Read Online Nameless Kill by Ryan Casey - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ryan Casey
Tags: detective, thriller, Thrillers, Crime, Mystery, series, British, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Police Procedural, Murder, Thrillers & Suspense, Police Procedurals, brian mcdone
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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
“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
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