Silas Nash Book 1: Hush Hush Honeysuckle: Chapter 12

‘See, Max? Everything we have is circumstantial. So, he was your old tutor. So what? That doesn’t mean you took tines to the man and stabbed him into a colander. But this is where it gets interesting.’ Nash looked at the fourth photograph face down on the desk, and Max’s eyes followed him like a trained dog.

‘We had all we were going to get from the body, so we were given permission to release it for a pauper’s funeral. This poor old man didn’t have a soul in the world, not even a goldfish to grieve him. He lived alone with no family or close friends to send him off. Before we turned him over to the council to cremate, one of our WPCs went back into the house to get him something to wear for his final day out. Guess what she found in the pocket of his best white shirt?’

Max was dying to say, ‘A Morrison’s pork pie and a packet of condoms.’ He didn’t, but he must have smirked.

‘Do you find this funny, Jones? A man is dead, and all you can do is make wisecracks or be smug?’

‘No, sir. I’m feeling more nervous now. I know it’s a childish response, but it is borne of fear and nerves, not from trying to be clever.’

‘I wonder if Mr Armstrong made any wisecracks or smirked at you before you stabbed him sixty-eight times?’

‘Technically, he was only stabbed thirty-four times because it was one fork with two tines. Sorry, just trying to be helpful. Again it was nothing to do with me. But please, can you put me out of my misery and tell me what was in the pocket.’

‘I don’t like you, Jones.’ He motioned to Renshaw to turn the fourth photograph over, and Max visibly jerked in his chair.

‘For the tape, we are showing Mr Jones exhibit 4C,’ Renshaw said.

‘Those are my cufflinks.’

‘We thought as much. The gold MJ monogram kind of gives it away. They were found in the breast pocket of Mr Armstrong’s shirt. Here’s another funny thing. You weren’t as clever as you think, leaving your calling card and expecting us to believe they were left there at the time of the murder. That room was forensically searched when the body was found. The cufflinks were not in that wardrobe at that time. Damn, that was either one enormous cry to be caught, or you have a hell of an ego. To think you’d get away with leaving something so blatant and not be found is ridiculous. I know. You figured there was nothing to tie you to the dead man. Would you care to explain, then, how they got there? Because they sure as hell didn’t walk into that shirt.’

‘They are my links, I can’t deny that, but I emphatically deny putting them there, inspector. They were stolen from my house last week, along with some other stuff.’

‘Did you report this theft? Was it a break-in?’

‘Yes, but it was just some electrical stuff and my laptop, a bit of jewellery and less than a hundred quid in cash, nothing that couldn’t be easily replaced. I’ve been burgled before, and I figured it wasn’t worth reporting. I went online to locate my devices and was able to erase them. Things never seem to get found and given back, anyway. Obviously, I wish I had now.’

‘How the other half live, eh? I’m damned sure if I lost a hundred quid and my laptop, I’d be less cavalier about it. Weren’t you bothered about your data falling into the wrong hands?’

‘Not at the time, and everything on there was backed up before I erased it. I just ordered a new one.’

‘You just ordered a new one. Wow.’ They went back to the beginning and asked him the questions again—and again. Every time, they were phrased differently to see if he would give the same answer.

‘When you brought me in, I thought this was going to be about Henry.’

‘We’ll get to him. One body at a time, Mr Jones.’ Nash was playing with him. There was no good cop, bad cop routine. Renshaw was there as a second officer only and said very little. This was Nash’s shit show, and he was running it. He nodded to Renshaw, and he produced another photograph, but this time he put it face up.

‘Oh, my God, that’s Chelsea. Chelsea Green.’ Max stared at the image as though his eyes were showing him the wrong face. The body was hanging and interwoven with an ornate chandelier. A single-flower vase was on the marble mantlepiece below with a single sprig of honeysuckle. It was staged like living art—only this lady was no longer living, and she hung in the pose of a circus performer doing rhythmic gymnastics with two ribbons. A cord around her neck looked like the method of death and had cut in to partially garotte her. Post mortem, presumably, her legs and arms had been pulled back and secured to the light fitting with what looked like black satin ribbon, pushing her body forward, face front. Her skin was blue-tinged with broken blood vessels over her face. The lividity was grotesque. Where gravity had pooled the blood in her face, her neck had formed deep puffy detritus-filled jowls on the former slender face.

Chelsea was a freelancer that Max had worked with several times until he’d slept with her, and it all went pear-shaped.

The body was dressed in a black lace wedding gown with a cascading train. A long veil was folded back to reveal her face. Max recoiled from the image and retched. He looked away, covered his mouth, gagged again and held it in.

‘Please take it away.’

‘Bravo on your performance, Max. Will you be needing a bucket? We’d hate for you to scream that we’d breached your human rights later.’

‘Enough. Please. Can we stop now? I need a break. Where’s my solicitor?’

‘The minute she arrives, we’ll suspend the interview so that you can meet with her.’

‘Like Mr Armstrong, until just now, we didn’t have a connection from you to Chelsea Green. Would you like to tell us how you know the victim?’ Max felt that he shouldn’t be saying anything until Jane got there, but he’d already said enough to put him away for a long time. Sod it.

‘I commissioned her to work on some projects for me. If I’m not mistaken, this is the chandelier we put in at Ocean Boulevard on Walney Island. She’s an interior designer with a great eye for detail, and her work compliments my buildings. She’s a good fit. He hanged her, so it was quick, wasn’t it? She won’t have suffered much, would she?’

‘I should imagine she suffered a great deal. How long did you know her?’

‘About three years.’

‘Do you draw much?’

‘Draw?’

‘Draw, paint, make pictures.’

‘Yes, of course. I design buildings, and I draw images of things to go inside buildings.’

‘And what was your relationship with Miss Green?’

‘I told you, I hired her professional services.’

‘And that’s all? Nothing more? Nothing personal?’

Max sighed and rubbed his eyes. His hand shook, and the adrenalin that the interview was pumping around his body took its toll. He was tired and just wanted to lie down. ‘Yes, that’s all, Inspector. We had a fling, but that was a long time ago, and I promise you it didn’t leave enough messy residue to make me want to kill her.’ Nash and Renshaw looked at each other, and Max felt that he was doomed.

‘Would you say you were the man she loved but could never have? The one that got away?’

‘That’s a bit dramatic, but yes, she was upset when we split up. We weren’t even together. Not really. We had too much to drink one night after celebrating a deal closure and ended up in bed together.’

‘You accidentally fell into bed together? Repeatedly? For the night?’

‘Well, it was more like ten minutes, but you know how it goes. That was it for me, really, but she pushed for more. Calls, texts, that kind of thing. Nothing I couldn’t handle diplomatically, with tact and without resorting to murdering her. Anyway, I saw her a few times, but it all got heavy. She wanted me to go away with her for a weekend, and her folks were going to be there. I’m not really a meet-the-parents type of man, so I called it off. That was over a year ago, and because she didn’t take it well, I haven’t seen her since.’

‘I see. You asked if she suffered. She did. You left us a surprise under that outfit, didn’t you? The dress was stuck to her back with the ooze of fresh blood, but it didn’t do anything to spoil the artwork.’

‘What artwork?’

‘Why don’t you tell me? Come on, Max, it was stunning. You must want to brag.’

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘You tied her face down. Bound her ankles and wrists and gagged her. And then you tattooed her entire back. It’s quite the piece. We’ve had a tattoo artist examine it, and he said it was a stunning design and well-drawn. The artistry was excellent, but he could tell that the tattooist wasn’t used to working on the skin. He estimates that there were close to fifty hours of work in it. Allowing for sleeping, it means you had her tied to that bench for three or four days. Maybe even five. Imagine how much she suffered during that time.’