Silas Nash Book 1: Hush Hush Honeysuckle: Chapter 25

Nash tapped the desk as he listened to the ringing on the end of the line. He didn’t think Jones was going to answer.

‘Jesus, can’t a man pleasure himself in the shower now without being disturbed?’

‘Meet me outside at two. Be ready.’ Nash hung up.

Getting called into Lewis’s office was rarely a good thing. He knocked and heard her shouting at somebody on the phone from the other side of the thick door. ‘I’m telling you now—come in, Nash—I want it pulled from all social media. Have you got it? I want it gone. Now. Otherwise, my legal team are going to come down on you so hard you’ll wonder which hole your arse is.’

She slammed her phone down so hard on her walnut desk that she winced and picked it up again to check the screen. ‘Police property, damn. There’s been another leak. Nothing we can do about the newspapers, it’s out there, but I’m getting it pulled from socials.’

‘What is it this time?’

‘Apparently, you’ve brought a medium onto the case. What the hell are you playing at, Nash? Have you lost your mind?’

‘That’s not true. I’m going out to see Jessica Hunter this afternoon. She’s been taken in by this woman. I’m going to quash it and get Jessica to drop it.’

‘It was all over the war room yesterday. Are you losing control of your team?’

‘No, Ma’am. There was a bit of frivolity concerning the information, that’s all. The guys thought my name was hilarious.’

There was the merest hint of a smile as she said, ‘So I believe, Silas.’ But it was gone a second later as though somebody had slapped it off her face. ‘Any idea who the leak is, yet?’

‘It’s not my team.’

‘It’s one of them.’

‘I trust them implicitly.’

‘Lawson’s got a mouth on him.’

‘He’s a good man. And if it was him, do you think he’d hold back? Lawson would spill chapter and verse. It’s not him. Whoever it is, they are drip-feeding the press to keep the story running. They love it because they’re getting a new headline every day.’

There was a knock on the door.

'Come in.' Bronwyn Lewis was furious, and it showed in every muscle of her body. Her posture was always strong and upright, but she looked as though somebody had stuck a poker up her backside.

DI Brown came in with a tablet and put it in front of her. ‘There’s been another leak, Ma’am. The news editor didn’t mention he was running a different story in the lunchtime edition. He says they are about to name the man whose semen was found in Zoe Conley. Either the leak is keeping the name back, or the press already knows it but are teasing the public and holding out. Either way, it’s going to be trouble. It needs shutting down before it goes to print, Ma’am.’

‘I’m on it. Ross Kirk, the editor, won’t answer if I ring from my office line. I’ve suppressed his stories so many times this week that I’ve got him on speed dial.’ She rooted through her bag and pulled out her personal phone. She rang the newsdesk and put the phone on speaker. ‘Put the editor-in-chief on the phone. Now.'

‘As I told you earlier, DCS Lewis, he’s in a meeting.’

‘Listen, Marvin.’

‘Marcus.’

‘Whatever the hell your name is. Get him on the phone in the next thirty seconds, or I’m coming down there, in person, to arrest the lot of you.’ She put the phone down on her desk after Marcus had put her on hold. ‘Better not smash this one up. It was a Christmas present from Grant. He’d go mad.’ She managed a half-hearted grin. ‘Ross, how good of you to speak to me. It seems like ages. Get it taken down.’

Ross sighed and said in a Scottish accent. ‘Immediately, Chief Superintendent Lewis, it’s coming down as we speak. There’s just a little problem with the server, so it might take a few minutes to action but trust me, we’re on it, and my reporters will be told about buying sensitive material. You have my sincere apology—again.’

‘And print?’

‘Off the press.’

‘It had better be. I suggest you sort out your little server problem, or you may find yourself with a little freedom problem. You’ve got two minutes.’

‘Done.’

It was a game. The ultimate win was to get a story online because once it was up, it couldn’t be stopped. It only took one person to share before it was pulled, and it could still go viral. Every second it was online, there were additional shares creating global reach, leading to more advertising and revenue for the media group. This story had been up over ten minutes before Brown brought it in. It would be nearer twenty before it came down—that was a good hit for the newspaper and Ross Kirk.

Nash had to call in at home to get some papers before he picked up Jones and went to Morecambe. His bladder played its usual trick on him as he got out of the car and danced while he slipped his key into the front door. Because he was in a hurry to get to the loo, of course, the key stuck, and it took him three jiggles to get the door open.

As he flung it wider than necessary. It banged off the wall, and all thoughts of his bladder were forgotten. Somebody had been in his house. He looked at his hall and cried out at the mess. Red spray paint in two-foot-high letters had been graffitied on both sides. The first said Let’s play, and its opposing wall said, Coming, ready or not. Nash picked up a bronze candlestick from the occasional table and ran into the living room. He flung the door wide. Lola wound around his legs and told him about the intruder. She was vocal, and her tail stuck straight up from her body, her back end quivering because her dad was home. The feature wall above his Victorian mantelpiece said, I know what you are. In his bedroom, all the walls were defaced. One wall said I’m going to tell your secret…Silas. His closet doors at the end of the room were sprayed with, Come OUT, come OUT … And the far wall said, Wherever you are. I know you’re a friend of Dorothy. The space above his bed was sprayed with the outline of an ejaculating penis.

‘Bastard.’

Nash thought back to the interviews. The snide remarks and comments. The little digs were aimed personally at Nash and meant only for him.

‘Bloody Jones.’

He’d been going to have a sandwich before he set off, but any appetite had left him. In the kitchen, Lola’s bowl had been filled with her kibble—Nash picked it up in case it had been poisoned. He went to his office, unlocked it and got an evidence bag. Without contaminating the contents, he took a sample of the cat food for testing and threw the rest in the bin. As an afterthought, he threw the rest of the opened box away. He went to his spare supplies, opened a new box for her, and filled a clean dish. Using his tweezers, he dropped the contaminated dish into another evidence bag for fingerprinting. For obvious reasons, he wouldn’t call his colleagues out to the crime scene, so this would have to do. He’d deal with this on his own.

Jones may not have been a murderer, and Nash was still convinced that he wasn’t—but it didn’t stop him from being a cruel, vindictive bastard.

He couldn’t face eating in his defaced home, but it wasn’t his custom to miss lunch. He was a breakfast, lunch, and dinner man and always had been. Sandy was one of those people who graze all day long, and Nash disapproved and tried to enhance his ex-partner’s diet by cooking nutritious meals and introducing more vegetables into everything. Sometimes it was like feeding a child, and he had to do it on the sly. He’d blend broccoli into his omelettes and add pureed parsnip to his shepherd’s pie. He’d leave bowls of fruit around the house and throw them out five days later before they were overripe or, God forbid, rotten. He had nobody to feed now, and it made him sad.

He thought back over the interviews with Maxwell Jones. He was a cocky little shit—that was a given—but Nash had never thought he was vindictive enough to do this. He thought Jones had been hard done by. He was certain he wasn’t a killer—almost. Come out, come out wherever you are. Maybe it was somebody else and not even connected to this case. He’d made enemies over the years. Nash had put a lot of people away, and getting backs up was always going to be part of the job.

He wondered if Jones had eaten. Even if he was a blackmailing bastard, he was still a man in the end stage of life. And Nash was stuck with him. As much as it galled him, the narcissistic fool was his responsibility. There was nothing he could do about the state of his house right now. The thought of being late for anything went against the grain. The phone calls to tradesmen would have to wait until he got back, and then, he’d open his own investigation into who was threatening him.

Sod it. He'd make a sandwich.

The kitchen hadn’t been defaced, but he still didn’t want to be in there. His house felt dirty for having had a stranger in it, but he had to eat.

He buttered wholemeal bread. Then added a bed of iceberg lettuce, with Emmental cheese and honey-glazed ham. He sliced thinly cut tomato and cucumber, added salt and pepper, and just a dribble of mayonnaise before cutting the two sandwiches, one for him and one for Jones. He wrapped them carefully in tin foil, put them into a plastic food container and dropped them into his bag. Before leaving, He picked up two red apples from the bowl by the door.

His briefcase didn’t have anything sensitive in it, just their lunch, so he threw it in the footwell of the passenger seat. On the drive to Ulverston, he contemplated his beautiful house. He’d hired people to decorate it less than a year before and hadn’t skimped on the wallpaper. It had cost him sixty-five pounds per roll. He was furious. He doubted this was anything more than a scare tactic from Jones. He was pissing up the wall to show his dominance over Nash to get his own way. Or it was a sick game to amuse him. He wondered if his life could be in very real danger, but only for a second before he discounted it. It had to be Jones. The more he thought about the home invasion, the angrier he got. To hell with him.

When he got to Jones’ house, he slammed hard on his horn and didn’t take his hand off until Jones came out, banging the door behind him.

‘All right. All right. Keep your hair on.’

Nash got out of his car, leaving the door open in the narrow country road, and he rammed Jones up against the wall of the opposite house. He had both hands on his rugby top and used it for momentum to repeatedly bring him forward and slam him back onto the wall with every statement.

‘You bastard. Enjoy that did you? Have you any idea what it’s going to cost to have my house redecorated? You sick sonofabitch.’

‘What? What have I done?’

Nash was running out of steam. ‘Why do you have to be such an arsehole?’

‘If you tell me what you think I’ve done this time, I might be able to answer you.’

A man ran down the steps of the cottage in his boxers with a towelling dressing gown flying loose behind him. He was in his socks, and his feet weren’t accustomed to running on stony ground. He let out a grunt when he came off the bottom step.

‘What the hell’s going on here? Get off him, or I’ll call the police.’

‘I am the police.’ Nash took his hand off Jones to flash his warrant card, and Jones didn’t bother to move. Nash’s initial anger was spent, and he was glad of a reason to stop. He realised that being his age wasn’t conducive to slamming scumbags against walls. He was a fit man, but he’d still exerted himself.

‘Steve,’ Jones said as though they’d met getting in their respective cars in the morning.

‘Max.’

‘Missus and the kids okay?’ He broke into a coughing fit on the last word, and Nash released him.

'What’s going on?' Steve asked.

‘There’s nothing to see here. Please go back into your house, sir.’

Max had one hand against the wall with his head low, coughing. The neighbour went over to him, and Jones held out his hand, palm up, to indicate he was okay.

‘This is police brutality. You can’t do this.’ Steve readied his phone and then held it out, recording the scene for posterity.

‘What’s your name?’ Nash asked.

‘I don’t have to tell you my name unless you're going to charge me for something. Have I done something wrong, officer?’

‘This is my neighbour, Steve. Steve Hill. Thanks for looking out for me, mate. It’s all good. You can get back to Hayley.’ Steve looked doubtful but went back inside.

‘You. Car. Now,’ Nash said. They got in the car and drove away.

‘Easy, tiger. You’ll blow a gasket.’ Jones was still wheezing and looked pale.

‘Are you okay? Do you need medical attention?’ Nash said.

‘No, I’m good, Starsky. Let’s go.’

‘When you’re out with me, I want you in suitable clothing. What the hell do you call this?’

‘Apparently, it’s the perfect attire to be pounded against a brick wall. Are you okay, Nash? Want to talk about it?’

‘Lose the rugby shirt and address me with some respect.’

‘Respect has to be earned, my friend. I know you don’t like me, but I know that you’re the one that has my back as an innocent man. Or at least you did until today. I haven’t thanked you properly. I realised I could have been charged with murder and would have died on remand. I’m grateful to you for believing in me.’

Nash gave him the side eye as he negotiated the little roundabout outside the big Kings pub. He was waiting for the punchline and a snarky remark.

‘Thank you, Nash.’

Nash grunted.

‘So about my Ayckbourn, Harlequin rugby shirt? You said act naturally, so I figured that meant dressing as usual.’

‘I can hardly pass you off as a copper looking like that, can I? Bloody red and navy stripes, what were you thinking, man?’

‘You’re going to lie and say I’m a cop?’

‘No, I was just going to introduce you and hope they’d assume, but that’s hardly going to work now, is it? Even undercover guys don’t go out looking like circus clowns.’

‘This shirt cost me a fortune.’

‘Jesus Christ.’ Nash turned Radio 4 on.

Jones leaned forward and switched to The Bay radio station. Rod Stewart’s Maggie May blasted into the car.

Nash leaned forward and turned the radio off.

‘Good music, man. How can you not like a bit of the old Maggie May? And, come to think of it, if we’re going to be hanging out, we’re going to have to talk about your wheels. Starsky and Hutch did not drive a boring old man’s car.’

‘We’re more like the Laurel and Hardy of Homicide, and I will not be made a fool of.’

‘No, I can see how you don’t need me for that, but honey, without Stan, there is no Oliver.’

‘Shut up, Jones.’

They drove in silence apart from the odd remark from Jones until they turned left at Bolton-le-Sands, and the first glimpse of Morecambe Bay came into view.

‘It never gets old, does it?’

‘What doesn’t?’ Nash asked.

‘This view. The sea is a beautiful lady when she’s calm, but she’s a stunning goddess when she’s angry.’

‘It is a beautiful part of the world.’

‘First place I came to when I found out I only had a few months left. The sea and the cliffs at Heysham calm me. It’s restorative, you know. Not that anything can restore me. I’m past that. So what’s the info on tomorrow? I don’t get why you want me at the kid’s funeral. I didn’t know them.’

Nash noticed that there was no self-pity in his voice when he talked, and he showed a genuine passion for the Bay. Nash admired his outlook— but he was still an annoying little prick.

‘No. But the killer is setting you up for their murder. There’s a good chance he’ll make an appearance or at least cause some kind of mischief. Half the force is going to be there, and I want you in the middle of it all with eyes on.’

‘Is that a police term? Am I part of the handcuffs-and-truncheon crowd now? Anyway, before you shout at me again, are you ready to tell me what got you so riled up this morning?’

‘Somebody graffitied some unkind things in my home.’

‘Ah.’

‘What do you mean, “Ah”? Bloody ah?’

‘Were you outted?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Nash’s hands gripped the steering wheel as though he had them around Jones’ neck.

‘How did you know?’

‘Not, “Is there some crazed, madman killer coming after you?” Or, “What can you do to protect yourself, in my civilian opinion?” Just, “How did you know I’m gay?” I don’t know, I just did.’

‘Is it obvious? Does everybody know?’

‘I don’t think anybody does. And even if they do, what does it matter? No, it isn’t obvious. It’s in the way you click your biro or the way you open your briefcase. I don’t know, do I? It’s in the way you—breathe. It’s just you.’

‘Just me?’

‘Your team respect you for the job you do. But I don’t think any one of them has a clue. You hold yourself very tight. And one day, it’d be cool for you to let that angst go.’

‘I’m the DCI of a police force.’

‘So bloody what?’

‘Quite.’

They were almost there, and Nash asked the next question without taking his eyes from the road.

‘I’m asking you in a civil manner. Did you deface my house?’

‘No.’

‘Good.’