Silas Nash Book 1: Hush Hush Honeysuckle Chapter 14

Nash got back to Barrow by early afternoon. Three bodies for an autopsy would take time, but Robinson promised to fast-track them and get the results to him as each one was complete.

He wanted to get Jones in the interview room. It was time to get this guy processed and out of his hair, but until he’d gathered everything, there was little point, even though there was plenty to go on before today’s findings. He hadn’t presented all the evidence against Jones from Henry Watson—but didn’t want to do this piecemeal. He needed time to present the whole picture. Nash knew two things. They were dealing with a serial Killer—and Jones wasn’t him.

Nash checked every piece of evidence, and throughout the afternoon, more was presented as fast-tracked test results came back and witnesses were interviewed. Nash stayed until six and said he was going to work from home. Since the pandemic, detectives had been allowed to do certain work in their own homes despite rising crime rates. He couldn’t take physical evidence out of the station, but he was free to take as many photographs and photocopies as he wished on the proviso that they were carried in a locked briefcase and kept in a safe in a locked room at his home. He didn’t travel by train, so there was no chance of him leaving official and case-sensitive documents behind.

When he got home, he was irritated to see that Sandy hadn’t cleared up. They’d spent the night together, and as he walked around the house, he found a diary trail of the morning’s events. Sandy’s dirty clothes were left by the bed, not even put in the washer, just dropped on the floor in the bedroom. Three towels were dropped on the bathroom floor, and another one was slung over the bath. Nash didn’t see how one human being could use four towels in a single session. The bath was dirty, and the shower head dripped a steady refrain into the tub where the tap hadn’t been turned off properly. The bed was unmade, and the note Nash had left was still on the empty pillow.

You were sleeping, and I didn’t want to disturb you.

Make sure you lock up.

Love you xxx

However, the fifty-pound loan was gone. Sandy had a fondness for the slots—something Nash strongly disapproved of. Almost every time they saw each other, money changed hands, and it was always out of Nash’s account, never the other way around. Sandy was irresponsible. Nash knew that before they ever got together. He’d promised not to try and change his partner and had to accept things the way they were. Downstairs, the carnage on Nash’s spotless life continued. The remains of breakfast pancakes were smeared on a plate, and a smudge of maple syrup lay in a viscous mess across his breakfast counter. There was a dirty cup in the sink—the hot tea Nash had left beside the bed that morning. And the lazy devil had even taken a second one from the cupboard for coffee, and a glass of orange juice, both with dregs in them left beside the dirty plate. Sandy had brewed a whole pot of filter coffee for one cup and left the rest cooling on the coffee plate.

Nash sighed as he cleaned his house. It was an unequal relationship, and, at some point, he had to stop making allowances and admit he was being used. Sandy was fifty-three, not a child. And as far as lovers went, Nash had experienced better and certainly with less selfishness both in the bedroom and out of it.

He picked up, tidied, wiped, polished and hoovered before it felt like his house again and less like a crime scene. He took his briefcase and unlocked his office. It was almost a replica of the incident room at work. An entire wall had been turned into a whiteboard. One-third was given over to maps of the areas he was working, and two-thirds for gathered intel. Every night, he updated his work with new evidence. Different coloured markers connected pieces of information, and drawing pins with coloured heads marked locations.

That afternoon he’d been called into Lewis’s office. More stories had leaked to the press and social media. His boss tore him a new arsehole, and it stung. ‘We’ve got a leak in your division—sort it. There’s no doubt it was an inside job because vital information that was being held back has been spilt to the newspapers this morning,’ Lewis said. Nash had been asked for a press conference by the media, but up to now, they’d managed to put it off—but the papers had been given chapter and verse. The Sun ran a four-page spread, and it was the shitty icing on his shitty day. Among other things, they knew about the honeysuckle left at each of the murder scenes.

‘Another reason that leads us to believe it’s an inside leak is that only certain information has been divulged. It says the police are looking for a person of interest, but as yet, it hasn’t come out that we have Jones in custody. Everybody in the team knows that would blow their case wide open.’ Lewis smacked her fist on the table.

Nash was hurt. He wasn’t angry, sad or disappointed. He was gutted that one of his team would do this, and he took it personally. The news was out that Barrow-in-Furness had its first-ever serial killer, and he even had a name. The Florist.

Nash’s storyboard told the full tale to date of The Florist’s history.

At six o’clock, Nash made a sandwich and took it back to the office. By nine-thirty, when the doorbell rang, he has assimilated all the evidence and poured over every witness statement looking for anything he might have missed. The doorbell put him on edge. He saw Sandy last night, so it would be at least a week before he could expect another visit. Or until the money runs out, Nash thought, and then berated himself because Sandy was good fun and put a lot into their relationship. It didn’t all come down to money. All the same, when he opened the door, Sandy was the last person he expected to see.

‘Hi. What is it? Is everything okay?’

‘If I’m not welcome, I’ll turn around and go right back. I have lots of friends I can hang out with, you know,’ Sandy said.

‘No, I’m delighted to see you. Just surprised, that’s all. Come in, let me take your coat, and you might want to fix your face a bit. The wind’s had your mascara.’ As Sandy flounced into the downstairs bathroom in a huff, though Nash didn’t see what he’d done wrong, he realised that he still greeted his partner of eight months like an acquaintance. Maybe it was time to take the relationship to the next level and have another key cut. He poured two glasses of wine.

‘Can we start again, love? Hello, sweetheart. I’m delighted that you’re here.’

Sandy wilted as he handed the glass of wine over. They settled on the sofa, and their hands found each other. It felt good, as though they belonged. ‘How’ve you been, Si? Good day?’

‘Tough one,’ Nash said, ‘but it’s better now you’re here. Listen, let me just close the office, and then I can put work behind me and relax.’ He didn’t like to say, ‘Lock the office,’ in front of Sandy. It sounded as though there was no trust between them, but every civilian should understand the importance of keeping sensitive information safe, and that was his responsibility. Sandy tugged Nash’s fly down, and he was loath to move. There was an audible sigh from Sandy as Nash got up to go to the office—and it wasn’t a sigh of pleasure.

‘Tell you what, give me two minutes, and I’ll meet you in the bedroom. I’ll bring the wine with me.’

‘You’ve killed the mood now. All you ever talk about is work.’

This was far from the truth. Nash made a point of not talking about his job—it was another strict rule that had to be followed.

‘I have ice cream. The extra creamy one you like. Can I tempt you?’

‘I like that idea.’

‘Fine wine, ice cream, a good film, and you. I’m a lucky man.’

‘And don’t you forget it. I can’t stay all night, though, babe.’

‘Oh. Why?’

‘Just some stuff I have to do, so let’s not waste time. Come on, make the most of me.’

Nash didn’t need to be told twice.

Afterwards, they lay in the afterglow, smiling and sweaty. They cuddled close, safe and warm in Nash’s protective arms. He felt that if they could just stay like that forever, everything would be all right. ‘Don’t go.’

‘Don’t get heavy on me again, Si. I have to.’

‘It’s turned eleven. What on God’s great earth can you possibly have to do that can’t wait until tomorrow?’

‘Do I have to account for my movements now? Shall we put a tag on my ankle? Is this my boyfriend talking or Mister Detective Super Inspector Chief Policeman?’

‘Don’t be like that. I’m just concerned about you, that’s all. Are you okay? You’re not in any trouble?’

‘No, I’m not in trouble. Why the hell would you think that? Not everybody in the world is a criminal. If you must know, I said I’d meet the staff after their shift for a lock-in at the bar, and I’m already late.’

‘Can’t you give me five minutes? We have sex, and you’re almost straight out of bed and putting your clothes on. Aren’t you even going to wash?’

‘Told you. I’m late, and I like the feeling of your stuff in me. The scent will keep all the predators away.’

Nash turned on his side and felt deeply hurt, but there were no words to change the situation.

‘Oh, I almost forgot to ask. Look, Si. The reason I came around tonight is I could really do with a bit of cash. I’m broke and just need enough to get me through to payday. You know what it’s like, Babe. The landlord’s screaming at me, and what with the price of electricity, a couple of hundred will see me right. I’ll pay you straight back. Is that okay?’

There was a lot to process there. Sandy said, ‘Almost forgot.’ Not for a second was there any forgetting. Sandy had sweetened him up with sex and then went straight in for the kill. Nash had handed over fifty pounds last night, and now it was another two hundred. There had to be an end. Sandy had no money for bills but was meeting friends to go out late-night drinking rather than stay the night with Nash. And the big one, the one that really laid the boot in. ‘The reason I came tonight.’ Not to see Nash or wanting to surprise him with a visit, but just to get more money out of him. This cash cow was going to slaughter.

‘I’m not giving you any more money.’

‘Fine. I’ll go then and have the debt collectors on my doorstep by morning. Sandy made a grab for the faux-fur jacket Nash had hung on the back of the door. It was a gaudy number with pink fluff that Nash had paid for after giving in to Sandy’s two-hour sulk a couple of months earlier.

‘Will you still have a cocktail in your hand when these debt collectors arrive? Perhaps you could offer them one as a partial payment.’

‘Damn you to hell, old man.’

‘If you walk out of that door, don’t bother coming back.’

‘What?’

‘You heard me. I mean it, Sandy. If you leave now, that’s it. We’re done.’

‘Are you fricking joking me? You shag me and then throw me out.’

‘Don’t twist my words. I’m giving you a clear choice.’

‘An ultimatum, you mean. Don’t make me choose between you and my friends. You won’t like the answer.’

‘Do they give you more money than me, then?’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Nothing, I’m sorry. Look, forget it. Come back to bed, and I’m sorry for shouting at you.’

‘And you’ll give me the money?’

In that second, Nash felt old and dirty and tired. He could get a prostitute to service him once a week for less. And that’s what their relationship came down to. They had no mutual friends. He suspected that Sandy was taking recreational drugs—probably cocaine—and he was paying for it. They rarely went anywhere, and when they did, it was a fancy restaurant, and Nash always footed the bill—every penny of it. A sweet word out of Sandy’s lips cost him roughly a fiver. He lived for the once-a-week visit, though lately, it was less than that until Sandy needed money. It was a relationship he could do without. But damn, it felt like taking his arm off at the shoulder. This thought led him back to The Florist. He had work to get back to. Tomorrow he had to spend hours interviewing Jones, which was a complete waste of time. The sooner they let him go, the better. Nash was itching to get back to building a case or destroying one in this instance. Work was his other love, one that didn’t let him down.

‘The bank’s closed, and this teller is very tired. You’re welcome to slam the door on your way out.’

‘I don’t understand why you’re being like this, babe. A hundred, then. I can manage on a hundred.’

‘Get out, Sandy.’

‘You can’t do this to me. You think I’ll suck your wrinkly old cock, and then you can just throw me away as if I’m nothing. Nobody treats this bitch that way. You won’t get away with this. I promise you’ll be sorry.’

He already was.