The Fifth Suspect

by Robert McNeil

  ‘Sure. See you later. Good luck with McBain.’

  Fleming took the tube to Piccadilly Circus and made his way into Soho on foot. On the way, he found himself wondering why Watson had told him where he could find Calder. Maybe there was a decent side to him after all. Was he really trying to help Fleming out? Or did he have some ulterior motive? Fleming remembered telling Freya that no one would know he was looking for Calder, but now Watson knew Fleming knew where Calder was. Fleming pushed his thoughts to one side as he approached Nielson’s Cellar.

  The young man with blond hair and the ponytail that he saw last time he visited the club was there again pulling chairs off tables. He looked warily at Fleming. ‘Boss is in his office. Want me to tell him you’re here?’

  ‘Good idea. Before you do though, you might be able to help me.’

  ‘Oh? How?’ Ponytail’s left eye twitched nervously.

  ‘Did you know Damien Potts well?’

  ‘Not really. I’ve only been here a couple of years. I knew he worked here for Ronnie Nielson before he went to prison. He came back to work for Scottie when he got out a few weeks ago.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘He killed a man.’

  Fleming smiled. ‘No, I mean what did he do here? What was his job?’

  Ponytail frowned. ‘Now you mention it, I haven’t a clue. He doesn’t actually work regularly in the club, pops in from time to time to see Scottie.’

  Fleming nodded. ‘So when did you last see him?’

  Ponytail thought for a second. ‘Be about a week ago. He came to see Scottie. That was the last time I saw him.’

  ‘Any idea where he might be?’

  ‘No, no I haven’t.’

  McBain came out of his office. He froze momentarily when he saw Fleming talking to Ponytail, then smiled. ‘Chief Inspector Fleming, what brings you here again?’ He glared at Ponytail. ‘Get on with the tables,’ McBain growled. ‘I’ll see to this.’ Standing to one side, he waved an arm theatrically, indicating for Fleming to go into his office.

  ‘Take a seat,’ McBain said as he walked over to a filing cabinet. He pulled out two glasses in the fingers of one hand and a bottle of whisky in the other. He lifted the two glasses and waved them towards Fleming with a questioning look.

  ‘No, thanks,’ Fleming said. ‘Too early for me.’

  McBain put one glass back, poured a good measure into the other one and slouched into the chair behind his desk. ‘What can I do for you, Chief Inspector?’

  ‘When did you last see Damien Potts before he did a runner?’

  McBain feigned surprise. ‘He’s done a runner?’

  ‘Come off it, McBain. You know he’s gone into hiding. He’s left the flat and breached his parole conditions.’

  ‘I’d no idea.’

  ‘He works for you, doesn’t he?’

  ‘On and off, you might say.’

  ‘So when did you last see him?’ Fleming repeated.

  ‘Now let me see… yes, that would be a couple of weeks ago when you were last here.’

  ‘Ponytail outside reckons Potts came to see you about a week ago.’

  ‘Oh, yes… I forgot. So he did.’

  ‘Why did he come to see you?’

  ‘He wanted more work. Reckoned he needed money.’

  ‘And?’

  McBain took a large gulp of his whisky. ‘I didn’t have anything I could give him right now.’

  ‘And what sort of work was he doing?’

  ‘Like I said, he wasn’t what you would call a regular employee. He ran errands, posted ads for club events, does a bit of stocktaking, collects emergency stocks, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Where might he have gone?’

  McBain shrugged. ‘Haven’t the faintest.’

  ‘You don’t seem unduly concerned.’

  ‘I’ve already told you, he isn’t a regular employee. He’s not exactly a best mate.’

  ‘Why did you give him some work when he got out of prison?’

  McBain glared at Fleming. ‘What’s that got to do with him going missing? And why has he disappeared anyway?’

  ‘He made a serious allegation against the police to a reporter. Know about that?’

  ‘How the fuck would I know what he’s done?’

  ‘That’s probably why he’s done a runner.’

  ‘Or because he thinks you want to stitch him up for Ronnie’s murder.’ McBain clearly suddenly realised he’d said too much and fell quiet. He sipped at his whisky and looked over the glass at Fleming.

  ‘He told you that?’

  McBain shrugged again. ‘Something he said. He’s paranoid. Thinks everyone is out to get him.’

  ‘Is that why he really came to see you?’ Fleming persisted.

  McBain glared hard. ‘I told you why he came to see me. I wasn’t able to help.’

  ‘So that brings me back to my question about giving him some work. Why did you want to help him?’

  McBain downed the last of his whisky and thumped the empty glass on his desk. ‘I don’t know why you’re asking me all these questions. How is knowing why I helped him going to help you find him, for fuck’s sake?’

  ‘Getting some background,’ Fleming said. ‘So why did you?’

  ‘He worked for Ronnie for three years before he went to prison so I decided to give him a chance. Who else would?’

  ‘Any friends you know of?’

  McBain laughed. ‘You’re joking, right?’

  ‘Any relatives?’

  McBain shrugged.

  Fleming was sure McBain was being evasive. Fleming suspected he knew more than he was prepared to say.

  ‘Thank you for your time, Mr McBain.’ Fleming rose to go and turned at the door. ‘By the way, if I find out later that you’ve lied to me, I might just charge you with obstructing an investigation, or assisting a person to evade arrest. Take your pick.’

  ‘Fuck you, Fleming!’

  ‘I’ll see myself out, shall I?’

  Two hours later, Logan was tucking into a burger and chips when Fleming met him at Paddington. ‘Hi, boss. Any luck with McBain?’ he mumbled through a full mouth.

  ‘Not really. But I think he knows more than he’s letting on. I could tell he was lying through his teeth. You get any joy?’

  ‘I managed to find Tyler who claims he has no idea where Potts is. Says he didn’t even know he’d done a runner. No joy with local shops or pubs, but the bookie told me that Potts had rattled on about some friend he had in prison who was due for release soon and that he might need temporary accommodation until he finds something more permanent.’

  ‘This guy have a name?’

  ‘Madlock… Benny Madlock. He’s in Wandsworth.’

  ‘I think you should go and see him tomorrow. Check if he can throw any light on where Potts might have gone.’

  ‘Where will you be?’ Logan asked.

  ‘I’ve got a migraine coming on. I think I’ll take the weekend off.’

  Logan nodded. ‘Okay. Catch up with you on Monday.’ He was worried about Fleming who didn’t seem quite himself since he’d heard that Jimmy Calder might turn up in Reading.

  Fleming was on his second glass of whisky. The evening news had announced that the prime minister had lost the confidence vote and elections were to take place for a new leader. Charles Trenchard had announced his intention to stand for election. Fleming cursed. That was all he needed. He looked again at the slip of paper Watson had given him with the address of the club in Reading where he might find Calder. Taking a large gulp of whisky, Fleming stared at the ceiling and wondered what he was going to do with the information.

  52

  The gate at HMP Wandsworth slammed shut behind Logan and Anderson with an echoing clang. Anderson felt a little uneasy. She’d never set foot inside a prison before. There was something about being behind locked doors.

  After going through some security checks, a prison officer escorted them across a small open yard whistling nonchalantl
y and swinging his keys at the end of a long chain attached to his belt. He took them through another locked steel door and along a maze of corridors to a room they used for legal visits. There was a small table in the middle of the room with one chair on one side and two chairs on the other.

  ‘It’s Madlock you’re seeing, isn’t it?’ the officer asked.

  ‘That’s right,’ Logan replied.

  ‘He’ll be along shortly.’

  ‘Why’d you ask me to come with you, Sarge?’ Anderson asked.

  Logan smiled. ‘Thought you’d enjoy the experience.’ Anderson’s expression changed. ‘Only kidding. A second officer has to be present at all prison interviews,’ he said, more seriously. ‘That’s right, isn’t it?’ he asked the guard.

  ‘Absolutely. You can’t interview a prisoner on your own. You also have to have an officer within sight. That’s me. Name’s Keith… Keith Hunt, by the way.’

  The door opened and a uniformed officer looked in. ‘Benny Madlock for you,’ he announced.

  ‘Come in, Madlock,’ Hunt said. He pulled the single chair away from the table and motioned for him to sit.

  Madlock shuffled in, looking apprehensively at Logan and Anderson. He was of medium height, balding, and wore regulation prison clothing. Sitting down with a sullen look on his face, he rubbed at the greying stubble on his chin before resting his arms on the table.

  Logan and Anderson settled into the two chairs opposite him. Logan got straight to the point. ‘I’m DS Logan and this is DC Anderson. We want to ask you a few questions.’

  Madlock said nothing.

  ‘Benny… can I call you Benny?’ Logan asked.

  Madlock stared at him before replying. ‘Call me what you like.’ His steady gaze shifted from Logan to Anderson and back. ‘Questions about what?’

  ‘It’s to do with Damien Potts. You became friendly with him, that right?’

  Madlock frowned, instantly on guard. ‘What’s this about? Been a naughty boy already, has he?’

  Logan put his hands on the table. ‘Let’s just say he’s annoyed a few people… people he’s frightened of. He’s done a runner and we need to find him before they do.’

  ‘Oh yeah? Who’s he running from?’

  ‘No one you’ll know.’

  Madlock sneered. ‘That’s crap. He’s on the run from you, isn’t he? You think he killed Ronnie Nielson, don’t you? Potts is just out of prison and you lot want to pin Nielson’s murder on him.’ Madlock suddenly pushed his chair back from the table and turned to face Hunt. ‘I’m done here. I don’t have to talk to no cops.’

  Anderson was impressed with Logan’s slight twisting of the facts and decided a further distorting of the truth might help. ‘Benny, it’s not that at all…’ She glanced at Logan who nodded agreement for her to continue. ‘The thing is, we did question Damien about Nielson’s murder. But we know he didn’t do it. We’ve arrested someone for that–’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ Madlock retorted.

  Anderson continued with the lie. ‘Damien pointed the finger at him and the man we’ve arrested has friends. Damien is a witness. We need to find him.’

  Madlock sat and frowned. ‘So why should I help you?’

  Logan seemed glad of Anderson’s intervention. He held Madlock’s defiant gaze. ‘Two reasons. One he’s your friend, and two, he was going to help you get temporary accommodation when you’re released. He can’t do that if he’s on the run.’

  Madlock’s eyes darted suspiciously between Logan and Anderson. ‘I don’t see how I can help you,’ he said guardedly.

  ‘Have you any idea where Damien might be hiding out?’ Logan persisted.

  ‘Haven’t a clue.’

  ‘He never spoke about any other friends he had, any relatives?’

  ‘No, can’t say he did.’

  ‘Never mentioned where he might go on release?’

  ‘Said he would probably stay in London, see if he could get some work at Nielson’s Cellar.’

  ‘And if he couldn’t?’

  Madlock shrugged.

  ‘Did he ever speak about where else he’d lived, maybe would like to go?’ Anderson pressed.

  Madlock shook his head.

  ‘Did he say where he might find you temporary accommodation?’ Logan added hopefully. He thought he knew the answer but it was worth a try.

  ‘In London. Said a guy called McBain knew someone who had a flat above a betting shop in Brixton.’

  Logan frowned. This was going nowhere. He sat back in his chair as though to signify that he had no more questions and looked at Anderson.

  She shook her head.

  ‘Okay, thanks for speaking to us, Benny,’ Logan said.

  ‘Can’t see how I’ve helped,’ Madlock replied, more relaxed. ‘I hope you do find Damien before anyone else does.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘Looks like my release accommodation’s fucked, doesn’t it?’ He shot a glance in Anderson’s direction. ‘Sorry, miss. Excuse my French.’

  Anderson smiled. ‘I hear worse in the office.’

  Logan looked across at Hunt. ‘We’re all done here.’

  Later, on the way back to Oxford, the pair were quiet. Anderson finally broke the silence. ‘Complete waste of time that was, wasn’t it, Sarge?’

  Logan tilted his head. ‘Had to be followed up though.’

  ‘Suppose so,’ Anderson admitted. ‘Why didn’t the boss come?’

  ‘Reckoned he had a migraine coming on and was going to take the weekend off,’ Logan replied. He looked thoughtful before adding, ‘He’s acting a bit strange at the moment, doesn’t seem quite himself…’

  ‘Oh?’

  Logan pulled a face. He wasn’t about to tell Anderson what he knew about Fleming’s past. Nor that Fleming had found out that Jimmy Calder might be in Reading…

  53

  A black transit van pulled into a side street and parked near the Lyons Den nightclub in Reading. The driver dowsed the lights and turned to the two men beside him. ‘You know what we have to do. As soon as he leaves the club you call me on the mobile and tell me which way he’s heading. Got it?’

  ‘Sure thing, boss,’ one of the men confirmed.

  ‘Okay, get yourselves in there… and stay inconspicuous. One drink and that’s all.’

  The two men left the van and walked to the club. A sign above the door showed that Des Lyons was the proprietor. It was a rundown looking place from the outside. Inside was dingy to say the least. Worn stone steps led to a basement where loud music throbbed and reverberated around brick walls. A green strip light flickered underneath the full length of the bar counter. Rowdy customers sat around tables beside a small wooden dance floor, paying attention to the female singer. Loud raucous voices and laughter drowned out her voice. The three-man band behind her looked suitably bored. No one was on the dance floor.

  The two men picked a couple of high stools by the bar and ordered beer from a morose-looking barman. They sat making idle conversation while checking for sight of the man they were looking for. The singer gave up and left the stage to no applause. The band continued playing, but no one was listening.

  One of the men suddenly nudged the other. ‘That’s him,’ he said, nodding towards a man who had come out of a side door by the bar.

  The man they were looking at was a rough unhealthy looking character who shuffled across the floor and started collecting empty glasses from the tables. They couldn’t help but recognise him from the detailed description they’d been given. He had long straggly grey hair, unkempt and thinning. He looked emaciated and had a large bulbous nose. There was no doubt it was Jimmy Calder.

  Calder spoke to no one as he collected the empties and deposited them on the bar counter without a word. He didn’t notice the two men watching him as he went behind the bar to rinse them.

  ‘Keeping you busy?’ one of the men asked.

  Calder stared at him with a cold vacant look in his eyes and shrugged. ‘It’s a job,’ he growled in a hoarse voice as he carrie
d on cleaning glasses.

  ‘Must be a bit boring; collecting and washing glasses,’ the same man said. ‘What time do you normally work to?’

  Calder looked up again, wondering why all the interest. ‘Varies. Why?’

  ‘Being sociable, that’s all. Here, let me buy you a drink. You look as though you could do with one.’

  Calder looked furtively around to make sure Des Lyons wasn’t in sight. Calder nodded imperceptibly. ‘Don’t mind if I do. Whisky would be good. Double if you’re feeling generous.’

  Six sneakily downed doubles later at one o’clock in the morning, Calder left the club. He swayed against the walls on the way up the steps to the street above, unaware of the two men slipping off their stools to follow him. One of the men pulled out his mobile when they reached the street and spoke briefly into it.

  Seconds later, the black van was coasting along the street behind them.

  Calder turned into a quiet side street. He didn’t realise he was being followed, but then heard the crunch of gravel behind him and looked back over his shoulder in alarm. The two men from the club were closing in on him fast. He turned and ran.

  It was too late. He felt a heavy blow to the back of his head and went down. The black van pulled up beside him with a screech of tyres. Hands grabbed his legs and shoulders. The back doors of the van flew open. The two men threw Calder in and jumped in after him. The van drove off at high speed in a northerly direction.

  After a few minutes, the van pulled up at the metal gates of an old scrapyard. One of the men in the back of the van jumped out and opened the gates. The van pulled in and drove across the yard to the front of a large garage. The scrapyard gates clanged shut behind. The driver jumped down and pushed the sliding doors of the garage open with a loud screech. He climbed back into the cab and drove inside. Tyres squealed on the smooth concrete floor as he spun the van round to face the doors and braked to a halt. Dust settled round the van as overhead lights clicked on.