Nameless Kill (16 page)

But what he did know was that Brad had overdosed, and he was in a coma.

Around his bed stood Brian, DS Carter, two other police officers and a woman with dark brown hair wearing a brown, fur-necked jacket. Brian presumed she was Brad’s girlfriend‌—‌or ex, he wasn’t too sure. It didn’t seem real, standing here, especially after the euphoria of minutes ago‌—‌the revelation clicking together in Brian’s mind that perhaps the mystery girl on Avenham Park was in fact one of Yemi Moya’s old captive children. It explained the lack of responses to missing persons reports. It explained the lack of DNA. Maybe she was kidnapped very young, maybe she was born of Yemi. He wasn’t sure.

And as soon as he did piece things together in his mind, he felt a nudge on his arm, or heard the hissing of the oxygen machine, and he remembered where he was.

Looking over Brad, who had slipped into a coma.

A coma that Brian could have prevented.

A coma that he might not have been in if Brian hadn’t flipped.

Guilt floated in the pit of Brian’s stomach. His head pounded. He hadn’t intended to hurt Brad. But apparently, Brad had been found in his home covered in his own vomit, a bottle of pills in one hand and an empty bottle of vodka in the other. His girlfriend, or ex-girlfriend, had called an ambulance when she got worried about him not opening the door. The ambulance came in…‌and the rest didn’t need explaining.

Brian’s head stung. Every thought he had seemed to nip at his temples, his scalp, everywhere. He stared at Brad. Stared at his closed eyes, bags underneath them. Stared at his scraggy, curly hair. Smelled the stench of alcohol coming off him even though he couldn’t have had a drink since yesterday. He stared at him, and he didn’t just see something that was his fault: he saw himself. What he could’ve become if he hadn’t conquered his depression. What he’d come so close to becoming.

“I mean I knew he was a drinker,” Brad’s girlfriend, tears dripping down her freckled cheeks, said to the two officers beside her. Her words were muffled as Brian kept his eyes on Brad. “I knew he was…‌but you…‌you don’t know when to‌—‌to do something until it…‌until something happens.”

After more mindless staring at Brad’s chest rising and falling, rising and falling, an Asian nurse came into the ward and advised the visitors to give Brad some peace. People said their goodbyes to him. DS Carter leaned down and patted him on his arm. Brad’s girlfriend kissed his cheek, sniffing back her tears.

But Brian just turned and walked away.

Brad wouldn’t want to hear from Brian. He wouldn’t want to hear a thing from the man who’d tipped him over the edge in the pub that afternoon.

Eventually, Brian lost the crowd, the sounds of their voices as they left the ward drifting further away. Brian walked down the hospital corridor, faces blurring past him, his heart pounding. He felt like he was walking in a dream. Walking in a horrible, horrible dream. A mixture of guilt for many reasons. Guilt over not doing enough to help Brad. Guilt at lashing out at Brad.

But mostly, guilt at almost putting Vanessa and Davey through this themselves.

“Don’t beat yourself up, McDone.”

The voice was clear, not like the other ones, muffled and distant. Brian coughed. Cleared his blocked up throat, which was dry and crying out for water. He turned around, and saw DS Carter walking slowly towards him, smile flat. Even she looked quite pale after seeing Brad in his precarious condition.

Brian looked away. “Why would I?”

“Don’t bullshit me,” Carter said. She patted Brian on his arm, which made him flinch. “I…‌I know you two had words. I’m not the only one who knows. But he would have done this anyway even if you hadn’t‌—‌”

“How do you know that?” Brian said. The words came out a little louder than intended, his throat clogging up with a lump. “He…‌he was right. What he said. About the people I partner with. The people that trust me.” He felt something damp on his face. Tasted something salty drifting across his lips. “He…‌I should never have even appointed him deputy SIO for this Avenham case. I should’ve got him help when I saw it. But I didn’t and now‌—‌and now he’s just another one like‌—‌like Cassy and…‌like Cassy.”

It was then that Brian felt a warmth around his chest. It took him a moment to realise that it was the warmth of DS Carter’s body, as the younger officer wrapped herself around Brian and pulled him close.

“You can’t beat yourself up,” she said, her head tucked in his chest. “He’s going to be okay. Besides, you know what he’d want. You know he’d want you to be out there. Out there following those leads.”

Brian took in a shaky breath. He kept his head down as people passed. He couldn’t bear for them to see him crying, or see his cheeks, which felt so fiery they must be red.

He couldn’t bear for them to see him looking like a soft old shite like this.

But as he held DS Carter, as she muttered words that now drifted off just as they had in Brian’s hospital ward, a sudden urgency jolted through him.

What Wayne Jenkins had said about the girl. The girl he’d slept with when he was stoned. Something about her being chained up. Chained up around Avenham.

The pink hat. The same pink hat that Yemi Moya put on his victims. The children that didn’t get away. The ones he didn’t sell to slavery.

The ones he killed.

Sometimes the bad guys get away. Sometimes, no matter how much you fucking search and search, they’re just better at hiding than you are looking for them. Like rats, you know?

He remembered Price’s words and he pulled away from DS Carter. He pulled away and marched down the bright corridors of the hospital, marched with a spring in his step, his skin tingling.

“Where are you going?” Carter called.

Brian didn’t respond. In his mind, the answer was clear.

The pink hats. The antlers. And all the ritualistic links.

Winston Moya. Winston Moya, Yemi’s nephew and the owner of African Connection.

That twat had got off too lightly.

But it was about time he got some fucking questioning.

Chapter Twenty Seven

It was quiet outside African Connection. Then again, it always seemed to be quiet round here whenever Brian visited. Nothing to hear but the distant sounds of birds tweeting away on Avenham Park, the smell of exhaust fumes strong in the air, as was standard for the Avenham area.

Brian approached the front door of African Connection. There was nothing new in the window. The same clothes. The same hats.

Those same pink hats.

This place had to have something to do with the murder of the girl on Avenham Park. There was no other explanation for it. The girl must’ve been kidnapped when she was younger. That explained the lack of recent missing persons records. She must’ve been taken by Yemi Moya. Held hostage, even when he died.

And after he died? Winston Moya. It had to be him who’d continued his uncle’s work.

Brian’s heart raced as he reached the door, dusty and coated in cobwebs. Maybe Winston Moya wasn’t involved. Maybe there was somebody else. Price had said something about Yemi Moya having other people working with him.

But the links. The links to African Connection. They were too strong. They needed properly investigating.

Besides, Brian’s head was pounding. Pounding with everything that had happened. First, Wayne Jenkins. Then, Brad in his coma.

He needed an answer. He needed something.

He pushed open the door with force, and was greeted with a familiar musty smell. He looked to the right, over at the counter. The bell by the door dinged away. Winston wasn’t here. Nobody was here.

But there was a door at the back of the dark room. A door, closed shut. A door that Brian had to take a look inside. The police hadn’t had grounds to search the place. They’d checked CCTV and nothing suspicious had shown up.

Fuck CCTV. He was having a look here, whether the department liked it or not.

He stormed across the wooden floor towards this door, still_ unaware of any sounds. He could smell the sweetness in his nostrils. Taste that metallic tang in his mouth as his heart pounded and his head felt dizzy.

But it didn’t matter. He was searching this place. Doing it for Brad.

He placed a hand on the cold metal handle of this blue door and yanked it down. It didn’t budge. He yanked it again. He could feel it loosening. At first, he’d thought it was locked, but now he wasn’t so sure. It felt like there was something holding on to the door from the other side.

Or some
one
holding on to the door.

“Winston!” Brian shouted, tensing the handle of the door. “I need to have a look around. This is‌—‌this is the police. McDone. SIO on the‌—‌on the Avenham girl case. I need to‌—‌”

The door handle suddenly released and clanged, slapping back in Brian’s hand and stinging his palm. He winced, staring at the growing red mark in the middle of the hand.

That’s when he realised the door was ajar.

A sudden sense of dread worked its way through his body. A sense of dread that stormed through his other thoughts‌—‌his need to search this place, for Brad, for himself. A realisation that if Winston Moya, or somebody else with connections to Yemi Moya, were standing behind this door, then what would stop them harming him?

He got flashbacks to Luther as he stared at the door, partly ajar. Flashbacks to being knocked out and tied up by Luther all because he was sniffing around off the job. He’d been lucky he had Location Services switched on his iPhone or he’d have been burned alive.

Or was he lucky? Cassy had taken the flames for him. How was that lucky?

He took a step closer to the partly ajar door. He could hear something creaking from within. Footsteps? Or was that just the sound of traffic in the distance? He held himself still. Listened for more sounds.

Nothing.

He took in a shaky breath, his stomach tingling, and he placed a hand against the door. He hadn’t intended to push it right away, but the door was lighter than it looked and it swung around, creaking just like the sound Brian had heard moments ago.

Brian tensed up again as the door gave way. There could be somebody there. Somebody with a knife. Somebody ready to dispatch him just like they had the girl.

But behind the door, there was nothing but a dark, windowless corridor.

And there was nobody standing inside. Not that Brian could see.

Brian took a footstep in towards this dark corridor. He listened for noises again, but the place was perfectly silent. He knew he shouldn’t be doing this. He knew he was a bloody idiot walking down this corridor. He knew how much trouble he could get himself in, if not from an assailant, from the department for searching without a warrant.

Fuck. What was he doing here? What in the name of‌—‌

He heard a rustling sound.

He looked around. There was nothing in the corridor. Blank breeze block walls. No windows. The smell of damp old cardboard, like a second-hand music shop in Hindley Brian used to visit when he was younger. The rustling came from the left. No‌—‌the right. He could hear it again now. Hear it loudly. Shuffling. Rustling. Moving.

A black door. The only break in the grey breeze block monotony.

Maybe this was where Wayne had come when he was stoned.

Maybe this was where he’d fucked the girl.

Maybe this was where Yemi Moya used to keep his slaves.

He stepped closer to the door, the sound and pressure of his heart racing through his ears, whooshing through his head‌—‌

“What are you doing in here, Mr. McDone?”

The voice was recognisable. It came from behind Brian, and sent a cold shiver down his back and through his arms. That African twang, that’s all Brian could describe it as. He didn’t have an ear for distinguishing African accents‌—‌or many accents, for that matter.

But he didn’t need to, because he knew there was only once person in African Connection who spoke with that accent.

He turned around.

Winston Moya was standing by the doorway back into the shop floor. He looked fairly intimidating, his tall frame emphasised by the light from the shop behind him. He was wearing the same black cardigan and black trousers as he had the other day.

And he was staring right at Brian, blocking his path.

Brian gulped. His head pounded. He cleared his throat. He’d come here with purpose‌—‌with meaning‌—‌and now he was freezing. What did he say? What was he supposed to say?

“I…‌I called for you,” Brian said, his voice loose. “I‌—‌I called but I didn’t think anyone was‌—‌”

“You are in my stock area. Why are you in my stock area?”

Brian looked around at the dark, breeze block walls. He listened for the rustling again, but it was gone. A distant memory, standing here faced by the nephew of a mass-murdering, child-trafficking root of evil.

“I…” Did he tell the truth? What truth was there to tell? “I just needed to…‌There were a few things I…”

“I told you, Officer,” Winston said, his voice calm. “I am not my uncle. Now could I please request your search warrant?”

Brian’s cheeks went warm. He had to get out of this corridor. He had to get out of this corridor and past Winston Moya into the open. His chest tightened. He was struggling to breathe. He had to‌—‌

“Your search warrant, please.”

Brian lowered his head. He bit onto his lip. If he was younger, he might try to protest‌—‌try to scheme his way into searching this place. But he’d done one too many schemes in his lifetime as a police officer. One too many schemes to know that scheming always had a price. Pride. Honour.

When would scheming finally cost him his life?

He walked up to Winston Moya and looked him right in his sharp-staring eyes.

“I don’t have a search warrant,” Brian said. He lifted his hands. “I‌—‌I was in the process of‌—‌”

“Ever since the press spoke about my uncle, I’ve had journalists swarming round at all times of day. I have kids throwing stones and bricks at my windows, writing and scratching on my car.” Winston Moya’s voice was raised. Specks of spit peppered Brian’s face as he spoke.

“I was just being‌—‌”

“I will not pay the price for the crimes of my uncle,” Winston said. He brushed the palm of his right hand against his arm. His stare dropped momentarily from Brian. “God knows I’ve paid enough.”