Nameless Kill (18 page)

“He‌—‌I just know he had the nickname ‘Stag,’” Suzanne added. “That’s‌—‌that’s all Elise called him. Stag.”

These words almost slipped Brian by as Suzanne stared to cry again, until he focused closer on what Suzanne had actually said.

Stag.

The antlers. The antlers on top of Elise Brayfeather’s head.

What had Jeeves said? From a live stag…

Brian removed his hands from his face. He stared back at Suzanne Brayfeather. “Was…‌Why was he called Stag? Do you at least know that?”

Suzanne gulped. Her face and mouth continued to twitch.

“I‌—‌I just know he liked to hunt,” she said. “But that was his‌—‌his street name, or something. Oh I don’t know. I’m a terrible, terrible mother. I could’ve‌—‌I could’ve stopped this. I could’ve…”

Brian’s stomach turned.

Whoever “Stag” was, he liked to hunt.

The antlers were taken from a live stag.

Whoever “Stag” was had killed Elise Brayfeather. He was sure of that now.

Only problem was, Brian had no fucking clue who the hell “Stag” was.

But he had an idea where to start looking.

Chapter Twenty Nine

Brian was getting sick of the sight of the hospital as he climbed up the echoey stairs and made his way towards Ward 32.

Stag. Elise Brayfeather had run away with a person called Stag. She’d been found with antlers on her head. And her mother had said something about Stag being into drugs. Or she said it was a “street name,” rather.

Fortunately for Brian, he knew somebody who was well aware of the streets of Preston, and he was lying in a hospital bed nursing broken bones.

Brian looked up and down the hospital corridor as he re-approached Wayne Jenkins’s room. It was quiet. He could hear the distant chatter of nurses from the other wards, the grumble of patients, but Wayne Jenkins’s room was clear.

He peered through the window. Wayne looked like he was sleeping, his dark eyes closed. This wouldn’t take long. He just had to find out who Stag was. Wayne had to know. If he didn’t, then this entire investigation was up in the air again.

Brian opened the door and paced over towards Wayne’s hospital bed.

Wayne turned and looked up almost immediately. His eyes widened and he started to pant. “The fuck you‌—‌”

“Wayne,” Brian said, the smell of disinfectant and weed hitting him again. He raised his hand. “Please. I just need to know‌—‌”

“The nurses told you to stay the fuck away,” Wayne said. He squeezed his thumb tightly against a white button in his hand, shuffling away as Brian approached.

Brian’s stomach churned. He wished he were sitting down for his lunch or his dinner, and he knew he probably should be, but he had to find out about Stag. Just that one thing.

“Back off,” Wayne shouted. “Nurse!”

“Wayne, can you just‌—‌”

“Back the fuck away‌—‌”

“Do you know who Stag is?” Brian said, raising his voice.

Wayne stopped shouting. The silence that hung around the room was the loudest thing Brian had heard all day. A slight breeze drifted in through the partly open window, welcoming to Brian as his face and body were on fire.

“I…‌I don’t‌—‌”

“Stag killed Elise Brayfeather,” Brian said, circling towards the other side of Wayne’s bed as Wayne looked away from him. “Elise Brayfeather is the girl you fucked, and if you don’t help me out, she’s the girl you’re going to go down for killing.”

Wayne cowered, not meeting Brian’s eyes anymore. If only his street friends could see him like this, he might be convinced to open his fucking mouth after all. “I just…‌I shun’t grass. I shun’t‌—‌I shun’t grass.”

Brian leaned against the bottom of Wayne’s bed. He listened for footsteps outside the room, a sign that somebody was coming to Wayne’s aid, but he couldn’t hear a thing. “Do you know who Stag is, Wayne? Do you know his real name?”

Wayne’s eyes briefly flicked up to look at Brian. He shook his head, just once, but sharply.

Progress.

“Did you meet Stag?”

Another flicker of the eyes. A glance at Brian.

And then, a nod of the head.

Brian’s stomach fluttered. “Okay. Okay.” He rose from the side of Wayne’s bed and squeezed his clammy palms together. “I need to know what he looked like. Where you met him. Anything you can give‌—‌”

“I bought shit off ‘im. It’s…‌I can’t talk. It’s code, man. You cops have your code, we have our code.”

“You’ll be wishing you had a fucking code when we throw you back into prison. Only you won’t get as kindly treated the next time.”

“Okay, okay,” Wayne said, whimpering. Brian could hear the distant hum of footsteps. Déjà vu was setting in. He was going to get kicked out of this ward. For the second time today, he was going to get booted out and unless he could find something out from Wayne fast, the investigation was going on hold for another day.

“Where did you meet him?”

“I‌—‌I‌—‌a few places. We‌—‌round Avenham. Round town. That sorta place.”

Avenham. Town. So close to where Elise Brayfeather was found dead. “What did he look like? If you weren’t too stoned off your face to remember.”

Wayne squeezed his eyes together as if trying to force the memory out. By the door, the sounds of echoing footsteps and voices grew closer.

“Um‌—‌he…‌he…”

“Hurry up. Your freedom might depend on‌—‌”

“Okay! Okay. He was‌—‌he was tall. Reeked of‌—‌of like, a new house smell. Like, strong. And he‌—‌he always wore this fuckin’ jet black coat. Only ever saw him at night so he was‌—‌he was jet black, y’know? Couldn’t see a fuckin’ thing.”

He was “jet black.”

Brian’s ears pricked up at that.

“Wayne,” he said, as something rattled at the other side of the door‌—‌discontent voices, groans. “What origin was Stag?”

Wayne frowned. He mouthed the word, “origin,” questioning it in his little pea brain.

“Was he black or white?” Brian said impatiently.

Another pause from Wayne. A pause, as Wayne turned and looked over at the door, which was creaking open.

“Wayne, please, I‌—‌”

“Black as they get,” Wayne said, staring back at Brian. “But please. Please don’t tell ‘im I ratted ‘im out if you find ‘im. Please. I’m beggin’ you.”

Brian backed off from Wayne’s hospital bed as the door at the opposite side of the ward crashed open. Marching through was a woman. She had short, close-cropped greying hair and a withered, wrinkly face that looked like it’d never cracked a smile in its miserable old lifetime. She was wearing a black blazer with a name tag on it, which Brian couldn’t make out from here. Her acrid perfume, on the other hand…‌now that was strong. So strong that he could taste it right at the back of his throat.

“Mr. McDone,” the woman said, her voice posh, like those Tory toffs in Downing Street.

“That’s Detective Inspector McDone to you,” Brian said, walking towards her and smiling.

The woman’s old nose twitched. Clearly didn’t like that one. Clearly hit a nerve.

“I’m Ms. Daley.” She stared at Brian with intense grey eyes, like she was expecting him to know who she was.

Brian shrugged, still strolling towards her, away from Wayne Jenkins. “Okay. Hi.” He smiled at her.

Her nostrils twitched a little more. “I’m on the board of directors for this hospital.”

Brian rolled his eyes intentionally, as if still searching his head for the recognition. Then, he nodded melodramatically. “Ah! Ah. Hello. Nice to meet you. Now if you don’t mind…” He squeezed past her and made for the door towards the hospital corridor, towards his exit.

“Mr. McDone,” she said, contempt in her voice. “As of now, you are barred from visiting Mr. Jenkins. We respect that he is the subject of investigation; however we do not appreciate unannounced harassment, which is what your behaviour amounts to. So please keep yourself away from‌—‌”

“I won’t be coming here again, Daley,” Brian said, intentionally dropping the “Ms.” and smiling widely at her. “I’ve got everything I need from your patient. Have a good day ‘directing.’”

He looked over the top of her, nodded at Wayne, who stared back at him with his wide, terrified brown eyes, and then he turned towards the door and let himself out.

He walked down the brightly lit corridor of the hospital. The distant chatter of patients in other wards surrounded him. The whiff of spicy hospital food made his stomach turn and his mouth water.

He knew exactly what he had to do next.

Stag was black. Just like Yemi Moya.

Just like Winston Moya.

It couldn’t be a coincidence, surely.

He’d had enough of pussyfooting around African Connection. The pink hat, the links to Yemi Moya’s previous crimes, they were a connection too far.

And now Stag. The dark-skinned, darkly dressed figure who hunted stags. The antlers. A Moya family tradition? Or was Winston just covering for someone? One of his uncle’s sick old friends?

Brian was going to find out. He was going to find out tonight.

Even if it meant breaking into African Connection after dark, he was going to find out.

Chapter Thirty

“I’ve got my sandals, oh and the other sandals that I got from Primark and‌—‌oh, do you think I should take this white t-shirt to laze about in? Brian?”

Brian shook his head and drifted back into the bedroom. He was sitting on the edge of the bed as Hannah sorted through all her holiday clothes, deciding which to take, which to leave behind, which to do whatever with. He wanted to listen to her. He wanted to help her decide.

But he couldn’t shift his plans for later tonight out of his head.

“That…‌yeah. I’d take the white shirt,” Brian said, smiling at Hannah as she held a small, plain white t-shirt out by the shoulders.

She lifted her eyebrows and nodded, folding the white shirt up and piling it atop the other mountain of clothes that were spilling out of her green case.

Brian had come home after visiting Wayne Jenkins that final time at the hospital. He’d needed something to eat, his stomach churning away, so he’d picked a Chinese takeaway up from Spice on his way home. Chicken fried rice and curry sauce. Always hit the spot. Now, his stomach felt bloated. He wondered if he’d over-indulged, especially with his plans for the evening.

Especially knowing what he did about Stag. The certain, definite link with African Connection.

“You’ve been in a world of your own all night,” Hannah said, picking up some blue shorts and holding them out in front of her, scanning them up and down before tossing them to the side‌—‌the “reserve” pile. The room stunk of fresh washing. It was an okay smell in moderation, but overdo it and it reminded Brian of when he was a student and he’d done his own laundry for the first time. Put far too much washing powder in and ended up stinking like a walking Daz ad for a week.

Didn’t help that he associated the smell with being sick and hungover.

“Anyway, you’d better start getting your things together,” Hannah said, lifting yet another item of clothing up‌—‌some long, blue jeans, and for some reason stuffing those in her holiday bag.

“I will,” Brian said, standing up. He felt his stomach rumble as he did. He tasted the onion from the chicken fried rice on his tongue, and although it’d tasted so nice at the time, it combined with the fresh washing smell and reminded him even more of being hungover.

Reminded him of what he was going to do tonight. He had to, or he wouldn’t get the chance to see this investigation out. It was Wednesday night. He was going on holiday on Saturday. Now might be his only chance. And with Brad in a coma, he didn’t want this investigation handing over to someone else. If it was, he wouldn’t ever get it back.

And Brian wasn’t the sort to let investigations slip away, not when he felt so close to solving them.

“I know you think…‌you think what happened with Brad was‌—‌was your fault,” Hannah said, as Brian walked towards the bedroom door. His face was flushed. He needed to splash some water on it. Freshen himself up. “But it wasn’t. You can’t‌—‌you can’t blame yourself for‌—‌”

“I don’t,” Brian said, his voice involuntarily rising. He couldn’t bring himself to turn and look at Hannah after snapping like that. He heard her stop rustling with the clothes. Stop dead, just like that. And then, a few seconds later, he heard her start again.

“I…‌I’m sorry,” Brian said, looking down to the floor and taking in a deep breath, which felt like effort in itself with how bloated he was. “I didn’t mean‌—‌”

“Have you arranged to see Davey before you go away?” Hannah asked.

This time, Brian did turn around. His skin prickled. The clamminess of the room intensified. “What the fuck’s your problem, Han?”

Hannah lowered her jaw and dropped a red dress onto the bed. “Ex‌—‌
cuse
me,” she said. “What the fuck’s
my
problem? What’s up with you? You’re acting like a spoiled brat. I was just asking whether‌—‌”

“Always nagging away,” Brian said, his face fully on fire, the indigestion from the food worming its way up his chest. “Brian, pack your case. Brian, ring Davey. Brian, do this, do that.” He imitated her voice as he spoke, watched as she stared back at him with disbelief.

Almost immediately, he regretted what he’d said. He wasn’t sure where it had come from. Tiredness. Fear. Worry about the Elise Brayfeather case, about Brad. Everything.

Brian looked to the floor. Stared down at his black loafers. “Han, I‌—‌”

“Don’t ‘Han’ me,” Hannah said. She picked up a batch of clothes and, not inspecting them, tossed them into the case. “Piss off. Have a sulk. Do whatever it is you have to do. Because I’m not spending a holiday with a man who’s constantly biting my head off for showing the slightest bit of concern.”

Brian’s heart pounded against his ribs. “Han, I think you’re overreacting.”

“Maybe I am overreacting,” Hannah shouted. “Maybe it is just all my fault again.” She peered at Brian now, her cheeks flushed, her hands shaking as they held a pile of clothes. “Or maybe it’s about time you took a look in the mirror and realised what a monster you become when you’re working on a case.”

Brian wanted to shout back at Hannah. He wanted to raise his voice to heights that hadn’t yet been reached in this stupid fucking argument.