Fleming scooped up the list of contacts and thrust them towards Anderson. ‘Do me a favour, Naomi, will you? Run a check on this lot and see if anyone on the list ever had a major fall out with Nielson or had an axe to grind with him. They’ll all have to be interviewed I’m afraid. Get the team on to it. There’s quite a few, sorry.’
Anderson smiled and took the list. ‘No problem, sir. I’ll split them between the lads. Might be getting a few more of those,’ she added, pointing to the overtime forms.
Fleming moaned. How he could do with a nice large glass of his favourite single malt.
Watson knocked and came straight into Fleming’s office. ‘You look busy, Fleming. Hope the job’s not getting on top of you.’ It appeared to be a weak attempt at light-hearted banter.
Fleming looked up from the papers on his desk. ‘What can I do for you, Bill?’
Watson picked up a chair from the other side of the office. ‘Mind if I sit down?’ He placed the chair with its back facing Fleming’s desk.
‘Help yourself.’
Watson sat heavily and folded his arms across the back of the chair.
‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’ Fleming enquired, thinking it was going to be anything but a pleasure if his last encounter with Watson was anything to go by.
‘I think I can do you a favour, Fleming–’
‘That a fact. I seem to remember the last time we spoke you weren’t exactly in a helpful frame of mind.’
Watson grunted. ‘Ah, caught me at a bad time, that’s all. Don’t take it personally. No hard feelings, eh?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Though it doesn’t alter the fact that I still think Jardine should have got Hayden’s DCI post. It should be Jardine sitting behind your desk.’ Watson shrugged and lifted his hands in the air as though in resignation. ‘But hey, that’s life. He didn’t get the job and that’s it. We’re all entitled to our own opinions, aren’t we?’
Fleming ignored the question. ‘What’s the favour?’
‘I need to be frank with you, Fleming. I’ve done the peer review on your investigative strategy and I think you’re in danger of going off in the wrong direction. I’ve spoken to Temple about it and she asked me to have a word with you–’
‘Oh? What makes you think that? And did Temple ask you to have a word because she agrees?’
‘She didn’t say so as such, but I do know she’s worried about how the chief constable views bringing an old colleague and his wife into the investigation. It could reflect badly on the whole unit if you get this wrong. Last thing he needs is adverse publicity with Cecil Daubney breathing down his neck. Know what I mean?’
Fleming wondered where this was leading. ‘I do know what you mean, but as I said to Temple, I have to follow up on every lead. You know that as well as I do, Bill. Internal politics are not my concern.’
Watson glowered at Fleming. His face reddened.
Fleming noticed Watson’s knuckles whiten as he gripped the back of his chair. He waited for a caustic response. But surprisingly, Watson kept control of his temper.
‘The favour,’ Watson said quietly, ‘is to point you in the right direction and save you a lot of trouble.’
‘Okay, so what’s the right direction you somehow seem to know about?’
‘You know you were asking about the murder investigation in Reading and I told you a man called Potts was convicted of manslaughter?’
‘Yes.’
‘What I didn’t tell you at the time was that Potts thought Nielson had shopped him, so he claimed that Nielson had asked him to kill Cobb. But he later said he’d made it up and pleaded guilty to manslaughter to get a lighter sentence–’
‘I’m aware of that. Anderson checked your case files. Anyway, Potts is in prison so can’t be the killer. But I do need to speak to him. I need to get to the bottom of this Cobb case to see if there’s a link to Nielson’s murder.’
‘I was about to add, forget the crap about what Potts claimed. The Cobb case was manslaughter, no doubt about that. What you need to find out is whether there’s another reason why Potts would want to kill Nielson. Oh, and by the way, there’s something you obviously don’t know. Potts was released on parole two weeks ago.’
Fleming raised an eyebrow. ‘How come nobody told me Potts was out of prison?’
‘Your team obviously missed it so I’m telling you now. Potts could be a suspect, but my bet is on Eric Rainer.’
‘So that’s what’s in your peer review?’
‘That’s about it. Forget about Hayden. Check Potts out, but forget about raking over old cases, you’re wasting your time. Concentrate on Rainer. Do that and you might keep the chief constable happy.’
Fleming sat forwards in his chair and looked at Watson. ‘One thing though. I now have a positive ID on Emma Hayden. She definitely knew Nielson and has been on his boat–’
Watson pushed himself up from his chair and leaned menacingly over Fleming’s desk. ‘For fuck’s sake, Fleming, can’t you let it go? Maybe Emma Hayden was having an affair with Nielson, but that doesn’t make her husband a murderer. He might not even have known. But if he did, it might have tipped him over the edge to commit suicide. He was suffering from depression.’
‘Okay, Bill, keep your hair on. You may well be right, but Emma Hayden saw Ronnie Nielson recently and I have to interview her about that, along with everyone else who had any contact with him.’
Anderson knocked and stuck her head round the door. ‘Super wants to see you when you’re finished, sir.’
‘Bear in mind what I said,’ Watson warned as he made to leave. ‘But make sure you get this right for your own sake, Fleming.’
Fleming knocked on Temple’s office door once and entered. ‘You wanted to see me, ma’am?’
Temple was behind her desk, reading glasses perched on the end of her nose as she studied a file in front of her. ‘Yes. I wanted to make sure Bill Watson has spoken to you about the Nielson case.’
‘He has.’
‘And?’
‘He told me he’d seen you about his peer review and that you’d asked him to speak to me.’
Temple took off her glasses and fixed a steely stare on Fleming. ‘What I’m asking, Alex, is what did he tell you?’
‘He told me Damien Potts was out of prison and I should forget about Anthony Hayden.’
‘And you agree Potts has to be a suspect?’
‘Yes.’
Temple drummed her fingers on the desk in impatience. ‘I take it you’re going to question him?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘And what about Emma Hayden, dare I ask?’
‘I need to speak to her again. I’ve got a positive ID. She went to see Nielson recently.’
Temple put her head in her hands. ‘Christ! Why is this turning into a fucking nightmare?’
Later, on his way to his appointment with Freya, Fleming wondered the same thing.
24
Fleming was on his way to see Freya Nash in Wolvercote on the northwest side of Oxford. She was a caring sympathetic woman, friendly and easy going. He felt at ease in her company. But he wasn’t sure if counselling was doing him any good. The flashbacks of the day his mother was murdered could occur at any time. Nights were the worst. If he was too tired he would sometimes get a migraine. He’d have painkillers washed down with a few glasses of whisky. The pain would eventually ease and he’d fall into a disturbed sleep. Then the nightmares would come.
Freya practiced from home and as Fleming pulled up outside, he wondered if this was going to be of any benefit. He shrugged. You never know, he thought, she might succeed where others had not. Freya was of Danish parents who had moved to England when she was a child. In her late forties, she’d studied integrative psychology at university and had worked in a bereavement service for seven years while training as a counsellor. She was now an experienced psychotherapist.
The front door opened as Fleming approached and Freya, tall, slim, with short blonde hair and a fair c
omplexion, greeted him. ‘Hello, Alex. I saw your car. Glad you could make it,’ she said, offering a hand.
Fleming could see the friendly twinkle in her bright green eyes as he shook her hand. Her grip was firm and confident. ‘Thanks. I managed to tear myself away from the office,’ he replied with a smile. ‘Sorry I missed the last appointment… bit of a panic. I was called out to an incident.’
‘I see. Nothing too bad, I hope?’
Fleming shrugged. The nature of the job was that most incidents were bad. Some worse than others. The worst ones for him were the murders involving knives. ‘Not really,’ he lied.
Freya showed Fleming into a small room, off the hallway, that she used as an office and treatment room. Two easy chairs sat by the window either side of a coffee table. Her desk was clear of everything except for a computer screen, keyboard, and a closed file with Fleming’s name on it.
Freya pointed to one of the easy chairs. ‘Take a seat, Alex.’ She sat opposite him in the other chair and leaned forwards attentively. ‘So, Alex, how have you been?’
‘Busy.’
Freya smiled patiently. ‘I mean physically and mentally.’
‘I’ve had a few bad nights. I sometimes have vivid nightmares.’
‘Can you describe these nightmares?’
Fleming took a deep breath. ‘I see my mother being stabbed. I’m running but my legs feel like lead. It’s as though I’m running in slow motion. There’s someone chasing me. I hear heavy breathing. Footsteps getting closer. Then I see bright lights. I feel pain. I wake up in hospital and someone is standing over me with a knife. I scream. It’s always the same.’
‘Always? Always the same nightmare?’
Fleming thought for a moment. ‘More or less.’
‘Do you take anything to help you sleep?’
Fleming nodded.
‘Sleeping pills?’
‘Whisky.’
‘And do you think that’s helping?’
‘Doesn’t help the nightmares, but it does help me to get to sleep.’
‘It sounds like you know drinking whisky isn’t going to solve anything.’
Fleming shrugged.
Freya was holding eye contact with Fleming. ‘Do you think you might subconsciously be having the same nightmare because a part of you wants to relive the trauma, hoping for a different outcome?’
Fleming shrugged again. ‘Interesting idea, but I don’t really want to have those nightmares. And I know I can’t change the outcome.’
‘It sounds like you have accepted that you can’t change anything. How does that make you feel?’
‘Angry, frustrated, depressed…’
‘Depressed?’
‘I feel a bit low at times. I get tired at work.’
‘Yes, that’s understandable if you’ve had a bad night’s sleep. And I suppose the nature of the job can be… shall we say, depressing at times.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Your father was a detective, wasn’t he?’
Fleming looked up sharply. Why is she bringing that up now? ‘Yes.’
‘I suppose you must have had an idea what it was like?’
Fleming raised an eyebrow.
‘Being a detective, I mean,’ Freya continued.
Fleming shrugged a third time. ‘I was only ten when he died. I didn’t really think about it.’
‘An Edinburgh gangster shot him, didn’t he?’
Fleming wondered where this was going. ‘Yes.’
‘Then you witnessed your mother being killed by an intruder two years later.’
‘Yes, look…’
‘You said you felt angry. Was it anger against criminals that prompted you to follow in your father’s footsteps and become a detective?’
Fleming thought for a moment. ‘Possibly,’ he finally answered. ‘It’s a job.’
Freya pondered before asking her next question. ‘Do you think it’s the right job? It must be stressful at times. You must come across a lot of violence.’
Fleming looked vacantly out of the window. ‘I suppose I do.’
‘Maybe the nightmares aren’t helped by that.’
Fleming frowned. ‘Are you suggesting the nightmares might stop if I change jobs?’
‘It’s a possibility. Maybe you’re consumed by anger. Do you ever feel you’d like to take that anger out on the man who killed your mother? Jimmy Calder, wasn’t it?’
Fleming turned his head sharply from the window to face Freya. He stiffened at the mention of the name. ‘Yes. I mean, yes it was Jimmy Calder,’ Fleming added quickly.
‘And taking your anger out on him?’
‘He’s still in prison, as far as I know.’
‘But if he wasn’t?’
‘It would be very satisfying, I must admit.’
Freya seemed to notice a change in Fleming’s demeanour. ‘Tell me, how do you rid yourself of pent-up anger and frustration?’
‘I go to the gym or for a run.’
‘It sounds as though you know how to channel your pent-up emotions in a positive way.’
‘I try to keep calm. Once you lose your temper you lose control of a situation. In my job you can’t afford to do that.’
Freya nodded. ‘You have no siblings?’
‘No.’
‘And you were left on your own at twelve?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who looked after you?’
‘An aunt.’
‘And your wife was pregnant when she died, wasn’t she?’
Fleming shifted uncomfortably in his chair. ‘Yes, she developed complications after contracting flu. She died from pneumonia five years ago.’
Freya put a hand on Fleming’s. ‘You’ve had a lot of suffering in your life, Alex.’
Fleming pulled his hand away. ‘Thanks for reminding me,’ he said drily. ‘Some have had it worse. I cope.’
Freya seemed to sense Fleming’s discomfort. ‘I think maybe we should call it a day for today. It’s good that you have at least accepted that you can’t change the past. Acceptance can go a long way to removing feelings of helplessness and anger. Not sure about the whisky remedy, but as long as you only drink in moderation it’s not a problem.’
Fleming rose to leave, thanked Freya for her time, and promised to make another appointment after checking his diary.
On the way back to the MCU, he reflected on what Freya had been saying. He was curious about the reference to Jimmy Calder. Why had she wondered if he had ever had thoughts of taking his anger out against Calder?
What Fleming didn’t know was that his past was soon about to catch up with him in a way he didn’t expect.
25
The black Audi was on the driveway of Emma Hayden’s house. A cluster of reporters stood outside, microphones and cameras at the ready, hoping to catch a quick interview with Emma, or anyone else who came to the house for that matter.
‘Looks like police to me,’ one reporter exclaimed as Fleming and Anderson climbed out of his car.
The man rushed across and thrust a microphone in front of Fleming. ‘Any comment on the rumour that Mr Hayden was involved in an investigation into Ronnie Nielson some years ago?’
Fleming glared at the man. ‘No.’
‘You’re police, aren’t you?’
Fleming ignored the question and pushed his way past the man.
As they walked up the drive, Fleming noticed Emma looking furtively out of the window from behind the curtains. The front door opened before they could knock. He was surprised at how different Emma looked from when they saw her just a few days earlier. She looked stunning in a sleek black dress with a red and black striped cashmere cardigan worn over the top. Not a blonde hair out of place. Her mouth shone with glossy pink lipstick. Her eyes were no longer bloodshot.
‘I’ve been expecting you. DC Anderson said on the phone you would be coming. Please come in,’ Emma said in a shaky voice. ‘I daren’t go out with all these reporters outside,’ she added, quickly closing th
e door behind them.
Emma was wringing her hands as she asked if they wanted anything to drink. Fleming told her not to go to any trouble. They wouldn’t take up much of her time. Emma sat on the edge of a chair and leaned forwards clasping her hands round her knees as though to stop them trembling.
Anderson spoke first to break the ice. ‘As I said over the phone, we wanted to ask you a few more questions…’
‘I don’t understand. I gave a statement to a uniformed officer about my husband. What–’
Fleming interrupted her. ‘Mrs Hayden, I’m afraid certain things have come to light that we need to ask you about.’
‘Oh, about Anthony, you mean?’
‘What time did you leave to go to Bristol last Friday night, Mrs Hayden?’
Emma frowned. ‘What’s that got to do with Anthony’s death?’
‘Please answer DCI Fleming’s questions, Mrs Hayden,’ Anderson prompted.
‘Yes, of course. I was curious. Let me see… I suppose it was about seven o’clock. I didn’t want to get there too late.’
‘And your husband was at home when you left?’
‘He was.’
‘I hate to ask you this, but was he dressed in the same clothes when you found him on Monday?’
Emma frowned. ‘Er, yes, I think he was. I didn’t really pay much attention to what he was wearing on Friday night, or on Monday when I found him.’ She shivered. ‘Why is that important?’
‘It may not be,’ Fleming admitted. ‘Just curious.’
Anderson cleared her throat. ‘Mrs Hayden, can you give us the name and address of the friend you stayed with over the weekend?’
Emma was beginning to feel unsettled with the questions. She rose slowly to her feet and crossed the room to a bureau by the door. She opened a drawer and took out a letter. She passed it to Anderson with a shaky hand. ‘Her name and address are at the top.’
Anderson took the letter and copied the name and address into her notebook.
Fleming knew he was about to stray into difficult territory with his next questions. Superintendent Temple and the chief constable were not going to be happy if he got this wrong and Emma complained. ‘Mrs Hayden, when we saw you last, you said your husband never mentioned Ronnie Nielson to you…’
The Fifth Suspect Page 9
