Nameless Kill by Ryan Casey Page A

worse‌—‌a child murdering pervert. Child murdering perverts and prisons didn’t go together like butter and bread.
    And the guards were often the knives that came down to slice the bread in two.
    “Remember the very look on that filthy cunt’s face when I caught him.” Price chuckled. He slipped another cigarette out of the packet but didn’t light it, instead moving it around between his fingers, which looked skinnier and bonier than ever. “When the evidence pointed back to him. When we made him watch his own evidence.” The smile dropped from his face. He lowered his head and glanced back out of the window.
    “What evidence did you have?”
    Price was silent for a few seconds. Brian didn’t like this silence. He noticed a clock ticking away now. Tick, tick, tick. Thank God for that clock or the room would be completely frigging silent.
    “Dale, what‌—‌”
    “A video,” Price spat. He placed his cigarette between his shaking, dry lips, and this time he did light it. He took a puff, adding to the smoggy, bitter taste in the air, and looked back at Brian and Brad. “Found it in the sick fuck’s VHS collection. Stuffed inside a fucking Lady and the Tramp box.” He gulped. Took another puff on his cigarette.
    Brian felt a tingling up his arm. Price’s eyes were watering. Price was a man who Brian never saw any genuine emotion from, so whatever was on that tape was serious.
    “Harry Brydle was on the tape?” Brad asked, making himself heard.
    Price nodded just once, and very sharply. “Poor kid. That poor kid. And‌—‌” He paused. Took another inhalation of smoke. “And Yemi.” He rubbed his temples. Didn’t make eye contact with Brian or Brad. “And‌—‌and some other older people.”
    Brian’s stomach felt like it had been punched repeatedly. His worst fears about Yemi Moya had been confirmed‌—‌a child raping murderer. But the others. The others that Price referred to. Who were they?
    “These others,” Brian said. “Who…‌Did you…”
    Price laughed again. Laughed and shook his head. A cloud of smoke drifted over and surrounded his gaunt, ageing face. “That’s just the thing, McDone. And you’ll learn this when you climb through the ranks, kid.” He pointed at Brad when he said this. “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? If you see a rat in your house, you know there’s others around. But they’ve done studies. They’ve‌—‌they’ve done studies where they’ve put rats in houses and watched where they go to hide when they’re scared. But they couldn’t fucking find ‘em. No matter what, they couldn’t find ‘em on‌—‌on heat sensors, anything like that. Rats are designed to hide. And these fuckers are rats.”
    For a moment‌—‌just a split second‌—‌Brian sympathised with Price. He’d insisted Michael Walters was punished for Nicola Watson’s murder in the eyes of the press. He’d insisted he got the blame for the abuse linked to BetterLives. It must’ve been an old crusade. To Price, Michael Walters must’ve been one of those rats. And just when he’d caught him, he went and blew up in his face.
    After another few seconds‌—‌or minutes‌—‌of silence but for the tick tock of the clock and the muffled sounds of birdsong behind the patio windows, it was Brad who spoke. “The reports of…‌of Yemi Moya selling the children into slavery. What was that all about?”
    Price scoffed and shook his head. His cigarette needed the ash tapping off the end a long time ago. “I don’t know all the fucking answers, kid. But I dunno. Kidnapping kids and selling them into slavery overseas. Extremist groups around Africa. Fucking niggers. Savages, that’s what they are. And people wonder why I fucking hate them.”
    Brian didn’t comment on this. He scratched his prickly forehead. Typical