Nameless Kill (11 page)

“Except you didn’t?” Brad said, shuffling towards the edge of his chair, his hands shaking too. Fuck, it was like being in the middle of an Addicts Anonymous meeting. A very morbid one at that.

Price shrugged. He took a final puff of his cigarette before scraping it around the rest of the black mush in the ash tray. “We did. Officially, we had Yemi Moya. So officially, the case was closed.” His eyes darted up and stared right into Brian’s. “But remember what I said about rats.”

Brian’s insides churned. He’d been hungry just earlier, but now they were churning as he digested all the information he’d learned from Price. Price hadn’t helped him figure out
who
the mystery girl was, but he’d made him realise something else.

“And the hat and clothes?” Price said. He shrugged. “Ritual hogwash. I dunno. Niggers. You know what they’re like.” He nodded at Brian.

Another pause. Complete silence. The new smoke settled above the carpet, adding another thick layer. The clock ticked and ticked. The taste of smoke lingered on Brian’s tongue.

“Yemi Moya has associates who are out there and still operating,” Brad said. It started off as a question, but descended into a monotone statement of realisation.

Price smiled. “Like fucking rats,” he said. “Designed to hide. Better at hiding than those looking for ‘em.”

Then, he lifted another cigarette out of the packet, stuffed it between his chapped lips, and lit up.

Chapter Seventeen

Brian sat in the passenger seat of Brad’s car. Initially, he’d been relieved to have gotten out of Price’s smoke-stinking hole of a room, but he’d forgotten just how boozy and sweaty it smelled in here. Bottle caps lined the floor underneath Brian’s feet. Brad squinted as he drove, as if just driving was using up all the concentration in the world.

The car slowed down as it approached some traffic lights. Cars were backed up for quite a way. Rain pattered down on the windows, a sound that Brian had always found more annoying than relaxing despite the protestations otherwise of many. The quiet sound of voices played out of Brad’s car radio, the volume turned right down.

“If nobody knows who the rats are, then how are we going to catch them?”

Brad’s shaky voice confirmed most of Brian’s fears as he sat there staring out of the passenger window, not really focusing on anything outside. They’d spoken to Price, sure. And he’d confirmed some details of Yemi Moya’s arrest and death. Child trafficking. Others involved‌—‌probably the same others who had killed the mystery girl on Avenham Park.

But why? Who was she? And who had done that to her?

“Just how it goes,” Brian said, the rain coming down heavier now. Through the open air conditioning vent, he got a whiff on that earthy smell the rain always kicked up on a muggy day. Another thing that people raved about which he wasn’t too keen on, to be honest. It was just a smell, for God’s sake. Why did people get so crazy over a bloody smell?

Then again, judging by the smell of this car, he kind of got the point.

“So what now?” Brad asked, edging the car forward slightly as the traffic lights‌—‌taking forever‌—‌turned to green. He stopped a moment later as they switched to red again.

“Well there’s the post-mortem,” Brian said. “Find out some more about the cause of death. Hope the DNA sampling comes back with some interesting results. There’ll be something. There’s no such thing as an invisible killer.”

“Hmm.” Brad edged a little further forward as the lights changed again, then stopped. “Bet you’re wishing you’d buggered off on holiday after all.”

Brian tutted. He couldn’t deny the fact that he wished he hadn’t got involved in this case, especially since he only had three more days at work including today. Day three and they didn’t even have the dead girl identified. Fucking hell. What was he going to have in three more days? Half a name? First and last letters of each name?

“What made you come back to this shite?” Brad asked.

This question made Brian turn and look at Brad. Brad was looking at him through the corner of his eyes, not really holding a stare but obviously curious. Brian felt his cheeks warming. The way Brad had asked the question, it made Brian sound like an idiot. “What do you mean? To the police?”

“Well,” Brad said, raising his hands around the car. “Everything. All of it. These dead leads. Leads seeming to go somewhere then ending nowhere. ‘Cause I don’t get a kick out of it. Not like they do in the TV shows or the books. I find it fucking stressful, if I’m honest. There’s…‌I don’t really need it. Not when it’s like this.”

Brian caught Brad biting his thumbnail. His jaw was shaking, and his voice had started to get wobbly. He sensed Brad was close. Actually close to opening up about something. Which was a first. A definite first.

“After what happened in the past with you, too. Yeah, I’ve heard the rumours. The suicide attempt. The depression. All that. Why…” His eyes froze on Brian. They were wide. Bloodshot. “How did you…‌how did you come back from that?”

It was then that Brian truly understood what Brad was asking him. He wasn’t really talking about the police. He was talking about his own problems. His depression, so obvious, so blatant. He was talking about his alcoholism, and whatever else.

Before Brian could respond, sat there and staring into Brad’s desperate, guilt-filled reddening eyes, a horn honked behind them. Brian blinked and looked around. Brad shook his head, took in a snorting breath and edged forward, missing an opportunity to make it through the traffic lights. In the wing mirror, Brian could see the passengers in the red Nissan behind cursing and mouthing off.

“Well, I, er…” Brian struggled with his words, the moment for reassuring Brad gone. He felt like an awkward girl who’d just been told her best friend loved her, or some crap like that.

“We’ll miss the next ones now, too,” Brad said, elongating the small talk. Which just made everything all the more awkward.

“Yeah. Nightmare these lights.” He stared out of the window at the green trees, the falling rain, his cheeks burning, his chest tingling. Not with the tingling and weirdness he’d felt over the last few weeks. No, that seemed to have gone since his collapse. See, he knew it was nothing. Just a minor blip. Just stress. But the weirdness he was feeling now, the smell of alcohol turning into a taste on his tongue and then a
feeling,
a deep feeling of emptiness within. He’d come so close to letting Brad open up. He’d come so close to being what Cassy had once been to Brian.

His stomach sank when he remembered the strong smell of her perfume. Her cheeky smile.

“You can talk. If you want,” Brian said. The words came out as if they were spoken through him rather than from him.

The lights turned green. Brad didn’t respond. He clutched the steering wheel tightly. Pressed his foot on the gas and stared ahead through his tired, weary eyes.

“About…‌about anything. Remember that, mate.”

As the car finally found its way through the lights, Brad took in a rattling breath.

Brian looked away. He wasn’t sure, but he could’ve sworn he’d seen a tear dripping down Brad’s face. His cheeks tingled even more. What did he do? What did he say? He wasn’t a fucking therapist. He didn’t need reminding of all this.

“It’s just…‌with‌—‌since‌—‌”

Brad didn’t get much further because Brian’s phone started to chime and vibrate in his pocket. Brian lifted it out as Brad took a sharp left, and excused himself. Unknown number. Police station? Prank call?

“Hello?” Brian said, holding his phone to his ear.

“McDone. How you getting on? Good. Get down here now.”

Brian didn’t even manage to get a word in the moment DCI Marlow started talking. “It’s…‌we’re good…‌we’re on our‌—‌”

“Spunk samples,” Marlow said, triumph in his voice at the other end of the crackly line. He could hear other voices around him, chiming of phones, tapping of keys.

“In the girl?” Brian said. Brad looked at him with an inquisitive frown, the car wobbling a little bit as his concentration drifted from the road. “What‌—‌so she was involved in‌—‌”

“Just get here,” Marlow interrupted, his voice stern and reminding Brian of a tougher, slightly more loveable Price by the day. “We’ve got a match on the person who shagged her. And you’re not gonna friggin’ believe it.”

Chapter Eighteen

Brian and Brad were back at the station about twenty minutes later. There were a few moments on the drive back that Brian actually felt as though Brad was going to crash the car and they were going to die before they even got there, but thankfully, that was just Brian’s paranoia talking.

Marlow was standing by Brian’s desk as soon as they got back. He had his arms folded over his chest, his round belly poking through his creased white shirt. Skinny bloke, but completely pot-bellied. Like he spent all his time at the gym exercising his arms and his legs but didn’t pay any attention to his beer-filled belly. There were a lot of blokes about like that these days. Brian figured if he hadn’t had his breakdown, he’d probably be one of them.

Beside him, Jeeves stood. Jeeves was the chief pathologist. He looked pretty much like his name suggested‌—‌thinning grey hair, yellowing skin, white lab coat. If you stood too close to him, you couldn’t help but get a whiff of his over-minty breath. He spoke with a forced posh accent, covering up the fact that he was actually just from Blackburn. More common than the rest of the office put together, in truth.

“What you got?” Brian asked, Brad keeping up with him as they walked to Brian’s desk.

Marlow lifted a hand and pointed at Jeeves, as if he were presenting his guest to the audience. “I’ll let the main man do the talking.”

Jeeves smiled and shook Brian’s hand. His hand was bony and hard. Always insisted on shaking people’s hands, at the same time doing a little bow. Who did he think he was? The fucking pope or something? Besides, his hand was a nightmare to touch. This guy made a living fiddling round with dead bodies. Some kind of sick joke of his? Probably.

“Brian,” he said, doing that little nod of his, smarmy little smile on his face. He moved on to Brad, offered him a hand. Brad took it, with a moment’s hesitation. The frown on his forehead was clear to see.

“Our mystery girl then,” Brian said. “Hear you’ve got something on her.”

“That I do,” Jeeves said. His grin widened. He looked around the room at the officers buzzing past as if he was a nature reporter out of his comfort zone.

“And what is it?” Brad butted in. “Semen samples?”

Jeeves nodded, still looking around the office. He was taking his time. Intentionally delaying. He just loved being in a position of power. Brian tensed his fists. Smarmy bastard.

“Well,” Jeeves said, lifting a hand to his mouth and clearing his throat. He had a high-pitched, squeaky cough. “There were a lot of incidental findings, granted. But the crux of the matter, and what matters to you, is that we found semen traces in this girl.” He paused. Smiled at Brian, then at Brad. “Very recent semen traces.”

Brian’s chest tensed. “And? Marlow said we know the guy behind the…‌behind the spunk, excuse the way of putting it.”

Jeeves blinked heavily and tilted his head back, as if he couldn’t believe the vulgarity of Brian’s manner of speaking. “Yes, yes. Remember eight years back when we were identifying a series of anonymous rapes around the Ribbleton area?”

Brian squinted. He cast his mind back. He’d dealt with so many rape cases on the job he’d lost count. “Umm…‌remind me. How did it‌—‌”

“Wayne Jenkins,” Jeeves cut in, impatience in his voice. He tapped his fingers against Brian’s wooden desk, which was really beginning to irritate Brian. “Dark hair. Quite large ears.”

“Melon-headed fucker with yellow skin,” Marlow said. He had a complete look of seriousness on his face, like his matter-of-factness was way more factual than, well, Jeeves’s facts.

And funnily enough, Brian did remember Wayne Jenkins from Marlow’s interventional description. “Ah yeah. I do remember that guy.” He did have a melon-shaped head, with short dark hair and one of those grins that made you want to punch the lights out of him. Constantly stunk of weed, too. “He got the full eight years, didn’t he?”

“Behaved very nicely in prison,” Marlow said, joining Jeeves in the finger-tapping serenade on Brian’s desk. Fucking hell, these people. “Very nicely, if you know what I mean.” He raised his eyebrows as if he wasn’t being suggestive enough.

“The victimiser becomes the victim,” Brad said.

“Indeed,” Jeeves said, peering at Brad with narrow eyes. “Served five years of his sentence, I believe.”

“And he’s a match on the semen samples? A definite match?”

Jeeves’s eyes twinkled. “Ahh,” he said, raising a finger.

When he did this, Marlow rolled his eyes. Brian felt his jaw tensing too. Jeeves always said “ahh” when he was one step ahead of you. Always said it with that sneaky smile on his face. Judging by the way Brad just kept on watching with no visible change in demeanour at the “ahh,” he hadn’t yet become accustomed to Jeeves’s ways and mannerisms.

“Go on, Jeeves. Tell me what I’ve missed,” Brian said, humouring him.

“Well,” Jeeves said, clearing his throat again, preparing himself for his performance that he obviously loved. “We did indeed find a match on Wayne Jenkins’s semen in the girl’s hair. By my estimations, quite recent. But long enough for it to have dried and not been washed out.”

Brian’s stomach turned at this. He remembered the taste in the air of rot, decay, when he’d been to see the girl’s body. Poor girl. She must’ve been through so much. So much, and to an extent that nobody even knew yet.

“But along with the semen, we found something else,” Jeeves said. He lifted his hand. Pointed at one of his extended, skeletal fingers with his other finger.

“Fingerprints?” Brad said, again falling right into the trap of Jeeves-etiquette.

Jeeves’s smile widened. He turned his extended hand into a fist. “Good, good. Well done.”

Brian felt his body heating up. Semen and fingerprints. An undeniable combination. “I thought it was nigh-on impossible to get fingerprints from a body.”