Silas Nash Book 1: Hush Hush Honjeysuckle: Chapter 24

Nash had a bad night. Loneliness was always worse when it was dark and he was in the house on his own. It was crippling. Having a selfish, narcissistic lover was better than having no lover at all. After a dream about being left on a crowded train platform when he was four, watching everybody walk away from him, he’d woken with sweat on his brow. He felt that he deserved to be loved as much as the next person. However, all thoughts of getting in touch with Sandy were banished with the dawn and the birdsong.

He got up with no enthusiasm for the day. He sorted his emotions into one compartment and his mood for working on a murder case into another. At the start of the investigation, all the officers were fuelled by rage. Nash had experienced it twice now, once with the Johnstone case twenty years ago and now with The Florist. In the first week, he woke with determination carrying his feet out of bed before the alarm sounded. In the office, the collective demeanour was one of cool professionalism, but at home, his rage was overwhelming. He was going to get this bastard, and Nash would look him in the eye and grin as they sent him down for an eternity. A new mood insinuated itself as the investigation wore on with no result. This was the feeling of helplessness that always hit in the slump of a case. It was shrouded in a thick coat of despair, and when you lose hope, you lose motivation. Nash couldn’t let that happen. He had to keep his own and his team’s emotions snapping with synapses of positivity and belief.

This morning he showered and dressed in a grey plaid suit. It was Thursday, so he wore a blue shirt and a navy-and-grey striped tie. He made coffee and toast. Most days, that was enough, but damn, he wanted something sweet. There was nothing in the fridge. Sandy liked dessert. There had always been something ridiculous like tiramisu or black forest gateau in the fridge back then, and he remembered eating cake from sandy's navel.’

There wasn’t even a half-empty tub of cookie dough ice cream in the freezer. It was six-thirty in the morning, and he was angry because there was no dessert. He opened the cupboard where he kept two spare jars of coffee, always two in hand, so he never ran out, and a giant box of tea bags. He was annoyed again because he’d agreed to go back to work. He moved cooking oil and gravy granules and reached to the back for an old jar of runny honey that had been there for years. He’d read somewhere that honey was the only food item that never went off. He hoped it was true because there was nothing runny about this stuff. It had crystalised and didn’t look very appetising. There was a crusty brown rim of stickiness around the neck of the jar, and he almost threw it in the bin. But then he wouldn’t have it for his toast that was sitting by his coffee going cold. He wiped the messy rim with a wet cloth and went in search of the honey dipper at the back of one of the drawers. What the hell was he doing? He slammed the drawer shut and used his knife. He was angry because his life was such a terrible mess.

He put his head in his hands. He was in a position of power over everybody at work except Bronwyn Lewis. And yet he felt so small. They looked up to him and waited for him to give them answers. He had none to give. Over forty years in the force and with a few courses under his belt, he had a special knack for reading people and scenes. It was at his insistence that they let Jones go without charge. Every fibre of his being told him that Jones was innocent. His belief was corroborated by the fact that Jones was locked up when most of the bodies were brought to the crime scene and again by the lie detector. It was all irrelevant because Nash knew they had the wrong man, and that was the only indicator he needed. The rest was just fluff.

He should be happy that they had a new suspect, but he wasn’t. Forty years of giving the worst news in the world to grieving families had broken him. He wasn’t whole anymore, and parts of him were missing. He’d stopped puking at crime scenes a long time ago. And the day you don’t puke at horror is the day you stop feeling.

That was probably why nobody loved him. He didn’t feel enough. In his head, he thought he was giving everything a partner should. He thought he gave enough love, but perhaps he didn’t—couldn’t. He held so much of himself back from pain.

He felt it now, and his body ached. It gnawed at his brain like a tooth abscess, and the feeling was remarkable. But there was nobody there to remark about it too. If only there was one person in the world that wanted him. He had nobody. No relatives, no friends, only work. Lola felt his anguish when it came from somewhere deep inside him and jumped on his knee. He offered her toast and honey, and she had a tentative lick but didn’t like it. He held her close to him and nuzzled into her fur. She understood and let it happen.

Silas Nash was a very different person from DCI Nash. He hadn’t been late for work in forty years, and today wasn’t that day. A splash of cold water to his face did the trick.

Nash was back.

‘Listen up, people.’

The team were slouching at their desks. With so little evidence pushing them forward, the lack of enthusiasm showed. The keenness in their eyes a few days earlier had turned to frustration.

‘Item number one on today’s agenda. Brown, let Jones know that the joint funerals are taking place for the two little lads tomorrow. I want him there. He may see something worthwhile. And I want a good police presence for Wilson and Little. As many of you as possible will be around the perimeter at all times.’

‘Sir,’ Brown responded.

‘Little Wilson and little Little, eh?’ Lawson said.

‘Can it, you idiot. There’s a time for gallows humour, and this isn’t it. It’s a kiddie’s service.’

‘Sir.’

‘With respect, sir, I think you were mad to let Jones go. We should have thrown the book at him.’ Bowes was turning into a good cop. He was prepared to stand up for what he believed, even if what he believed was bollocks.

‘Is that right, Bowes?’

‘Yes, when the next one shows up, that’s blood on us.’ What he was saying was that the blood would fall on Nash’s head entirely like the pig’s blood in Carrie. The rest of the team didn’t agree with his decision either, but Bowes was the only one with the balls to say it.

Nash spent the next twenty minutes filling them in on the new intel and brought the board up to date with test results that had come in after most of them had left the day before. They straightened in their seats when he brought a new name into prevalence on the board.

‘Max’s best mate, Jonathan Finch.’

‘No way. It can’t be,’ Renshaw said.

‘What’s the motive? I can’t see one.’ Brown tapped her pen against her teeth and then scribbled like lightning on her pad. Nash knew she was using her shrewd brain to try and work a timeline and an entirely new process for the suspect.

‘None that I can see yet, Brown. That’s what we’re working on today. I want a rundown of the suspect’s movements to cover every second of the day. If this is our guy, we’re going to get him.’ Nash was glad to see some enthusiasm igniting and spreading a small flame through the team. They were hanging onto Jones’ coattails and were reluctant to let go—but he was all they’d had up to now, and having somebody new to work around shifted the dynamic.

‘Why don’t we just haul Finch in and throw everything we’ve got at him? Hey, he could be Jones’ accomplice. That makes much more sense. I think we’ve got them, boss, both of them.’ PC Lawson looked pleased with himself.

‘Jones having an accomplice is a line that we haven’t ruled out, but I don’t want you to focus on that for now. I’ve spent a lot of time with this man, and I know he’s not the type to work with a partner.’ Nash groaned at the thought of being lumbered with him for the duration in just that capacity. ‘You have to keep an open mind, Lawson—all of you. I’ve got the tandem florists working together on a backburner, but it’s not something I’m on board with. Let’s open our eyes and look at the case with a fresh perspective.’

‘Jones’ jizz was found in one of the victims. That seems pretty conclusive to me,’ Lawson said.

‘Then God help you, son, the next time you pull a random one-nighter in The Robin Hood. I hope it doesn’t come back to haunt you. That’s all I can say.’ Everyone laughed, and Lawson played to their humour by standing and giving a pelvic thrust.

‘Brown and Bowes, you will relieve Jackson and Miller at eleven and take surveillance outside the suspects’ house. If he moves, you stick to him like a cheap, wet toilet roll. Renshaw and Lawson, you’re on a split shift.’ They both groaned. ‘Go and get some rest now, Lawson. Get laid and come back concentrating. I want you on the next turnaround on the seven to three shift. Jackson and Miller are back on after that until eleven tomorrow morning. We’ll rotate this shift pattern until something breaks. Overtime is available for anybody that wants floating patrol. Any questions?’ Nash said.

‘Where will you be, sir?’

‘Me, Brown? I’m going to see a woman about a ghost.’