Nameless Kill by Ryan Casey Page B

Price, using a bad experience with a black person as an excuse to hate all black people. He wondered if he’d do the same to white people were the tables turned.
    That said, he kind of did. He hated everybody as it was.
    “And this pink hat,” Brian said, remembering the pink hat wrapped around the mystery dead girl, the pink hat on the shelves at African Connection, the pink hat on poor little Harry Brydle’s dead head. “That’s our only real link here. Our only link between the murders. Because the modus operandi, they don’t match. Harry Brydle was a kid. This girl, she’s in her late teens, maybe early twenties. But this hat. This hat from African Connection. The one that Yemi’s wife used to knit‌—‌”
    “The case was closed in 2001 when we were investigating the possible links Yemi Moya had to extremist groups,” Price said, staring into space. Smoke billowed out of his mouth still, like he was a dragon. Brian figured he’d never get the smell out of his frigging clothes after being in this pit. “The case was closed. Yemi was charged with kidnap, abuse, imprisonment, people trafficking, murder. We had our man.” Price lifted his shaky, veiny hands in the air in a mocking cheer.
    “Except you didn’t?” Brad said, shuffling towards the edge of his chair, his hands shaking too. Fuck, it was like being in the middle of an Addicts Anonymous meeting. A very morbid one at that.
    Price shrugged. He took a final puff of his cigarette before scraping it around the rest of the black mush in the ash tray. “We did. Officially, we had Yemi Moya. So officially, the case was closed.” His eyes darted up and stared right into Brian’s. “But remember what I said about rats.”
    Brian’s insides churned. He’d been hungry just earlier, but now they were churning as he digested all the information he’d learned from Price. Price hadn’t helped him figure out who the mystery girl was, but he’d made him realise something else.
    “And the hat and clothes?” Price said. He shrugged. “Ritual hogwash. I dunno. Niggers. You know what they’re like.” He nodded at Brian.
    Another pause. Complete silence. The new smoke settled above the carpet, adding another thick layer. The clock ticked and ticked. The taste of smoke lingered on Brian’s tongue.
    “Yemi Moya has associates who are out there and still operating,” Brad said. It started off as a question, but descended into a monotone statement of realisation.
    Price smiled. “Like fucking rats,” he said. “Designed to hide. Better at hiding than those looking for ‘em.”
    Then, he lifted another cigarette out of the packet, stuffed it between his chapped lips, and lit up.

Chapter Seventeen
    Brian sat in the passenger seat of Brad’s car. Initially, he’d been relieved to have gotten out of Price’s smoke-stinking hole of a room, but he’d forgotten just how boozy and sweaty it smelled in here. Bottle caps lined the floor underneath Brian’s feet. Brad squinted as he drove, as if just driving was using up all the concentration in the world.
    The car slowed down as it approached some traffic lights. Cars were backed up for quite a way. Rain pattered down on the windows, a sound that Brian had always found more annoying than relaxing despite the protestations otherwise of many. The quiet sound of voices played out of Brad’s car radio, the volume turned right down.
    “If nobody knows who the rats are, then how are we going to catch them?”
    Brad’s shaky voice confirmed most of Brian’s fears as he sat there staring out of the passenger window, not really focusing on anything outside. They’d spoken to Price, sure. And he’d confirmed some details of Yemi Moya’s arrest and death. Child trafficking. Others involved‌—‌probably the same others who had killed the mystery girl on Avenham Park.
    But why? Who was she? And who had done that to her?
    “Just how it goes,” Brian said, the rain coming down heavier now. Through the open