Xion Island Carrier: Chapter 6.

Nash didn’t believe in ghosts until his good friend Max died—and then came back to torment him. He believed in patterns. And sometimes, a pattern had a name. In this case, that name was Conrad bloody Snow.

He stared through the one-way mirror of Interview Room 3, with his jaw set. Conrad waited for him with one leg crossed neatly over his knee. He wore a charcoal waistcoat over a navy turtleneck and had a scarf wound around his throat. There wasn’t a strand of his blond hair out of place. Bloody long-haired hippies, the pair of them. Him and Max.

It was good to see him, but the man was unsettling. Nash had worked with him enough to trust him. He’d seen what Conrad could do—and Max.

Maxwell Jones, unlikely ghost and deceased pain in the arse. Alive, he’d been the bane of Nash’s life and the only suspect in a spate of bizarre murders—three months later, he was one of the best friends Nash ever had.

And three months after that, he was gone.

Max had died of a brain tumour with Nash at his bedside, and they’d had so little time. Max laughed at the rumours that they were gay lovers and played up to it sometimes. Their friendship was on a deeper plane, and Conrad said that’s how Max was able to come through to Nash without always needing a conduit.

Max called him an uptight, OCD-driven tosser—his words—and even bequeathed him his old camper van to lighten up. The much younger man said Nash needed to get laid and be a nicer person—thanks to Max, he tried.

Silas was well-groomed and athletic. He worked hard to maintain his physique and good looks, but Max had died at 28 with his flowing chestnut hair gone. Even without it, he was still a bloody hippy. Theirs was a strange friendship, and Max had appeared through Conrad ever since.

Lately, in times when he could muster enough static energy, Max had evolved to make his presence known when Conrad wasn’t there. It was both a wonderful blessing and as irritating as athlete’s foot. Max had a whole new spectrum of pranks that exceeded the physical realm.

Conrad wasn’t Max, but he’d become friends with Nash and Kelvin. And when he spoke, people paid attention.

Even Nash. And now he sighed. Conrad didn’t bother him with trivialities. When he came with information, it was always important. Nash went in, armed with two coffees and let the door shut behind him.

‘Morning, Conrad. You could have come to my office.’

‘They said you weren’t to be disturbed and made me wait in here for nearly an hour.’ Conrad laughed. ‘I believe I heard the words fruit and cake, and I don’t think your desk sergeant was talking about elevenses.’

Nash pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘Ah, Monroe. He’s only been with us for a couple of weeks. Your reputation precedes you. On your way out, give him a message from the other side that he’s going to be sacked before his next shift if he doesn’t wind his neck in. From the other side of my desk, that is. I’ve had my eye on him.’

They both laughed. 'How are Natasha and Aether?’ Nash asked.

‘Both good, thanks. Aether’s ten next week and he’s invited his whole class to his party. I expect the same number again won’t be visible— but at least we don’t have to cater for them, too.’

‘How’s that going?’

‘Better. He’s learning to manage his gift. It didn’t go down well at school when he announced that the teacher’s dead mother was standing behind her. And she thought the teacher was too strict.’

Nash chuckled, ‘I bet.’

‘He’s getting there, but it affects his learning when he can’t always tune them out. Anyway, enough small talk. I expect you want to know why I’m here.’

‘I’m guessing it’s important.’

‘It’s worrying.’ Conrad’s hands settled. ‘And Max has been trying to find out more before I came to you with it, but he’s drawn a blank. He’s here. And he’s agitated. He’s yelling at me now and says if you don’t stop ignoring him, he’s going to rearrange your furniture again. Starting with messing up your dignity.’

Nash leaned back in his chair and laughed. ‘It must be Friday. He’s always annoyed on Friday because he used to go out for a couple of pints when he was alive.’

Conrad didn’t rise to the banter, which worried Nash. The psychic’s eyes were closed, and his head tilted as he listened to a voice only he could hear. ‘He says something bad’s coming.’

‘Bad?’

Conrad’s voice changed. It was softer and slower as he let himself sink into the other realm. ‘He says: It’s not food. It’s family.’

Nash’s pen paused over his notebook. ‘Say that again?’

Conrad repeated it.

Silence was filled by the hum of the air vent above their heads.

‘That’s it? What the hell does that mean?’

‘He doesn’t understand it either. But he knows it’s bad.’

Nash studied him. ‘And you’re sure this isn’t about Max missing his Big Mac?’

Conrad’s eyes opened, but there was no sarcastic comeback. ‘You know he isn’t wrong, Si. Not when he’s like this. He says: The ones closest to you rot first. Does that help?’

Nash didn’t like ambiguity. He’d spent thirty years building a career on facts and evidence. He worked on the principles of cause and effect. But when Snow walked onto a case, he’d drop a sentence out of the ether, and three days later, it would make sense.

‘Can’t he give me something else?’ Nash said, scribbling the message down and underlining it. ‘You realise that could mean anything. Is it the Collins case? We think the wife is responsible despite an airtight alibi. Is that what he’s telling us?’

Conrad winced as he listened to Max. ‘He says to get off your arse and do some work. He’s not a bloody translator.’

An urgent call came through about the case, and Nash stood, grinning at Snow. ‘If he gets anything more specific, give me a ring later. I’ll be at my desk, wading through important stuff in the real world.’

Conrad slapped him on the back and left the interview room. The interview left Nash with a tight chest, and the phrase turned over in his mind like a tide-washed pebble.

It’s not food. It’s family.

The words were loaded, but without any meaning. Cryptic and useless. Just like Max Jones. Nash felt the warning, but had to put it out of his mind and attend the debriefing.

When Nash got there, the incident room was roaring with noise. He sat near the front and studied the team’s mood. The status quo was about to be disrupted, and it would take weeks to break into a new rhythm.

Molly Brown was taking the first part of the meeting and stood in front of the whiteboard, flicking through her notes with the aggression of someone waiting to make a point. Bowes had his sleeves rolled up after taking an active role in the case, and Lawson looked half-asleep over a cooling Costa he’d brought in with him. Jackie Woods was typing up notes, and the steady clatter of keys was the only work-related sound in the room as the team discussed their weekend.

When the door opened, silence fell like a mic drop, and Keeley Norton marched in on a gust of intrusive air. Nash watched her, but didn’t think she was trying to be dramatic like the last time she’d walked in for her first shift. She was calmer. The all-in-one skin-tight leather bike suit was gone, and she wore dark trousers, a tan leather jacket and boots that were worn enough to show she hadn’t polished up for anyone. He respected that. She wasn’t here for second chances—she’d come to work. Her hair was pulled back in a much shorter ponytail than before, and the hundreds of beaded braids were, apparently, ditched as last season’s style. Her face had the calm of somebody used to being studied, and her stance was non-challenging, but unapologetic.

Nash watched the room react. It was like the hush before a fight broke out in a pub. Bowes choked on a bottle of water, his mouth twitching between a grin and a panic attack. Woods, Renshaw, and Patel gave polite nods. Lawson blinked as though waking from a dream, and Molly didn’t move.

Nash stood to divert their attention to him. ‘Right, before anyone wets themselves—DI Keeley Norton, welcome back. For those who haven’t worked with her before, Norton’s come to us on a transfer from vice in Manchester. She’s highly accomplished and has seen more in three years than most of you will in ten. DI Norton’s a feather in Barrow’s cap, and we’re lucky to have her.’

There was a polite round of greetings. Bowes burned up like one of Nena’s 99 and managed a croaked ‘Hi.’

Keeley nodded to the room. ‘Happy to be here, and I’m looking forward to working with you all again.’

Molly scoffed loud enough to be heard, and Keeley looked at her but didn’t react.

Nash headed trouble off at the pass. ‘I’m sure you’re all keen to welcome Norton onto the team, but first, DI Brown has an update for us on the Collins case.’

Molly straightened her posture and gained another two inches, rising like a phoenix in a smart pantsuit. She made a show of holding the floor and pressed the projector button.

Nash was aware that the debrief put her in a leadership role that he could have done without on Norton’s first day back. But life went on, and the case had to be wrapped up. Brown had been the lead, so it was her privilege and duty to talk the team through the outcome.

The first slide showed a photo of Cheryl Collins with her deceased husband, Jeffrey, in what may have been happier times. They were entwined for the picture, and she looked happy. She wore a sequined dress with heavy makeup, so a social party or event. He had hooded, myopic eyes and was visibly drunk.

It was a blown-up image, and Nash reflected that the camera does lie. Cheryl looked at her husband and showed a whole lot of teeth. To the casual observer, she gazed at him in adoration, but Nash had examined a lot of faces in his time. There was unconcealed malice behind the love in that lady’s sparkling eyes.

‘Jeffrey Collins, fifty-six, businessman,’ Molly said. ‘He was reported missing last Tuesday at 20:43, and his wife claimed he went to get some air after a minor disagreement. Neighbours corroborate hearing them arguing about that time. According to her statement, that was the last she saw of him. He left his wallet, passport, and car keys behind.’

She clicked again to show a CCTV still of a man at a petrol station. He had his head down and wore a baseball cap. ‘This guy, pictured at 21:50, is using Jeffrey’s bankcard. But it’s not him. This is Jack Mason, thirty-six, identified as the Collins’ decorator. And he’s a bit too familiar with the bedroom wallpaper if you catch my drift.’

Lawson snorted and was silenced by a glare from Molly. ‘Texts between them and some dodgy photos confirmed their affair. Mason’s all muscle, but isn’t the most refined brush in the paintbox, so it was easy for Cheryl to convince him they could be together if Jeffrey wasn’t in the picture.’

Nash saw that Brown was enjoying herself, and she kept looking at Norton to gauge her reaction. She clicked to the next slide—photos from a roadside skip half a mile from the house, with police tape fluttering in the wind.

‘They killed Jeffrey with a hammer to the back of the head—blunt force trauma. They wrapped the body, dragged it through the house to the van, and chucked it in a roadside skip on Ormsgill, figuring it’d be undetected hidden under plasterboard and tiles.’

She pulled a face and continued. ‘Unfortunately for them, the skip was collected early due to complaints about the smell. It was only half full. But by that point, we had enough evidence from around the house to convict, including the murder weapon. The body was just a full stop to finish the case.’

Bowes jumped in to impress Norton. Nash smiled. ‘Let me guess— the clean-up was superficial?’ Bowes finished speaking and leaned his chair back on two legs.

‘They were sloppy. Not even close to good enough,’ Molly said. ‘We found blood traces under the floorboards and dog hair, belonging to Mason’s collie, mixed in the carpet wrap. Cheryl even forgot to delete their shared location tracker.’

There were a few chuckles around the room.

Nash nodded. ‘And motive?’

‘The usual, sir. Money and freedom. There would be a big insurance payout on Jeffrey’s death, and full control of the joint savings account.’

‘Where is Mason now?’ Lawson asked.

‘In the cells,’ Molly replied. ‘Crying.’

‘Poor sod. There’s no fool like an idiot who thinks he’s in love.’ Lawson glanced at Bowes as though he’d like him to be a chalk outline on the floor. Bowes didn’t catch the look, but Nash did and saw Lawson’s spike of jealousy. They were best friends, and it was clear that Norton would rock several boats on their calm lake.

‘And the wife?’ Renshaw asked.

‘Charged this morning. She tried playing the victim, but we had her.’

Nash was satisfied. ‘Good work, team. Get the reports filed and the evidence boxed, labelled and ready for trial.’

Molly looked smug. ‘Sometimes, the simple explanations are correct. You don’t need bravado. Just strong policework.’

Keeley’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. ‘Maybe sometimes you need both,’ she said.

Nash coughed to break the tension. ‘All right, that’s enough. Let’s start as we mean to go on. I won’t have point-scoring in my station. Norton and Brown, you will co-lead the next case.’

‘Seriously?’ Brown snapped.

‘You’re experienced officers. Make it work.’

Bowes nudged Lawson and whispered something. Nash saw that Norton caught it and smiled, but she said nothing.

Nash’s mind lurched away from the meeting as the file on his knee fell to the floor with help from an unseen hand. It revealed the message on his notepad.

It’s not food. It’s family.

He’d assumed it was linked to the current case, but the garbled message didn’t fit. It wasn’t a poisoning, and what Max had given him didn’t make sense.

Was it a warning about something to do with his family? Max was as frustrating as all hell, but he was never wrong. He’d always been cryptic, sometimes on purpose to wind him up. But this felt like a noose tightening in the dark.

 

Xion Island Carrier is book 6 in the DCI Nash series. They're all on KU. Hush Hush Honeysuckle is Book One, and this is the Amazon link.

https://books2read.com/u/4EB0zg(link is external)