Xion Island Carrier: Chapter 18

The interview room was cold, but James McAlister didn’t seem to notice. He was still. Paler even than the day of the funerals, and the room was deafened by silence, the old kind. It was church-quiet. He sat at the table, a man carved from his grief. His hands were clasped in front of him, and he didn’t fidget or show any signs of nerves at being called back in. His gaze was fixed on nothing.

Nash noticed the decline in James’ mental health. The sleeves of his jumper hung loose. He’d lost weight and wore no socks. He’d probably run out of clean ones. He hadn’t shaved in days. The first time they met, he’d been sanitary and well-dressed, though he was exhausted, and they’d spoken in the hospital early in the morning. At the triple funeral, his suit and black greatcoat were immaculate. He was a man walking a tightrope and could slip and fall at any second.

Nash sat opposite James, with Bowes as his second. The interview was being taped as a formality, and he scrutinised the life of a man who had nothing left.

‘You’re not under arrest, James,’ Nash said. ‘Let’s be clear about that.’

‘No? And yet you still have two Neanderthals watching boxsets outside my house all night.’ Nash shifted in his seat but didn’t respond as James carried on talking. By letting him vent, Nash hoped he might release something useful, maybe something he didn’t see as important himself.

‘That’s inaccurate. They aren’t outside my house. They sit across the street and several doors down, trying to be sneaky, inspector. I took the dog out the other night and they were both asleep.’

‘I’m very sorry you had to see that. The officers are primarily placed there for your protection. When was this?’

‘Bullshit,’ James replied, ignoring his question. ‘You want to know if I’m going out killing people with some deadly disease in my arsenal. I wish I was that clever, because maybe I’d have some answers about what killed my wife and children.’ Nash scribbled a note to find out who was on patrol, but didn’t interrupt.

‘Most of us on our street have bought our houses, but we still have the old council-estate spirit. We know our neighbours and look out for each other.  It’s tight, you know?’

Nash thought back to his neighbour only half a dozen houses down being murdered recently, and felt a twinge of guilt. They’d never spoken, apart from the unavoidable ‘Good morning’ in passing. However, close communities sometimes harboured secrets. He made another note on his pad to look at the McAlisters’ neighbours again.

James looked up, and Nash saw his anguish. It was too new, and his pain masked the colour of his iris. ‘If I’m not a killer, why am I here?’

‘Because people are still dying. We need to know how it started, and all we’ve got is you, James.’

‘That sounds like an accusation to me.’

‘Not at all. I’m saying that we have to be thorough.’

‘We’ve established a pattern,’ Bowes said.   

Nash glanced across to see if Bowes was going to add more, but he didn’t.

‘Listen, James,’ Nash said. ‘I’m going to level with you, and I’d rather this doesn’t go any further. We found a link between your family and all the other cases. The contagion is genetic.’

James straightened and paid more attention. ‘What do you mean?’

‘All the victims are distantly related to your wife. The deaths we’ve been tracking, from Alison and your kids, to others across the country—share a hereditary connection. Barrow. Blackpool. Newcastle. Manchester. Denton. Llandudno. They have different names. But when you dig into census records, birth indexes, and NHS registration data, they all come from the same bloodline. It’s not always obvious. But it’s there.’

James clutched at the words hanging in the air, but they seemed to bounce off him. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said quietly. ‘We don’t have any relatives in Blackpool or Manchester.’

‘They are all linked to Alison’s side of the family.’

James breathed out, taking a moment to take in what Nash said. ‘My family weren’t murdered?’

Nash reached out his hand as if to touch him in preparation for his next words, then withdrew it. ‘On the contrary. I’m sorry to say this, but we’re almost certain that they were.’

Tears came into James’ eyes, and he looked flabbergasted. ‘Everybody loved them. Nobody would hurt Ali and the kids. How can you be sure it isn’t just a horrible virus?’

‘We haven’t entirely ruled it out. But it’s not spreading through the air or via contact. It’s in the blood. James and I wouldn’t be talking to you so candidly if we weren’t damned sure that something was going on.’

James swallowed. ‘How many more?’

‘New cases, every day. No final number yet.’

‘Survivors?’

Nash shook his head. The silence fell again, like the room was filling with water.

‘We don’t have that many relatives,’ James said.

‘You do. We all do. When the net is cast, it’s more than you’d think.’ Nash was glad to break the tension when there was a knock at the door.

He turned as it opened, and Lawson poked his head in, awkward and out of breath. ‘Boss, sorry to interrupt. Can I have a word?’

Nash stood, gesturing to James. ‘Excuse me for a minute. We’ll pick this up shortly.’ He nodded at Bowes to stay put and turned to the tape. ‘Interview suspended at 11:16.’ James didn’t speak, but he inclined his head to show he understood, like a man being left out of the loop again.

In the corridor, Lawson handed Nash a file with a single sheet of printed paper inside. ‘A new case has just come in, sir.’ Nash saw the handwritten Post-it on the top from Bronwyn. Urgent: make this your priority.

He looked up when Lawson spoke again. ‘The DS wants it cleared fast. An elderly woman was killed sometime yesterday afternoon. Local’s been dealing with it, but it’s been flagged up to Special. The initial report suggests asphyxiation. The poor old lass was strangled in her bungalow. There’s no sign of robbery and no prints, or forced entry.’

Nash frowned. ‘And? Why’s this come to us?’

Lawson took a step backwards. ‘The DS said to flag it straight to you.’

Nash tutted. ‘We’ve got a dozen dead across five towns and more dropping like flies by the second. I haven’t got time to babysit you lot on this. Hand it over to one of the others.’

‘I told DS Lewis we’re buried, but she said it was sensitive. We’re getting heat and a lot of PR pressure.’

Nash cursed. ‘Bloody hell. Give it to Renshaw and have him coordinate with Patel. And tell Bronwyn to get off my back.’

Lawson nodded, took the file, and left. And Nash couldn’t hold back a smile at the thought of Lawson actually carrying out his last order. Bronwyn would eat the PC alive. He put the new case out of his mind and went back to complete his interview.

It was as though she was lying in wait for him to finish. Bronwyn called him to her office as he was on his way to the staff room to retrieve his lunch. He liked to sit by the hidden pond virtually outside the police station with his sandwich. The acre-wide beauty spot was adjacent to Asda and surrounded by dense trees, protecting it from view. Thousands of cars drove past every day, but hardly anybody knew it was there. Less than a minute from work, it was his lunchtime sanctuary, just him and the geese. He could think there.

As he knocked and went in, he was already grieving his ham and pickle, and his favourite bench by the water.

‘Sit down, Si.’

‘I’m up to my eyes, Bronwyn.’

She raised her stare from the paper she was reading, and it was enough to make Nash sit.

‘The autopsy’s back from the strangulation.’

‘I don’t have time to take on another case right now. This virus is blowing up all over the place. I’ve put Renshaw on the new one with Mo Patel.’

Bronwyn smiled. Sweetly. Like a viper. ‘That’s fine. No problem at all, Si. I’ll tell her family to put their grieving on hold for a week or two until you can fit them in, shall I? Briefing. Now, DI Nash.’

When Bronwyn Lewis yelled in a whisper, he knew the pressure was on from above.

‘Ma’am.’

The briefing room was running on exhaustion and caffeine. The first case’s whiteboard looked like a conspiracy theorist’s Anderson shelter. Names were linked by pins, and too many interconnections of coloured string. Notes had been scribbled in multiple handwritings, some of them smudged or illegible. And somewhere, beneath it all, well-buried like a Pharaoh’s tomb, a pattern waited for them to see.

That board had been pushed to one side, and a cleaner one waited in its place. It had the name Iris Taylor and a few initial findings.

Phil stood at the front of the room reading over Bill Robinson’s on-the-spot autopsy report, subject to waiting for several test results to come in. Nash had already seen it.

‘Morning, guys. Thanks for taking time out from the McAlister Case to attend the briefing,’ Phil said. ‘I know that’s your primary focus, but this concerns us all. So I’m just going to give you what we’ve got on Mrs Taylor so far, and then I’ll hand over to Brown.’

Molly was waiting impatiently with a page of printout in her hand. ‘I’ve got something,’ she said.

‘I’ll only be a minute.’ Phil smiled at her. They went back a long way, and Nash knew he could handle Molly Brown. Phil glanced at the report again, sucked air through his teeth, and turned to write the main points of the report on the board. Nash could feel Brown’s irritation as she took her seat behind him, and her anger blew the hair on the back of his neck.

‘It says here that murder by strangulation has been confirmed. The victim was 62 years old. There are some minor defensive wounds on the hands, but nothing significant; a broken nail and a bruise to the back of her left hand. Her assailant is believed to be male and strong, though that hasn’t been confirmed because at this stage we have no suspects.’

‘What about her family?’ Woods asked.

‘She doesn’t seem to have many. There’s a son. We’re interested in talking to him, but at this stage, we’re struggling to locate him.’

Bowes was about to speak when Phil stopped him, ‘One moment, please, Jay. I want to read you the coroner’s handwritten note at the end of the report. As you all know, Bill isn’t one for fancy words or dramatics. He’s as dry as a nun’s—.’

‘Renshaw,’ Bronwyn shouted from her place by the door.

‘—sandwich,’ Phil amended his simile, then let his face drop back into a serious expression.

‘Close call,’ Bowes whispered. ‘Another syllable and we’d need the company solicitor.’

Renshaw frowned at him. ‘It says here that the larynx was crushed as though it had been put in a mechanical vice. If that’s funny, go ahead and joke about it. I quote: “The worst case of violent rage I have ever come across,” unquote.’ Renshaw stopped talking to let that land.  

‘I spoke to Bill briefly,’ Bronwyn said. ‘And he said he’s seen people run over by a train with less severe crushing injuries. Go on, Philip.’

‘Thank you, Ma’am. Nothing was taken, as far as we can tell. Every surface had been wiped clean of prints—including Iris Taylor’s. This was personal, guys. Somebody was very angry at this old lady, and it’s our job to find out why? We can’t relax on this one just because we’ve got bigger fish to fry. This woman matters as much as any one of those. And you’d better believe, we’re trying to contact the son as a matter of urgency,’ Phil said.

‘Do you think it was him?’ Bowes asked.

‘Too early to tell, but I’m interested to hear his alibi,’ Phil replied. ‘Right, I’ll hand over to DI Brown before I’m the next victim to be strangled in Barrow this week.’

Brown went to the front and glared at Phil. ‘I have something,’ she said, as though the last five minutes hadn’t happened, and she let their laughter die down. Norton and Bowes looked up. Jackie Woods turned in her chair, and Nash watched the reactions.

‘We’ve had partial DNA markers confirmed from the last Blackpool autopsy. A six-year-old male with limited existing family records. The lab traced the maternal DNA, going back two generations. We had a lucky hit, and it matches the Manchester cluster.’

Nash jumped in. ‘What’s the connection, second cousin?’

‘Roughly. Third cousin once removed, depending on the branch. But he’s a confirmed family member. The thread holds. He was the most recent death and the last one to match.’

Keeley smiled. ‘Good work, Brown.’

Molly bristled. ’I don’t need your approval for doing my job.’

‘So every single victim is connected to the same family?’ Norton asked, ignoring her jibe.

Bowes leaned back. ‘How wide does this go? Can we pre-empt the next wave?’

‘That’s what we’re trying to establish. But it extends further than we can track manually. We have access to NHS genome data and the private matching site, AncesTree, to go deeper. However, the link’s consistent with no deviation from that one family line, so far.’

‘This can’t be random,’ Norton said. ‘It looks as though someone’s working through a list.’

Nash agreed. ‘We’re in targeted territory, and I wish we had access to that playlist.’

After the meeting, Norton spoke to Brown in the incident room. ‘This is the second time you’ve cut me out of the loop. Look, can I do anything to help? I’m being palmed off with admin and feel like a spare part.’

‘I told Nash. That’s the chain.’

‘You can be a real cow. Do you know that? We’re meant to be a team.’

Brown looked up from her copying. ‘Then, use some gumption and act like one.’

‘I’ve been trying my damndest to stay in the background and not to tread on your toes, Barbie. But sod you. I will.’ Norton flicked the bone and walked away.

Bowes tried to lighten the mood with a quiet ‘Yikes,’ but nobody laughed.

Nash worried about pairing Brown and Norton for the hundredth time and went to his office. He sat at his desk, eating his sandwich alone. The case files were open, and his coffee was two hours cold. James McAlister’s heartbroken face returned to his thoughts. He was making all kinds of wild threats about tracking connections down. Grief had a sorrow-based shape, and it could make people unpredictable. Nash had considered releasing the patrols, but McAlister still needed watching.

Somewhere, a killer was following a family tree. And he was already climbing the next branch.

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