‘But there’s no forensic evidence to put him at the scene of the crime,’ Anderson reminded him.
‘No,’ Logan agreed, ‘but we’re still waiting to see if there are any bloodstains on the clothes we took from his house.’
Fleming continued. ‘If there isn’t, I think we have to cross him off the list. Then we have Damien Potts. He had a possible motive, he can’t verify his whereabouts on the night of the murder, but we have no hard evidence… and there were none of his prints at the scene–’
‘Which brings us to Eric Rainer,’ Logan broke in, ‘always said he was our man. He had a motive. He hated Nielson. He had previous for assault. He’s ex-army and a boxing instructor… knows how to handle himself. Then there’s the scratches on his face.’ Logan waited for effect then whispered slowly, ‘And he lied about his alibi.’
Fleming nodded. ‘He certainly seems like our best bet at the moment, but there’s something niggling away at me. Can’t quite put my finger on it. Call it gut instinct, but I feel like it all seems a bit too simple somehow.’
‘Gut instinct never got a conviction,’ Logan reminded Fleming.
‘It’ll be interesting if we find anything on CCTV that puts him near to the scene of the crime,’ Fleming said.
There was a lull in the conversation. Logan took another handful of nuts. Fleming sipped quietly on his beer. Then Anderson appeared to remember something. ‘Oh, by the way, I meant to tell you, I saw Bill Watson in Temple’s office while you two were interviewing Eric Rainer. Her office door was open and I overheard a bit of what she was saying…’
‘Do tell,’ Logan said eagerly.
‘She was saying she had a phone call from some reporter. Seems he’d heard allegations of police corruption and he’s asked her for a statement.’
‘No way!’ Logan exclaimed.
‘That’s what I heard.’
Fleming frowned. ‘No doubt Temple will tell me about it tomorrow. She’s already upset over me bringing Hayden back into the frame. She hauled me over the coals because I went to Edinburgh, and she’s not exactly jumping with joy over the prospect that I need to speak to Charles Trenchard. Now we have allegations of police corruption. Great!’
40
Fleming was not looking forward to the meeting. A young WPC was taking him up in the lift to the chief constable’s office. He’d called the meeting to discuss the press request for a statement on allegations of corruption in the MCU.
Fleming hadn’t yet met Matthew Upson and wasn’t sure what kind of reception he would get. Fleming knew he wasn’t exactly in his good books over Anthony Hayden, and he’d heard that Upson was a hard taskmaster. By all accounts he was a strict man who didn’t suffer fools gladly.
The WPC showed him into a small meeting room next to Upson’s office. Liz Temple and Bill Watson were already there. Upson sat stiffly at the top end of a table. He had short grey hair, neatly groomed, and the badge of rank on the black epaulettes of his spotless white shirt added to the air of authority the man carried.
Upson was in a foul mood. Angry brown eyes glared at Fleming as he entered. ‘Glad you could finally make it, Fleming,’ he snapped. ‘Grab a coffee if you want one,’ he added tersely. ‘But be quick, I have a meeting with Cecil Daubney in half an hour. And I can tell you he’s after heads if this business brings Thames Valley Police into disrepute.’
Fleming thought he recognised the accent: from Glasgow, he guessed. ‘Sorry I’m late, sir. Road accident and a bit of a traffic jam.’
‘Leave earlier next time,’ Upson growled.
Fleming skipped the coffee. He thought it wouldn’t be a good idea to hold things up any longer than necessary. He sat and waited for Upson to speak.
‘Before we get on to the main reason for this meeting,’ Upson said, ‘I want to make one thing clear: I do not want the reputation of this force dragged through the mud. The last thing I need is for one of my ex-officers to be a suspect in a murder investigation.’ He stared at Fleming. ‘You had better be sure of what you’re doing with regard to Anthony Hayden. I do not want this to blow up in my face. Do I make myself clear, Fleming?’
‘Yes, sir, very clear.’
Upson turned to Temple. ‘I’ve got Cecil Daubney on my back over unsolved murder cases. Fleming here seems to suspect an ex-colleague of murder. And now we have this!’ He threw a newspaper into the middle of the table. The headline read: THAMES VALLEY POLICE ASKED FOR A STATEMENT OVER ALLEGATIONS OF CORRUPTION. ‘What’s this all about, Liz?’
Temple was calm and spoke with her usual confidence. ‘A freelance journalist by the name of Carl Yapp phoned me yesterday, sir. He claimed he had a reliable source who told him there were corrupt detectives on the force–’
‘Names?’ Upson cut in abruptly.
‘No names.’
‘Who is this source?’
‘He wouldn’t say.’
‘Did he say he has evidence to support this claim?’
‘No, he just told me his source was reliable, but he wouldn’t elaborate. He said that would all come out later. He asked if we were prepared to make a statement denying it–’
Upson slammed a hand on the table. ‘This is ridiculous! The man can’t justify what he’s saying, he has no evidence, and he has no names. Unbelievable! How can he get away with writing such a story? It’s libellous!’
‘Not quite, sir. He was very careful not to say anything defamatory. He doesn’t make any claims of corruption in his story. The story is simply that he’s asked for a statement in response to allegations made to him by an anonymous source–’
‘Well, Liz, you’d better issue a statement without delay, hadn’t you? And make sure the denial is emphatic.’
‘It’s not a big deal really,’ Watson chipped in. ‘We get this all the time. People on the wrong side of the law make all sorts of complaints and claims against us. We should ridicule the whole thing… and the reporter for being gullible enough to go into print without a shred of evidence. Want me to pay the man a visit, ma’am?’ he asked, looking at Temple.
‘Christ, no!’ Upson exclaimed. ‘The last thing we need is him running another story claiming he’s being harassed by the police. Issue a firm denial… and make sure we get the point across that there is no evidence to substantiate it.’
‘I’ll get a statement out today, sir,’ Temple confirmed.
‘Two more things,’ Upson said. He looked at Fleming who had stayed quiet throughout the meeting. ‘You’d better put this Hayden business to bed quickly, Fleming. And this nonsense about having to speak to Charles Trenchard, is it really necessary? We don’t need any adverse political publicity on that front right now.’
‘He knew Nielson,’ Fleming said. ‘That’s all. We need to speak to everyone who had any contact with Nielson to help build up a picture. It shouldn’t be a problem; he’ll only be providing background information. No reason why there should be any adverse publicity.’
‘Hmm, make sure there isn’t,’ Upson warned.
Later, back in his own office, Fleming was thinking over the claim about police corruption. He had a sneaking suspicion he knew who the source might have been.
41
Fleming was at home watching the reporter Hugh Bell on a news programme. It had been a long day at the office. He’d poured his second large glass of whisky and was about to take a sip when he heard the name. ‘We’re now going over to Westminster where Irving Baker is talking to Charles Trenchard,’ Bell was saying.
Baker appeared on-screen holding an earpiece to his ear. There was a short delay before he spoke. ‘Hugh, it’s only a few days now before the much-awaited confidence vote. A vote which many say the prime minister is almost certain to lose. With me is Charles Trenchard who is widely tipped to be the next prime minister.’ He turned to Trenchard. ‘Thank you for joining us. You’ve had a fairly rapid rise in politics, haven’t you?’
Trenchard shrugged. ‘It’s not so much a matter of how much time one has spent in politics. It
’s more to do with ability, hard work and commitment. And, I may add, loyalty and a willingness to serve your country. That is what is important.’
‘Yes, before becoming an MP, you served for twelve years as an army officer. I guess that’s where the ethos of service and loyalty springs from?’
‘I think there’s some merit in what you say.’
‘You were appointed as foreign secretary only five years after being elected. That’s quite a remarkable achievement. Do you think you will be the next prime minister?’
Trenchard’s lips curled into a smarmy smile. ‘Let me be absolutely clear about this. I mentioned loyalty as a desirable trait. I remain loyal to the prime minister. He has had, and continues to receive, my full support. I have no intention of getting into a hypothetical debate over what might or might not happen following next week’s vote.’
‘You are a front runner, are you not?’ Baker persisted.
‘There is inevitably a great deal of speculation over this. That’s human nature. Of course it is just that, idle speculation. I have never said that I will stand for the leadership at any time.’
‘Surely you must have given some thought to your position?’
‘I’ve already made my position quite clear. Something you appear to have failed to grasp. The prime minister continues to receive my full support. What I’m considering is how to deal with the very important and pressing foreign issues that we currently face.’
‘Okay, I understand your reluctance to be drawn on the leadership issue so let’s turn to foreign affairs for a minute. You served in Iraq and Afghanistan. Do you think that getting into such armed conflicts has made our country a safer place?’
‘We made significant progress in that regard–’
‘Progress isn’t exactly success, is it?’ Baker broke in quickly.
‘This whole question of how to deal with terrorism is not going to be solved easily. It’s an ongoing problem that we have to deal with, I’m afraid. Let’s be absolutely clear: we will leave no stone unturned in our efforts to protect our country.’
Baker shuffled some papers and read from one of them. ‘One of our retired senior military men has questioned whether our involvement in Iraq and Afghanistan was a success. In fact, he argues we are more at risk now because of our actions. What do you say to that?’
‘I don’t accept that at all. As you rightly point out, he is retired. People are entitled to their own views on such matters. It’s not a view I subscribe to.’
‘Maybe, though, there are some who do agree–’
It was Trenchard’s turn to interrupt. ‘It’s never an easy decision to go to war, but that’s what we had to do. This Government is not afraid to make difficult decisions and we will continue to do so for the good of the country.’
‘Okay, I think that’s clear enough. You will not shirk from going to war again if you are the next prime minister?’
‘I don’t know how many times I have to say this: I have not declared any intention to stand for the leadership–’
‘The question people are asking is whether you will–’
‘It would not be the right thing to do to say in advance whether I will stand for election should the prime minister lose the vote. If I did so it would be seen as an act of disloyalty and could undermine his position.’
‘Okay. You could end the speculation by confirming that you will not put your name forward,’ Baker suggested.
‘You are trying very hard to put words into my mouth, but I will not be drawn into making premature statements. I have said all I am prepared to say on this matter.’
‘This is a major constitutional issue and I’m sure our viewers would like to know where you stand–’
Trenchard’s eyes narrowed and his answer was curt. ‘They know exactly where I stand as I have repeated to you several times.’
‘With respect, foreign secretary, it’s a perfectly legitimate question to ask whether you do intend to stand should the prime minister lose the vote. It is something you must have considered, is it not?’
‘I’ve already told you what I’m currently considering.’
‘Okay, one final point. I understand your reluctance to get into a debate about the prime minister’s position, but you know very well that the majority of Tory MPs, and indeed the majority of the cabinet, have lost confidence in him. All the polls point to him losing the vote. It’ll be a miracle if he wins, and even if he does, he will be a lame duck prime minister with no real authority.’
‘Let’s wait and see, shall we?’
Baker took a final glance at his notes and removed his glasses with a flourish. ‘We have to leave it there. Foreign Secretary, Charles Trenchard, thank you for joining me.’
Fleming switched off the TV and poured another glass of whisky. He prayed that his meeting with Trenchard the following day would be easier and would not attract press attention.
At Nielson’s Cellar, Scottie McBain sat back in his chair with his feet up on the desk. He looked across at the sorry figure in front of him. Damien Potts was a mess. He hadn’t slept and his eyes had the haunted look of a desperate man. His long hair was unwashed and tangled.
‘Scottie, you need to help me,’ Potts pleaded.
‘What exactly has Fleming got on you?’ McBain asked.
‘He knows I can’t prove I was at home. I should have thought of a better alibi.’ His feet were tapping on the floor and his eyes twitched nervously.
‘And that’s it?’
‘I think so.’
‘And you think disappearing will help? It smells of guilt, for fuck’s sake. You go on the run and as sure as hell, they’ll nail you.’
‘If they catch me. You’ve got contacts, Scottie, people who owe you a favour. London’s a big place. I could disappear here for a few months then sneak out of the country.’
McBain thought for a moment, swung his feet back onto the floor, and leaned across the desk. ‘Okay, I think I can help, but I’ll need some of that drugs money you’ve got stashed away. These things don’t come cheap.’
Potts did know exactly what he meant, but parting with a few thousand was better than life in prison.
42
Fleming had told Logan he would go to see Charles Trenchard on his own. He thought a visit by two detectives might seem a bit heavy-handed, bearing in mind how sensitive a visit from the police would be. And it was only to ask a few routine questions to see if Trenchard could throw any light on Nielson’s army career.
Fleming had decided to drive to Henley-on-Thames straight from home in the old Porsche because he had another appointment with Freya at lunchtime and he didn’t want Logan to know where he was. Fleming had told him he would be back in the office in the afternoon. Although he’d arranged to see Freya, he wasn’t sure exactly what he was going to tell her.
The sun glared in a clear blue sky as Fleming swung the Porsche through the open iron gates into the driveway. The tyres crunched on the gravel as he cruised to a halt in front of the house.
Trenchard’s wife must have seen or heard the car approach. She opened the front door as Fleming went to ring the bell. ‘Hello, Chief Inspector… Fleming, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ He offered a hand. Her hand was small and smooth. No evidence of manual work, Fleming noted. She had neatly manicured bright-red fingernails. The handshake was limp.
‘I’m Helen, Charles’s wife. He’s sitting out on the lawn at the back enjoying the sun… and a cigar. I don’t let him smoke in the house. Do come through. Can I get you a drink?’
‘Water would be fine, thank you.’
Helen led Fleming down a hallway, through a large kitchen and out the back door.
Trenchard rose from his seat when the door opened and he strode up the lawn towards Fleming, hand outstretched. Trenchard’s casual trousers and colourful short-sleeved shirt were in stark contrast to the smart grey suit he’d worn the previous evening on TV. ‘Hello, Chief Inspector. Thank you for agreeing to meet
me here in private. Don’t want tongues wagging, do we? Particularly at the moment.’
‘Quite,’ Fleming agreed as he shook hands. Trenchard’s grip was powerful and confident. ‘It must be a busy, if not stressful, time. I saw you on television last night. I guess all the reporters want to ask you about at the moment is the confidence vote and whether you will stand for election.’
‘Yes, I’m afraid so. Do come and have a seat, won’t you? Has Helen asked if you want a drink?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
On cue, Helen came out with a large glass of iced water.
‘Thanks,’ Fleming said and took a seat beside Trenchard. ‘Lovely view,’ Fleming remarked waving his glass towards the river.
‘Yes, I like to spend as much time as I can out here when I’m at home. It’s a nice quiet place to think. So… what can I do for you, Chief Inspector? You said on the phone it was to ask me about an old army colleague.’
Fleming realised why no one had recognised Trenchard in Nielson’s army photograph. He’d changed dramatically in appearance over the years. Much older, his hair was thinner and grey. A neatly trimmed grey beard and moustache replaced the clean-shaven look of his army days. ‘Yes, it’s a case of speaking to everyone who knew him… to build a picture… get some background.’
‘Knew? You mean as a past colleague… or has something happened to him?’
‘Sorry, I should have said.’ Fleming took a sip of his water and continued. ‘The man I’m interested in is Ronnie Nielson… he was murdered two weeks a–’
‘Oh my God! How awful. Yes, I remember reading about it.’
‘Did you know him well?’
‘My dear chap, I’m afraid you’ve had a wasted journey… I didn’t know him at all.’
The Fifth Suspect Page 15
