The Fifth Suspect

by Robert McNeil

  Logan and Anderson watched closely as the cursor danced around the screen. Lakes clicked on folder after folder until she found what she wanted. ‘Here we are. C Company as at January 2002.’

  There were about a hundred names on file in alphabetical order. She scrolled though the list until she came to Slater, then double clicked on his name. A new document opened with his personal details. The file confirmed he was killed in action in July 2002.

  Lakes scrolled further down the list until she came to Nielson. Again, she double clicked on the name and his details sprang onto the screen. Logan noticed he was discharged at the end of March 2005. ‘That’s the details of two of the men you’re looking for. I’m not sure how I’m going to put a name against your photograph for the others though.’

  Anderson frowned. ‘Would you have a photograph of the whole of C Company, by any chance?’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course! There might have been one taken just before they left for Afghanistan.’ Lakes closed the Word documents and clicked on the photo gallery icon. She opened the regimental folder, then the C Company sub-folder. There were hundreds of photographs. She clicked on 2002 to narrow down the number of images shown. As she dragged the cursor slowly over each tiny print, a larger version sprang into view on the screen. As the cursor hovered over the last image, a company group photograph appeared. A double left click and the photograph filled the whole screen.

  Lakes looked backwards and forwards between Nielson’s photograph and the computer screen. She ran her finger along the screen and tapped as she found each of the men on Nielson’s photograph. ‘They’re all here!’ she exclaimed.

  Logan shook his head in exasperation. ‘But all we’ve got is another photograph of the same men. How’s that going to help us?’

  ‘Because,’ Lakes answered, ‘there are hard copies of every photograph in our archives, and there’ll be a record of all the names of everyone on the photograph. All I have to do is take the computer image reference to the archives and pull the hard copy with the list of names.’

  ‘Can you do that now?’ Anderson asked.

  ‘I’m afraid that’ll take some time. The archives are in another part of the building and they’re in a bit of a mess. Sorting them out isn’t a high priority at the moment so I’ll need to get some help to look through them to see if I can find this photograph. It’s Saturday tomorrow. I don’t normally work at the weekend, but I could come in to have a look for you. In the meantime, I can print off a copy of the list of names of the whole Company as at January 2002 for you to take away. I’ll call you if I find the photograph with the list of names.’

  ‘That would be great, Mrs Lakes,’ Logan said. ‘You’re a gem. I can’t thank you enough for your time. You’ve been a great help.’

  On the way out to the car, Anderson offered a less than encouraging thought. ‘If she can’t link names from the whole list to the photograph we’ll have to trace and question the whole Company.’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose so,’ Logan agreed. ‘It’ll be a hard slog, but I’m sure you’ll manage,’ he joked.

  28

  Fleming sat in an unmarked police car parked down a side street in Brixton near the tube station. He’d been watching the flat above a betting shop all morning, but there had been no sign of Damien Potts. He’d used the time to reflect on what he was going to do with the information Gordon Aitken had given him about Jimmy Calder. He’d come to the conclusion that he would pay a visit to Edinburgh at the weekend. He had unfinished business there.

  As he was beginning to give up any hope of seeing Potts, the passenger door opened and Logan jumped in. ‘Any sign of him, boss?’

  Logan had spent the morning with DC Anderson in Bury St Edmunds at The Royal Anglian Regiment headquarters. After they’d finished there she’d dropped Logan off at the station before driving to Maidenhead to see if any of Rainer’s neighbours could vouch that he was at home on the night of Nielson’s murder. Logan had caught a train to Charing Cross then took the tube to Brixton after checking Fleming’s current whereabouts on his mobile.

  ‘Been here for hours and he hasn’t shown face. Maybe he was somewhere else last night, or he’s staying at home,’ Fleming grumbled.

  ‘This is the address approved by his probation officer under his parole conditions I take it?’ Logan queried.

  Fleming looked at Logan. ‘No, I wanted to see if he would turn up to place a bet,’ he said sardonically. ‘Of course it is!’ he added with a laugh.

  ‘So why don’t we go and knock on the door?’

  Fleming smiled at Logan’s simple logic. ‘I could have done, but I didn’t want you to miss out on all the fun. Seriously though, I thought it might be a good idea to keep an eye on the place.’ Fleming shrugged. ‘You never know who might turn up.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘My patience is wearing thin though,’ Fleming admitted.

  He was about to act on Logan’s suggestion when an old black Audi A3 pulled up outside the betting shop. Potts appeared from a door at the side of the shop, rushed across the pavement and jumped into the car which sped off in the opposite direction to the one Fleming’s faced.

  ‘Just my luck,’ Fleming grumbled, throwing the car into a three-point turn with tyres squealing.

  Up ahead he saw the Audi take a left turn. He followed at a discreet distance through more side streets then left onto the A203 heading north. Fleming kept as close as he could all the way to Vauxhall, across Vauxhall Bridge, then right up Millbank towards Westminster. The Audi carried on up past Trafalgar Square to Leicester Square, then left into the labyrinth of Soho streets.

  ‘Well, well. What do we have here,’ Fleming whispered as the Audi pulled up outside Nielson’s Cellar and Potts jumped out.

  ‘Park round the corner and stay with the car,’ Fleming told Logan. ‘And run a check on the Audi registration. I’m going to pay our friendly Scottie McBain and Damien Potts a visit.’

  Fleming entered the club and made his way down the worn stone steps.

  A young man with blond hair swept into a ponytail at the back looked up in surprise from behind the bar. ‘Don’t open until six, mate.’

  Fleming flashed his warrant card. ‘DCI Fleming. I’d like a word with Scottie and the man who just came in here.’

  Ponytail’s eyes flashed in alarm. ‘I’ll–’

  ‘Tell him I’m here,’ Fleming finished the sentence for him.

  The man knocked and disappeared into McBain’s office. He’d left the door slightly ajar and Fleming could hear McBain’s raised voice. ‘What! What the fuck does he want now?’

  ‘Dunno, boss. He said he wants a word.’

  McBain came to the door and strode out to confront Fleming. He crossed his arms. ‘What do you want, Fleming? I’m busy.’

  ‘I’d like a quiet word with the man who came in here. Damien Potts, isn’t it?’

  ‘Christ! You guys never leave anyone alone, do you? You been following him? He’s just out of prison and you want to interview him already.’

  ‘It’s not an interview. Not at this stage anyway. I only want to talk to the man. Clear a few things up.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘That’s between me and Potts. I can have a quiet chat with him in your office, or I can take him to the local station. His choice.’

  At that point, Potts appeared hesitantly at McBain’s office door. He wore faded jeans, torn at one knee, and a loose-fitting grey sweatshirt. The unshaven face, thin lips, vacant look and scrawny frame reminded Fleming of the many drug addicts he’d come across in his career. He noticed the tattoo with two crossed daggers on Potts’s neck.

  ‘I ain’t done nothing! Why are you following me?’ Potts shouted.

  ‘Just want a few words in private, Damien. If you don’t mind,’ Fleming added.

  Potts shrugged and hobbled back into McBain’s office.

  ‘Thanks,’ Fleming said to McBain as he pushed past him to follow Potts.

  Fleming closed the offi
ce door behind him and looked into Potts’s dark lifeless eyes.

  ‘What have you been doing with yourself since you got out, Damien?’

  ‘This and that… nothing much.’

  ‘You’re staying in a room above a betting shop in Brixton, right?’

  ‘Yeah, so what?’

  ‘How did you find out about the place?’

  ‘Mr McBain… he knows the manager. He had a spare room upstairs and he did me a favour.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t so much him doing me a favour as Mr McBain. Look, I cleared this with my probation officer. He knows where I’m staying. He doesn’t have a problem with it. What’s the big deal?’

  ‘No big deal. I’m trying to establish how you came about to find lodgings, that’s all. You said you’ve been doing this and that for the past couple of weeks. What exactly would this and that be and was it here in London?’

  ‘I’m trying to find work to get some cash. That’s why I’m here. Mr McBain has offered to give me a job.’

  ‘Why is Mr McBain so keen to help you out? He finds you accommodation. He offers you a job. Why would he do that? Does he owe you for something? Maybe something you did for him?’

  ‘I… I don’t know what you mean. I used to work here before I went to prison. He’s just looking out for me.’

  ‘Why did you change your statement after you killed Joe Cobb? At first you claimed Ronnie Nielson had put you up to it. Then you said he didn’t and you pleaded guilty to manslaughter. You claimed it was self-defence.’

  ‘That was years ago. I served my time. Why are you bringing all this up again now?’

  ‘If Ronnie Nielson had asked you to kill Cobb, it would have been premeditated murder, wouldn’t it? And Ronnie Nielson would have been guilty of incitement to murder. But you got off a murder charge, and Nielson walked free. How did you feel about that?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean. I made a mistake, that’s all. I thought Ronnie had shopped me and I lashed out, trying to involve him. Then I realised it was a stupid thing to do for the reason you’ve just said.’

  ‘Here’s the thing, if Ronnie Nielson did drop you in it you would have had a pretty good reason to have a grudge against him–’

  ‘Fuck. You’re trying to pin Ronnie’s murder on me! Oh no, you’re not going to get away with that, you bastard. It was nothing to do with me!’

  ‘What were you doing last Friday evening, Damien?’

  ‘I was in the flat. I felt ill so I stayed in that night.’

  ‘Anyone with you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can anyone verify you were in the flat?’

  ‘You bastard. Fucking coppers. You’re all the same. Out to set anyone up to get a quick result. It wasn’t me. I swear!’

  Fleming knew he had no real evidence to arrest Potts. All he had was the fact that Potts could have had a grudge against Nielson and an alibi that could neither be proved nor disproved.

  ‘All right, Damien. That’s all for now.’ Fleming made to leave. He turned and glared at Potts. ‘Don’t leave town. I may want to speak to you again.’

  ‘I’ve told you I had nothing to do with it. You can’t prove nothing!’ Potts shouted, more confident.

  Fleming left to glares from Ponytail and McBain. ‘I’ll let myself out,’ Fleming said jovially.

  ‘Well?’ Logan asked on the way out of London in heavy traffic.

  ‘Scary-looking character, I must say. And McBain was his usual friendly self. Potts claims he was in his room above the betting shop on the night of the murder. Says he only tried to implicate Nielson with Joe Cobb’s murder when he thought Nielson had shopped him. Interestingly though, he said he changed his statement when he realised that he would have been found guilty of murder rather than manslaughter if he persisted in saying that Nielson had put him up to it. What he didn’t say was how he found out that Nielson hadn’t shopped him.’

  ‘Which might suggest that he did. Maybe Potts did have a score to settle.’

  ‘It would only take just over an hour to get from Brixton to Bourne End by car. The man in the Audi who gave Potts a lift to Nielson’s Cellar could have picked him up, taken him there, and brought him back. We need to question him and check Potts’s fingerprints for a match on Nielson’s boat.’

  29

  MPs, peers and visitors milled about in the grand Central Lobby of the Palace of Westminster. People met and shook hands. Members of both Houses came and went through the large arches that led to the House of Commons and House of Lords. The sound of footsteps crossing the ornately tiled floor sent echoes round the hall.

  Leo Miller had drawn Charles Trenchard to one side, well out of earshot of anyone who might overhear them. ‘Huxley took another mauling at Prime Minister’s Questions on Wednesday,’ he whispered. ‘He was made to look inept at best.’

  Trenchard pulled a carefully folded white handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed at the sweat forming above his top lip.

  ‘This can’t go on, Charles. He’s destroying us. He has to go.’

  Trenchard fastened his dark eyes on Miller. ‘Yes, I know all that. I did have a quiet word with him.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I said I was worried that the press was having a field day and that rumblings in the Party were increasing. I told him a large number of our MPs wanted to trigger a vote of no confidence. He seemed concerned so I went on to tell him that it could be avoided if he stood down.’

  Miller snorted. ‘Let me guess. He said it was out of the question. We need to hold our nerve: stick together, and all that crap!’

  Trenchard rubbed a hand over his neatly trimmed grey beard. ‘Something like that. The man’s deluded. He thinks he can ride the storm and still lead us to victory at the next election.’

  Miller frowned. ‘Fat chance. Listen, old chap, I think we have sufficient numbers to force a vote. Most of the cabinet say they will support you in a leadership ballot if the PM doesn’t get enough votes.’

  ‘You’re ready to start the ball rolling?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Trenchard thought for a moment. ‘Okay, but if I’m going to put myself forward as a candidate I can’t be seen as the treacherous cabinet minister who brought about the demise of the PM. I need to appear to remain loyal to him. I can only put my name forward as a candidate to replace him if and when he loses the confidence vote–’

  ‘If and when? My God, Charles, it’s a foregone conclusion!’

  Trenchard smiled. ‘As you’re so confident, you won’t mind doing one more thing for me.’

  ‘Of course, Charles. No problem. Anything you want.’

  Trenchard’s eyes bore into Miller’s. ‘We need to do something dramatic to undermine the PM even more. Something that will act as the final catalyst to trigger the confidence vote.’

  Miller hesitated and looked furtively around him, checking no one was within earshot. ‘What are you suggesting, Charles?’

  ‘You need to resign. Then you follow it up with a resignation speech to the Commons. You can use this to explain the reasons for your resignation and cause maximum political damage to the PM.’

  Miller gasped. ‘I say, old chap. But what if he wins the majority needed to stay in power?’

  ‘I thought you said there’s no chance he’ll win the vote,’ Trenchard argued with a slight smirk on his lips.

  Miller frowned again. ‘You’re asking me to put my neck on the line, Charles.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Trenchard confirmed. ‘But if all goes to plan, and I win the subsequent ballot, I’ll make sure your loyalty is rewarded.’

  There was a flicker of uncertainty in Miller’s eyes.

  ‘Don’t worry, Leo. It’s sure to work. You’ve already said you think there are enough people who want a confidence vote, and most of the cabinet is keen for a change of leadership. When the PM loses the vote, he’ll have to resign. I’ll say that I regret that he’s had to step down, but that, after bein
g encouraged to do so, I’ve decided to stand for election.’

  Miller looked around again to make sure no one was paying any undue attention to them. ‘I hope nobody has noticed us talking. It might lend credence to any conspiracy theories after I resign.’

  Trenchard laughed. ‘You worry too much, Leo. We were discussing the summer garden party I was hoping to arrange and whether you and your good lady would be able to attend.’

  They parted company with Trenchard calling after Miller for good effect. ‘Hope you can make it, Leo.’

  Later, over a large gin and tonic, Trenchard was wondering if this was going to go to plan. So many things could go wrong. He worried again about the press scrutiny that would inevitably follow his announcement that he intended to stand for the leadership.

  30

  It had been another busy day and it was late evening. Fleming was tired. So were the team. A few sipped at the foul coffee from the vending machine, but most of the team was subdued and quiet.

  Fleming glanced round the briefing room and wondered why the atmosphere was so gloomy. He dropped the heavy cardboard box he was carrying onto a desk. There were a few puzzled looks as Fleming slit it open. ‘Anyone want a change from coffee?’ he asked, pulling out cans of beer from the box. ‘Drinks are on me.’

  The atmosphere suddenly changed. There were smiles all round. ‘I love briefing meetings,’ one detective announced as he led the stampede to the desk to retrieve the beers. ‘Cheers, boss,’ one detective after another said as they lifted cans in salute to Fleming.

  ‘Nice one, boss,’ Logan added, then turned to face the team. ‘All right, you lot, settle down. Let’s get some work done then we can go home.’

  The whiteboard was showing more names. Emma Hayden, her husband Anthony Hayden, Sarah Nielson, Eric Rainer, and Damien Potts. Lines joined some of the names with scribbled notes showing the relationship between them. It was beginning to look like a mind map. An unnamed assassin was linked to Nielson as was the army photograph found in Nielson’s house. There was a question mark above the photograph. All lines pointed to Ronnie Nielson in the centre. Logan had listed actions, questions and thoughts with his usual military precision.