Nameless Kill (30 page)

They hadn’t considered that she might just be an undercover journalist posing as a prostitute with plenty of knowledge of the gangs operating around Preston.

Either that, or they were just so confident that they were going to succeed in killing her that they didn’t really care.

And they’d come close. Very close.

Hannah appeared at the patio door again and made her way across the concrete patio tiles and waded through the long grass, two cups of tea in hand. She was wearing her shorts, which showed off her nicely tanning legs, as well as a baggy white t-shirt and Ray-Ban sunglasses. Her dark hair was tied back behind her head.

She looked really bloody good.

“Cheers for leaving me to make all three of your brews today,” she said, plonking Brian’s tea cup down in the grass so that a puddle of hot, milky tea trickled over the edge.

“Hey,” Brian said, raising his hands, smile on his face. “I’m in recovery.”

“Oh yeah,” Hannah said, blowing the surface of her tea. “Oh yeah, recovery. I’m sure I’m going to be hearing that one milked for a while, ey?”

Brian shrugged. “Speaking of milk…‌what the hell have you done to my tea?” He looked at the over-pale concoction in the cup and turned his nose up.

“Fool,” she said, grinning, smacking his arm before leaning back on her sun-lounger.

Brian smiled and lifted the warm teacup, taking a sip of the boiling hot liquid. He leaned forward a bit to drink his tea, looking around the garden, as bees, birds and all kinds of little insects played around.

Bees, birds and little insects were fine, as long as they didn’t invite the frigging wasps to join the party.

He took a gulp of the perfectly sugared tea, forgetting how hot it was and scalding his mouth. He felt his mind wandering again.

Mrs. Delforth was behind bars and ready for questioning. She seemed reluctant to cooperate, but they’d get something out of her. Something to start a chain of Yemi Moya associates tumbling to the ground like dominos in a speeding motorhome.

And Carly Hargreaves. One of Preston’s few journalists actually researching the dropped child slavery and exploitation crimes that Yemi Moya was guilty of all those years ago. Once she’d fully recovered‌—‌once she was really back to full strength‌—‌she’d be just as big a coup for the police. She knew names‌—‌names of kids who’d been victims of Yemi Moya and his associates’ crimes. She could lead them to the answers. The closure of the whole screwed-up case of child slavery and trafficking, once and for all.

“I was thinking,” Hannah said. “Maybe now would be a good time to start looking out for holidays. To make up for missing the last one, y’know? Last minute cheapies, and stuff.”

Brian leaned back in the sun lounger. He pressed the button at the side so that the recliner tumbled backwards.

“I dunno,” he said, as the cool breeze of the lukewarm summer air tickled his skin some more. “There’s…‌there’s a few things I’d like to wrap up this summer. And truth be told, I’m not all that big a big fan of the heat anyway.”

Epilogue

“Are you sure this is the place?” Brad asked, looking from left to right, a slight frown of uncertainty on his clean-shaven face.

Brian looked at the house just ahead of them. It was a terraced house, red-bricked, on Crow Lane. Crow Lane was hardly the most scenic part of Preston, and this crap-hole of a terraced did nothing to change his mind, with its rusty green gate and its windows that didn’t look like they’d been cleaned in years.

But it was subtle. Subtle enough for someone to hide in. Someone who desperately didn’t want to be found.

Just not as subtle as the unmarked police car down the road.

Brian clocked the number embossed in gold lettering on the white door. Number 24. The “4” had been nudged and was resting on an angle. But 24 Crow Lane. This was the place. It had to be the place.

“Sure as can be. Why? Getting the shits about this one?”

Brad sighed. He brought a hand through his recently shaven hair, as if expecting the greasy locks of old to still be there. He had colour in his cheeks, and his face had filled out quite a bit since his descent into alcoholism and dabbling with suicide almost three months ago. “This is the third one, McDone. Don’t get over-confident. You never know what might be waiting for us behind a locked door.”

“Ah, get a grip,” Brian said, waving Brad off. “Look at this place. They’ll be just as surprised as the others.” He held out a hand and gestured towards the flaking, rusty gate. “Chickens first.”

Brad’s cheeks went slightly red. His eyes narrowed.

And then, with a sigh, he pushed open the gate. It screeched as it scraped across the concrete, which made Brian shiver. Always hated that sound. Literally the worst sound known to man. And nothing unknown could be worse. Trust him: he’d heard some sounds in his lifetime.

Brian followed Brad, who was kitted out in a white t-shirt and black trousers‌—‌his idea of “disguise”‌—‌onto the patio of 24 Crow Lane. A warm summer breeze brushed its way across the street, carrying with it the fumes of deep fried chips from the local pub. It made Brian’s stomach call out with hunger. He’d been fuelled by nothing but adrenaline and a bloody Quorn lasagne all day. All part of the heart attack recovery, the doctors said.

Maybe so. But those chips did smell bloody delicious.

“So how are we gonna go about this?” Brad asked. He scratched at his arm, looking up and down the street again.

“Like we dealt with every other one,” Brian said, pushing back past Brad as he stood there being all twitchy. “Come on, I’ll knock for you if you’re being such a wuss.”

Brian inspected the doorbell, but it was broken away, so instead, he plummeted his knuckles against the white door. Some of the damp wood crumbled away under his knock, tumbling to the floor below, which only made Brad even more twitchy.

They waited a few minutes. Waited, as the sound of kids cycling past and dinging their bike’s bells at one another grew gradually more irritating. It reminded Brian of his youth: cycling through the shittest of Preston suburbs and pretending he was on patrol.

Worked just fine until he got his tires popped and his Nike trainers nicked by a couple of older kids.

Funny story, actually. He arrested those same kids many years later for drug dealing.

Irony was a wonderful thing.

“Come on,” Brad said, looking over his shoulder again. “There’s‌—‌there’s obviously nobody in. Let’s move on to the next‌—‌”

“Let’s just wait,” Brian said. He stared intently at the poorly painted white door, waiting for any noise or indication that somebody might be home. Brad was right‌—‌it didn’t look particularly lived in.

But maybe that was the point. To detract from the obvious. Something like that.

Brian wasn’t sure.

But what he was sure about was the sound of footsteps heading towards the door from inside.

“Seriously, Brian, you can wait here all‌—‌”

“Ssh,” Brian said. He reached into his pocket for his handcuffs. He wanted them in hand but out of sight. He didn’t want to scare Alan Mixter away.

Brad turned back to the door, he, too, clearly hearing the footsteps approaching. He looked at Brian with wide eyes, and Brian looked back at him.

Then, they both turned and faced the door as somebody started to struggle with a lock.

A tingling sensation ran through Brian’s body. He felt his heart begin to pick up. After suffering a heart attack, you became much more aware of every little change in pace of the heart. And every time it changed pace‌—‌sped up, slowed down‌—‌Brian wondered whether he’d feel that stabbing pain in his back, see those colours in his eyes, hear the muffled sound of panicked voices around him.

At least if it happened now, standing outside one of Yemi Moya’s old associates’ door, he could die happy.

Brian placed his hands, handcuffs inside them, behind his back, waiting for Alan Mixter to open his door, listening to each and every one of the locks click and clunk away. Brad rubbed his face. Brian could hear him breathing with anticipation‌—‌or fear‌—‌from here.

Bloody wuss.

After a few more clunks of the locks, the old white door opened up.

Standing behind it was a frail old man. He had deep-set, grey eyes and narrow cheekbones, like a weird old supply teacher Brian was once taught by who had the worst temper on the planet. His arms were as skinny as police batons, bare in his stained white vest and baggy black trousers. He looked from Brian to Brad, eyes narrowed, curling his bottom lip over his top one and dampening his chapped mouth.

“Mr. Mixter?” Brian asked. He could still feel his heart pounding, but it wasn’t with fear anymore. It was with adrenaline. Adrenaline at what he was finally going to be able to do. Finally closing another door that had been left ajar when Yemi Moya had been arrested.

The door of rats that Price had told him about.

“What‌—‌what do you two want?” Alan asked. He leaned against the creaky wooden door for support. From inside, Brian got an undeniable whiff of stale piss, the sound of a Formula One race billowing from a television somewhere.

Brian stepped closer to the man, making sure he couldn’t slam the door on Brad and him, even though he did look too old and frail to even attempt it. “Got a message for you.”

Brian yanked the handcuffs from behind his back and brought them slamming down on Alan Mixter’s minuscule, bony wrists.

Alan Mixter didn’t protest. His eyes just widened. He looked from the cuffs, to Brian, then to Brad, then back at the cuffs again. “You…‌A…‌a message…‌Who‌—‌”

“A message from Katie Delforth,” Brian said. He smiled at Alan Mixter. “Erratic old bitch ratted you out. Just a pity Yemi’s not around to stop her anymore, eh?”

Alan Mixter opened his mouth, revealing a distinct lack of teeth, the incisors that were there were smoothed down and yellow. “You don’t‌—‌I‌—‌I was proven innocent of this. I‌—‌”

“New evidence came up,” Brad said, smiling and clearly getting into the mood of things now that Alan Mixter had nowhere to run. “I mean you didn’t honestly think you’d get to sleep soundly in your‌—‌” He looked up at the terraced house, his nose twitching. “‌—‌your mansion, did you?”

Brian started to tug Alan Mixter away. He raised a hand at the unmarked black police car a few cars down, pulled up to the kerb. Stephen Molfer raised a hand back at him, creepy little grin on his face.

“Come on,” Brian said. “Let’s get you to somewhere comfier.”

“You‌—‌you can’t do this,” Alan said, his voice getting more comprehensible, tugging at the cuffs a little. “I‌—‌you’ve nothing. Nothing but Delforth’s spiteful word. Nothing but‌—‌”

“Is that so?” Brian said, swinging back round to face Alan Mixter. “So you won’t mind us publishing the photographs of you having a bit of fun with young Harry Brydle just weeks before he died, would you? And all the other kids‌—‌the ones you paid for. The ones who got away that have finally come forward. You’d rather they went to the press than stayed in our offices?”

Alan Mixter’s already grey cheeks went a complete shade of white. Brian got a strong whiff of shit as the strength drifted from all Alan’s muscles, and he knew then that he had him.

“Good,” Brian said, dragging Alan out of his rusty gate and onto the pavement. “We sent the images to the press anyway, but it’s good to know you’ll cooperate. DS Richards, read Mr. Mixter his rights.”

Brian let Brad drag a screaming, shouting old Alan Mixter to the unmarked vehicle, reading him his rights. With a little protest and a bit of help from a delighted looking DS Carter, the pair of them bundled Alan Mixter into the back of the black car and slammed the door shut.

Carter nodded at Brian as she made for the passenger seat again, her white teeth reflecting in the sun. Brian didn’t think he’d ever seen her look so happy.

Brad didn’t get in the car right away though. He walked back towards Brian, hands in pockets, cheeks slightly flushed.

“Did a decent job considering you were shitting yourself,” Brian said.

Brad lifted a pack of Marlboro cigarettes out of his pocket and lit one up, taking a ceremonial puff on it, like he always did when he finished a big case. “Tougher than he looked,” Brad said, being sure not to blow any of the smoke into Brian’s face. “What next?”

Brian smiled at Molfer and Carter in the unmarked police car, as Alan Mixter struggled in the back seat.

“Three down,” Brian said. “Four to go. Next target is…” Brian lifted a piece of crumpled, scrap notepaper out of his pocket. He’d scribbled the basic information that several months of interviewing the likes of Katie Delforth, other scum like Alan Mixter, as well as victims of their crimes, had uncovered. “Sally Beumont. Lives just a few streets down, actually.”

Brad raised his eyebrows and took another puff on his cigarette. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

Brian looked around at the cloudless sky, felt the cool breeze on his cheeks, listened to the sounds of birds tweeting in the distance.

“It’s a nice enough day,” Brian said. “And Alan Mixter’s only just whet my appetite. Let’s get to it.”

What Next for Brian McDone?

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About the Author

Ryan Casey is the author of several novels, novellas and short stories. He primarily writes suspense thrillers, but also writes horror, science fiction and mystery. He revels in exploring complex, troubled characters in difficult moral situations, and is a sucker for a plot twist. His work includes the best selling Dead Days serial, the Brian McDone crime mysteries, Sinkers, The Hunger, Killing Freedom, What We Saw, The Watching, She Remembers, Something in the Cellar and Silhouette.

Casey lives in the United Kingdom. He has a BA degree in English with Creative Writing from the University of Birmingham, and has been writing stories for as long as he can remember. In his spare time, he enjoys American serial television, is a slave to Pitchfork’s Best New Music section, and wastes far too much of his life playing Football Manager games.