Xion Island Zero: Chapter 29

Nash stood under a yew tree and watched the last car pull away from the cemetery. The place felt thick with old ghosts, but Max was nowhere around when he needed him. Nash’s mistakes joined the Taylor spirits that he couldn’t escape. He heard their recriminations.

‘Come on, Bernstein. You should be here. Where are you?’ he said.

The wind took his words and curled them through the branches, sending a hush over the ground in the aftermath of people. A petal from one of the funeral wreaths outside the crematorium skittered across the gravel. It was a tiny white ghost daisy without a chain to anchor it.

            Travis was a no-show.

Nash hadn’t moved since Alan and Hilary had left the building. He couldn’t believe he’d got it so wrong. Bronwyn would be furious over the budget overspend on security.

There was no wake for the mourners and nowhere for laughter during that time when the serious part was over, and people always said how wonderful the deceased was. It was like a sentence without a full stop. There were no stories told over dry sandwiches and mini Scotch eggs, and the air was a heavy cloth draped over the guests’ hearts. Even to Nash, it felt like a what-now moment lacking in closure.

He stared at the place where the hearses had been. The grass was pressed flat, and the wafting scent of Calla lilies seemed bitter but traditional.

He’d felt sure Travis would come. He wouldn’t resist the satisfaction of seeing his work burn. But time had run out. This was on Nash.

The secure car waiting behind the crematorium under heavy guard slid its passenger doors open. Alan got in first, and Hilary Taylor, who used to have a daughter and grandchildren, followed, flanked by two plain-clothes officers. Nash walked them to the car and offered a hand to help her in. She didn’t take it, but she looked older than an hour before. With everybody gone, she’d allowed herself to stoop. The funeral had taken its toll.

‘I’d like to have a short debrief before we drop you off,’ Nash said. ‘Then you’ll be taken home separately.’

Hilary gave him a sharp look. ‘Because I’m not allowed to know where you’re keeping him?’

‘It’s for your protection, Mrs Strickland. And Mr Taylor’s.’

She nodded. ‘I don’t like any of this. But I’ll play your game, inspector.’

Her voice was churned gravel wrapped in grief. She’d been an attractive woman in her time, but age had sharpened her lines and character. Her lipstick had bled into the ravines around her mouth.

In the car, she regained her composure and sat straighter than the officers escorting her. Her hands were knotted with age and fury, and they whitened around liver spots and protruding knuckles as she gripped her bag. The flesh was so thin it barely covered her bones.

Nash looked at Alan. He hadn’t spoken since his eulogy. It was as though his speech had sapped every calorie of energy, and his soul had curled inward. He kept his eyes on the floor and never glanced at the ancient gravestones as they drove past them. His family would never have a stone angel standing over them.

The debrief location was a grey government-owned building on Abbey Road, converted from a former Council Registry. They drove in the back way. It was anonymous and quiet.

In the meeting room, the bright lights brought no comfort. Alan had lapsed into a shocked, almost catatonic state. He’d held it together for the service, but now, his eyes were glassy as he stared at the latest downpour smudging the windows in liquid fingerprints.

Hilary was still and showed no emotion until you saw the sadness in her eyes. Brown tapped on the door with her foot and came in with coffee and some hastily rounded-up pastries from Thomas’ bakery, because nobody had eaten. Grief made them forget to eat. But nobody wanted to anyway, and they were left untouched.

The paint had peeled on the ceiling tiles, and the heating system ticked like an anxious metronome. Nash noticed that Hilary became aware of it, her head turned like an inquisitive bird. She tuned into it and nodded slightly in time. Only astute eyes would know the stress signs. ‘I keep thinking,’ she said, ‘About how small he was. That baby. He had thick hair. I remember that much. Not even an hour old, and he had this thatch of black hair and a screwed up face like an angry monkey.’

Alan looked up. ‘Shut up, woman. What good is this doing?’ he asked.

‘You’ve had thirty years to reflect on what he became, perhaps you should have, and done something before it got to this.’

‘I didn’t mean it. I swear I didn’t.’

‘I believe you. But I hate you for it, anyway. And for leaving her. You moved on, and she carried the burden alone.’ Her face didn’t soften, but she said, I’m sorry for earlier. Of course I don’t wish you dead. God knows, there’s been enough suffering. I hope he doesn’t get you. I don’t want that.’

‘We did what we thought was best, back then,’ he said.

‘Then we all failed. You were off, just a Jack the lad with a twinkle in his eye, but do you know what they called her? Do you?’

Alan hung his head, and the silence stretched.

Nash couldn’t shake the itch crawling up the back of his neck. A low-level alarm rang like a doomsday bell in his gut. It was indistinct but persistent. He went to the window, scanning the empty car park and the trees beyond. Thin fog clung to the trunks, and the wind blew paper and leaves, forming people that lurked behind every birch.

The door opened, and James McAlister was invited in. He was included in the meeting because, while he and Hilary weren’t blood relatives and may well be safe, Nash was taking no chances with their safety. For the next half hour, he outlined what they planned to do. James and Hilary would be given security in their homes until Bernstein was caught, and Alan would stay in full witness protection.

‘Look, do I need to be here?’ James asked. ‘This has nothing to do with my family, and to be perfectly frank, I’ve got my own life to rebuild without this. I’m sorry,’ he said to Alan and Hilary. ‘I don’t mean to be awful.’

‘We have concerns for your safety, Mr McAlister. We’d prefer it if you were here,’ Nash said.

The meeting didn’t take long, and before they left the room, Nash was handed an urgent note. Renshaw found it under the windscreen wiper of one of the security cars at the cemetery.

It was an envelope. Unmarked and unsealed.

Nash saw the black staining, but protocol had to be followed. ‘Cleared for prints inside and out?’ he asked before he touched it.

Renshaw nodded.

Inside was a photograph of a baby, a few hours old. It was in a clear plastic hospital cot under a knitted blanket, the edge of a woman’s hand just visible in the corner. Nash had seen this photograph face down in Carrie’s house after the murders. Bernstein must have gone back for it after the Scenes of Crime team had left. It had been taken out of the nasty frame and was curled and faded with age.

He turned the photo, and on the back, written faintly in pencil, it said, I am not invisible.

 ‘There are no fingerprints, no DNA, and nothing on the carpark CCTV,’ Renshaw said.

Hilary stared at the photo for a long time before pressing it against her chest. ‘I took this,’ she said, touching the image of her younger hand. ‘I didn’t want to, but Carrie made such a fuss. They had to prise the baby out of her arms, you know. God forgives me for my decision.’ She made the sign of the cross, and Alan rolled his eyes.

Nash spoke to Renshaw. ‘Double the guard on Mr Taylor. I want extra eyes on him. Patel, cross-check everything we have to date. Get ahead of the game, he’s running rings around us. I won’t have unknowns and assumptions. Berstein was there. He’s watching us.’

The day proved too much for Alan. He said he felt ill, and Mo passed him a waste bin. Alan shook his head, swallowed a couple of times and asked to use the toilet. The need was urgent, and Nash hastily assigned the guard outside the door to take him. Phil wanted to follow, but Nash held him back.

Nash excused himself from James and Hilary and took the officers into the corridor to speak privately. ‘I’ve messed up. I knew he’d be at the funerals, but we let him slip through the net. I want you both in the car when you take Taylor to the safehouse. Drive around. Make sure there’s no tail.’

Nash watched Alan hurry around the corner with his hand over his mouth. He shouldn’t have turned away.

A minute later, all hell broke loose. Woods barged into the room, leaving the door open, and she forgot about not speaking in front of the public. ‘Boss, it’s Bernstein.’

Nash heard pandemonium in the corridor. ‘Stay with the family,’ he shouted before running out. He saw Norton and Brown kneeling over a body outside the bathroom. Somebody was talking to emergency services and requesting an ambulance.

We are the emergency services, but a fat lot of good I’ve been, Nash thought,

He listened as Lawson fell into step beside him. ‘I saw it, boss. A cleaner entered the corridor with a mop and bucket. That new guard nodded to him. It wasn’t his fault. The cleaner wore gloves and all the kit. He moved like he belonged here, and it was enough to fool the lad. If it had been one of us, boss, we’d have known it wasn’t right. I shouted out, but it was too late.’

Nash looked at the guard as he ran past. He was only a kid. And he was dead, though the women were still administering CPR until the ambulance arrived. Brown’s hands were coated in the lifeforce she couldn’t save. It would be a while before she realised her sleeves were soaked in it, too. It looked like a single puncture wound to the neck, fast and neat. The bucket was on its side in the corridor, with water soaking Norton’s bike boots. She’d worn them to the funeral with black leather trousers as she was on duty and had come on her bike. Nash appreciated that she’d excused herself to Hilary and Alan because of it. There was a blood trail diluting with water and running away from the dead man.

‘Where’s Taylor?’

‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you, sir. He’s gone,’ Lawson said. ‘Berstein’s got him.’

‘Lock it down,’ Nash shouted. ‘Every door, every camera. I want him caught.’

Patel was running for the rear entrance. His voice crackled through comms, asking for confirmation.

Travis had escaped. And this time, he’d taken his father with him.

 

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