Silas Nash Book 1: Hush Hush Honeysuckle Chapter 8

The next morning, Max went into the office to sort out what was going to happen now that Henry was dead. It was bloody inconvenient and a blight on Max’s day.

He picked a sprig of honeysuckle from the creeper around the main entrance. It was the single overriding scent of his childhood. His best mate Jon’s house was his escape, and Jon’s mum had honeysuckle in the garden. It was always there, that beautiful cloying smell synonymous with parental love, even if he wasn’t loved himself. Jon’s mum was never keen on him and thought he was a bad influence on Jonathan. Perfectly true, but it didn’t stop him from loving the smell of honeysuckle.

He called a meeting and promoted his sales manager to take on Henry’s role in Groundworks and Civil Engineering, despite him not knowing the first thing about planning and all the red tape needed to jump through hoops to get permission to build. Never mind anything else that went with the role. It cost him another eight grand a year on Barry’s salary.

‘You’ll be fine, Barry. Just wing it, mate. You’ve got this.’

‘But, I don’t know what I’m doing.’

‘Who really knows anything these days? I couldn’t give a shit. I’m dying soon and way beyond caring. Just rearrange your pencils or something for now, and you’ll get the hang of it. There’ll be a tutorial on the internet.’

He had to promote a lower sales team member to fill Barry’s position, which cost another three grand and two lower-still salespeople because they moaned that everybody was being promoted. It made him realise how much Henry did and, as a direct consequence, how little his own role mattered. He was like the expensive wallpaper he’d chosen at six hundred pounds a roll and about as useful. Henry had carried the business for years. If the staff wanted funds for a team-building day at the races, they went to Max. If they needed help with anything important, they went to Henry.

Max had more than enough money to see out his days, and he couldn’t care less about the company. He had no kids to pass it on to. As a legacy, it was useless. He was the boy who took up Judo and got tired of it within a week, so moved on to bassoon lessons and then football club. He didn’t need money where he was going—and MJP was just a bunch of money and buildings. What Max needed was the elixir of eternal life or at least a greatly extended one.

He’d never replaced his last PA after she’d quit in frustration. But there was still Linda. Thank God for Linda. And she was there. At her desk, just like always. He dropped the sprig of honeysuckle in front of her with a smile. ‘For you.’ He didn’t think Linda had ever taken a day off. Her eyes were red and puffy, but her makeup was still immaculately applied with no smudging or coal-dusted eyes. If you were into efficiency, her sex appeal was boundless. She was probably around the same age as Max but seemed twenty years older. Her idea of fun was probably doing The Times crossword before an evening of arguing for governmental taxation increases on social media, a proper keyboard warrior. He knew her—before—but didn’t like thinking about that, and they’d never spoken about it, thank God.

‘Good morning, Max. I emailed you and am waiting for an update on company flowers.’

‘What?’

‘Flowers. For Henry’s funeral.’

‘I don’t like flowers. It’s ripping a thing of beauty out of the earth to die.’

Linda looked at her wilting honeysuckle.

‘We should send some,’ she said.

‘Okay, they need to be big then. Bigger than anybody else’s, so they stand out. A big wreath in the shape of a golf ball.’

‘You’re joking, right?’

Max looked confused. He didn’t get the intricacies of social niceties and couldn’t give a shit about the flowers until they became an issue. He saw Linda’s horrified face, and now it was a contest that he had to win.

‘No. Linda. I couldn’t joke at a time like this. My business partner has just died, and I want him to have the biggest and best wreath we can get him. He was the heart of MJP, and we must show our respect.’

‘But a golf ball?’

‘A big one in blue. I’ve seen him with blue golf balls.’

‘Max, he died on the golf course.’

‘There we go, then. He liked golf.’

Max had had enough of this shit. ‘Blah, flipping blah. Let me out of here.’ His days of being shut in this place were over. He’d done his time and was happy to let the monkeys run the zoo until he put the company on the market. He got a coffee and went to the chill-out area.

And that’s where the two police officers found him. They were already flashing their badges as they manoeuvred around the giant bean bags. The police had a nerve coming here and disrupting the office for a heart attack victim. It took very little for the office staff to down tools and gossip.

‘Mr Jones? DCI Nash and DI Molly Brown. May we ask you a few questions, please?’

Max motioned them to two bean bags.

‘Perhaps we might sit over here at the table, sir,’ Molly said, and Max was disappointed that he didn’t get to see her getting in and out of the bean bag. They were like huge primary-coloured vaginas that swallowed people. She held herself in a manner that suggested she didn’t shit like the rest of us, and that got up Max’s nose. The bean bag would have been fun. They took seats at the bright red table, the colour of anger, with the detectives on one side and Max on the other. They hadn’t said anything yet, but it already felt like an interrogation.

‘Do you mind if we record this? It isn’t an official taped interview, but it helps us with the transcript later.’ Nash put his device on the table between them and pressed the record button. He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘What can you tell us about Mr Watson’s activities yesterday? We tried to get hold of you earlier, but you weren’t available. Mrs Evans said it’s your custom to arrive late. We’ve spoken to her and have Mr Watson’s laptop and physical diary, but we wondered if you could shed any additional light on his day.’

‘Why are you here? Didn’t he just have a heart attack? I don’t see how this necessitates police involvement. I saw him here at eleven yesterday morning. Our meeting lasted no more than fifteen minutes, and that’s the last I saw of him. Though I understand he was found on the golf course, so the old bugger must have squeezed a round in at some point. Who can blame him? Shame if he didn’t make that eighteenth hole.’

‘We’ll answer all of your questions in due course, sir, but indeed, he didn’t make the eighteenth. He was found in a bunker where it’s partially shaded by trees in both directions. Mr Jones, we are unable to release much information, but we can confirm that Mr Watson was murdered.’

‘Jesus. Really? I thought it was a heart attack. Who’d want to murder old Watson? He was as dull as dishwater.’

It took Max a couple of minutes to regain his composure. His relationship with Henry was like that of an overbearing uncle that he loved to taunt. And he couldn’t imagine life without him. It was a good job he didn’t have to live without him for long. Dying took the meaning out of everything. He wouldn’t be around to grieve Henry this time next year on the anniversary of his death. And Max would never raise a glass to him because he’d be dead too. Dr Death took massive things, like his partner’s passing, and made them small. Insignificant even.

‘Can you think of anybody with a grudge against Mr Watson?’ DI Brown asked.

‘I suppose he got a few backs up with business contracts, but to be honest, he was more used to putting out my fires than causing them himself.’

‘What was your relationship with the deceased like?’

‘I couldn’t stand the pompous old bastard. He was always telling me what to do. But that doesn’t mean I’d wished him dead. Murdered. Wow. How?’

‘From what we can ascertain, he was attacked from behind. Further information regarding the murder is being withheld.’

‘Poor old bastard.’

‘You keep calling him old. He can’t have been much older than you at forty-eight.’

‘Did you ever meet him? If you had, you’d get it.’

‘I’m afraid not. Can you tell us anything at all that might help?’

‘Nothing springs to mind, and if there’s nothing else, Inspector, I have a meeting in five minutes, and then I have to buy flowers. Lovely talking to you. Do you have anything planned for the rest of the day? Here, would you like an MJP baseball cap? It’s just your colour.’ Nash put his business card on the table between them.

‘This isn’t a TV drama. Your partner has been murdered and subjected to the most heinous brutality. I believe there was a bitter argument between you and Mr Watson yesterday.’

‘I see Linda’s been talking out of school.’

‘No, several members of staff heard the altercation. Worse than an argument, they’ve told us that Mr Watson was going to have you legally removed from the business.’

‘Yes, but that suited both of us. He didn’t have to remove me, as you put it. Funny, that’s what he called it, too. I was going anyway. I can see what you’re insinuating, Inspector, and if being given a shitload of money for doing absolutely nothing is a motive for murder, then take me away. I don’t know if the gossip mill has told you this too, but I’m dying, so couldn’t really care less about working anymore. I’ve hired a new interim Henry, and I’ll leave him to run the business as he sees fit.’

‘Yes, we’ve heard. We’re sorry to hear about your illness, Mr Jones. We have one more question, and this is purely to eliminate you from our enquiries, you understand. Where were you between the hours of three-fifteen and five p.m. yesterday?’

Max hadn’t brought his car to work, and sometimes he liked the five-minute walk to the office, especially since his diagnosis. Time was limited, and he wanted to enjoy the sunshine and birds and trees as much as he could. He laughed as he walked home. The thought that he might have murdered Henry was ridiculous. Or was it? He felt that he could account for every second of yesterday, but after their argument, what if he’d snuck onto the golf course to bump him off? There was no telling what the tumour could make him do, and he couldn’t see anybody wanting to kill Henry. You couldn’t even call him vanilla. He was just grey. Max made a mental list of people he would murder before he ever got around to Henry. There were a few. Not least, some of his old teachers and kids at school sadistic bastards that they were.

He heard the pitiful screaming before he turned the corner. He hadn’t seen the first kick but was in time to see a lowlife piece of scum booting a dog. The terrified animal was on a lead, so couldn’t run away. It cowered into the wall of a house and trembled. Its head was low, with its tail between its legs, and it howled and urinated in fear. Max saw a small yellow river roll from between the dog’s legs to the edge of the pavement. He would have died right then to save hearing that awful cry again. It was wretched.

The owner, in his late teens or early twenties, had pulled back his leg to kick again.

‘Hey. Stop. What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

The boy lowered his leg and turned on Max.

‘What's it got to do with you?’

‘Nothing at all, but I’ll tell you now, you’re not going to kick that dog again.’

Max had him by the throat and lifted him off the ground before the boy realised what was happening. He squeezed, and it felt good to feel the vocal cords and sinews close in against his palm. He squeezed harder, and the boy wheezed. The dog was still crying, and the sound of the kid choking was sweet music to Max. As the boy let go of the dog’s lead, the animal was so traumatised that it didn’t try to move. Max caught the lead with his spare hand so that it didn’t make a run for it and get onto the road. A few cars went past, but nobody cared enough to stop and see what the violence was about.

He felt the boy weakening. All he had to do was keep squeezing. It wasn’t even that hard. He’d never wanted to hurt anything so badly in his life, but if he didn’t stop, the boy was going to lose consciousness, and permanent damage may be done to his throat. He could do without the aggravation.

Max let him drop, and the boy fell onto his knees, holding his throat and making the same wheezing noise even though Max’s hand wasn’t there. Max hunkered, too. He came down to the same level and pulled the terrified mongrel into him. It was skin and bone. He could feel every rib, and the hip bones rose like twin fists. He saw that it was a girl, and she was so scared that she peed some more and screamed as Max held her.

He’d never been one to think things through and made a snap decision.

‘Right. This is what’s going to happen. I’m taking this dog.’

The boy could barely speak but managed to rasp out the word, ‘No.’

‘No? And whose going to stop me from taking her?’

‘Police.’

‘Please call them, and let’s show them the state of this poor thing. But you’re right. It would be wrong of me to steal a lad’s dog. No more Lassie moments together. So, I’m going to buy her from you. It's a legitimate transaction. I’ll give you some money. You’ll sell me your dog. Deal?’

‘No.’

Max ignored him and took out his wallet. He watched the boy’s eyes widen as he saw the wad of notes. Max had no idea how much he had, somewhere between three and five hundred. He threw the money on the floor by the boy and watched him scrabble in the gutter for it before the breeze took it from him. Max saw the tracks on the boy’s arm and the sores on his face, and his hatred hardened. He felt no pity for this lad who had a miserable life when he wasn’t high. His thoughts were all about what the poor dog’s life must have been like.

‘Are we good?’

‘Drop dead.’

Max stood up and talked softly to the terrified dog to encourage her to walk with him.

‘How old is she?’ he flung back over his shoulder at the boy who was sitting in the dirt counting his money.

‘About two,’ His voice was coming back.

‘And what’s she called?’

‘Anthrax—and I’m keeping this money, but me and my boys are coming for you, dickhead. I’m gonna get my dog back.’ Max made a lunge toward him, and the man cowered against the wall as his dog had done.

‘Yeah? I’ll have the kettle on, sweetheart.’

Anthrax. He laughed—bloody Anthrax.

Max checked that he wasn’t being followed all the way home. The immediate problem when he got in was Dexter, who wasn’t impressed with the new arrival in the home. He hissed and spat and had to be forced out and have his cat flap locked while Max saw to the dog. He decided to call her Mia without thinking about it. It suited her and was a pretty name, he thought. The poor dog couldn’t take anymore. She was terrified from the beating—and from a lifetime of other beatings. She was scared of Max, about being in a strange place and the angry cat that wanted to relieve her of an eye.

She was a sweet girl, and though she cried out in fear when he picked her up, she allowed her body to push against him as he lifted her onto the sofa and stroked her. She put her silky head in the crook of his arm and flinched every time he moved in expectation of the next blow. Max couldn’t ever remember being this angry at another human being. How could the bastard do this to her? He worried that Mia would sense his anger and concentrated on calming his breathing as they adjusted to this new together. When he stopped stoking her, she put her head under his hand and nudged him, bold enough to ask for more.

This was the first time Max had a second to think about what he’d done. He’d stolen a dog that would outlive him by at least fifteen years. What kind of crazy stunt was that? She was medium-sized, part lurcher, part collie, part something else—a mixed-up special brew. Mia was brown and black and tan, with a bit of beige and a hint of rust. Her eyes were amber ponds of liquid chocolate and gold that swallowed him when he looked at her.

And for now—at least—she belonged to him.