The Fifth Suspect

by Robert McNeil

  Charles Trenchard sat on the front bench a few seats away from the prime minister. The atmosphere in the House of Commons was electric. The rows of green leather-clad benches had been virtually empty the day before. But today the House was packed. MPs on both sides waited with anticipation. They sensed a crisis. The hum of urgent chatter grew louder. The tension in the air was palpable. The PM’s face was ashen. His eyes were tired and sunken with worry and sleepless nights. The press gallery was packed. Reporters looked down on the scene below like vultures. They knew the prime minister was in trouble.

  At the north end of the chamber, the Speaker sat calmly in his green leather chair. He raised his right hand and called for order. The noise in the chamber failed to cease. He called again, more loudly, ‘Order! Order!’ He waited for a few seconds until the din died down. He cleared his throat and spoke. ‘Before I ask the chancellor to offer his resignation speech, I must remind the House that it has to be heard in silence.’ He looked across at Miller and nodded.

  Miller rose slowly from his seat. The notes in his right hand shook. The speech he had prepared was short. His voice trembled slightly as he spoke. ‘Thank you, Mr Speaker.’ He paused and took a deep breath. ‘I have addressed this House many times in the past, but today it is with great sadness that I speak to you to offer the reason for my resignation from the government. But first let me say this: it has been an honour and a privilege to serve my country, and my right honourable friend, the prime minister, for the past three years. I am proud of my achievements as chancellor and so it was with great sadness that it became necessary for me to resign. In short, my position had become untenable.’

  Millar glanced down at his notes and paused to take breath. ‘This came to be,’ he went on, ‘because I was unable to agree with certain policies. In particular, I could not agree with the prime minister’s views on fiscal matters. We debated this at some length, but I regret to say that the prime minister failed to see or accept my point of view. This in itself is not unusual. People in high office often have differing views on a wide range of matters.

  ‘However, what I could not accept was the prime minister undermining my authority. He did so by issuing statements in public on matters of policy he had not discussed with me. Matters for which I was responsible and with which I could not agree. I was torn between loyalty to the prime minister, and what I believed to be my duty to the nation. In the end, the only course of action for me was to resign.’ He paused briefly and those present waited eagerly to hear what Miller was about to say next. ‘Now I have returned to the back benches,’ he continued, ‘I am able to speak my mind freely.’

  As if on cue, Trenchard looked across at the PM and covered a smile by raising a hand to his mouth as though to stifle a cough. The prime minister stared straight ahead with a resigned look. His face had drained of blood. He dabbed a handkerchief on his forehead and looked as though knew he faced the final act of betrayal.

  Miller cleared his throat. ‘I believe,’ he continued, his voice booming, ‘that the prime minister has lost the confidence of his Party, he has lost the confidence of this House, and he has lost the confidence of the nation. The time has come for change and I believe that the required number of Conservative MPs have submitted a written request for a confidence vote in the prime minister. There will therefore be an opportunity for others to decide whether he is the right person to continue as leader.’

  Miller had said enough. He sat to pats on the back.

  Gasps of shock came from the public gallery and there was an eruption of shouting and waving of papers by MPs on both sides of the House. Never had such scenes of uproar been witnessed in recent years.

  Trenchard allowed himself a small smile.

  The prime minister glared at Miller. He could not conceal the rage he felt at this final act of treachery as he rose shakily to his feet and walked from the buzzing chamber.

  34

  Fleming was deep in thought as he drove to the office. It was early, but traffic was already building up on his way out of Oxford. He remembered what Aitken had said. We could both be in deep shit. ‘You could well be right,’ Fleming muttered. He worried about the dark thoughts that had entered his mind in Edinburgh. Would he have killed Calder? Fleming shrugged the thought away. He’d discuss his mental state with Freya, but he’d need to be careful over what he said.

  Logan and Anderson were already in the office, staring at flickering computer screens. ‘Bloody system’s on the blink again!’ Logan cursed as Fleming arrived. Logan slapped the box under the screen to an amused glance from Anderson.

  ‘You’re in the wrong trade, Sarge,’ she laughed. ‘You should have been a computer technician.’

  Logan scowled. ‘And you should have been a comedian,’ he muttered.

  Fleming smiled and waved for Logan to join him in his office. ‘Take a break from that thing and come and give me a sitrep.’

  Logan nodded and smiled at Anderson as he rose from his desk. ‘Coffees would be nice,’ he said over his shoulder as he made for Fleming’s office.

  Anderson stuck a tongue out at Logan’s back. ‘Right away, Sergeant Logan.’

  ‘Do you two ever stop?’ Fleming said, laughing as Logan came into his office.

  ‘It’s all in good fun, boss. We both like a bit of light-hearted banter. How was your trip to Edinburgh?’

  ‘Fine. Now, what’s the current state of play? Any developments while I’ve been away?’

  ‘I held a briefing meeting yesterday. Just one or two things to report. Still no luck with Nielson’s business contacts. Naomi and the lads have been working their way through them, but so far there’s no reason to link any of them to the murder.’

  Fleming sat on the corner of his desk. ‘What else?’

  Logan screwed up his face as though in pain. ‘Super’s on the warpath. She’s had the chief constable breathing down her neck.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘We got a warrant to search Hayden’s house. Bagged all his clothes and sent them off to forensics for examination. Upson blew a gasket when he found out. He told Temple there had better be a good reason for it. The last thing he needs is for Cecil Daubney to think that an ex-officer is suspected of murder. Temple will probably collar you as soon as she finds out you’re back.’ Logan hesitated for a moment. ‘Oh, by the way, she wanted to know why you had to go to Edinburgh in the middle of a murder investigation. Thought you ought to know.’

  ‘Thanks for the warning.’

  ‘There’s more bad news, I’m afraid…’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘I had a call from The Royal Anglian Regiment. They managed to identify the other five men in the photograph you found in Nielson’s house. Two of them were killed in action in Afghanistan – Eddie Slater and Tim Banks. Both sergeants. The others were officers. They all left the army in September 2002 on return to England from Afghanistan. A guy called Martin Cook who emigrated to Australia in 2003, and a Giles Bonner. He now lives on the south coast – Lymington.’

  ‘And the last man?’

  Logan drew a sharp breath. ‘You’re not going to like this, boss. It’s Charles Trenchard, of all people.’

  Fleming took in a sharp breath and frowned.

  ‘I take it you heard the news yesterday?’ Logan continued. ‘Leo Miller’s resigned as chancellor and there’s going to be a confidence vote in the prime minister. Trenchard is expected to stand for the leadership if the prime minister loses the vote. And we’re going to have to question him in a murder investigation. Nice, eh?’

  Fleming shrugged. ‘He knew a man who was murdered, that’s all. It’s just routine questioning–’

  ‘Routine! Bloody hell, boss, I wouldn’t like to be in your shoes when Temple and the chief constable find out, and the press get a whiff of it.’ The blood had drained from Logan’s face.

  Fleming acknowledged the problem. ‘Matthew Upson will definitely be bouncing off the walls. Apart from political flack, he’ll have Cecil Daubney on his ba
ck.’

  ‘Never a dull moment,’ Logan grumbled.

  ‘Any joy with the Audi driver who took Potts to Nielson’s club?’ Fleming asked.

  ‘I traced him and pulled him in for questioning. Name’s Tommy Tyler. He’s got previous. Burglary, assault, drove the getaway car in a jewellery shop raid. He’s been in and out of prison. Has a bit of a short fuse.’

  Fleming smiled. ‘Seems like Nielson’s club has some interesting employees.’

  Logan laughed. ‘Clearly, but he has a cast-iron alibi for the night of Nielson’s murder.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘He was in a police cell all night after a drunken brawl outside the club.’

  ‘So, he didn’t take Potts to Bourne End – assuming of course that Potts was the killer. Any fingerprint matches with Potts at the scene?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘And Eric Rainer. Has Naomi found anything on CCTV footage yet?’

  ‘Still going through them all. Nothing yet.’

  Temple poked her head round Fleming’s door. Her eyes blazed and there was a hard edge to her voice. ‘My office, Alex – now!’

  35

  Fleming knew he was in trouble. He knocked on Temple’s door and entered.

  Temple was sitting behind her desk studying a copy of an email with a fixed stare. She pulled off her reading glasses, threw them onto the desk and looked hard at Fleming without saying a word.

  ‘Ma’am?’ Fleming prompted.

  ‘Sit down, Alex.’ She paused and took in a deep breath. ‘I thought you’d concluded that Anthony Hayden was in the clear…’

  ‘I had.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I thought on reflection that I’d maybe been a little hasty–’

  ‘Hasty?’

  ‘There wasn’t any forensic evidence to put Hayden on Nielson’s boat, but I later realised that Hayden would know how to ensure there wasn’t any trace–’

  ‘And so you decided to cover up for your lack of foresight by having forensics tear his house apart looking for evidence.’

  ‘With respect, ma’am, it was an afterthought, not lack of foresight.’

  ‘And what exactly were you hoping to find there?’

  ‘I wasn’t hoping to find anything. I wanted to check if there were any traces of Nielson’s blood on Hayden’s clothes.’

  ‘And was there?’

  ‘Still waiting for forensics to get back to me.’

  Temple groaned. ‘I take it DS Logan has told you I’ve had Matthew Upson on my back?’

  ‘He has.’

  ‘He’s furious you’ve decided to open up enquiries into Anthony Hayden again. You know what makes it worse, Alex?’

  ‘What?’

  Temple slammed a hand onto her desk. ‘The fact you’d eliminated Hayden from your enquiries, then, when Upson’s ire has abated, you decide to open it all up again!’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Sorry! Alex, you’ve fucked up and you’re sorry!’ Temple breathed deeply as she put her reading glasses back on. ‘You don’t know how much you’ve fucked up, do you?’

  ‘Ma’am?’

  ‘You went to Edinburgh over the weekend. Why?’

  ‘I had some business to attend to–’

  ‘Business! What kind of business is more important than a murder investigation? An investigation, by the way, which seems to be going around in circles without any real progress. Upson thinks you’re wasting your time investigating Hayden, and Cecil Daubney is on Upson’s back over lack of progress on all the outstanding murder cases.’

  ‘The others aren’t my cases. The Nielson murder is my first case.’

  ‘And at this rate, Alex, it may be your last.’ Temple paused, and then spoke more softly. ‘Would this business in Edinburgh be anything to do with this?’ She pushed the email she had been reading across the desk.

  It was a copy of an article written by Davy Purvis in an Edinburgh newspaper. Fleming tensed and drew a deep breath. Gordon Aitken’s words rang in his ears again: We could both be in deep shit. The headline read, MURDERER RELEASED ON LIFE LICENCE GOES MISSING AFTER VICTIM’S SON TURNS UP IN EDINBURGH.

  ‘I’m waiting for an explanation,’ Temple said. She looked at Fleming with a steely glare over the top of her glasses.

  ‘I witnessed my mother being murdered twenty-three years ago. I was twelve at the time. I found out that they released the man who did it on life licence a couple of weeks ago. I had a misguided notion that if I could speak to him, get some hint of remorse, I might be able to move on. Bit stupid really.’

  Temple was more sympathetic. ‘And did you see him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re sure about that?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘So how come the press found out you were in Edinburgh?’

  Fleming frowned. Then it came to him. ‘In the hotel… I was being served coffee and the man serving me must have seen a newspaper cutting I was looking at. It was about Calder’s release. I checked in under my own name. The waiter must have put two and two together and told the press.’

  ‘So how come Calder knew you were there?’

  Fleming shrugged. ‘You know the press. My guess is that this reporter, Purvis, must have warned Calder, thinking he might run, and then he’d have a story.’

  Temple frowned. ‘You realise this looks bad. If Calder isn’t found, you’ll be a suspect.’ She pulled the email back across her desk and slipped it into a top drawer. ‘If this kicks off, you could find yourself suspended. You realise that?’

  Fleming slumped back in his seat.

  Temple looked hard at him. ‘Is there any more bad news you want to give me while you’re at it?’

  ‘Only that we’ve identified the men who were in an army photograph I found in Nielson’s house.’

  ‘And why do I think this is going to be yet another problem?’ An exasperated Temple moaned.

  ‘One of the men is Charles Trenchard. I’ll have to question him, I’m afraid.’

  Temple held her head in her hands and groaned. ‘Why is this turning into a fucking nightmare? Upson will do his nut.’

  36

  Damien Potts was worried. He’d been unsettled by Fleming’s visit to Nielson’s Cellar. He knew only too well what prison life was like and would do anything to make sure he didn’t end up inside again. In a panic, all rational thought had left him. He’d contacted a man who he thought might be able to help him.

  It was nine o’clock in the morning as the tube pulled into the station at Vauxhall. Brakes squealed as the train shuddered to a halt. Potts pushed his way through the crowds and headed off in the direction of Vauxhall Bridge. He half-skipped, half-ran across the road as he dodged the traffic. Sweating profusely under the glare of the sun, he took the steps that led down to the path that ran in front of the headquarters of MI6.

  He looked up and down the walkway but could see no sign of Carl Yapp. He was late. Potts took out a half-finished cigarette, lit up and leaned over the wall. A long barge was steadily ploughing its way up the Thames against the fast-flowing current. Sirens went off across the river and Potts saw the blue lights of a police car speeding up Millbank heading towards Westminster. He flicked the butt of his cigarette into the river and turned as he heard footsteps approaching him.

  Yapp was a freelance journalist who had moved to London after a rather dubious career working for the press in Belfast. There had been threats on his life following several articles he’d written. He’d come across Potts some years ago when he was covering the Met enquiry into claims that Ronnie Nielson’s club was involved in drugs. He’d seen him as a useful source of information in the underworld and was curious why Potts wanted to see him soon after his release on parole.

  ‘Hi there, Damien. Sorry I’m a bit late. Things to do, people to see.’

  Potts looked surprised. Yapp had put on some weight since he last saw him. Either that or he’d been working out at the gym. He was tall and his receding grey hair was clipped sho
rt. His crumpled suit jacket was slung over his shoulder.

  ‘Hi, Carl. Got a fag?’

  Yapp fished in his pocket and pulled a pack of twenty out. ‘Help yourself.’ He looked curiously at Potts, whose hands were trembling. ‘Trouble?’

  Potts took in a deep drag and blew smoke out over the wall as he turned to look over the river. ‘I’m in deep shit,’ he said, coughing violently.

  ‘You should give these up, mate.’

  Potts ignored the comment. ‘You heard about Ronnie Nielson?’

  Yapp frowned. ‘Yes.’

  ‘A cop came to see me. I think he’s going to try to stitch me up for Ronnie’s murder.’

  Yapp raised an eyebrow. ‘Did you kill him?’

  ‘No, I fucking didn’t!’ Potts shouted, then lowered his voice when he realised people were looking at him. ‘The cops think I had a grudge against Ronnie–’

  ‘And you were released on parole just before he was killed…’

  ‘That seems to be enough for them. Bastards!’

  ‘Hold on, Damien. That’s all they have on you?’

  Potts shook his head and sucked deeply on his cigarette.

  Yapp lit a cigarette for himself and blew smoke up in the air. ‘So, what else?’

  ‘I’ve got no fucking witnesses to verify where I was on the night of the murder!’ Potts blurted. He raised a shaky hand to his mouth to take another deep drag of his cigarette. ‘They’re going to do me, Carl!’

  Yapp looked closely at Potts. ‘So where do I come into this? Your paranoia about the police being after you isn’t exactly a story is it, Damien?’

  Potts looked furtively around him. ‘No, but what about corrupt cops?’

  Yapp smiled. ‘Go on.’

  ‘There were some bent cops in the Met. They were on the take from Ronnie.’

  ‘Hang on,’ Yapp said, ‘aren’t Thames Valley Police dealing with Nielson’s murder? How come you want to bring the Met into it?’