Silas Nash book 1: Hush Hush Honeysuckle. Chapter 15 (a)

Max was fifty-four hours into the ninety-six that they were allowed to keep him before charging him or letting him go.

They went through the same procedure as on the last interview with some changes. Molly Brown had replaced Phillip Renshaw, and Jane Pearson, Max’s solicitor, was present. Max had been given a ten-minute consultation with his solicitor in the room before the interview. She seemed flustered and unprepared and had to leave him to make a phone call to have some additional notes brought in. Max spent five of his ten minutes alone with his thoughts.

They led him to think about the days of his youth. Bobby, Jon and Max were always together. The three wise monkeys, though there was hardly an ounce of wisdom between them. Jon’s Mum called them that, and when they got into trouble, she’d laugh and say, ‘Leaves of three, let it be.’ Max asked her what it meant one day, and she said the phrase related to leaves with three points. ‘ Never touch them because they might be poison ivy.’

‘Charming, thanks,’ Max had replied, ‘But what about three times a charm? That’s supposed to be good luck.’

‘You always have an answer for everything, Max. Too smart for your own good. You need to be more like my Jon and just take things at face value.’ They’d laughed, and Jon had gone off in a sulk. He said his mum had called him stupid when he couldn’t do his maths homework, and she held Max up as a shining example of somebody that would get on in life. His mum said Max was brighter than him and that he should do better. Later that night, Jon tried to cause an argument between Max and Bobby. Bobby misplaced his wallet, and Jon accused Max of taking it, but it didn’t work. They fell out sometimes, but it never lasted for long. Mostly they were the proverbial three peas in a pod. Max wished they were with him now—and preferably their eleven-year-old selves because they’d have dealt with all this so much better than Max’s adult self. They’d have devised a foolproof escape plan by now and would have smuggled in tools to get them out. At the very least, one of them would have had a Swiss Army knife that they’d ingeniously got through the strip search to pick their way out of jail and stab a few guards with on the way.

He knew his solicitor’s name was Jane Pearson, but she had struggled to remember his name two minutes after they shook hands. What was the problem with his name? Max Jones. It wasn’t difficult, but people kept forgetting it. Any confidence he’d had in her was leaking away under the door. This woman was his hope of getting out of there. She only seemed to have one piece of advice. Don’t say anything. Isn’t that something she would say to a guilty man? She must have as little confidence in him as he had in her.

It wasn’t Max’s job to read people, not like the police had to, but he’d secured some big contracts in his time by appraising a mood. He summed her up in four words. Not that he liked the C-word, but his acronym summed her up well. Caustic, Ugly, Narcissistic, Treacherous. It was why he was so good at winding people up and getting a rise out of them.

Nash looked tired. His shirt was fine. It wasn’t as though it looked as if he’d slept in it, but Max could see that it hadn’t been ironed. His shoes weren’t freshly shined, and he wore the same tie from two days earlier. A man like Nash would have enough shirts and ties to complement them pre-picked at the beginning of the week. The detective wouldn’t work Monday to Friday, but he’d always have his clothes ready. A tic was playing Whac-a-Mole at the side of his right eye, but there was nobody ready with a mallet to whack Nash. He had nothing against the guy. He was doing his job and could be an arse at times, but for the most part, he was polite and treated him well. He seemed like a likeable guy. The kind of man Max would buy a pint—if he frequented that kind of bar.

The woman, Brown, was a ballbreaker. She interested Max. She was in her thirties, trying to get ahead. Making an inspector wasn’t bad, but Max thought it wasn’t enough for her. Molly Brown was the type that wanted to run the joint. She had the urge to climb, and Max had the feeling that she was being held back. Maybe she just wasn’t as good at her job as her attitude implied. Crisp. That’s how he’d describe her, from her sharp blue skirt suit to her three-inch heels. She took the time to put on a full face every day. Max saw the tell-tale sign of exhaustion beneath the Copper Glo bronzer. She’d had a late night, too—but the detectives hadn’t worked together last night. There was something about their greeting as they walked through the door and the way Nash pointed some documents out to her that said they needed a catch-up on the case. Max suppressed a smile because he noticed that Brown wound him up. The female officer suppressed a yawn. Max deduced that Nash would rather work with Renshaw. He was right, and Nash offered her a coffee. He asked Max if he wanted one as well, and then Jane Pearson—we’re all on the same team here. Max accepted. It was nice to be included.

‘Interview resumed at 08:16.’ Nash motioned to each of them in turn to state their names.

‘Good morning Max. I trust you slept well.’

‘I’ve had better nights. You lot should have to spend a night in here once a year as part of your training.’

‘Not a bad idea. I’ll suggest it to the Prime Minister next time I go for tea.’

‘I’m not complaining. The duty team are really nice.’

‘Good. Right. Let’s get on with it. We have to go through the motions, Max. Every piece of evidence, everything said about you or the victims. But here’s the thing. We’ve got enough evidence against you, both circumstantial and direct—the kind that does stand up in court—to put you away for the rest of your life.’

Max turned to Pearson. ‘Is this the bit where I get to say, “No comment”?’

Jane Pearson stopped him from saying more with a look. ‘Intimidation, DCI Nash. I will not have my client intimidated. Please stick to questions and make them direct.’

Nash held his hands up in supplication. ‘Forgive me.’

‘That’s it, then? You’ve decided it’s me, and I’m done for. You would be making a big mistake putting me away, Inspector. I’m going to be dead soon, but you’ll be letting a bloody monster go free. What if he keeps killing after I’m gone? That’s direct blood on your hands.’

Pearson gave him a warning look to stop him from talking. ‘I’m very busy. If you have something new, I suggest you get on with it so that I can get out of here,’ she said.

‘Don’t let me keep you. In fact, you can go now if you like,’ Max said. The solicitor was getting on his nerves. She didn’t seem to care one way or the other about his innocence. She never once asked him if he did the murders, and Max didn’t like that. He wanted somebody that believed in him on his side.

Nash nodded at Brown, who took some photographs out of the folder and gave them to him. It was the same folder from the other day because he recognised the doodle of a cat on the corner. Same shit, different murder.

Nash didn’t put the photos down but held them against his body as though they mattered very much, literally holding his cards close to his chest.

‘There’s been another murder, Max.’

‘The dog bloke? I know. I was there soon after it happened.’

‘The dog bloke? Care to elaborate?’

‘The man I took the dog off. He was kicking it. So I took it away from him and gave it to my friend, Jonathan Finch.’

‘That would be Ryan Beck. I take it? Formerly residing at what was the Continental Bar.’

‘I don’t know his name.’

Nash glanced at the photos he was holding. ‘These are out of order, Brown. Give me victim number five, please.’

‘Sir.’