The Fifth Suspect

by Robert McNeil

  There were glances of growing respect from those present. This guy knew his stuff.

  Fleming continued. ‘We need to find the murder weapon. My guess is that the murderer probably threw it into the river. He’s hardly likely to have kept it on him as he made his escape along the towpath, so we need to get the river dredged.’

  Fleming looked at Temple standing at the back of the room. ‘Anything you want to say, ma’am?’

  Temple walked up to join Fleming. ‘Only to say the top brass want a quick result on this. The chief constable is under pressure. The police and crime commissioner’s chomping at the bit over unsolved murder enquiries. He thinks there are too many, and the last thing we need is another one added to the list. So, let’s all pull together and get on with it.’

  Fleming thanked Temple. He smiled at the detective who’d joked about progress. ‘Bit more on the board now, eh? Thank you all for your time. I know it’s late so get yourselves off home and let’s start things moving in the morning.’

  Fleming was last to leave the office. He wondered about Watson and his link to Nielson, and about DCI Hayden who’d been medically retired. Then there was the woman called Emma. Could it really be Hayden’s wife?

  Later that night, in his small Oxford flat, Fleming sipped on his second glass of whisky. The Very Best of The Proclaimers was playing softly in the background. His thoughts drifted from the Nielson case to the call from Freya about his missed appointment.

  Ever since he’d witnessed his mother being murdered twenty-three years earlier, he’d seen various social workers, psychologists and psychotherapists. Freya had been recommended to him when he’d transferred to Oxford, but he wasn’t sure whether to make another appointment.

  He took a last swig of his whisky, put the empty glass on the coffee table by his side and soon drifted off to sleep. He still had nightmares: the knife plunging into his mother’s stomach, heavy breathing and footsteps behind him, the car lights, then darkness…

  10

  ‘Brought Naomi along for the experience, boss?’ Logan asked with a grin.

  Fleming looked in the rear-view mirror and smiled. Anderson was sticking her tongue out at Logan’s back. They were on their way to the mortuary in Maidenhead. It was Sunday, the day after Peggy Dobbs had found Nielson. Traffic was light and they were making good time from Oxford.

  ‘Thought it would be a good idea to have her present when Mrs Nielson formally identifies the body. She might welcome female company,’ Fleming replied.

  Logan stretched his long legs in the car. ‘As long as she doesn’t pass out at the sight of a dead body,’ he quipped.

  Anderson thumped him on the back. ‘Very funny, Sarge,’ she retorted with a frown.

  Fleming laughed and shook his head. ‘You do twitter on, you two. When you’re done you can fill me in on how you got on with the jogger, Harry. Get any useful information?’

  ‘Not really, boss. He happened to pass Mrs Dobbs as she was making her way along the towpath to Nielson’s boat. He went past the boat but had no reason to suspect anything was wrong. On his way back, he came across Mrs Dobbs leaning over the side of the boat. She had blood all over her. He thought she’d had an accident, but then she told him that Nielson was dead. He rang for an ambulance anyway – and the police. That’s about it.’

  ‘Does he jog along the towpath regularly?’

  ‘Yes, reckons at least once a week. Usually first thing in the morning.’

  ‘Had he seen Nielson before?’

  ‘He’d caught the odd glimpse as he passed, but didn’t know the man.’

  ‘And had he ever seen anyone else with him on the boat?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Did he see anyone recently on the towpath acting suspiciously near the boat?’

  ‘Not that he can recall.’

  ‘Oh well, it was worth checking. You asked him to get in touch though… if he remembered anything that might help us?’

  ‘Sure, but somehow I think he’s not going to be of much use.’

  They remained silent for the rest of the journey and were soon pulling into the mortuary car park.

  Sarah Nielson sat next to an older man in the reception area. She was Nielson’s only living relative, ex-relative on account that they were divorced. A member of staff had already offered them a cup of tea. Mrs Nielson stood when Fleming and his colleagues arrived. She was an attractive woman with long blonde hair, and bright hazel eyes that showed no sign that she had been crying. Fleming reckoned she was in her forties. Her short slim build fitted snugly into the grey trouser suit she was wearing.

  Fleming offered a hand. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Fleming.’ He nodded his head towards his colleagues. ‘And this is DS Logan and DC Anderson.’

  Sarah Nielson took Fleming’s hand. Her handshake was limp. Her brows were furrowed with anxiety. She put a hand on the arm of the man standing next to her. ‘This is my father, Eric Rainer.’

  Fleming looked into cold grey eyes and shook Rainer’s hand. He was a giant of a man, bald apart from patches of white stubble above his ears. ‘Glad you could come,’ Fleming said, wincing at the strength of the man’s grip.

  A few minutes later, the coroner’s liaison officer appeared. ‘Ah, you’re all here.’ Smiling weakly, he looked solicitously at Mrs Nielson. ‘Ready?’

  Sarah nodded.

  ‘I’m Ian Timms. If you’d like to come this way please.’

  He led them through the door he’d emerged from, down a short corridor with a polished linoleum floor to swing doors at the bottom. Timms pushed the doors open and led them into a cold clinical room. In the centre was a metal table draped in a green sheet. Timms walked to the side of the table and looked at Sarah. She nodded and he drew the sheet back slowly to expose the head of Ronnie Nielson.

  There was no emotional reaction. Sarah Nielson just nodded again. ‘That’s him. That’s Ronnie.’ Timms pulled the sheet back to cover Nielson’s head. ‘Perhaps you’d like another cup of tea?’

  ‘No… no, thank you.’

  As they made their way back to the reception area, Anderson walked beside Sarah Nielson who had gone very quiet. ‘Are you all right, Mrs Nielson?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  Fleming cleared his throat. ‘Mrs Nielson, I need to come and talk to you about your ex-husband, but perhaps now is not the right time. Tomorrow afternoon maybe?’

  ‘Yes, that would be fine. I’ll be at home.’

  Rainer put an arm around his daughter’s shoulders. ‘Want me to be there?’

  ‘No, Dad, don’t take any time off work. I’ll be okay on my own, honestly.’

  As they all walked out to the car park, Rainer pulled on Fleming’s arm indicating he wanted him to drop back to have a word. ‘He was a bastard, Ronnie Nielson,’ he whispered in Fleming’s ear. ‘I’m glad someone got him. He had it coming. He bullied Sarah, you know. Knocked her about on more than one occasion. Sarah used to try to hide it, but I knew how she got those bruises. And he was a womaniser. He had more than one affair. I told Sarah to leave. She finally saw sense and divorced him. Should never have married him. I knew he was rotten from when I first saw him. Bastard!’

  Fleming was taken aback by the vehemence of Rainer’s sudden outburst. ‘You didn’t get on with him then?’

  ‘Get on with him! I’d gladly have killed h–’

  Rainer stopped suddenly, as if realising it probably wasn’t the most tactful thing to say. He walked the rest of the way to the car in silence. He turned before climbing into the driver’s seat. ‘Wouldn’t bust a gut trying to find his killer. Whoever it was did us all a big favour.’

  Logan broke the silence on the journey back to Oxford. ‘What was Rainer whispering to you when we came out of the mortuary, boss?’

  ‘He called Nielson a bastard. Said he knocked his wife about.’

  ‘Hmm, I’ll bet he’s knocked a few people about himself in his time,’ Logan quipped.

  ‘Sarge!’ Anderson protested. ‘Tha
t’s very judgemental.’

  Logan turned in the passenger seat to look at Anderson with a smile. ‘Show me a big powerful man with a scarred face, crooked nose and cauliflower ears, and I’ll show you an ex-boxer.’ Logan thrust a hand backwards. ‘Bet you.’

  ‘I don’t bet,’ Anderson retorted, ignoring the hand. ‘But I think you might be right for once,’ she joked.

  Fleming kept his eyes on the road ahead and smiled.

  11

  The piercing sound of a wailing siren outside woke Fleming. He groaned and pulled himself up from the chair where he’d fallen asleep after drinking too much whisky. God, he felt rough. His head throbbed and his mouth was dry. He staggered to the bathroom and threw up in the toilet. Leaning over the sink, he splashed cold water on his face before showering. There was no time to shave.

  The TV was still on from the previous night and, as he went to switch it off, something caught his attention. The prime minister, Oliver Huxley, was under attack again on several fronts. There were rumblings from within the cabinet and widespread discontent amongst backbench Conservative MPs. The foreign secretary, Charles Trenchard, openly continued to voice his support for the PM despite threats of a call for a vote of no confidence. But there were those who believed that Trenchard had plans to realise his ambition for holding the top office. A leadership challenge was looking like a distinct possibility.

  Fleming pulled on his jacket, switched the TV off, and took the stairs down from his apartment in Summertown to his parking slot in the street below. He drove his Porsche round to the Banbury Road, turned right towards the A40, then left down to the roundabout where he took a right onto the Woodstock Road. After about four miles, he turned left onto the A4095 towards Long Hanborough.

  He felt awful. He was not looking forward to seeing DCI Watson. Fleming somehow knew it was going to be confrontational.

  Fleming parked his car and went straight to Watson’s office. He could see through the glass window that DI Jardine was with him. He took a deep breath, knocked and popped his head round the door. ‘Got a minute, Bill?’

  Watson had been expecting him. He looked up and nodded at Jardine to leave. ‘Yeah, but make it quick. I’ve got a busy day.’

  So have I, thought Fleming. ‘You heard about Ronnie Nielson on Saturday?’

  ‘Yeah, I heard.’

  ‘I’ll get straight to the point–’

  ‘That would be good,’ Watson broke in sarcastically.

  ‘You were involved in a drugs-related investigation into him some time ago when you were working for the Met…’

  ‘Yeah, what’s that got to do with things?’

  ‘Just wondered if you could fill me in on the details.’

  ‘What the fuck for?’

  ‘Want to build a picture of the man. If he was dealing in drugs, chances are he had enemies–’

  ‘Look, I’ve got my own cases to deal with. Don’t expect any help from me in solving yours.’ Watson got up from behind his desk and jabbed a finger at Fleming. ‘Let me tell you something, mate, so you know where you stand with me. I think they promoted you far too soon. You’re too young and inexperienced to be a DCI. You need to have been round the block a few times for this game. Know what I–?’

  Fleming cut in sharply. ‘I’m not your mate, and I’d like a bit of co-operation here… if that’s not too much trouble.’

  ‘Fuck off!’

  ‘Why are you being so difficult, Bill?’

  ‘I’ll tell you why. They promoted you in front of Frank Jardine who worked with me and poor old Anthony Hayden before he took medical retirement. He’s a good reliable cop, and you’ve edged him out of a job that should have been his–’

  ‘That’s not my problem. I applied for a job and others decided who should fill it. Take your gripes to them. All I want is some answers to a few simple questions, like how come Nielson was never charged.’

  ‘Look on the old Met case files, Fleming… it’s all there. Find out for yourself.’

  ‘And Nielson was a suspect in a murder case in Reading two years later. You were the SIO…’

  ‘So?’

  ‘What was that all about and how come there was never enough evidence to charge him?’

  Watson’s face had turned red and his eyes blazed. ‘What the fuck are you getting at?’

  ‘I’m trying to get some background on the man. Paint a picture.’

  ‘Go and paint your fucking pictures somewhere else!’ Watson shouted as he slammed a fist onto his desk, making his computer keyboard jump. ‘If you must know, a man called Potts pleaded guilty to manslaughter – that’s all on the files as well.’

  ‘Is there anything on file about Nielson’s army career?’

  ‘What army career?’

  ‘There was a photograph in his house. Nielson’s with five other men in uniform. Looks like it might have been taken in Iraq or Afghanistan.’

  ‘That a fact? Can’t remember anything about that.’

  ‘You’re not exactly being very helpful, Bill…’

  ‘Like I say. All you need to know is on the files. Read them.’

  ‘DCI Hayden worked with you on the murder case, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yes. What’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘Know his wife, Emma?’

  Watson looked furtively at Fleming. ‘I know his wife, yes. Why do you want to know?’

  ‘There was a postcard on Nielson’s boat from a woman called Emma. She wrote to say she was looking forward to seeing him. Nielson’s cleaner saw a woman with him a couple of weeks ago. Her name was Emma. Her description fits that of Hayden’s wife, apparently–’

  Watson lunged at Fleming with surprising agility and speed for a large man. He grabbed Fleming’s suit coat by the lapels and spun him round against his desk. His reddened face was inches from Fleming’s. ‘What the fuck are you getting at? Are you trying to say Hayden’s wife was mixed up with Nielson?’

  Fleming pushed Watson away and straightened his coat. ‘Bit tetchy aren’t we, Bill? I’m just following a line of enquiry.’

  Watson had regained some composure. ‘There must be hundreds of women called Emma with a description that might be similar to Hayden’s wife. You want to be careful throwing accusations like that about – accusations involving an old respected colleague and his wife–’

  ‘I wasn’t making any accusations,’ Fleming pointed out. ‘I’m just wondering if there’s any possibility that Emma Hayden is the same woman as the one who saw Ronnie Nielson.’

  Watson wagged a finger. ‘I’m warning you, Fleming. You want to be very careful what you say and whose feathers you ruffle around here. Things could get very nasty if you tread on the wrong toes. Understand?’

  Fleming had got nothing from Watson other than the impression that Watson was a dangerous man. A man who had previous dealings with Nielson. A man who had a temper and was not averse to violent conduct.

  Leo Miller and Charles Trenchard had left a cabinet meeting at 10 Downing Street and were walking down Whitehall deep in conversation.

  ‘This had better work, Leo,’ Trenchard growled. ‘Your only chance of keeping a ministerial position depends on me becoming leader. You know that, don’t you?’

  Miller knew it only too well. In his late sixties, all ambition of becoming leader himself had gone. His current position as chancellor of the exchequer was in doubt. The prime minister was threatening a cabinet reshuffle to get rid of those he thought were plotting against him. Miller narrowed his watery blue eyes against the glare of the midday sun and mopped his bald head with a handkerchief. ‘Yes, I know, Charles,’ he agreed in a wheezy voice.

  ‘You should take more exercise,’ Trenchard observed. ‘You sound out of breath carrying all that extra weight.’

  ‘My wife nags me about that as well,’ Miller agreed, meeting the steady gaze of Trenchard’s brown eyes. Miller felt slightly in awe of the man who always seemed to exude confidence and had an aura of authority about him. In his earl
y fifties, Trenchard’s upright posture and tall slim frame suggested he had spent time in the military. He was wearing an expensive grey suit, white shirt and blue tie. Trimmed with the utmost care, his cropped white hair and recently grown beard added to his sense of importance.

  Trenchard smiled. ‘Only looking after your welfare, Leo. We’re in for a busy time and I need you fit and well, okay?’

  Miller smiled and nodded. ‘Sure.’

  ‘Why don’t you come over to my house in Henley at the weekend?’ Trenchard suggested. ‘We can enjoy a gin and tonic, watch the boats go by on the Thames, and take stock of where we are.’ He gazed steadily at Miller. ‘We need to get this right, Leo. We’re both finished if we don’t.’

  Miller nodded again. There was no mistaking the underlying menace in Trenchard’s voice.

  12

  The black Audi sped along the M4 heading east. Emma Hayden had spent the weekend with an old female friend in Bristol. Saturday night was a drunken haze: pubs, clubs, dancing and sharing secrets with her friend into the early hours of Sunday morning. Sunday was a blur. She’d had a lousy hangover and stayed in bed all day.

  It was Monday morning. The sun was shining but heavy grey clouds were drifting in from the north. She was still feeling the effects of Saturday night out and had the windows down. The traffic was heavy and the first spots of rain hit the windscreen.

  She put the windows up and brushed strands of her blonde hair from her face. There had been the usual flirting with younger men, but this weekend had been different. She hadn’t gone to bed with anyone. True, she’d had a string of affairs in the past, accusing her husband of having no time for her. He was always busy with police work, late shifts, or going to the pub with his mates after work. She liked her material things and good times. Anthony did provide her with new cars, but not the good times she craved.