Nameless Kill (7 page)

The voice startled Brian and cut him right back into reality. He looked to his left and saw DCI Marlow standing over him, arms folded, beard almost completely engulfing his face. He looked at Brian like he’d caught him masturbating, or something.

“Sorry. It’s just…‌just a warm day, that’s‌—‌”

“How’s the case coming along?”

Brian paused for a few seconds to recollect his thoughts. He could still feel his heart racing in his chest.
Just stay calm. Take a few deep breaths…

“Tricky until we get some concrete evidence,” Brian said. He pointed at the black LCD computer screen. “No witnesses. No matching missing persons. The HtoH was a bit of a dry run.”

“As ever,” Marlow said, leaning on the edge of Brian’s desk.

Brian nodded. “As ever. I’m just waiting for the results from forensics and pathology now, really. Got a team moving the body for an urgent post-mortem. And forensics…‌I find it hard to believe our killer didn’t leave a trace of himself at the scene.”

Marlow grunted. “And we still don’t know who the girl is?”

Brian shook his head. “Not a clue. Like I said, no missing persons matching her from our initial assessments. All we have is this.” He pointed at the pink hat. “A hat from African Connection down on Church Street. Only so many of these were knitted, and the girl’s wearing one of them. Shop owner says he doesn’t know a thing about any sales of these. So I’ve got a few people down there collecting CCTV. See what they bring back.”

Marlow squinted at the hat. “We put out a media conference later. Full description of the girl. Distinguishing features, things like that. You okay getting that organised?”

Brian raised his eyebrows. “I’ll get Brad to brief everyone and I’ll do the press thing.” Truth was, the thought of doing a press conference made him knot inside. It’d been a while since he’d been the public face of an investigation. And he never was sure whether he was in the media’s good or bad books.

“Good,” Marlow said. “How’s he doing, anyway, our young deputy?”

“He’s okay,” Brian said, imagining the smell of Brad’s boozy breath, the sight of his greasy hair. “He’s got a good SIO mind, anyway.”

Marlow didn’t nod. He didn’t shake his head. He just stared at Brian. “Good. He better have.”

Brian turned back to his desk. Tapped a few keys to take the screensaver off his computer. He could tell that Marlow was still peering at him.

“Keep an eye on him,” Marlow said, quieter than his other words. “Although…‌well, you’ll know what to look for.”

Brian felt his cheeks heating up. It was as if his skin‌—‌his entire front‌—‌was being torn off by Marlow, breaking down any of his mirage of strength. He tapped at a few more keys on the keyboard, not really doing anything.

“Speak of the Devil,” Marlow said, hopping off Brian’s desk.

Brian looked up. Brad was walking right towards him. His hair was as greasy as ever. His cheekbones were as narrowed and protruding as ever. And his…

Wait. Was that a smile he could see on Brad’s face?

“Bearer of news. Please tell me you’ve got something. We’re going to press in a few hours and I’ve barely got a thing to go on.”

Brad arrived at Brian’s desk with yet another bundle of papers under his arm.

“Has this fella heard of a laptop?” Marlow said, frowning at all the print-offs that Brad was wading through.

Brad ignored him and continued to pull papers out from the stack. He smelled of booze. His hands were shaking.

But he was smiling. He was smiling, which meant he had something.

“I found a hat, by the way,” Brian said, Brad in a fixated world of his own. “Pink hat matching the one the girl’s wearing. Bought it at that little African Connection shop our friend Mrs. Delforth told us about. Dainty little place, if a bit unwelcoming‌—‌”

Brad smacked a smaller bundle of papers down on Brian’s desk, sending a pot of pens tumbling over and making DCI Marlow jump.

Brad pointed his finger at a black and white photograph in front of him. He kept his finger there and stared right at Brian, clearly not willing to talk until Brian caught up with him.

“What is…‌what is this?” Brian asked.

And then he saw it. He made out what the photograph was of.

He tasted the sugary tea from earlier working its way up his throat.

“Fuck, Brad,” Brian said, leaning backwards, the image of the dead boy still burning in his mind. The pale flesh. The glassy eyes. And the victim must’ve been, what? Fourteen? Fifteen?

“What the hell is this about?” DCI Marlow asked. “And what does this have to do with‌—‌”

“Look at his head,” Brad said, tapping on the photograph again, clearly desensitised to its contents.

Brian was still for a few seconds. He took some steadying breaths, gulped down the bitter taste in his mouth, and leaned back to look at the photograph, a bit more prepared this time.

It was a boy lying on some grass. He was clearly dead. His flesh was pale. His eyes were wide open and glassy. There was a mark around his neck, scratches on his stomach, and…

The hairs on Brian’s arms raised up. He hadn’t noticed the boy’s head at first, probably because he hadn’t been looking properly. But now he saw it. Through the black and white, he saw it.

The antlers, perched atop the boy’s head.

And then, underneath the antlers, a pink hat, just like the one on the side of his desk.

Nobody spoke for a few moments. Brian looked at Brad, then at Marlow‌—‌who scratched at his flaky beard‌—‌then back at the photograph. “What…‌When was this…‌When did this‌—‌”

“This is Harry Brydle,” Brad said. “He was found dead in 2001.”

“Oh yeah. Little Harry Brydle,” DCI Marlow chirped in, eyes widening. “I‌—‌I remember that. I remember.”

Brad nodded once as if to say, “Good boy! Well done!” sarcastically.

“He’s wearing the pink hat,” Brian said, looking over at his desk then back at the photograph. “The same one that‌—‌that the girl on Avenham is wearing. The same one that African Connection were selling.”

Brad turned over the page slowly. On the next page, again, it took Brian a few seconds to realise just what‌—‌or who‌—‌exactly he was looking at.

But when it clicked, it clicked bloody hard.

On the page, there was a mug-shot of a dark-skinned man. The man looked familiar, except he had a wider face and a bushier beard. But those eyes. Those really white eye whites. They were familiar. So familiar.

“This is Mr. Yemi Moya,” Brad said. “Former owner of African Connection. Died a year after being charged in ‘01. Hung himself.”

Brian gulped as tenseness worked up through his belly, right towards his chest. An excitement, sending shivers down his arms. “What was he charged for?” Brian asked.

Brad tapped on the writing on the paper, but it was all blurry to Brian. “Kidnap. Murder. Rape. Selling kids as slaves. To use the technical terms.”

“Fucking sicko,” Marlow said, shaking his head.

Brian simply stared into the eyes of Yemi Moya. Of course‌—‌Winston Moya’s uncle. He remembered Winston’s words now. “I’m not my uncle,” or something like that. So that’s what he’d meant. That’s what he’d been referring to. No wonder African Connection was empty.

“We‌—‌we need to follow this up,” Brian said, scratching his stubble. “We need to find more details. The investigating officer on this case. Who was it?”

Brad smiled. He looked at Marlow, and then at Brian.

“What are you smiling about?” Brian asked, unaccustomed to Brad ever looking so fucking happy.

Brad closed the papers. “I believe you know the officer as Price,” he said.

Brian’s stomach sank. Marlow’s shoulders slumped.

Brad smiled some more. “I think we should give your old friend Price a call, don’t you?”

Chapter Eleven

Brian sat in front of the crowd of expectant media. All these faces‌—‌faces he’d seen in the newspapers, on the news‌—‌looked back at him, wide-eyed. Their fingers were poised on laptop keyboards waiting for any morsel of information they could spin in their own mischievous ways.

The press room stunk of sweat. It was clammy in here, the blinds up so that the sun beamed inside, the windows closed. Brian loosened his tie. Hoped he didn’t look too rough. Looked down at the notes in front of him so he could carefully tell them what he had to. This was an unusual case. Not like the usual press conferences he’d given years ago when he’d simply held back a certain amount of information and told the press just enough. This press conference was a press appeal. A call for help. A call for information.

The room was silent. Well, but for a slight hum of journalists whispering to one another, of pens already scratching against paper. Brian’s heart thumped. He knew this was his time. He knew this was his moment to speak.

He cleared his throat. “As you’ll be well aware, at 14:00 hours on 1
^st
May‌—‌yesterday‌—‌the body of a deceased girl was discovered in the stream running through Avenham Park by a young witness. All initial signs point to homicide.”

More scratching of pens. More waiting eyes. Expectant eyes. The press vultures knew it was homicide already. They wanted more. More to feast on. More information to twist and turn and spin.

Brian cleared his throat again. Inhaled the sweaty, clammy air. “Typically, we’d have an idea now who the victim is. And from that we’d be able to work out our likely perpetrator. But the…‌the truth is, this conference is an appeal to everyone in Preston and the surrounding areas for information. Although the post-mortem is currently in process, we have very little in the way of information about the girl. About who her family is, who her friends were, which circles she hung around in.”

More frantic scribbling of pens. A few sneaky iPhone snaps of Brian.

Again, Brian cleared his throat. Considered his words. He never liked writing speeches out. Never was a great writer. All good words came from the truth, anyway. Words were just lies. Fancified versions of reality. “What I can say is that we’re working very, very hard to identify this girl. But we believe with the cooperation of your newspapers, your media outlets, and therefore the public, we could greatly cut down the potential time of this investigation. The girl, she’s…‌she’s anything between late teens and early twenties. She’s blonde. And while I can’t disclose much more just yet, I…‌She has a birthmark. A birthmark the size of a brazil nut under her left eye.”

Brian heard his voice echoing around the room and fast realised how ridiculous he sounded. He should just wait for the pathology and forensics results to come in. Much better than a shot in the dark about some brazil nut-sized mole. Fuck. He’d look a fool. He’d look an absolute idiot.

Brian opened his dry mouth and went to say something else. But no words came out. His mind had frozen. He didn’t know what else to say. Did he mention the pink hat? Ask anyone who had shopped at African Connection to step forward?

No. That would be a PR disaster. A huge mistake should it lead nowhere.

But the Moya family. Yemi Moya. He was a convicted killer, rapist, abductor. If something leaked about the potential link between Yemi Moya and this girl, there would be chaos. Because Yemi Moya was supposed to be dead. His sins were supposed to be a thing of the past.

And now here was another victim, wearing a pink hat, just like little Harry Brydle when he was found.

Brian loosened his tie some more as voices started to pick up in the press room. Whispering became talking. Passing glances between rival journalists became elongated stares of puzzlement.

“I…‌That’s all I can give you for now. Like I said when this meeting started, this is a press appeal. An appeal for any morsel of information you might have. We’ve set up a line that will be provided to each of you at the end of the conference to put in your papers and on the news. A way of gathering information about who this girl might be.” He wanted to say “We wouldn’t ask if we weren’t desperate”, but he pictured Marlow’s reddening face if he said those words.

Another pause. Another halt.

Brian took a deep breath.

“Does anybody have any questions?”

A barrage of voices sparked up. Clashing words, inaudible sentences. He watched as the journalists rose to their feet, then eventually sorted themselves out and just a few of them remained standing.

Brian pointed at the blonde, middle-aged woman in a black blazer and white shirt.

“Dara Langton from the Manchester Evening News,” she said. She looked down at her iPad. “Please can you just confirm for me the facts here: a murder happened under the public’s nose and the police haven’t even been able to figure out who the victim is yet? Haven’t been able to inform the victim’s family?”

A lingering pause. A silence around the room.

Brian bit his lip. Shit. He should never have asked this frumpy bitch to speak. “You’re correct that we’re still in the process of identifying the victim,” Brian said. “However we’re going to press because we believe the press’s cooperation‌—‌the public’s cooperation‌—‌could be of great assistance in a high-profile case like this.”

Dara nodded her head. Tapped on her iPad screen. This damn technology.

“So you’re saying there’s a killer still out there? A killer still out there who could just repeat his act?”

This voice was a deeper one. A man’s voice. Brian looked to Dara’s right. Saw a guy with dark, slicked-back hair and beady eyes. Sweat dripped down his head. So it wasn’t just Brian who was boiling in this room.

“No, I don’t believe that’s the case,” Brian said, a little agitated by this question. “There is…‌there is nothing yet to imply…‌We’re dealing with one death here. One death that we’re still investigating the circumstances of. And a death which the media and the public could greatly accelerate our investigation of.”

Brian heard more fingers tapping against keys and screens. More scribbling of pens. He felt his heart beating faster. The warm air was starting to become difficult to breathe.

Another barrage of questions hit Brian. Again, he couldn’t make them out, couldn’t distinguish one from the other.

Except he did distinguish one of the later questions.