The Fifth Suspect

by Robert McNeil

  Jardine turned to leave. ‘I’m out of here. I don’t want anything to do with this!’

  ‘You stay right where you are, Frank,’ Watson threatened.

  Fleming’s mind was racing. He had no doubt that Watson was going to shoot him. ‘You’ll never get away with this,’ Fleming said calmly. ‘Naomi Anderson knew I was coming to meet Frank. Someone will find my body…’ His voice trailed off. Maybe they wouldn’t. Maybe they intended to bury him. Oh, shit! He carried on, desperate. ‘You’re bound to be a prime suspect–’

  Watson laughed. ‘I couldn’t care less whether they think I killed you or not. But I have allowed for that possibility.’

  Fleming was desperately playing for time, but he couldn’t see how he was going to get out of this. He looked at Jardine whose face had turned white. ‘How about you, Frank? Want to spend the rest of your days inside?’

  Jardine looked pleadingly at Watson and then at Fleming. ‘It’s… it’s too late. We’re already guilty of abduction and threatening you with a gun. We’ll go down for that anyway.’

  Fleming saw a glimmer of hope. ‘As far as anyone else is concerned, I came to meet you because you said you had information about Bill. Turns out your information was to put him in the clear over the Calder business. We could walk out of here and forget this happened.’

  Watson laughed. ‘Think I’d fall for that, Fleming? Give me credit. No, I have a better plan. I asked Frank to call you asking for a meet so that only his name would be in the frame. He was acting on his own. He brings you here, shoots you and then shoots himself. Simple case of vengeance, then suicide.’

  ‘What!’ Jardine exclaimed, panic in his voice. ‘What are you saying, boss? Surely you don’t intend–’

  ‘Oh yes I do. Sorry, but you’ve got to die too, Frank. No loose ends, you see.’

  Sweat had broken out on Jardine’s forehead. ‘You can’t–’

  ‘Whether I end up as a suspect is neither here nor there, you see,’ Watson broke in. ‘I’m not going to prison, even for a year. I’ve got a flight to Spain in six hours, then an onwards flight out to sunny Australia. Melbourne is a nice city, they say. And Australia is a big country to get lost in.’ Watson laughed. ‘I may just have done enough to get away with murder.’

  ‘You’re forgetting something, Bill,’ Fleming said.

  ‘Oh? What’s that?’

  ‘The car. We all came here in Frank’s car. If you take the car they’ll wonder how Frank and I got here.’

  ‘I thought of that. The car stays here. Just a short walk and I get a taxi. I pick my car up at the park and ride and it’s off to Luton. Got my bags all packed ready.’

  Fleming was running out of ideas. He was getting ready to lunge at Watson. It was his last chance. He looked at Jardine to see if he could detect any sign that he was prepared to rush Watson. There was none. Jardine had frozen.

  ‘Enough of the talking,’ Watson said, interrupting Fleming’s thoughts. ‘I have a plane to catch.’ He turned and pointed the gun at Jardine as Fleming launched himself at Watson.

  81

  Three armed response vehicles were speeding out of Oxford heading north with sirens blaring. There were three firearms officers wearing black bulletproof vests in each vehicle. They all carried Glock 17 self-loading pistols and Heckler and Koch carbines. Logan sat in the back of the first vehicle.

  Anderson was acting as a liaison point in the MCU, getting up-to-date reports on the position of Fleming’s mobile phone through the GPS triangulation capability built into his handset. She was relaying the information to Logan who was tracking its location on the map on his smartphone. The latest report had shown that Fleming’s phone had been stationary for the last half an hour.

  Logan checked his map again. ‘Got it!’ He leaned forwards in his seat and spoke urgently to the driver. ‘He’s at an old cement works not far from here. Best cut the sirens now we’re clear of the town. We don’t want to advertise the fact that the cavalry’s arriving.’

  Logan reflected back for a moment on what Anderson had said. She’d questioned whether calling in the armed response unit was really necessary and had wondered if he ought not to have checked with the super first. She’d thought it was maybe a bit over the top. After all, they had no real reason to believe Fleming might be in serious trouble. Not that much trouble at any rate. But Logan was sure he’d done the right thing after the call he’d received from the Met. He was taking no chances.

  A few minutes later, the armed response vehicles drew up silently to a halt behind Jardine’s car. The armed officers spilled out of the vehicles leaving one officer behind to control the incident. They fanned out in a line, and made their way on foot towards the old building ahead, Heckler and Koch carbines held ready at shoulder height. Logan, who was unarmed, followed.

  They approached stealthily and took up positions either side of the old door. One of the men peered cautiously through a broken window and signalled with his fingers to show that three men were inside. Then he held up one finger to warn that one man was armed.

  Two shots rang out from inside the building. The lead officer burst through the door, followed by the other armed officers. He shouted at Watson. ‘Drop the gun or I’ll shoot!’

  Fleming and Jardine were both on the floor.

  Watson froze. It was more in shock than the command that made him freeze. ‘Where the fuck did–?’

  The Heckler and Koch carbines were all trained on Watson.

  ‘Drop the gun!’ the lead officer commanded again, more urgently this time.

  Watson made as though to throw the gun down, but then hesitated.

  One of the officers had gone to Jardine’s side. He kneeled, put a finger to the pulse in his neck, and shook his head. He went to Fleming. ‘This one’s still alive.’

  ‘Is he?’ Watson queried. ‘Not for long.’ He raised his gun.

  ‘Drop it!’ The command was loud and urgent.

  Watson smiled and aimed the gun at Fleming.

  ‘Fire!’ the lead officer shouted.

  Several shots rang out and the noise echoed round the room.

  Watson was flung to the ground with the force of the bullets tearing into him. Blood seeped across the floor. He tried to say something. It was merely a whisper. The officer who had been attending to Fleming knelt over him to hear.

  ‘What’d he say?’ the lead officer asked.

  ‘Not going to prison,’ the man said. He felt for a pulse. ‘He won’t be.’

  Logan pushed forwards and knelt down beside Fleming. Blood was oozing through the right side of his shirt. ‘Ambulance!’ Logan screamed.

  ‘Already on its way,’ one of the men said. ‘We radioed in for one as soon as we knew where we were going. Just in case.’

  Fleming grabbed at Logan’s arm and tried to speak, but no words came.

  ‘Hang on, boss. You’ll be fine. Paramedics are on the way.’

  Fleming looked up at Logan but couldn’t make out what he was saying. There were dark figures all around. They dissolved into a haze. Everything went black.

  82

  B wing in Wormwood Scrubs housed nearly two hundred remand and sentenced prisoners.

  The occupant of cell B175 held a man rather better known than the average occupant of B wing. Charles Trenchard had been remanded in custody there, awaiting trial for the murder of Ronnie Nielson. Further charges would follow for the atrocity carried out in Afghanistan.

  Other remand prisoners had bullied and mocked Trenchard from the minute he’d arrived. They were a hardened bunch who did not hold politicians in high regard. Trenchard knew he could never last a full sentence. His life was in ruins. There was nothing left. He hadn’t slept and had made up his mind. His cellmate was in the segregation unit and he might not get a better opportunity.

  At first light, before the call for breakfast, he got wearily out of his top bunk bed. His face was pale, his eyes red. He tore off a long length of sheet, twisted it into a tight rope and tied one end r
ound the metal frame at the top of the bed. Tugging it hard to make sure it was secure he tied the other end in a noose around his neck. He checked there was only a short enough length for him not to reach the floor then knelt up on the bottom bunk and leaned forward slightly until he could feel the sheet was taut. Tucking his hands tightly into the back of his trousers, he took a deep breath and flung his body forwards. The noose tightened round his neck and his face reddened. His eyes bulged as the pressure in his head increased. He felt a buzzing in his ears and he struggled for breath. The cell became a blur. His body convulsed. Then there was darkness.

  Prison officer Gary Nesbitt had been on duty all night. It was time to open the cell doors and let the inmates out onto the landing, ready to make their way down for breakfast. He tugged on the secure chain attached to his belt to pull the cell key from his pocket. Swinging it round while whistling loudly, he slipped his hand up the chain and grabbed the key. He pushed it into the lock of cell B175 and turned it with a loud echoing clank.

  ‘All out for breakfast,’ he called, pushing the door open. His mouth dropped open at the sight that met him. Trenchard’s body was hanging limply over the side of the bunk bed. His bulging eyes stared lifelessly at Nesbitt. ‘Bloody hell!’ He called for help and rushed into the cell to lift Trenchard’s body up while pulling at the knot securing the twisted sheet to the top of the bed. Trenchard sank to the floor as four other officers rushed into the cell.

  ‘Sound the alarm!’ one of them shouted. ‘Get the doctor over here and ring for an ambulance.’

  ‘Bit late for that,’ Nesbitt said. ‘He’s dead.’

  Epilogue

  Fleming had his own room at the John Radcliffe Hospital in Oxford. He’d received surgery to remove a single bullet from his right shoulder. The bullet had fractured his collarbone on impact and he’d lost a lot of blood, but the doctors had said he would make a full recovery. He had various lines, drips and monitors attached to him, but bearing in mind what he’d been through, he didn’t feel too bad. The painkillers probably had a lot to do with that.

  Liz Temple and Matthew Upson had been to see him.

  ‘I’ve dropped the misconduct procedures against you,’ Upson had told Fleming. ‘I accept you did the right thing with regard to Trenchard. Even though you ignored a direct order, you had no choice. I understand that.’

  Temple had agreed and both she and Upson had praised him for his diligence, and for not allowing political pressures to interfere with his investigation.

  ‘Cecil Daubney,’ Upson had gone on to say, ‘was not best pleased when he found out that Watson, Jardine and Hayden were bent cops. Neither is Daubney happy with the number of unsolved murder cases. Wants the number reduced.’ Upson had drawn a deep breath. ‘I’m seeing him later. Police corruption and unsolved cases all happened on my watch. I somehow think it’s going to be an uncomfortable meeting.’ Upson had smiled weakly and left.

  Temple hadn’t stayed much longer but had said she wanted Fleming to look at the cold cases as soon as he was back at work.

  Freya had also been to see him. They’d had a long chat.

  ‘I think I might finally have closure on the Jimmy Calder business,’ Fleming told her. ‘Maybe Watson did me a favour in a perverse sort of way.’

  ‘We’ll talk about that when you’re out of hospital,’ Freya said.

  After the visits, Fleming was feeling tired. He was dozing off to sleep when he heard familiar voices outside.

  ‘We won’t be long,’ Logan was saying to a nurse. ‘Promise. Naomi here just wants to hand in these grapes and reassure the boss that I’ve got everything under control back at the office.’

  ‘Huh!’ Anderson retorted. ‘He means I’m struggling to keep him under control, and the quicker the boss gets back to work the better.’

  ‘Naomi,’ Logan pleaded, ‘how could you say such a thing?’

  ‘Truth can often hurt,’ Anderson quipped, smiling.

  ‘All right,’ the nurse agreed. ‘But only a few minutes, mind you. He’s already had too many visitors today.’

  Fleming smiled. As usual, Logan and Anderson were good value for some light entertainment.

  Seeing Fleming was awake, Logan went first. ‘Ah, glad you’re up and about, boss. Thought we’d pop in to see how you’re doing.’

  ‘He’s hardly up and about,’ Anderson remonstrated, thumping Logan on the back and pushing him further into the room. She smiled. ‘Ignore him, sir. How are you feeling?’

  ‘Better already. Grab a chair.’

  ‘You heard the news, boss?’ Logan asked.

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Trenchard. He’s dead. Managed to hang himself.’

  Fleming groaned. ‘He obviously knew he wouldn’t be able to survive life in prison.’

  ‘The leadership vote is in disarray,’ Logan added. ‘Looks like there might have to be a general election.’

  Fleming grimaced in pain as he tried to haul himself up in bed. ‘Watson and Jardine?’

  ‘Both dead.’

  ‘So, there’ll be no corruption trial,’ Anderson chipped in. ‘All three suspects are dead.’

  Fleming nodded. ‘Upson will probably be relieved about that, though I doubt it’ll save his bacon.’

  Logan looked at the bunch of grapes Anderson had put on Fleming’s bedside cabinet. ‘Mind if I have some?’ he asked Fleming.

  ‘Sarge! I didn’t bring them here for you. Don’t you get fed at home?’ Naomi protested.

  ‘Making sure I get some of my five a day.’ Logan laughed.

  Fleming shook his head. ‘Go ahead, help yourself. Has anyone been to see Eric Rainer?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Anderson confirmed. ‘I went to see him to let him know he’s in the clear. He’d already heard on the news about Trenchard.’

  ‘And Emma Hayden?’

  ‘Likewise,’ Anderson confirmed. ‘And she knows she has nothing more to fear from Bill Watson.’

  ‘Talking of Trenchard,’ Logan said, ‘how did Ronnie Nielson get hold of the video?’

  ‘From Eddie Slater,’ Fleming explained. ‘He was the one who filmed Trenchard. After confessing, Trenchard said that Nielson had told him that he’d taken the video camera from Eddie Slater’s locker after he was killed, thinking it might come in useful one day.’

  ‘Oh, by the way,’ Logan said, ‘Scottie McBain, Tommy Tyler, and Paddy Eckhard have been charged with Jimmy Calder’s murder. And McBain and Tyler have been charged with Damien Potts’s.’

  Fleming nodded sleepily.

  ‘Listen,’ Logan said, ‘I think we’d better go. We said we wouldn’t be long and you’re looking tired. We’ll pop in again tomorrow, if that’s okay?’

  ‘Sure, fine,’ Fleming whispered.

  After Logan and Anderson left, Fleming was thinking about the cold cases Temple had mentioned. Fleming could see the pile of files landing on his desk, and as he fell asleep, he wondered if Bill Watson had worked on any of them.

  THE END

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