The Fifth Suspect

by Robert McNeil

  The Fifth Suspect

  Robert McNeil

  Copyright © 2020 Robert McNeil

  The right of Robert McNeil to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in

  accordance to the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 2020 by Bloodhound Books

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be

  reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in

  writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the

  terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living

  or dead, is purely coincidental.

  www.bloodhoundbooks.com

  Print ISBN 978-1-913419-46-2

  For my wife, Dee, son Stuart, daughter Lucy, and their mother, Heather, who never lived to see this.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Epilogue

  A note from the publisher

  Love crime, thriller and mystery books?

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  1

  Edinburgh, Scotland

  A sudden gust of wind rattled rain like pellets against the bedroom window. The room flickered briefly as lightning flashed over the city. Thunder rumbled overhead and twelve-year-old Alex Fleming woke up suddenly. He shot up in bed with his eyes wide open. But it wasn’t the sound of the rain or the thunder that alarmed him. It was a man’s voice downstairs, loud and aggressive. No one had been with his mother when Alex came to bed and she hadn’t said she was expecting anyone.

  He pulled the bedclothes back and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The bedroom door was slightly ajar and a dim light shone in from the landing. He crept towards the door and pushed it open. The man’s voice was louder.

  Alex made his way quietly along the landing and peered down the stairs. He took a deep breath and crept down. At the foot of the stairs, he looked warily along the hallway that ran from the front door to the kitchen. The kitchen door was wide open and he could see his mother trying to wrestle away from the grip of the man. Alex recognised him. It was Jimmy Calder who worked in the small corner-street shop with Alex’s mother.

  ‘Let me go!’ she was demanding.

  Calder ignored her and tightened his grip. ‘The police came to see me,’ he snarled. ‘They seem to think I took the money from the till. You told them it was me, didn’t you, Anne?’

  ‘No, I didn’t!’

  ‘But you said it wasn’t you.’

  Anne nodded.

  ‘So, you might just as well have said it was me. Apart from that bitch of an owner, Morag bloody Campbell, there’s only the two of us that work in the shop.’

  ‘What else was I supposed to say?’ Anne mumbled, trying to pull away from Calder.

  ‘You could have told them the same as me and that a customer could have nicked it from the till when we weren’t looking.’

  ‘That’s not what happened though.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what’s going to happen. You’re going to say you took it–’

  ‘But I didn’t! I can’t own up to something I didn’t do,’ Anne protested.

  ‘I need you to help me out here, Anne.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Did you know I was in prison before I came to work in the shop?’

  ‘No, no I didn’t.’

  ‘I was and I’m out on parole. If they nick me for this, I’ll be back inside.’

  ‘I… I didn’t know–’

  ‘No, and there’s no way that’s going to happen because you’re going to say it was you.’

  ‘I can’t!’

  ‘Shut up and listen! You don’t have a criminal record. You’re a single mother with a young son. If you plead guilty, say you only intended to borrow the money to pay the rent and that you’re sorry, you won’t get a custodial sentence.’

  ‘I won’t do it–’

  Calder grabbed Anne’s hair and pulled her head back, making her scream. He thrust his face close to hers. ‘Oh yes you will,’ he hissed through clenched teeth. ‘I can get some friends of mine to pay you a visit if I go back to prison. They can be nasty pieces of work if I want them to be.’ Calder tugged harder on Anne’s hair. ‘Pity if anything happened to your son. Know what I mean?’

  ‘You bastard!’ Anne yelled in a sudden fit of rage. She thrust a knee into Calder’s groin. He gasped and staggered backwards, catching his hand against the blade of a carving knife sticking out from a drying rack. He cursed and watched blood seeping out between his fingers.

  ‘Sorry… sorry,’ Anne stammered.

  ‘You bitch!’ Calder screamed. He grabbed the knife and thrust it upwards into Anne’s stomach. A red stain seeped through her white shirt. Her eyes opened wide as she staggered backwards.

  Alex screamed, ‘Mum!’

  Anne looked over Calder’s shoulder and saw Alex trembling at the end of the hallway. ‘Run, run!’ she yelled.

  Calder turned and saw Alex, his face twisting into a snarl as he rushed towards the boy.

  ‘Run!’ Anne screamed.

  Alex turned and ran for the front door. He yanked it open as he heard the harsh thump of feet and heavy breathing behind him.

  ‘Come back here!’ Calder shouted. But Alex didn’t stop. He ran outside, pulling the front door closed.

  Calder cursed as he crashed into it. ‘Fuck!’

  Alex didn’t look back.
He was down the steps and across the short path to the pavement. Freezing rain battered his face like shards of ice. Lightning flashed across the dark sky and thunder crashed overhead. Alex tried to blink the rain from his eyes as he turned right, lungs exploding as he ran as fast as his legs would carry him. His bare feet felt as though he was running on broken glass, but he daren’t stop.

  Calder was catching up with him as Alex reached the end of the street. He was deciding whether to turn right or cross the road when he saw a car coming. Thinking quickly, he thought he might just be able to get across the road in front of the car and that would hold Calder up for a few seconds. He could then turn into the maze of streets on the other side and lose him.

  Without giving it another thought, Alex ran straight onto the road. Headlights pierced through the rain. He’d misjudged the speed of the car completely. Alex heard the squeal of tyres and saw the headlights too close. The car skidded and hit Alex, tossing him into the air off the bonnet. He hit the ground and lay still in the middle of the road.

  The car doors flew open and the driver and passenger rushed round to Alex. The driver’s face was ashen. ‘I… I couldn’t stop in time,’ he stammered. ‘He… he appeared from nowhere and ran straight in front of us.’

  The passenger had taken control. ‘Ambulance! Ring for an ambulance! Quick! I can feel a pulse.’

  The driver was hysterical. ‘Thank God!’ He tried to get his mobile phone out of his pocket, but his hands were shaking so much that he dropped it on the road. The passenger grabbed it and made the call.

  Alex could hear voices. His vision was blurred. He could see bright lights and felt nothing but the cold rain falling heavily on his face. Two people were bending over him.

  Beyond them he could make out the dark shape of Calder standing on the edge of the pavement, watching. Alex tried to say something, but no words came out. The last thing he saw was Calder turning and melting into the shadows.

  2

  Twenty-three years later

  Ronnie Nielson had once joked that Peggy Dobbs was a bit of a psychic. She’d phoned him on more than one occasion to ask if he wanted her to clean his boat just as he was about to call and ask her. And those who knew her well thought she possessed an uncanny sixth sense.

  That morning she’d woken up with a sense of foreboding. She’d no idea why. She’d shrugged it off and was making her way from her small terraced house down to the path by the River Thames that led to Bourne End Marina. Nielson had called her the previous night. He’d asked if she could come and clean the boat which he moored near his house when he was up from London.

  It was early and the sun was shining with a few white clouds drifting across the clear blue sky. It was eerily quiet as she reached the river. The previous day’s heavy rain had left the path muddy with a few puddles and Peggy had to watch her footing. A sudden flapping noise behind her broke the silence. She spun round anxiously with her heart racing, then smiled with relief as two ducks swept in low over the river and came to a noisy splash landing. Humming a tune to herself, she continued on her way along the path.

  Peggy had recently turned sixty, lost her husband five years earlier, and lived on her own apart from her black and white cat, Toby. She wasn’t well off by any means, but earned a bit of cash by cleaning for Nielson. Shortly after her husband had died, Peggy had gone to a local pub to drown her sorrows when she’d met Nielson. The pub was quiet and Nielson had bought her a drink. They’d chatted for a while and he’d told her that he’d bought a house near the river, and about the boat. He’d told her he owned a nightclub in London and was looking for someone to look after the house and clean the boat from time to time. Peggy had offered her services and they agreed terms.

  Nielson had seemed pleasant enough, but Peggy sensed there was a cold side to him. But, she reminded herself, he was a businessman. Running a nightclub in London can’t be that easy, she’d thought. That would require a man to have a pretty tough character, wouldn’t it? Anyway, he’d been kind to her and that was what mattered. He was a muscular man with receding grey hair. The casual clothes, short ponytail and diamond stud he wore in his left ear gave him a somewhat hippie look. Peggy had admired it and said she would love something like that but could never afford it. Nielson had laughed and told her he’d leave it to her if she did a good job cleaning for him.

  Peggy was wondering if he meant it when she heard the sound of heavy breathing and feet thumping on the ground behind her. She turned in alarm, heart skipping a beat. A jogger ran past looking at his watch. ‘Sorry,’ he panted, ‘didn’t mean to startle you.’ He raced on, glancing at his watch again. Peggy took a deep breath, shook her head and continued on her way.

  The Done Deal was in sight. It was a beautiful white forty-foot diesel cruiser with three cabins. Peggy couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but she had a strange feeling as she approached. Was it the silence? The only sound was the gentle lapping of water against the hull of the boat and the tap of the open cockpit door swinging in the gentle breeze. There was no sign of Nielson. Peggy felt uneasy. There was no music. Mr Nielson always had music blaring when he was aboard. Maybe he isn’t, she thought. But why would the cockpit door be open?

  Peggy stepped up onto the deck and listened for a second for any sounds from below. There were none. ‘Mr Nielson,’ she called out anxiously. ‘It’s Peggy. I’m here.’

  No reply.

  Her heart pounded as she pulled the cockpit door open and looked down the steps into the saloon. She could hear the buzzing of flies and a sickly smell drifted upwards. Peggy held a hand to her face as she crept down the steps into the saloon. There was blood all over the floor, the white leather seating and the table. She grimaced as flies buzzed round her head.

  ‘Mr Nielson? Are you there?’ Peggy called out, dreading what she might find.

  The silence was palpable.

  Peggy crossed the saloon to the door that led to three steps down to the galley and a small dinette. The door was slightly ajar. She pushed it open and screamed. Nielson was lying face down on the floor in a pool of blood. Peggy staggered backwards and yelled as she tripped and fell into the saloon. She tried to break her fall with her hands and slipped across the floor in the blood.

  She pulled herself up, gasping for air, and dashed to the steps leading up to the deck area. Her hands left a smear of blood on the handrail as she steadied herself.

  Up on deck, Peggy breathed deeply. She was in shock. Nausea swept over her and she was sick over the side of the boat. She looked at the blood on her hands and screamed again, shaking uncontrollably.

  The jogger came back along the towpath, took one look at Peggy and stopped. She was pale and covered in blood. ‘Oh my God! Are you all right?’

  Peggy looked down at him blankly. ‘Mr Nielson… it’s Mr Nielson. I think… I think he’s dead!’

  3

  Blue and white tape blocked off the entrance to the path leading down to the Thames. A bored-looking constable was guarding the entry to the outer cordon. He heard a car coming up the road and watched as an old 2003 grey Porsche 911 two-door coupe came to a halt a few yards away. A tall slim man wearing a blue-grey suit and white open-necked shirt got out of the car and walked towards him.

  Bloody press, the constable thought. He noted the groomed short dark hair, greying at the edges, the chiselled jawline and hint of a stubble. He half expected the man to pull out a press card as he approached. The constable held up a hand. ‘Sorry, sir. This is a crime scene, I’m afraid you can’t park there. And I can’t talk to the press.’

  The man smiled. ‘No problem, I’m not press,’ he said, fishing into his jacket pocket to hold up a warrant card for the constable to see. ‘DCI Fleming. I’m the on-call SIO.’

  Colour rose in the constable’s cheeks as he shifted his gaze away from the tired red eyes that under normal circumstances would have matched the colour of Fleming’s suit. ‘Oh… sorry, sir. The car… I thought…’

  ‘Got the call at home
so came straight here.’

  ‘Ah, right, well, the boat’s down there, sir.’ The constable pointed down the path.

  ‘Thanks.’

  The constable watched as Fleming returned to the Porsche, opened the boot and kitted himself out with latex gloves, paper shoes and overalls. He nodded at the constable as he ducked under the tape to head off down the path. ‘Keep an eye on the car, eh?’

  The constable grunted and waited until Fleming was out of earshot. He shook his head. ‘Flashy Scots git.’

  4

  Just a few yards from the Done Deal, Fleming found another officer stationed on the towpath at the entry and exit point of the inner cordon. He showed his warrant card again and the officer noted his name in the log.