Nameless Kill (29 page)

Brian lifted himself up, the burn on his arm still stinging with pain, his legs like jelly as he pattered barefoot through the blood oozing from Mrs. Delforth’s chin and towards the kitchen door. When he got there, he saw the long, brown handled rifle.

He reached down and picked it up. Mrs. Delforth might be gone, but he wasn’t taking any chances.

He made his way through the hallway and back into Mrs. Delforth’s murky lounge. He crouched down by the old curtain, flinching at every little noise from the house, and plugged the phone in the socket with his shaky hands.
Almost there, Brian. Almost there. Almost time to go home.

He dialled the number to the police station and waited for an answer. Every dialling tone felt like an eternity. The girl downstairs could be dying from blood loss. Luke, or Mrs. Delforth, or both of them‌—‌they could spring back to life. Or maybe they had associates. Associates who‌—‌

“Detective Sergeant Brad Richards, how can I help?”

Brad’s voice took Brian by surprise. He sounded confident, not as lethargic as he had just before his suicide attempt.

He was there. He was on the other end of the line. He was real.

“Hello? Anyone there?”

“Brad, it‌—‌it’s‌—‌it’s Brian. I‌—‌Brad, please. I need‌—‌I need‌—‌”

“Are you okay, Brian?” Brad asked, concern in his voice. “You…‌you aren’t having another…‌You’re feeling okay, aren’t you?”

Brian closed his eyes. Closed his eyes and tasted a salty tear touch his top lip as he shook and snivelled. “I…‌Mrs. Delforth’s, Brad. You‌—‌you remember it? Mrs. Delforth’s. You need to‌—‌you need to get there quick. Please, Brad. You need to‌—‌”

“What is this? Kids giving her a hard time? Brian, are you sure you’re‌—‌”

“Get to‌—‌get to Mrs. Delforth’s and bring a lot of police. And‌—‌and an ambulance. Emergency ambulance. Get to Mrs. Delforth’s. Please.”

Brad didn’t say anything to this. The silence over the line was confirmation enough to Brian that Brad had comprehended the severity of the situation. The severity that Brian still couldn’t quite get his head around himself.

“We’ll be there in five,” Brad said. “You…‌you stay safe.”

The line cut out, and Brian was alone again.

Brian sat there for a few moments, completely still, pins and needles engulfing his body. From outside, he could smell the fumes of the bacon butty shop pumping out grease and fat, and it just made him want to hurl. It reminded him of the smell when the poor girl downstairs had had the red hot rod pressed against her leg.

The crackling of Brian’s skin as Luke had pushed the rod against him, harder, harder.

He pulled himself up to his feet and stumbled through Mrs. Delforth’s lounge. He had to find some clothes. Something to make himself partly presentable. But the girl‌—‌the girl was the priority. He had to know she was okay. He had to comfort her while the police were on their way. They’d be safe soon. Brad would be here and the police would be here and all of this‌—‌the entire Delforth legacy‌—‌it would be finished.

Brian made his way out of the lounge and walked towards the door leading to the cellar.

That’s when he saw something in the corner of his eye to his left.

Or rather, a lack of something.

He turned to his left, his stomach churning, his muscles tensing, and he prayed to whatever god was up there that he was just being paranoid.

But he wasn’t just being paranoid.

In the kitchen, there was a pool of blood where Mrs. Delforth had cracked her chin and fallen to the floor.

But Mrs. Delforth wasn’t there.

She was gone.

Chapter Fifty One

It didn’t take Brian long to realise where Mrs. Delforth had got to.

A thin trail of blood snaked out of the kitchen and into the hallway. And now Brian thought about it, he didn’t think he’d left the cellar door quite as ajar when he’d stepped out of it.

Besides, he could hear a shuffling. A mumbling, and a struggling.

Mrs. Delforth was going downstairs. Downstairs, to find her son.

Downstairs, to finish the job with the girl tied up in her cellar.

But she wasn’t going to get that opportunity. Not so long as Brian was standing.

Even if he was still standing completely bollock naked.

He held his breath as he stepped back through the cellar door, an immediate concoction of burning meat, disinfectant and urine stinging his nostrils. He tried his best to ignore the smells, to stop them reminding him of the pain in his left arm, which was throbbing and searing with sharp stabs. He’d have to get it seen to. He’d have to have it sorted out at the hospital. He could barely bring himself to look at it, though, because right now, he needed to focus.

Focus on Mrs. Delforth.

He gripped Mrs. Delforth’s gun tightly under his arm as he descended the cold, concrete steps, dust and warm fluid sticking to the soles of his feet. He couldn’t see Mrs. Delforth yet, but he could hear her. Hear her struggling and mumbling, the slight flicker of the candles cutting through the room.

And then Brian heard it. A sickening, deafening scream.

At first, he thought it had to be the girl. Mrs. Delforth had gone down to the cellar and done something horrible to her‌—‌a final way of finishing her duties to whoever the fuck she was serving.

But no. This groan was old. It was old, withered, and it was clear.

He peeked through the gap towards the cellar as he descended a little further down the steps.

Mrs. Delforth was lying on top of her son’s body, which was completely still and rigid. Tears spilled down her cheeks as she let out another groan, like a wounded cow Brian had once had no choice but to put down after hitting it with the police van. She rubbed her hands across Luke’s skin, the paint wearing off as her tears dripped onto him. In the light of the candles, Mrs. Delforth experienced her grief, and Brian didn’t feel a smidgen of pity for her. Not the tiniest bit.

Reaching the cold tiles of the bottom floor, Brian looked beyond the wailing Mrs. Delforth at the blonde girl, still tied up to one of those “x” shaped contraptions which, not so long ago, Brian had been tied to himself. Her eyes were closed. Red scabs had crusted around her pale wrists. On her outer right thigh, a sore-looking burn mark was spread. Brian tried his best not to let the taste of blood in his mouth make him vomit on the spot. He knew he had to keep his cool. He just had to pray the girl was alive. Pray the girl was alive, and wait for the other officers to get here.

“You…‌You
killed
my Luke,” Mrs. Delforth said.

Brian realised Mrs. Delforth was looking at him. Behind her thick-lensed glasses, her eyes were dripping with tears, her lips quivering, her hand continually rubbing against her son, washing more and more of the black paint away. Her chin was split, a long string of blood dangling down, just waiting to drip.

“I’d say he brought it on himself,” Brian said, stepping closer to Mrs. Delforth, wary in case she had another little surprise up her witchy old sleeve. “Besides, how many people is it you’ve killed? And Yemi Moya and his associates‌—‌how many of those do you know who are responsible for all those horrible, sick crimes? Actually, don’t answer that. You’ll have enough time to answer it at the police station.”

Mrs. Delforth looked down at her son’s body and sniffed. Blood dripped out from her chin. “It…‌it wasn’t supposed to be this way. Luke, he‌—‌he was a good boy. He just…‌I wanted him to be like Yemi. I wanted him to‌—‌to make his real daddy proud.”

Brian stepped over the candles and got closer to the girl, staying aware of Mrs. Delforth’s position, and of the sounds above‌—‌he had to listen for the police. They said they’d be five minutes. Had it been five minutes yet? Where were they?

“I’m sure Luke did his daddy proud, judging by the things Yemi seemed to pride himself in,” Brian said. He pressed a hand against the girl’s cold neck, propped up to the “x”. Shit. He could barely feel a pulse. The police, the ambulance, they had to hurry. She couldn’t die on Brian, not now.

“Just kill me,” Mrs. Delforth said, quietly.

Brian turned around, the gun still under his arm. Mrs. Delforth had her back to him, more blood dripping from her chin, as she leaned over her son’s body.

“Mrs. Delforth,” Brian said, “don’t take this the wrong way, but you deserve much more shit than death can…”

His speech trailed off.

It trailed off because from this side, he could see something different about Luke Delforth.

Something was missing from his eye.

The sharp piece of glass Brian had stabbed him with.

A wave of nausea came over him, the stench of piss and shit and disinfectant getting stronger. He tried to keep his cool. Mrs. Delforth had the shard of glass from the phone screen. She had the shard of glass and she was luring Brian towards her.

“P‌—‌please,” Mrs. Delforth said, whimpering as she leaned over her son’s body, her hands out of view. “Just‌—‌just please. Please come over here and‌—‌and just put that gun to my head and end it. I…‌I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you about‌—‌about Yemi’s friends. About the others who did all the trafficking and slavery and…‌I’ll tell you. I swear.”

Brian’s body was completely tensed. He approached Mrs. Delforth slowly, gun raised. Fuck. He couldn’t shoot her. Shooting her was what she wanted‌—‌it was the easy way for her and her crimes to go to the grave. Yemi Moya’s associates‌—‌the final piece of the puzzle‌—‌would get off without any justice.

He had to be careful. He had to play this right.

“Here’s what I’m going to do,” Brian said, his voice quivery. “I’m going to come towards you. I want you to turn around slowly and put your hands above your head.”

Mrs. Delforth whimpered some more. She started to turn her head.

“Lift your hands, Mrs. Delforth,” Brian said. “I want to see them.”

She turned some more, her hands still out of view, Brian getting closer.

“Mrs. Delforth, lift your‌—‌”

“Naive little bastard,” she shouted, and swung around with the sharp, blood-soaked shard of glass.

But she didn’t make contact with Brian, because Brian stumbled backwards.

Then, he pulled the trigger.

“You want to be careful which guns you leave lying around,” Brian said, as the sedative dart pummelled into Mrs. Delforth’s squishy neck, her eyes widening with the realisation of what was happening, her hands shaking, her body going limp.

Brian kept the gun pointed at Mrs. Delforth. He’d checked around the stairs and found the sedative gun lying on the bottom step just before he’d come down to the cellar, so he’d made the risky move of switching it. Pity Mrs. Delforth’s eyes were old and withered. She might just have noticed the difference and done more for herself.

“Take a deep breath and a good look around this hellhole,” Brian said, as he heard the sound of banging and footsteps from above. Mrs. Delforth gripped her neck, saliva oozing out of her chapped old mouth, bloodshot eyes rolling back in her head. “It’s the last time you’re ever going to see your home in your miserable old life.”

As the sound of footsteps invaded the house above, the distant hum of sirens shrieking through the walls, Brian thought he saw something in Mrs. Delforth’s eyes that he’d never seen before: fear.

Genuine fear.

Then, she tumbled over on top of her son’s body and let out a raspy, croaky breath.

Brian placed the gun on the floor and covered his bare crotch with a hand. He felt himself welling up inside. Welling up with the realisation‌—‌the weight‌—‌of everything that had happened here today.

“Brian? McDone? Where are you?”

Brad. Brad’s voice, so distant, but so close. So close. Almost home.

“McDone, are you‌—‌”

“Down here,” Brian said, as loud as he possibly could.

It was all he could manage because he was crying so much.

Chapter Fifty Two

Brian leaned back in the grey sun-lounger and, for the first time in God-knows-how-long, he actually felt something akin to relaxation.

Topless, he could feel a slight breeze brushing against his bare skin. It still tingled the burn on the top of his left biceps, but it had been two weeks since the showdown at Mrs. Delforth’s house‌—‌since the revelations about the Delforths’ involvement in Elise Brayfeather’s death, amongst many others. The burn was recovering nicely.

But the smells of cooked meat from the neighbour’s thirtieth bloody barbecue of the week couldn’t help but remind Brian of the events that afternoon.

He listened to the sounds of birds tweeting as he looked around his garden. There were all sorts of flowers of various colours, and the grass was looking pretty long and probably ready for a mowing. In truth though, Brian didn’t mind it when it got a bit wild. Let nature do its thing, he thought.

Either that, or he was just a lazy bastard.

“You want a brew, Bri?” Hannah called. She appeared at the opened patio door and smiled at Brian as he lay in the middle of the garden, enjoying the break from the sun that the clouds were currently providing him.

“Go on then,” Brian called back. He smiled at Hannah, and she turned around and returned to the kitchen.

He leaned back, reflective sunglasses over his eyes. He could feel a bit of crusty sleep in the corner of his left eye. Not surprising: sleep had been difficult lately. He had to keep on reminding himself when he woke up panting and in a cold sweat at night that he wasn’t in the Delforths’ cellar anymore. Luke Delforth was dead, and Mrs. Delforth was behind bars.

And soon, the uncaught people who had been involved with Yemi Moya would be too, as soon as Mrs. Delforth figured speaking would grant her an extra year or two off her life sentence.

His stomach turned, the taste of his morning Cheerios and milk resurfacing with a little burp. The girl who had been tied to that “x” in the Delforth cellar. She’d lost so much blood. She’d been unconscious for way too long.

But she’d survived.

She’d survived, and her name was Carly Hargreaves.

Not only that, but she knew information‌—‌faces, voices, descriptions‌—‌of some of the circles Luke Delforth‌—‌or “Stag”‌—‌mixed in. It just seemed the Delforths hadn’t considered that they might’ve kidnapped someone with knowledge when they’d plucked Carly Hargreaves off the streets.