Buried Slaughter (Brian McDone Mysteries)

by Ryan Casey

  Didn’t take much convincing from Brian. Commitment was commitment. Didn’t need any artificial vows to prove their love.

  She kept her engagement ring though. Damn it. He’d been hoping to get the cash back.

  Brian and Brad walked back out of the yard of the housing estate and towards the sound of the cars on the main road. “You gonna be alright without me around to babysit you?”

  Brad shook his head. “Probably get Preston completely cleaned up without you to stick yourself under my fucking feet.”

  Brian kept his eyes on Brad as they walked away from the housing estate. Looked at the way Brad stared at the floor with his empty, distant eyes. Noticed the shaking in his hand. And he smelled it on him, too. The drink. The hard alcohol. He smelled it on him and that made him taste it in his mouth. Made him remember his run-in with depression.

  He knew the signs because he’d spent months covering them up himself.

  Brian didn’t say anything to Brad, though. He knew he had shit going on at home, supposedly. And he was a bloody good officer. Reminded him of himself in a way. Only younger. And probably more good-looking.

  Okay. Almost as good-looking.

  “I’ll write you a postcard. Anyway, I’ve got another week yet. Not getting rid of me that easily.”

  Brad didn’t really respond to these words of as they walked back towards Brian’s blue Honda Jazz. He often didn’t say anything. Just gave the faintest of smiles, then nodded. Made it harder for Brian to talk to him. But fuck‌—‌would this kid even want a Detective Inspector giving him life advice? He thought back to when he was down. When he was struggling. Would he have wanted DI-Fucking-Price to give him depression advice?

  The hairs on his arms stood up. His cheeks warmed up. Price. Definitely frigging not.

  Brian nodded at DS Carter and DC Porter as he reached for the handle of the car door. Brad got in the passenger side, Brian plonked himself down behind the wheel.

  “Sure you don’t want me to drive?” Brad asked, as Brian fumbled with the keys in the ignition. “Just, y’know. Being old enough to be a fucking granddad and all that. Don’t old people have like, a twenty-mile-an-hour max speed?”

  Brian glared at Brad, who stared distantly out of the window, as if his words of banter were nothing more than rehearsed lines.

  “I’ll kick you out of this pissing car at a twenty-mile-an-hour minimum speed if you don’t watch your lip, mate.” He turned the key and started up the engine. “Where you want dropping off? Oh, my bad. Another few hours left on your shift. Feel for you.”

  Brad scooped one of Brian’s Haim CDs out from the glovebox and examined it with his nose crinkled, like it was toxic waste. “Thought I heard a rumour you had a good taste in music?”

  “Thirty-mile-an-hour minimum speed,” Brian said, raising his voice as he exited onto the A6 and headed back towards the station. “You can knock me all you like, but you don’t go knocking my music taste.”

  Brad smiled at this. Made a change.

  The pair didn’t say much as they got closer to Preston Police Station. Brad never had said much since Brian had started mentoring him for eventual promotion to the DI role. He’d only come in to Preston a year or so back, from over the Pennines somewhere.

  But he’d always had that look about him. That glassy look in his eyes. That detachment‌—‌not a shred of sentimentality about him. Didn’t talk about his personal life. Didn’t talk about much unless asked or prompted. All made for a damn good officer. But, as Brian knew too well, it made for a damn unhappy officer, too.

  Brian indicated left and pulled onto the car park of Preston Police Station, cursing at a car as it flew past honking its horn.

  “Bloody bastard,” Brian muttered under his breath. He could feel his cheeks warming up. Feel the tightness in his chest.

  Oh shit. Not this again. Not this.

  He pulled up in one of the parking spaces. He could feel himself getting warmer. Smell the mintiness from the air freshener, which was making it even worse. He just wanted to get out of this car. Get out into the fresh air. Get out into the‌—‌

  “You alright?”

  Brian swung around. Brad was looking right at him, eyebrows furrowed.

  Brian clenched hold of the steering wheel with his sweaty hands as the tightness in his chest receded, his face cooling down. “Yeah. I’m alright. What’s up with you?” He gulped. Gulped and took in a deep, shaky breath.

  Brad just looked at him. Looked at him with a face that didn’t buy any of what Brian had just said about being alright, but he didn’t pry for any further information. It was unspoken code, really. Brian didn’t press him about why he turned up late bleary-eyed and stinking of vodka, Brad didn’t press Brian about the tight chest.

  Nobody did. Nobody saw. Nobody knew but him.

  “Well, don’t have too good an early finish,” Brad said, opening the door and letting a cool breeze from outside sneak in through the door. “And spare a thought for me sat behind my desk surrounded by morons when you’ve got your feet up.”

  Brian forced a smile and nodded as convincingly as he could. “Of course. Always do spare a thought.”

  “Laters,” Brad said, walking off.

  Brian watched as Brad walked up the concrete steps towards the glass, automatic doors of the police station. He watched as he disappeared. He kept on watching. Kept watching as more people scuttered past. As two decent looking blondes jogged past wearing tight clothes and oozing sweat.

  He ignored the taste of metal in his mouth. The sweet smell in his nostrils that always came with the tightness.

  After the taste and smell had receded, he started up the car again and let out a sigh. He was done for the week. He’d done his final Sunday before his holiday. Soon, he’d get to relax. ‘Cause that’s all the tightness was. Just needed to chill, that was all. He was getting on. He was in his fifties, for Christ’s sakes. He was too old to be fucking around involving himself in drug raids on a Sunday afternoon.

  Malaga. The beach. iPod headphones in ears. Warm sun on his skin. Cold glass of Coke in hand. That’s what he needed. All he needed.

  As he indicated to turn back out of the police station car park and onto the busy road, he heard something behind him. Shouting.

  “Brian! Wait!”

  He looked around. He recognised the voice. He’d heard it really recently, actually.

  Of course he had. It was Brad.

  Detective Sergeant Brad Richards was doing something Brian didn’t often see him doing‌—‌he was running. Running down the concrete steps of the police station. Running towards the car.

  His eyes weren’t glassy. They were focused. Focused on Brian. Intense. Like Brian had never seen them before.

  Brian rolled down his window and prepared for some shitty prank or another.

  “Hate to be a dick, mate, but time with Hannah comes before time with you. No offence‌—‌”

  “There’s been a‌—‌a murder,” Brad said. He plonked his hands down on the open window of Brian’s car and panted, catching his breath, his dark curly hair flopping onto his forehead.

  Brian didn’t feel any reaction to this. Just numbness. Murders happened. It was a city. They happened all the time.

  “Okay…‌well, cheers for telling me. Now can you get your hands off my‌—‌”

  “We need to see it, Brian,” Brad said, looking Brian directly in the eye again with that new vigour, that new intensity. He was still struggling for breaths as he leaned against the car window. Gasping for air in the boiling May sun. “It’s…‌It’s…‌I’ll tell you on the way.”

  Brian shook his head. He looked out at the road. A gap had formed in the traffic. Shit. A bloody good opportunity to weave his way out onto the A6 gone begging. “So there’s been a murder. Right. And? People get murdered all the time. You know that. You’re a detective sergeant.”

  Brad shook his head. Some droplets of sweat from his curly hair splashed onto Brian’s face. “People
don’t get murdered like this all the time. Just take a look. I swear. Down at Avenham Park. One look.”

  Brian bit into his lip. He could still taste that metallic tang in the back of his throat. But the sweetness was gone. The sweetness had been replaced with Brad’s sweatiness, and his boozy breath. He thought of taking a cool shower with Hannah when he got home. Washing all his grime from his body before eating as much Sunday roast as he could then…‌well. Finding a fun way to work off the calories that involved Hannah.

  But fuck. Brad was alright, really. And he was unstable. Maybe it would make Brad feel better if he just took a look. Make Brian look like he was his mate or something. Who knows what this guy needed?

  “One look,” Brian said, opening the passenger door and letting Brad back inside.

  As Brad got into Brian’s car, the pair of them heading out of the car park of the police station once again, Brian figured one look into the details of this murder would be all he needed.

  He was right.

  But not in the way he expected.

  Chapter Two

  Brian knew it was a big case when he saw just how deserted Avenham Park was.

  Usually, on a sunny, warm late spring day like this, Avenham Park would be packed with all sorts of show-offs. Lads who looked like they’d been pumped with a cocktail of steroids. Girls who “accidentally” brought out their smallest, slinkiest bikinis. A haven for posers, that’s what it was.

  But not today. Not now. Right now, the green grass, which smelled freshly mowed, was completely empty.

  Brian and Brad made their way down the winding pathway that ran beside the grassy area of the park. Up ahead, Brian could see blue and white police “Do Not Cross” tape being tied around a couple of trees. One of the officers was struggling to extend it right the way around as he reached the end of a roll.

  “Are you gonna tell me anything about this or am I going to have to guess?” Brian asked Brad.

  Brad was wide-eyed. He focused right ahead at the police tape as he walked at a fast pace, his shoes clunking against the concrete below.

  Brian shrugged as Brad didn’t say a word. Clearly this guy hadn’t dealt with many murders before. Wherever he’d come from, he had an overactive imagination. Couldn’t be worse than the kid in the carrier bag tossed into a stream a few years back when Brian was a Detective Sergeant. No matter how well he could recall that memory‌—‌recall the sickly, pungent smell as he approached the stream; recalled the freezing cold remains in the soggy carrier bag, he couldn’t bring himself to remember what the kid looked like.

  Police officers had a way of turning off like that. They had to. That off-switch was the difference between inspector and instigator.

  As the chatter of the officers around the side of the stream got close, Brian rubbed his tongue against his teeth and imagined the taste of roast beef, gravy, just like Hannah made it best. He’d be back soon. This wouldn’t take long. Just a look, that’s all Brad had said. Just one look, and then it was back home for that long-awaited Sunday respite.

  “It’s not like anything I’ve heard about,” Brad said, breaking his self-imposed silence. “It’s something we need to see. Something you need to see. I just…‌I just know it.”

  Brian shook his head. “I’ve seen enough, lad. Don’t need to see another thing in my entire life.”

  The pair of them soon reached the police tape. A few officers that Brian recognised were gathered around‌—‌DS Wainwright. DC Wilson. They nodded at him as he passed. Their cheeks looked pale, just like they had when the two of them had been in that field back when Brian found Hannah’s poor sister in that farmhouse. He wondered what they could possibly have seen that matched that sight‌—‌that smell‌—‌of eighteen months ago. Because to him, nothing had come close.

  “McDone. Surprised you got your ass down here.”

  The voice came from below Brian. He looked down the grassy ridge towards the scene and saw the familiar grey hair and squinting eyes of Detective Chief Inspector Marlow.

  “Marlow.” Brian nodded, easing his way down the slippery ridge towards the stream.

  “Didn’t know you were on this case,” Marlow said, looking right at Brian. He had black wellington boots on. Hanging from his neck, there was a white mouth guard, like people in China wore when SARS went bat-shit crazy. In his hands, he had a pair of clear gloves.

  Brian shook his head. “I, erm…‌I’m not. I just came for a look. Heard something big happened here.”

  Marlow sniggered once. He extended his gloves towards Brian, also snapping his mouth guard from his neck and holding it in Brian’s way.

  Brian looked at the kit like it was below him. Like Marlow should be offering it to a less qualified‌—‌a more easily-sickened‌—‌officer.

  “Seriously,” Marlow said, shaking the gloves and mouth guard in Brian’s direction. “You’re gonna need ‘um.”

  Brian took the gloves and the mouth guard from Marlow. To think of it, Marlow looked pretty pale too, as he stood there in the stream. Paler than Brian thought he’d ever seen him. What had he found? What was here that had everyone so rattled?

  Brian passed the gloves and mouth guard to Brad, who peered down the stream towards the small crowd of officers wearing their clear protective outfits. He couldn’t see past them. He could see they were looking at something, gathering around it, but what, he had no idea.

  “Just down there, then?” Brian asked.

  “Knowing you like I do, I’d say turn around and walk the fuck away from this crime scene,” Marlow said, his voice raising. “Turn around, go home to your nice little life, then forget you ever saw this. Because if you see it, you’re going to want this. I know it.”

  Brian shook his head. “I’m going on holiday next Saturday.” He started to wade through the water, which soaked through his shoes and his socks, freezing his toes. “Like I said. Just one look, and that’s‌—‌”

  “You don’t just get one look at this, Brian. None of us do. You’ll see.”

  Marlow turned away from Brian and started climbing back up the side of the grassy ridge. He didn’t look back down, not once.

  Brian looked at Brad. Looked at him, staring intently down the stream towards the small crowd of officers gathering around to take samples, photos, the like.

  “Where the hell have you brought me to, mate?” Brian asked, as he took a few more steps through the freezing cold stream.

  “Hell, apparently,” Brad said, and followed Brian down the stream towards the crime scene.

  To continue reading Nameless Kill, visit the following link to get started:http://smarturl.it/NamelessKill

  About the Author

  Ryan Casey is the author of several novels, novellas and short stories. He primarily writes suspense thrillers, but also writes horror, science fiction and mystery. He revels in exploring complex, troubled characters in difficult moral situations, and is a sucker for a plot twist. His work includes the best selling Dead Days serial, the Brian McDone crime mysteries, Sinkers, The Hunger, Killing Freedom, What We Saw, The Watching, She Remembers, Something in the Cellar and Silhouette.

  Casey lives in the United Kingdom. He has a BA degree in English with Creative Writing from the University of Birmingham, and has been writing stories for as long as he can remember. In his spare time, he enjoys American serial television, is a slave to Pitchfork’s Best New Music section, and wastes far too much of his life playing Football Manager games.

  For more information go to ryancaseybooks.com

  About this Book

  Some secrets are better left undiscovered.

  Two years after the shocking events of the Nicola Watson case, Brian McDone’s life is finally back on track. He’s working in the lower ranks of the police department, but his personal life and mental stability are stronger and more important to him than ever.

  That is until news breaks of a series of brutal, ritualistic murders in the idyllic Lancashire countryside. Seven bodies are found,
decapitated, bones stripped of flesh, heads piled on top of one another. The police are clueless. Brian is intrigued. Too intrigued.

  As Brian grows obsessed with the case, he finds himself drawn out of his peaceful life and into the dangerous depths of the investigation. In a race against time, Brian must put all he cares about on the line, as he faces a ruthless, cunning and methodical killer who isn’t afraid to make things personal.

  The second in the series from bestselling author Ryan Casey, Buried Slaughter is a dark detective mystery with complex characters and a twisting, thrilling plot. If you enjoy Danish TV hits The Killing and The Bridge, you’ll love Buried Slaughter.

  Copyright

  Buried Slaughter (Brian McDone, #2)

  by Ryan Casey

  Published February 2014 by Higher Bank Books

  Edited by: Martin O’Hearn

  Cover by: Cormar Covers

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your preferred retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2014 Ryan Casey

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four