Nameless Kill by Ryan Casey

things about an old case,” Brian said. He stared at Price, who still had his back to him, smoke puffing from his mouth. “Thought you’d be able to give us a hand with‌—‌”
    “Nothin’ you couldn’t already get off the fucking system?” Price spun around. Glared right at Brian.
    “I just…‌I figured it’d be better. Better to hear it from you.” Although Price was no longer his boss, no longer a police officer, and evidently just a lonely old man living in a donated room in his brother’s house, his snapping still intimidated Brian. He felt a lump in his chest when Price had spun round and glared at him. Took him a few moments to breathe deeply and remind himself how the hierarchy worked these days.
    “Right. Right.” Price stubbed the cigarette in the black mush at the bottom of the ashtray, bending it in half although he’d barely had a smoke of it. “And we were such good friends. Such good friends that you just couldn’t help but come see me. Hear you’re a DI these days?” A slight smile crept up Price’s face. An all-knowing smile, like the sort that fortune tellers made when they were about to read your future.
    “Yes,” Brian said, clearing his throat. Doing so made him realise how dry it was, how much he could do with a brew or a glass of water. Not that he’d ask Price for one. He’d probably poison him. He could hear Price’s brother clunking around with cutlery in the kitchen. Probably working on the poisoned concoction as they spoke.
    “Huh,” Price said, lifting the folded cigarette then holding it just before his lips as he realised it was damaged. He dropped it back down into the glass ashtray and, after fumbling around, placed the ashtray back on the edge of the coffee table. “And how’s that going for you?”
    Brian was getting irritated by Price’s constant questions now. He was supposed to be the investigating officer here. He had the authority to ask questions. He was here for a reason‌—‌to look into the Yemi Moya case that Price was CIO on in 2001. He wasn’t here for small-talk.
    At least Brad was keeping quiet. His breath reeked of alcohol, as always, but he was keeping his mouth shut at least.
    “Dale,” Brian said, not looking at Price as he said his first name‌—‌one gamble was enough for one word, “you’ve no doubt heard about the‌—‌”
    “Avenham Park,” Price said, sitting down in the green leather chair at the opposite side of the room and leaning forward onto the edge. His all-knowing smile widened some more. “Where you upto with that?”
    “We’re‌—‌” Brad started.
    “Okay,” Brian butted in, not wanting Brad to give away any signs of weakness. Brian couldn’t bear the thought of Price thinking he’d made a superior DI or CIO than him. At least Brian hadn’t taken bribes in the past. At least he hadn’t covered up murders. He knew that. Price knew that. But actions spoke louder than words, especially in this room, silent but for the clinking of cutlery in the kitchen, the twitching and shuffling of Price and Brad.
    “The reason we’re here is an old case,” Brian said. He shuffled forward to the edge of the soft, green sofa, which was fast becoming uncomfortable. “Yemi Moya. You arrested him in‌—‌”
    “2001,” Price said. He held his fingers together and looked up at the greying white ceiling. He nodded. “Yeah, I remember Yemi. Filthy bastard. Got what he deserved when he…‌Well. When he slipped in the showers.”
    “I thought he hung himself?” Brad said.
    Price’s eyes scanned Brad head to toe and back again all within the space of a second, a look on his face like he’d been interrupted telling a story. “Hung himself. Slipped in the showers. Slit his wrists. Take your pick. Same outcome.”
    Brad held his narrow mouth open for a few seconds before closing it. He didn’t pursue what Price had said. He’d obviously understood the implications. Yemi Moya was a pervert. No,