Nameless Kill (21 page)

It was Davey who saw that Brian was awake first. His eyes, which were previously drifting around the room in the direction of the bleeping sounds and the whispering of others, looked at Brian. A smile spread across his face. “Dad,” he said.

Hannah noticed soon after. She covered her mouth with her hand before placing a hand on Brian’s arm. When she did, a surge of pins and needles spread down Brian’s side, and Hannah backed away.

“Sorry,” she said, sniffing. “Sorry, it’s‌—‌”

“Where…‌where am I?” Brian asked. His throat was sore. He could taste the sickly tang of phlegm at the back of his throat like he had a really bad cold. At least now he had the energy to talk. The energy to put words together.

Hannah held a shaky smile. “You’re…‌you’re in the hospital,” she said.

Her words didn’t surprise Brian. He’d seen the bed he was in. The white sheets covering him, the loose clothing wrapped around him. And the plastic thing that had been in his mouth when he’d last woken up. He knew what hospitals looked and felt like. In fact, the whole thing was like déjà vu after waking up a few years back with burns on his legs. The smell was the same‌—‌that strong tang of disinfectant, like Vanessa had been at it with her old obsessive cleaning ways. And the heat, too. The clamminess of the room. It had to be a hospital. Nowhere else.

“What…‌Why?” The words escaped Brian’s mouth without intention. Why was he here? He should be tied up in a room in African Connection. Or maybe he had been? Maybe he had been already and his mind had blanked it out? He’d watched a program about selective memory once. Went on a bit, and he fell to sleep towards the end, but maybe that’s what had happened to him.

“You‌—‌” Hannah wiped her eyes. She rested a hand on Davey’s shoulder, which made him flinch. “You…‌you had a heart attack, Brian.”

Brian didn’t understand Hannah’s words. A heart attack? That didn’t match up with the rest of what had happened. No, he can’t have had a heart attack. He’d been stabbed. He’d been‌—‌

“You were brought in last night,” Hannah said. “So‌—‌so much pain you’d passed out, apparently. I‌—‌I’ll let the doctors fill you in but…‌but…‌I’m just so relieved. So relieved you’re awake.” Tears spilled down Hannah’s cheeks and her voice blubbered.

Brian was silent. He stared up at the white ceiling above, his neck growing stiff from the pillows piled underneath him. He’d had a heart attack. The pains in his chest. The stabbing sensation. That was possible. It was possible but…

“How did I…‌how did‌—‌”

“You’ve not been in good shape for weeks,” Hannah said. Her voice took a sterner turn. “And don’t tell me otherwise. I’ve spoken to Marlow. He told me about you passing out at that press conference. You should’ve told me, Brian. We could’ve stopped this.”

Davey stared on at his dad. He didn’t talk, he just stared, clearly unsure of what to say.

Brian winced as he shuffled further up the pillows. His lips were so dry. He needed a Coca Cola. Something sweet and fresh to cool them off. “I’ll be‌—‌I’ll be fine. The‌—‌the investigation. Elise‌—‌Elise Brayfeather. I need to‌—‌”

“Brian, you’ve got to‌—‌”

“No,” Brian said, pulling himself up with all his might, sending needle-like pains right through his body. “I‌—‌I need to‌—‌to get out of here. African Connection. They‌—‌they‌—‌”

“Dad!” Davey shouted. “Listen to Hannah. She’s right. You’re not well. Forget about work for once.”

When Davey shouted these words, which brought the rest of the ward to silence, Brian did stop. He looked at his son. Looked at the redness in his cheeks. He looked at him and he saw the outpouring of frustration from a boy who’d grown up with conflict after conflict, and usually, Brian was at the centre of them.

“Just‌—‌just lie down,” Davey said. He placed a warm hand on Brian’s shoulder and, although he wasn’t pushing, Brian moved back onto the bed, his stomach sinking as he descended back onto that plump pillow.

Brian looked ahead. Looked over at the opposite side of the room. A man lay with a plastic tube sticking into his mouth, another two in his nostrils and one in his arm. Beside him, an old woman sat sniffing and crying, holding his limp hand.

“I’m gonna be in here a while, ain’t I?”

Hannah and Davey looked at one another for a split second. They didn’t have to say anything. Brian took it as a yes.

“There’s…‌there’s a long road to recovery,” Hannah said. Brian felt her silky smooth hand gently touch his left arm, just enough that it didn’t sting. “The doctors, they’ll be here soon. But you‌—‌”

“Just tell me one thing,” Brian said, his head growing dizzier the more his heart pounded. He felt tired again. Tired and weak.

“What?” Hannah said, squeezing his hand very slightly.

Brian took in as deep a breath of the stuffy air as he could without it causing pain. “How…‌How did I get away? Who found me? I was…‌I was down an alley. Someone must’ve…‌How did‌—‌”

“You’ve got me to thank for that.”

The voice came from Brian’s right. He hadn’t looked to the right, or even known there was anyone there for that matter. Maybe they weren’t before. Maybe they’d just come inside.

But he recognised the voice. He recognised it, and hearing it felt like a punch in the gut.

He rolled his neck over. Turned over, his stomach churning some more, his muscles tensing.

Beside him, dressed all in black and towering at six-foot-whatever, Winston Moya stood.

“This man saved you,” Hannah said. “Found you lying outside his shop.”

Brian stared at Winston Moya, who stared back at him, a polite smile on his face. He wanted to shout. He wanted to get up and throttle the man and tell the world he was involved in Elise Brayfeather’s murder.

But he couldn’t, because there were two police officers standing behind him.

“Looks like you caught me in the process, Mr. McDone,” Winston said, shrugging, the chain on his handcuffs rattling. “Funny thing, how karma works.”

When Brian saw Winston Moya standing beside his bed, shoulders slumped, wrists cuffed, and joined by two police officers, a weight lifted from his chest. He’d been caught. Some evidence had proven his involvement with Stag‌—‌or maybe it had proven he
was
Stag all along. The girl at African Connection, whoever she was, she’d been spared whatever cruel fate lay ahead for her.

But then that posed a new question. Why had Winston Moya saved Brian’s life? Was he trying to look the hero? Trying to look innocent?

“Mr. Moya is under arrest for smuggling in illegal immigrants,” the officer to the right of Winston said. Brian didn’t recognise her, but she was quite stocky and hard-faced. “Seems like his good deeds got the better of him after all.”

Brian frowned. He shook his head. Over to his left, Hannah and Davey had stepped aside while Brian spoke to the police. It actually looked like they were engaged in conversation.

But Winston Moya. Arrested for smuggling in illegal immigrants? No. There was more to this.

“He’s…‌he’s‌—‌”

“The girl you saw was my daughter, Mr. McDone,” Winston said. His chubby bottom lip shook. “Miri. I hadn’t seen her for months. Now I finally get her away from Nigeria and…” He shrugged. The chains on his cuffs rattled again.

Brian’s head spun with thoughts. The girl he’d seen wrapped in the white blanket. She was just Winston’s daughter. She was alive. She wasn’t some kidnapped kid.

She was just his daughter.

“But the‌—‌the men. The other men‌—‌”

“I couldn’t bring Miri in alone,” Winston said. His tearful eyes looked down at his scuffed black loafers. “I…‌I needed some help. Cousins.” He looked back up at Brian. “We nearly did it. But it was just not meant to be.”

For a split second, beyond the pain and discomfort in his left arm and chest, Brian felt something akin to pity for Winston Moya. He wasn’t Stag. He didn’t have a thing to do with Stag. He was just a dad doing whatever he could to be reunited with his daughter.

A dad who had lost.

“Why did…‌why did you save me?” Brian asked.

Winston frowned at this. The lines on his head crinkled up. “Because I was worried you were going to die,” he said, as if it was simple common sense.

“Alright, come on,” the other officer said. He was a skinny, skeletal bloke with startlingly green eyes. “Sure Detective McDone has a lot of recovering to do.”

And with that, they tugged Winston away. Escorted him back through the ward, back past the patients’ beds and towards the grey double doors at the opposite side of the room.

Brian couldn’t bring himself to say another word to Winston Moya. He couldn’t find the right words. It would take him time to find the right thoughts. Because maybe African Connection did have some link to the Elise Brayfeather killing. Or maybe they didn’t.

But Winston Moya had been captured. Captured for something that surely couldn’t be classed as a crime‌—‌wanting to be with his family.

The double-doors swung open as the stocky officer pressed a hand to Winston’s back and eased him through.

The doors swung shut.

Winston Moya never looked back.

Chapter Thirty Six

The weeks following Brian’s heart attack were boring to say the least.

He had his feet up on his leather sofa. The leather was cold on his thighs, but he knew it’d warm up soon. Stupid sofa, anyway. He’d told Hannah they should’ve avoided leather back when they were first purchasing a sofa, but no‌—‌she had to insist.

Now it was always her complaining about how uncomfortable she was. Served her bloody right.

He’d spent a week in hospital following the heart attack. A week of cardiac rehab. Fed a load of bullshit about sorting out his diet, his sleep, things like that. Dosed him up with pills that he was still struggling to remember the name of. Told him to stay off work for a month and only take a short walk every day.

Oh, and no takeaway food. That was the hardest part.

Brian could still taste the tang of tomatoes and sharp salad dressing every time he swallowed. Bloody hell. How long was it going to take before he could have an Indian again? Surely one little onion bhaji couldn’t do him much harm. This whole heart attack business was a nightmare after all.

Sex was a problem, too. The cardiologist told him he couldn’t have sex until he could jog up two flights of stairs without getting out of breath. Sounded fine when he told him, but when he was gasping after five steps, he figured he might just have to watch himself after all.

Brian looked over at the television. The same old daytime TV. Jimmy Karl. Or Loose Women. They all blurred into one. All blurred into one, sensationalist, Daily-Mail-Britain mess. The sooner he could get back to work, the better. He was sick of lying around on this uncomfy sofa, the taste of salad constantly in his mouth, unable to do a thing for himself.

The cardiologist had warned Brian about depression, too. Told him that he was even more susceptible to a post-traumatic crash because of his previous history with depression. To be honest though, he didn’t feel that bad. He was more annoyed than anything. Annoyed that he couldn’t get back to work. Annoyed that he couldn’t go out into the glaring early summer sunshine and have a barbecue in the garden.

Occasionally, he thought about the Elise Brayfeather case, but not much. It felt like a distant memory now; like it had come to a conclusion the moment he’d had that heart attack in the alleyway beside African Connection. Brian heard from Marlow and Carter every now and then, but no more leads were being followed. Well, they were, but Brian had spent enough time in the police to know they were just searching for the sake of searching. Soon, Elise Brayfeather’s death would be etched in urban Preston legend, forgotten and replaced by the next big news story, the next big scandal. And yet he’d come so close. He felt like he’d been so close to solving it all without much evidence at all.

He took in a deep breath, the room reeking of that new peach air freshener that Hannah had bought to counter Brian’s “stinky feet.” Winston Moya. In the process of being investigated for harbouring illegal immigrants. Arrested, not for some of the crimes Brian thought him guilty of, but for reuniting with his daughter. It made Brian feel a bit uncomfortable to think of Winston Moya behind those bars, his daughter all alone again. Why had Brian gone after him? Sure, there were the pink hats at African Connection. Sure, his uncle was a ruthless killer. Sure, Wayne Jenkins had said something about a “black chap” who hung around the Avenham area.

But had Brian been too quick to judge? What did that make him? A stereotyping, racist prick? He hoped not. But it was ugly to take a look in the mirror and see that judgemental bastard staring back.

He was just rolling over onto his right when he heard the doorbell chime.

Brian kept still. Who would this be? Hannah was at work for another few hours. Postie? Couldn’t he leave whatever it was in the recycling bin or something?

“Can’t make it right now,” Brian called, his chest tingling. “Leave it by the‌—‌”

“It’s Brad. Is the door unlocked?”

Brian felt a lump in his throat. He wasn’t sure what to say. He hadn’t seen Brad, awake, since he’d rollocked him in the Plungington Pub after Wayne Jenkins’s accident. He’d heard something about him waking up, but he just never got the chance to visit him while he was in hospital. Neither had Brad had the chance to visit Brian.

And now here Brad was, rattling on his door.

“Um‌—‌it’s‌—‌”

Brian heard the handle of his door creaking, felt a cool breeze drift in through the hallway and into the lounge.

“Cheeky bugger,” Brian muttered, lifting himself upright, his head spinning as he did. He realised he was completely nude but for some grey boxer shorts and a grey, oversized Homer Simpson t-shirt.

And then the living room door swung open and in walked Brad.

“Bloody hell, you erm…‌you coulda given me a minute,” Brian said, covering his bare legs with the white bed sheet.

Brad stood by the door scratching at his neck. He was wearing a leather jacket over a white t-shirt, with black jeans. Typical Brad attire for a hot day. He was twitchy as ever, too. But he didn’t reek of booze. He didn’t reek of anything, actually. His eyes weren’t baggy underneath, not so much. Then again, he had been snoozing for a couple of days. No surprise he looked refreshed.