in the eyes of the press. He’d insisted he got the blame for the abuse linked to BetterLives. It must’ve been an old crusade. To Price, Michael Walters must’ve been one of those rats. And just when he’d caught him, he went and blew up in his face.

After another few seconds‌—‌or minutes‌—‌of silence but for the tick tock of the clock and the muffled sounds of birdsong behind the patio windows, it was Brad who spoke. “The reports of…‌of Yemi Moya selling the children into slavery. What was that all about?”

Price scoffed and shook his head. His cigarette needed the ash tapping off the end a long time ago. “I don’t know all the fucking answers, kid. But I dunno. Kidnapping kids and selling them into slavery overseas. Extremist groups around Africa. Fucking niggers. Savages, that’s what they are. And people wonder why I fucking hate them.”

Brian didn’t comment on this. He scratched his prickly forehead. Typical Price, using a bad experience with a black person as an excuse to hate all black people. He wondered if he’d do the same to white people were the tables turned.

That said, he kind of did. He hated everybody as it was.

“And this pink hat,” Brian said, remembering the pink hat wrapped around the mystery dead girl, the pink hat on the shelves at African Connection, the pink hat on poor little Harry Brydle’s dead head. “That’s our only real link here. Our only link between the murders. Because the modus operandi, they don’t match. Harry Brydle was a kid. This girl, she’s in her late teens, maybe early twenties. But this hat. This hat from African Connection. The one that Yemi’s wife used to knit‌—‌”

“The case was closed in 2001 when we were investigating the possible links Yemi Moya had to extremist groups,” Price said, staring into space. Smoke billowed out of his mouth still, like he was a dragon. Brian figured he’d never get the smell out of his frigging clothes after being in this pit. “The case was closed. Yemi was charged with kidnap, abuse, imprisonment, people trafficking, murder. We had our man.” Price lifted his shaky, veiny hands in the air in a mocking cheer.

BOOK: Nameless Kill
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