Nameless Kill (6 page)

Just seeing her so dead, so still like this again, made Brian’s stomach turn. Her head was flimsy, like that of a rubber doll. Her hair, so greasy.

And the wound on her neck. There was a definite wound on her neck. Red. Bordering on purple. Definitely an indentation. How
wasn’t
that the wound that had killed her?

“Not so good at distinguishing our drowning signs from our strangulation signs, are we, McDone?” Jeeves said, pointing at the neck. Brian didn’t say a thing to this. Jeeves was referring to the Nicola Watson case, where all signs pointed towards her being strangled until Jeeves confirmed she’d actually drowned. He didn’t want to recognise this. Not an admission of his incompetence at wound identification. Not that it was his frigging job anyway.

“I may be wrong,” Jeeves said, “but these wounds on her neck, they…‌in
your
language, they look to me like she’s had a collar tied around her neck very tight. And for a very long time.”

Brian bit at his bottom lip. Tried not to inhale the smelly, sour stench from the body. “So she was a prisoner of some sort? A slave?”

Jeeves shrugged again. “That’s for you to find out.”

He let go of the curtain. Rubbed his soggy gloves against one another as the pair of them rose back to their feet.

“You look at a loose end, McDone,” Jeeves said.

Brian sighed. “Truth is, Jeeves, I’m struggling here. No witnesses. Not a record of a girl of her age on missing persons.” He withheld the information Brad had slipped about the mole for now. “I’m really counting on forensics to come back with some DNA. Some blood, semen‌—‌anything like that.”

“My money would be on the clothing, personally,” Jeeves said.

Brian nodded. The sheep’s wool. The pink hat. “For somebody to leave the girl like this. All dressed up like this. I dunno. If you were trying to dispose of a body‌—‌trying to
drown
somebody‌—‌why would you go to the efforts of dressing somebody up like this? Risking exposing yourself by a clothing match, you know?”

Jeeves didn’t respond to this. He just stood there, staring at Brian, as the forensics continued to wade through the water looking for whatever it was they were looking for.

“Do you believe in ritual murder, Brian?” Jeeves asked.

These words took Brian by surprise slightly. He lowered his hood and frowned. “I believe in murder, and I believe in spiritual babble as an excuse for murder. Why?”

Jeeves let out a “hmm”. “Just seeing these antlers like this. And this strange clothing. Looks to me like something one of these ritual obsessives might do. I don’t know. You’re the detective.”

Brian waded back through the water and towards the ridge, feeling like he hadn’t learned a whole lot in this meeting. “Thanks, Jeeves. I’ll make sure Brad gets in touch with you about moving the body. Keep me posted.”

“Sure will, McDone. We’ll identify this girl. Fingerprints, dental records, DNA profiling‌—‌she’ll exist. Best of luck.”

Brian stared at his feet as he walked up the path running alongside the stream. Avenham Park was empty, even though it had turned into just as sunny a day as yesterday. News of the murder was spreading. Journalists, over-dressed in long black coats, were gathered around the police tape doing all they could to get a shot. Doing all they could to learn just a little bit more information about this mystery murdered girl.

Truth be told, they probably knew just as much as the police.

Brian sighed as he exited Avenham Park and made his way down Church Street. He’d have to get back to the office. Get back and file all the information‌—‌or lack of information‌—‌he’d learned. This fucking case. One day in and he was looking forward to his holiday already. Wasn’t too fussed about having to hand it over to Brad after all.

He wiped the sweat from his forehead as he got further into the grim, red-bricked streets that were just behind the posh houses lining Avenham Park. He’d have to organise a press conference too. Release some real information to the public. Reach out for any word on missing girls of her age. He’d have more when Jeeves was able to have a proper look at her body. He’d have more when forensics finally pulled their fingers out of their arses and got back to him with real information, hopefully soon.

As he turned the corner of the street, perfectly willing to walk back to the station even though he was out of breath already, he saw something he’d heard mentioned once already today.

African Connection.

The shop was one he’d never noticed before, hidden away in these back streets. It had a big white placard, with African Connection in bold, black capital letters. Through the dusty windows, Brian could just about see various antiques, various items of clothing.

He almost carried on walking when he noticed something else.

He had to backtrack. He had to blink a few times. His heart picked up. His chest tightened.

Right there in the dark, shadowy window, he could see a hat.

A pink hat.

A pink hat just like the one the mystery girl was wearing.

Chapter Nine

Brian opened the creaky door of the African Connection shop. As he did, a little bell rang. He got a strong whiff of old clothes as he entered. He coughed with the dust floating around the place, which was clearly rarely visited. The lighting was dim. The wooden floorboards squeaked underfoot, just like the glass-plated door had. He didn’t hear anything inside but for the sound of his own footsteps, the gradual closing of the door behind him.

He turned to his left and looked right at the pink hat. Pink and fluffy, with little strings of material to cover the ears. Brian walked over towards it. Walked over towards it slowly, every footstep echoing in this cool, dark place. It was the same hat that the mystery dead girl was wearing. Definitely the same hat.

But as he got closer to it, his mind racing, he noticed something else. There were other hats behind it. Other similar hats. At least ten of them, all of them pink, all of them with little white patches on them. Shit‌—‌if she’d bought one of these hats, then he hoped to God this place wasn’t as shitty as it looked and actually kept a record. Fuck‌—‌she’d be on CCTV. If the girl dead at Avenham Park had stepped inside here, she’d be on security camera.

If her killer stepped in here, so would they.

“Can I help you?”

The voice made Brian’s heart leap. He spun around towards the dark counter area.

A man was standing there. A tall, skinny man with narrow cheekbones and startlingly white eyes. He was wearing a black jumper and long, baggy dark pants. Not ideal for a warm day like today, but in the sheltered shadows of this place, it seemed like the sunshine was a million miles away.

Brian cleared his throat. Gulped back a phlegmy frog that was lingering on the back of his tongue. “Detective Inspector Brian McDone. I…‌I’m assuming you’ve heard about the‌—‌”

“Terrible,” the man said, his eyes glassy and vacant. He took a few steps across the creaky dark-wood floorboards towards Brian, dust kicking up with every step. “To have that happen right on our doorstep. Terrible.”

Brian nodded. He noticed a slight African twang to this guy’s voice. Mrs. Delforth had said something about the owners of this shop moving over to Britain back in the nineties. But this guy didn’t look all that old. In his thirties, early forties at a push.

Brian knew what post-forties looked like. The second you woke up on your fiftieth birthday, you got a glimpse of what you’d look like lying in your coffin.

“Winston Moya. Have you had any luck with anything?” the man said, walking closer to Brian.

Brian looked back at the pink hat. The police hadn’t released full details of the girl to the media just yet. That would be later today‌—‌unless Jeeves and forensics hurried up. He reached into his pocket with his shaky hand. Pulled out a folded up HtoH questionnaire he’d pinched from DS Carter. Needed an excuse to be here, and this was it. “Nothing…‌nothing to announce just yet. But it would be a big help if you’d fill in some answers to these questions. Just to say if you’ve seen anything suspicious, heard anything, that sort of thing.”

Winston took the questionnaire from Brian with his cold, skeletal fingers and examined it with his beaming eyes. “I wish I could help.”

Another knot in Brian’s stomach. He saw the pink hats in the back of his mind. They couldn’t be a coincidence. The girl
had
to have visited here to buy them. Where else did people buy hats like that?
Another
African Connection?

“Actually, you could be of great help,” Brian said. He reached for one of the hats and lifted it from the metal hook. Like everything else in this shop, it was covered with a smooth film of dust. “The girl was found wearing a hat just like this. So we have reason to believe she might’ve purchased a hat from here some time before she…‌before she died. Now she’s a girl of about‌—‌about late teens, I’d say. She’s got a birthmark just under her‌—‌”

“Is she a white girl, yes?”

Brian held his mouth ajar as Winston peered back at him.

“Yes. Yes, she’s caucasian,” he said.

Winston shrugged. “I don’t see no white girl in this shop since I took over from my uncle.” He shook the questionnaire in his hand and straightened his face. “Sorry.”

Brian felt like a brick wall had smacked right into his face. He took a few breaths to steady his dizzy head. “Okay. Well I still think it could be of great help to the investigation if we could see some CCTV. If somebody came here and bought one of these hats, then they might be the killer‌—‌”

“You can have all the CCTV you like,” Winston said, a smile revealing his yellowing teeth. “Nobody bought one of those crappy hats in all my time working here.”

Brian tried his best to hold a shaky smile. Fuck. No chance the girl walked in here, and no sign that the potential killer might’ve walked in here.

But the CCTV. That would be a great help. Somebody had to have bought‌—‌or taken‌—‌one of these hats. He’d get a team to look at it when he got back to the office.

As Winston turned around and walked back across the echoey floorboards towards the counter, Brian rubbed his fingers across the wooly pink hat. “Who supplies you with these?”

Another chuckle from Winston. “‘Supplies? No, my aunt knits them. Knits all the stuff in here.”

Winston’s aunt. Maybe she’d knitted one especially for the killer. Maybe she’d knitted one especially for the dead girl.

“And where is your aunt?”

“Dead,” Winston said, leaning against the counter. “Died six years ago. Left me with more than I could sell. Are you gonna buy one of those things or not?”

Brian looked back down at the pink hat in his hands. Specially knitted by Winston’s dead aunt. Another brick wall against the face. Every time it felt like he was making a little bit of progress, the gods of case-solving pulled the rug from under his feet and sent him smacking against the floor. Bastards.

Brian walked to the counter with the hat in hand. At least he had something remotely related to the case. At least now he could go back to the station with a pink hat just like the one the dead girl was wearing. And it was a good thing in itself that it had been hand-knitted, wasn’t it? It definitively concluded that whoever this girl was had ended up with a hat from African Connection.

Or, whoever her killer was had ended up with a hat from African Connection.

Brian paid for the hat and stuffed it into his pocket. “I’ll have a few officers down to collect the CCTV later. That okay?”

Winston nodded. Smiled, this time hiding his yellow teeth. “Anything that can help.”

Brian walked towards the light of the door, desperate for a bit of heat on his cool skin once again. A few minutes stood in here had made him feel like he’d spent a lifetime away from daylight.

“I’m not my uncle, officer.”

Brian stopped by the door. Turned around. Winston stared back at him, wide-eyed, scratching at his arms.

“What do you mean?”

Winston shook his head. Smiled again. “He was an ungodly twat. I’m not like him.”

Brian didn’t respond to Winston. He turned around and stepped across the remaining creaky floorboards and pulled open the heavy door.

As it slammed shut behind him, pink hat in his possession, Brian couldn’t get the thought of Winston’s wide, piercing eyes out of his mind.

Chapter Ten

Brian sat at his desk later that day entering in all the information‌—‌or distinct lack of information‌—‌he’d managed to acquire on the first full day of investigation.

Sweat dribbled down his forehead as he keyed in meaningless bit of info after meaningless bit of info. His stomach growled. He could smell the delicious greasy fumes from a hot dog stand drifting in through the window. It’d turned out another stunning late spring day in Preston, and here he was stuck inside an office with wet sweat patches under his armpits. This was not like the Senior Investigating Officers of the movies.

As he inputted some records from the HtoH searches, the pink fluffy hat that he’d found in African Connection caught his eye on the edge of his desk. He reached over for it once again. Rubbed his hands against the soft fabric. Winston Moya’s aunt knitted these. They were the only pink hats of their kind in the world because that woman‌—‌that co-owner of African Connection‌—‌had knitted them herself. Winston Moya said he couldn’t remember the last time he’d sold one.

But that look in his eyes. That reference to his “uncle”. What was he talking about?

Brian felt a twinge in his chest. A sudden, sharp twinge, which sent a bout of heat right up his cheeks.

Fuck. Not this. Not again.

He coughed. Looked around the office, which was relatively quiet, just to make sure nobody was looking at him. He coughed again. Caught a metallic taste in his mouth. A sweetness in his nostrils.

His head ached. His chest continued to twinge.

He stared up at the white ceiling. Stared up and took a few shaky deep breaths.
Come on, Brian. You’re alright. You’re just warm. You’re‌—‌

“Someone’s looking a bit hot under the collar.”