Nameless Kill (8 page)

He thought he’d been hearing things at first. Thought his mind was playing tricks on him.

But then he heard it again. A woman’s voice. A short, dark-haired woman right at the front.

“What about the links between Yemi Moya’s murders and this discovery?”

The room grew silent. Silent, but for the expectant anticipation of an answer.

Brian watched. Watched the wide, waiting eyes as his heart raced. Watched as his mouth got dryer and dryer. As his chest got tighter. He loosened his collar. Cleared his throat.
Not now, not now…

“I…‌We don’t comment on rumours or speculation,” was all Brian could manage. His head spun. He could see colours in his eyes. “Just…‌just please. Any information…‌Please…”

He stood up. Rushed towards the white door at the back of the boiling hot press room as muffled voices picked up behind him. His throat burned. A hot wave of nausea covered him.

“Brian?” somebody ahead of him said, somebody blurred, somebody out of sight.

Brian wanted to answer. He wanted to tell whoever it was that he was okay‌—‌that everything was okay.

But he didn’t get the chance because his knees turned to jelly, his vision blurred completely, and darkness surrounded him as he fell onto the floor…

Chapter Twelve

He felt hands on his shoulders. Heard muffling sounds. Voices. Distant voices, so loud, so out of focus.

And then, a piercing light above him. A piercing light that made him want to close his eyes again. But he knew he had to keep his eyes open because there was somebody above. Somebody looking down on him.

The pink hat. The antlers. The sheep’s fur.

Where was he? What had happened?

“McDone? Jesus, somebody get an ambulance or summat. He’s passed out. McDone? You hear me?”

Brian could make out who it was above him now. The thick rimmed glasses, the gingering beard‌—‌who other than Stephen Molfer?

But why was Molfer leaning over him, with a look of genuine concern on his frowning face? Why was he shouting for an ambulance?

Brian edged himself further upright. The back of his head was aching, and his arms and legs were tingling. He blinked a few times. Blinked as he looked around, now the light was lowering in intensity. White tiled floors. People wearing uniforms looking at him with concern of their own.

Shit. His cheeks started to heat up. His stomach sank.

He’d been delivering the press conference. The conference about the mystery murdered girl down at Avenham Park. He’d been giving that conference, then he’d rushed out and he’d collapsed.

A hand on his shoulder. Brian swung around.

“Hey, hey,” Molfer said, moving his spindly hand away. “Just me. We’ve got an ambulance coming down to take a look‌—‌”

“I’m okay,” Brian said, trying to stand on his wobbly legs. Doing so made his head dizzy. He tasted metal in his mouth. “I…‌I just need to‌—‌”

“You need to do nothin’ other than get down to the hospital. You were in there giving that press appeal then you got all red and passed out.”

Brian’s stomach sank further as he saw more officers up ahead looking at him with wide eyes. He was the centre of attention all of a sudden. “It’s okay. I…‌just need to get back to‌—‌to the case. Is there‌—‌is there anything from forensics? Has Jeeves got anything? And‌—‌and Price. We need to see Price. About the pink hats. About‌—‌about the Moya family. About what Winston’s uncle‌—‌”

“It’s afternoon, Brian. Nothing from forensics until tomorrow by the looks of things. I believe your deputy is working on setting up a meeting with Price over the next few days. But you need to rest, mate.” Molfer placed a hand on Brian’s back as he started to make a few heavy, dizzy steps down the corridor. The corridor stretched out for miles. Like it’d take him forever to get back to the offices, back to his desk.

He wanted to investigate the Moya lead. He wanted to get working on potential links between Yemi Moya‌—‌Winston’s uncle‌—‌and this murdered girl right away.

But he was so tired. His arms were tired. His legs were tired. His everything was tired.

“Have…‌African Connection,” Brian said, resting a hand against the hard wall for support. “The press. There must’ve been a leak‌—‌”

“CCTV has been taken from African Connection and a few officers are keeping an eye on the place to make sure the journalists don’t get too offensive. Not that Winston Moya strikes me as the type to jump ship, from what I’ve been told.”

Brian grunted. A guy who inherited a shop from his child murdering uncle? Nope, clearly wasn’t one to walk away easily.

Stephen Molfer kept his hand just behind Brian as Brian made his way to his desk, gradually gathering a slight bit more strength with every step he took.

“I…‌McDone, I don’t mean to…‌to‌—‌”

“What is it, Stephen?”

Stephen scratched at his beard. Sighed again, which sent a strong whiff of coffee across Brian’s face. “A couple of years back I found a lump in the old, you know. I left it. Left it for weeks and weeks until I…‌well, I had a bit of a turn. A bit of a turn like you did.”

Brian’s cheeks heated up again. He looked down at Stephen’s black shoes, avoiding eye contact. “Okay. Thanks for that.”

“The reason I’m telling you this is because I did go to the doctor’s once I’d had that turn. But I thought‌—‌I thought I’d left it too late. I couldn’t get it out of my head‌—‌if I’d gone when the lump was smaller, if I’d gone when I’d first found it, maybe it wouldn’t have happened. Maybe it wouldn’t kill me. All those thoughts.”

Brian kept his stare on Stephen’s shoes. He was baffled by all this to be honest. A few years back, the only thing he knew about Stephen’s bollocks were that he wanted to kick them into his stomach. Funny how times changed.

Although this did still feel a bit forward.

Stephen scratched what hair he had left on his head. “Anyway, it turned out the lump was just a calcium build up and the fainting incident was completely unrelated. I was healthy. Got an all clear. Never felt so happy in my middle-aged life.”

“I’m really pleased for you,” Brian said, rearranging some of the pencils and papers on his desk.

Stephen planted a hand on his shoulder. “We’re not invincible, McDone. Less now than ever. We’re in our fifties. We can’t just ignore warning signs and bury our heads in the sand. You…‌you realise that, don’t you?”

Brian did look Stephen in the eyes this time. Stephen’s eyes were serious. He didn’t have that trademark grin on his face that he so often carried.

Brian nodded. “Good professional advice. Ever thought of a side career as a quack, or summat?”

Stephen snickered and shook his head, moving his hand from Brian’s shoulder. “Go home, mate. Go home, get a doctor’s appointment booked, get some rest then come back here tomorrow strong. There’s nothing that can be done round here now. Brad’ll do your data input for you. You know better than anyone this investigation needs fresh eyes. And a fresh head. So go and freshen up, you old dog, then get back in here for stage two.”

Brian gulped down a phlegmy lump in his throat. He wanted to tell Stephen to fuck off. To tell him to keep his pointy, spotty nose out of his job.

But as the jelly-like weakness worked up his legs and his arms tingled, he simply found himself saying, “Okay,” before walking away from his desk towards the exit door of the offices.

“Get those doctors called,” Molfer shouted, as Brian pushed open the office door.

Brian nodded.

He’d go home. He’d get some rest. Milk some attention from Hannah.

But the day he entered a doctor’s surgery was the day he gave up his pride altogether.

Chapter Thirteen

Brian sat with his feet up on the sofa. He had his iPad on his knee, browsing the web like he always did while Hannah watched the television. He had his legs resting over her. Her warm hands tapped against his shins as the sound of some soap opera or another rattled from the speakers of the television. Hannah swore by her soap operas, whether it was Coronation Street, Eastenders or Emmerdale.

Funny thing, Brian found. They were all pretty much identical.

He tapped away on the iPad screen. First, he’d had a good look into the Yemi Moya case. There was a shitload on the Internet about him. Convicted in 2001 after the murder of eleven-year-old Harry Brydle. Also under investigation for exporting kidnapped kids out to Nigeria to sell to some Islamist group. Brian’s stomach turned as he scrolled down the words‌—‌the accusations. Child rapist, murderer, and trafficker. What a fucking horrible bloke. If he or his family didn’t in some way have something to do with the mystery dead girl down at Avenham Park, it’d be a miracle.

“Oh gosh she’s been sleeping with
him
.”

Brian looked up momentarily, then realised Hannah was interacting with the telly rather than him. Her eyes were wide. There was a slight smile of surprise on her face. Brian tutted and shook his head, returning to his iPad as the light of the luminous screens lit up the dark, curtained living room.

Brian tasted a sharp rustiness in his mouth. Blood. His tongue stung, too. Must’ve bitten it when he’d collapsed after that press conference. Bloody idiot. He’d have to wear less to work tomorrow. He was just warm, that’s all it was. Heat exhaustion. All Molfer’s crap about watching his health‌—‌that was just classic Molfer. Classic Molfer trying to get him all riled up and scared. They might’ve got on these days, but rivalries died hard.

“God I can’t believe she’d do that while she’s still with Kane.”

Brian looked up again. Hannah was getting on his wick a bit with her interaction with this banal TV programme. What did she see in these soaps, anyway? She claimed she was reviewing them for a column in the Lancs Evening Post. Brian didn’t buy the LEP, but when he did, he swore he’d never seen a soaps column.

Brian grumbled and turned over on the beige sofa, lines from the material sinking into his face. He swiped his finger across the greasy iPad screen and moved over to the Facebook app. He only had about six friends, so his news feed was filled with stupid reposted jokes from Harry at work, and idiotic cat videos from one of Hannah’s friends, Sally. Hannah insisted on Brian adding Sally, and all Sally did was “like” every photo Brian uploaded, whatever the fuck that meant.

But mostly, Brian went on Facebook for one reason. And that reason was Davey.

He looked down at the chat window and found Davey’s name, a little photo of him doing indoor skydiving in a blue suit as his profile picture. Beside him, there was a bloke. Vanessa’s new fella. This bloke was skydiving with Davey. Skydiving with Brian’s son.

And judging by the smile on his Davey’s face, he was enjoying it.

Brian gulped and looked away from Davey’s picture and back at his name in the chat window. His stomach tingled as soon as Brian saw the little green chat icon next to his name. He felt his arms tickle. His hands numb. He clicked on his name. Clicked, his heart racing, debating what to say to his son.

The second he started typing, Davey went offline.

Brian just stared at the screen for a few minutes, the sound of the staged shouting booming from the television, the smell of fruity potpourri strong. Davey had gone offline as soon as he’d seen his dad typing, of course he had. Always seemed to avoid his dad these days. Brian had been working a lot of weekends, and Vanessa didn’t let Davey round on school nights because he had a load of after-school clubs, things like that. And Brian just took it. Swore about it, cursed about it, and took it.

Now, Davey didn’t answer his phone much. Or he was always “out” whenever Brian rang or text or Facebooked. He was growing up. Course he was growing up. But Brian wanted to be a part of that growing up, too. Not some fucking surrogate dad with a stupid fake grin.

“He’ll be in touch in his own time.”

Hannah’s voice snapped Brian from his trance. He thought he’d imagined it at first, but when he looked up from the iPad screen, he saw that Hannah was looking at him with her big brown eyes, half-smiling. That smile of understanding, of sadness, whenever Brian tried to contact Davey. She could see the reaction in his eyes.

Brian thought about asking Hannah what she was on about, just to prove a point. Instead, the lump in his throat took a hold, and all he could do was sigh. “It’s just…‌I try my best with him‌—‌”

“It’s just a phase,” Hannah said. She rubbed her warm hands around Brian’s feet. Corr, unlucky for her. Brian wasn’t sure he’d caress his
own
feet. “Kids go through these phases.”

“And where did you learn that?” Brian asked, placing his iPad on the floor and pointing at the television, where the hum of the Emmerdale end credits resonated. “Soaps?”

Hannah squeezed Brian’s foot a little harder. He yelped a little.

“He knows he’s welcome here,” Hannah said. “I mean…‌he’s growing up. Getting to that age where he makes his own choices.”

Brian closed his eyes as Hannah continued to caress his feet. He didn’t speak. Instead, he just imagined himself on that warm beach in a week’s time. No Avenham Park girl. No police.

No chest pains.

A slight knotting in his stomach.

No. He’d just passed out with the heat. Nothing more. That’s all it was. No need to worry. No need to even tell Hannah.

“I just think back a lot,” Brian said, his eyes still closed. “Think back to when he was younger. Some of the things he…‌With me. Some of the things he had to put up with. They weren’t fair. The things he saw.”

There was a silence. It hung in the air like Brian’s neck had hung from that rope all those years ago. That rope that Vanessa‌—‌that his son, just a little boy‌—‌had seen him hanging from.

That rope that was still wrapped around his neck to this day.

And there was the kidnapping, too. The kidnapping and near-death Davey faced, hanging over that acid bath. That had to have fucked with his mind in some way. Poor kid.

Hannah let go of Brian’s feet. Soon after, he felt her silky hair against his bare arm, smelled her sweet perfume as she shuffled closer to him.

“He’ll come around. We’ll have to get a good souvenir for him when we’re away.”