The Fifth Suspect

by Robert McNeil

  The other was of more interest to Fleming. Six uniformed soldiers in an old army shot. Nielson was one of them. The man he thought was the best man on the wedding photo was on this one as well, together with the four other men. Three men were kneeling on hard-packed sand at the front, three standing behind. Army vehicles were in the background under a clear blue sky. Two of the men had eyes screwed up against the glare of the sun and four wore sunglasses. Iraq or Afghanistan, Fleming guessed. He indicated to one of the SOCOs. ‘Make sure these two photos get bagged.’

  Upstairs, Fleming found three bedrooms and another room Nielson had converted into an office. A computer sat on an old antique desk with a green leather inlay. The desk drawers contained the usual stuff: bank statements, old bills, utility and insurance documents. Propped up between a pen stand and table lamp were some unpaid bills. Fleming glanced through all of the papers, not really sure what he was looking for. There seemed to be nothing worthy of note. He closed the desk drawers. He’d leave the SOCOs to go through all of this stuff.

  There was a photograph of Nielson’s club hanging on the wall. Fleming made a mental note. He’d need to speak to people who worked there as a matter of urgency.

  Interestingly, there was no sign of anything that might belong to the woman called Emma.

  Fleming thought there was nothing more he could do here. He’d leave it all to the crime scene investigators.

  He left the house and was about to climb into his car when his mobile rang. It was Freya Nash, his counsellor.

  ‘Alex?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Are you all right? You missed your appointment this morning…’

  7

  DI Jardine and DCI Watson were off duty. They sat by a window table in the Bear Inn on the corner of Alfred Street and Blue Boar Street in Oxford. The two men were oblivious to the animated shouting and occasional bursts of raucous laughter coming from the bar. They whispered in furtive tones as they leaned over the table.

  Watson thumped his glass down and stared at Jardine through his brown bloodshot eyes. His face was flushed and beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. ‘Christ, I need a fag,’ Watson croaked. His Welsh accent was becoming more pronounced with each drink. ‘Get another round in, Frank. I’m going outside for some fresh air and a ciggie.’

  Jardine watched Watson haul his large frame up from the table and head for the door before he made his way to the bar. ‘Two pints of London Pride,’ he demanded, banging the empty glasses down on a soggy beer mat with a scowl. The years had taken their toll on Jardine. He was fifty years old and his thin lanky frame was now somewhat stooped. He still walked with a slight limp from a bullet wound he received to his left leg ten years earlier while with the Met. Any impression of cheerfulness had left the long angular face that seldom offered a smile these days. What was left of his close-cropped hair matched the colour of his pallid face. He wondered if there was anything in what Watson was saying, or if he was just talking through the drink. Watson could be abrasive and belligerent at the best of times, but at least he looked after older officers. He’d had a go at Superintendent Temple when HQ overlooked Jardine for the vacant detective chief inspector post. Mind you, it didn’t take much for him to get riled by Temple. He had no time for female officers or, for that matter, younger officers like Fleming.

  ‘Anything else?’ the young barman asked as he put two pints in front of Jardine.

  Jardine shook his head, paid for the drinks and limped back to the table.

  Ten minutes later, Watson returned to find a fresh pint on his beer mat. He flopped into his seat, picked up the glass and took a large swig. He belched and gazed steadily at Jardine. ‘Where were we?’

  ‘We were talking about Nielson and Fleming,’ Jardine reminded him loudly.

  ‘Fuck’s sake, Frank, why don’t you let the whole bar know what we’re talking about?’

  Jardine looked sheepish. ‘Sorry, boss.’

  Watson shook his head. ‘I’ve told you before you need to keep it down. You’ve got a voice like a bloody foghorn.’ He took another sip of beer and wiped froth from his lips with the back of his hand. ‘Anyway… regards Fleming, we need to find a way to convince Temple he’s not the man for the job and that you are.’

  Jardine frowned. ‘Any idea how we might achieve that?’

  ‘I’m working on it.’ Watson tapped his forehead with a chubby finger. ‘I’m doing a little… shall we say… research…’

  ‘Into what?’

  ‘Into Fleming. A lot of people have skeletons in the cupboard. I need to find out if he does.’

  ‘And if he does? What then?’

  ‘If it could affect his ability to do the job properly, we take it to Temple. But we also need to make sure he gets no help with the investigation. If we get a chance, we point him in the wrong direction. We need to make sure he fouls up – know what I mean?’

  ‘You think there could be problems with Fleming?’

  ‘I know so. We need to get him off the case.’

  ‘You thinking about the investigation into Nielson we were involved in some years back with DCI Hayden?’

  Watson ran a finger round the top of his glass. ‘Liz Temple is bound to tell Fleming about that.’

  ‘And you think Fleming might stumble across something while he’s investigating Nielson’s murder?’

  ‘Something like that. I don’t want him snooping around over old ground that we’d covered–’

  ‘What if he does find out that Nielson was suspected of dealing in drugs and being behind a gangland killing? That couldn’t come back to bite us, could it?’

  Watson glared at Jardine. ‘You’re joking! He finds something Temple thinks we missed. How’s that going to make us look, eh?’ Watson banged the table with a clenched fist. ‘There’s no way I’m going to allow a rookie DCI get one over on me, understand?’

  Watson’s vehemence took Jardine by surprise. ‘Sure, boss. I didn’t mean to–’

  Watson cut him short. ‘And you want promotion, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes… yes, of course, boss.’

  ‘Then you and I need to work together to make sure our Mr Fleming fails to deliver. You with me on this?’

  ‘Sure. With you all the way.’

  Jardine looked over his glass at Watson and wondered what it was he had in mind.

  8

  There was nothing to suggest what was in the building. It looked like any another block of offices. But inside, it housed the Major Crime Unit.

  Fleming was behind his desk making notes. Most of the desks in the open-plan area outside were empty. It was strangely quiet. The normal buzz of activity had died down. Only a few officers were still on phones. The odd telephone rang shrilly to break the silence. The constant hammering on computer keyboards had all but ceased. It was Saturday night, and very late. The detectives assigned to the Nielson murder enquiry sat at their desks. They were waiting for Fleming’s first briefing meeting.

  Logan and DC Naomi Anderson were outside Fleming’s office. Anderson was redoing the bun at the back of her black hair. She was a relatively inexperienced officer in her late twenties, tall and slim with Jamaican roots.

  Logan was on the telephone. He looked across to Fleming’s office and saw him through the glass partition. He nodded and replaced the handset. He headed for Fleming’s door, knocked and popped his head in. ‘Super wants to see you, boss. Oh, and Naomi and I have just finished setting up the briefing room. The incident room is ready too.’

  ‘Thanks, Harry. Briefing in half an hour.’ Fleming gathered his notes and made his way to Temple’s office at the far end of the open-plan area. The distinct smell of coffee lingered in the air. Some of the team glanced at him as he passed, wondering how much longer it would be before the briefing. Unlike Fleming, some had families to go home to.

  Liz Temple’s office was more lavish than Fleming’s. The furnishings were of a better quality. She sat behind a large desk reading a file through rimless glasses
. The door was open.

  Fleming coughed gently. ‘You wanted to see me, ma’am?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Alex.’ She placed her glasses carefully on the desk and rose to greet Fleming. The black jacket, skirt and white blouse reminded Fleming of funerals. A slight shiver went up his spine at the thought. Her light olive-brown complexion, high cheekbones, and black shoulder length hair suggested possible Indian roots. She had a stern look about her and seldom smiled. Maybe that was the pressure of the job. She was young, mid-forties, Fleming guessed. Tall, slim, and carried an air of authority. ‘I wanted you to fill me in on the details,’ she said.

  ‘Chap called Nielson was found stabbed to death on his river cruiser near Bourne End Marina. His cleaner found him this morning. There were signs of a violent struggle, but there was no sign of the murder weapon at the scene. The SOCOs have been all over the boat and his house nearby. No witnesses that we know of – just the cleaner who found him. I’ve got a briefing in a few minutes to set out the initial lines of enquiry I want followed.’

  ‘Good. I’ll join you if I may? Save going through it all twice.’

  Fleming noted the steady gaze of her brown eyes and took it that it wasn’t really a question. ‘Of course.’

  ‘There’s something you need to be aware of before the meeting. Nielson was suspected of using his London club to front a drugs operation some years back. The Met was handling the case. Bill Watson was working for them at the time. He was one of the investigating officers. They never did find enough evidence to charge Nielson. Bill transferred here the following year. Then, two years after the drugs case, there was a murder in Reading. Bill was the SIO and thought it was drugs related. He suspected Nielson could have been behind it, but never charged him. Chap called Potts eventually pleaded guilty to manslaughter. I suggest you speak to Bill.’

  ‘Thanks, I will.’

  ‘I ought to remind you though that Bill can be a bit tetchy at the best of times and may be a bit guarded over what he tells you. He’ll see his personal reputation at stake and may be a little sensitive because Nielson slipped through his fingers twice. So, be careful how you broach the subject, okay?’

  Fleming groaned inwardly. He’d already experienced Watson’s hostile temperament. ‘I’ll tread carefully. Thanks for the tip.’

  Temple looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘Oh, there’s one other thing…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m afraid you only have a small team, just Logan and Anderson, who are with you full time. I can’t let you have an inspector at the moment. We’re a bit short-handed. And so you know, DI Jardine wasn’t a happy bunny when we didn’t select him to fill DCI Hayden’s post. I’ve got him working full time with Bill Watson for now. Didn’t seem a good idea to have him reporting to you. Nothing personal, but there could be a bit of resentment that you got the post he thought he was in line for.’

  ‘Okay, no problem.’

  Temple looked slightly embarrassed. ‘And DS Logan and DC Anderson are new to the unit. I thought it best to team them up with you. Hope you don’t feel as though you’ve been short changed.’

  Fleming smiled. ‘I’m sure I’ll manage.’

  As they made their way to the briefing room, Fleming was reflecting on what Temple had told him when she casually dropped another bombshell.

  ‘By the way, the chief constable, Matthew Upson, is under a bit of pressure at the moment,’ she said. ‘Cecil Daubney is pressing him over the thirty-two unsolved murder cases we have.’

  Fleming raised a questioning eyebrow.

  ‘The police and crime commissioner,’ Temple reminded him.

  ‘Yes, I know who he is, ma’am. I was just surprised at the number of unsolved cases.’

  ‘One of the main objectives in the Police and Crime Plan is to reduce the number. Daubney wants this done in the next two years. Given the current pressure on our budget, that’s quite a tall order. He’s made it clear that he’s holding Upson to account. He’ll be measuring his performance against delivery of the plan. The last thing we need is another unsolved murder.’

  Great, Fleming thought. No real pressure on my first case then. Hostile colleagues, small team, all new – and pressure from the start from those in high places.

  9

  The few remaining officers in the MCU were in the briefing room. They were tired and wanted to go home.

  The buzz of conversation filled the air. There were a few moans about the lateness of the meeting. There were some comments on how small the team was. A few were complaining about the lack of a decent pay rise. One officer cursed the foul-tasting coffee as he poured the remnants into a plant pot. It was pretty much a normal late-night gathering.

  The room fell silent when Fleming and Temple entered. There were a few nods, and those present settled themselves into the few chairs scattered around. Temple stood at the back of the room and Fleming strode to the front.

  Logan had erected a large whiteboard and there was a noticeboard on the wall. The only thing on the whiteboard was the victim’s name. Fleming looked around at the silent sullen faces and felt exposed in his new post.

  Logan broke the silence. ‘All right, you lot, I know you want to get home. The boss has promised to make this brief so get your notebooks out and pay attention.’

  Fleming didn’t remember saying that but welcomed the cue. ‘Okay, I want to run through what we’ve got so far and set out the initial lines of enquiry I want followed.’ He looked at Anderson. ‘Naomi, can you list key points and actions on the whiteboard please?’

  Anderson nodded her agreement.

  ‘Not a lot on there yet,’ someone shouted from the back.

  ‘We’re making good progress then,’ someone else commented drily.

  There were a few laughs.

  Fleming smiled. ‘There’ll be a lot more on there by the time we’re finished, don’t worry.’ He nodded at Logan. ‘Can you put names against the actions so we know who’s doing what, Harry?’

  Logan lifted a hand to show he had a marker pen ready. ‘On the case, boss.’

  Fleming smiled and pointed to the whiteboard. ‘Ronnie Nielson. London club owner who’s had previous brushes with the law. Stabbed to death on his river cruiser on the Thames at Bourne End near Marlow. Approximate time of death was between eight to midnight last night. His cleaner took a phone call from him about six last night and discovered him this morning around nine. The murder weapon hasn’t been found, but there is a knife missing from a wooden knife block in the galley. There were signs of a violent struggle so it’s reasonable to assume we’re looking for a powerful man. We think there’s a laptop missing and we didn’t find a wallet or any money on the boat. Nor was there a mobile phone there or at his house nearby. Could be a random chance robbery, but we need to keep an open mind on the motive–’

  ‘Excuse me, sir. Was there any sign of a forced entry?’ someone asked from the back of the room.

  Fleming welcomed the interruption. ‘No, and there were no lights on so the murderer must have had the presence of mind to switch them off before he made his escape. Lights burning on a boat all night might have drawn attention quicker than he’d have liked.’

  ‘Any signs that Nielson had a known visitor with him?’ another voice asked. ‘More than one glass, cup or plate left out – that sort of thing.’

  ‘No, no sign of that. But there was a postcard from a woman called Emma, saying she was looking forward to seeing him. We also found a bottle of perfume and a toilet bag in the en suite cabin. The cleaner saw what could have been her with Nielson on the boat a couple of weeks ago. She described her as being attractive, blonde hair, medium height – maybe in her mid-forties.’

  ‘Did she say how long this Emma’s hair was?’ an officer called Martins asked.

  ‘Shoulder length,’ Fleming replied. He noticed sharp glances between Martins and another officer. ‘Does that ring a bell with you?’ he asked Martins.

  Martins looked uncertain for a moment and gl
anced furtively at his colleagues before speaking. ‘I… I don’t know if I should be saying this. There must be lots of blonde women who go by the name Emma…’

  ‘But?’ Fleming persisted.

  ‘DCI Hayden’s wife is called Emma. Description fits her.’ He received some angry glares from around the room. ‘But I’m sure it’s a coincidence. I mean, how would she know Nielson?’ He shrugged and slumped back in his seat. ‘Sorry, I should never have mentioned it…’

  ‘You did the right thing. It probably is just a coincidence as you say, but we need to check it out. We need to eliminate her from the search for this woman.’

  Fleming drew a deep breath and continued. ‘So, here’s what we have to do. We need to trace the woman called Emma. I’ll go to see DCI Hayden’s wife. We need to build a picture of Nielson. I want everyone on nearby boats interviewed and enquiries made at the nearby marina. Arrange door-to-doors on the streets around his house.’ Fleming paused as notes were taken. ‘What did people know about him? Did anyone notice anything suspicious or out of the ordinary recently? I’ll pay a visit to his club to speak to the manager and staff there.’

  Fleming took a sip of water. ‘I found a couple of photographs in Nielson’s house. One was a wedding photo showing Nielson, his ex-wife, and two other men. One about Nielson’s age – maybe the best man, and an older man. We need to find them. The other photograph is of Nielson with five army colleagues – maybe taken in Iraq or Afghanistan. The younger man in the wedding photograph is one of them. I want them all traced. I want everyone who knew him interviewed: relatives, friends, colleagues, associates, enemies – everyone. Who last saw him? When?

  ‘Oh, and I want local hospitals and doctors’ surgeries checked to see if anyone turned up with injuries. There was a violent struggle so there’s a chance the murderer may have been injured. Also check local custody suites to see if anyone suspicious was taken into custody for any reason.’