Fallout (The Nick Sullivan Thrillers Book 1) Page 3

  “There’s a policeman waiting outside with the same idea,” she said, “but I’ve told him that he’s got to wait until you’re fit enough to answer questions.”

  “I’m fit enough now,” Nick shot back.

  The nurse looked up in surprise. “I think I’ll be the judge of that,” she told him briskly. “Now, first things first. We need to take down a few details, starting with your name.”

  Nick reached out, took the folder from her hands and put it, quite deliberately, to one side. “I said I need to speak to the police.”

  She started to protest, but gave in with a face-saving ‘tut’ of exasperation. “Very well, I’ll send him in – as long as you understand that it’s against my advice and you should be resting.”

  “There’ll be time for that later,” Nick stated. “But not before I’ve spoken to the police.”

  She shook her head, as though marking him down as a difficult patient, and two minutes later was ushering in a young, ginger-haired constable who, from the anxious look on his pale freckled face, had already been told to keep it short. Nick cut straight to the point.

  “My name is Nick Sullivan,” he began. “I’ve witnessed a murder.”

  The policeman’s eyes widened in surprise and he quickly pulled out a notebook. “You’d better tell me what happened.”

  Nick reported the facts in a voice that was flat and unemotional. He had given in to grief during the long hours before his rescue. All he felt now was a cold determination to see the murderers brought to justice. The policeman scribbled copiously as Nick spoke, interrupting only to ask the occasionally question.

  “And you say you had never met these men before?” he asked, as Nick concluded his account.

  “Never.”

  “And you have no idea why they killed your friend Tim Wellerby?”

  “No idea.”

  “But you would recognise them again?”

  Nick’s eyes narrowed with bitterness. “Oh yes, you can be sure of that.”

  The policeman shook his head, clearly at a loss to understand. “It doesn’t make any sense…unless it was your boat they were after. Expensive, was it?”

  “Very, but I don’t think robbery was the motive. It couldn’t have been planned. We approached them, remember, and their engine was definitely broken beyond repair.”

  The policeman looked thoughtful as he considered his notes for inspiration.

  “People don’t usually get killed without a reason.”

  “If there was a reason, I don’t know what it was,” Nick said. “I only know that Tim is dead and I watched him being murdered. I want to see those bastards pay for what they did.”

  “Don’t worry,” the policeman assured him. “We’ll get them. From the sound of your description, they’re a fairly distinctive bunch of characters. Someone will know who they are and what they’re up to.” He stood up. “I’d better be going before the nurse throws me out, but we’ll take a proper statement as soon as you’re fit. Get some rest now, OK.”

  Nick was struck by a sudden thought. “My wife will need to know what’s going on. She wasn’t expecting me home yesterday, but when I don’t turn up today, she’ll start to worry.”

  “Yes, of course, we’ll sort that out for you. Is there anything else we can do?”

  Nick shook his head. “No thanks. Esther’s very organised; she’ll probably come here straight away and take charge.”

  He was wrong; his wife didn’t rush to his side.

  He didn’t realise at first that there was a problem. Talking to the policeman so soon after his ordeal had exhausted him, and he slept on and off for the whole day. When he finally woke up he asked if there had been any word. The nurse thought not, but went off to check. She came back shaking her head.

  “Nobody remembers taking a call from her.” She reached out to him, giving his hand a comforting pat. “Why don’t you phone her?”

  He gestured to the payphone by his side. “I can’t. I left my money and credit cards on the boat.”

  “Don’t worry,” she said with a wink. “In the circumstances, no one will mind if you use the ward phone.”

  She disappeared and came back seconds later carrying a cordless phone. Nick took it gratefully and telephoned home. It went into answerphone.

  “Well, there you are then,” the nurse said brightly. “She’s obviously on her way. She’ll be walking through the door any minute.”

  Nick was unconvinced. There was no reason to suppose that the nurse was mistaken, but he had been asleep for hours. Why hadn’t Esther turned up before this? He began to wonder if there could be something wrong. He phoned again an hour later, and several times after that. Each time, he found himself talking to his own recorded voice. By the time the lights went out on the ward, Esther seemed to have disappeared. He spent the night staring into the darkness, worrying.

  The next day presented a problem. There was still no word from Esther, and the hospital announced him fit to go home. With no car or wallet and only his dried-out, salt-stained clothes to stand up in, he found himself wondering how he was going to get back to Horsham. As he stood, uncertainly, on the steps of the hospital, the problem was solved by the approach of two grim-faced policemen.

  “Mr Sullivan?” one of them asked.

  Nick was overwhelmed by an impending sense of disaster. “Yes, what’s wrong? It’s not my wife is it? Has anything happened to her?”

  They ignored the question. “We’d like you to come back to the police station with us and answer some more questions about yesterday’s incident.”

  Nick realised with a start that they were hemming him in. “It isn’t convenient right now,” he told them, stepping back. “I need to find out what’s happened to my wife. I was expecting her before now.”

  The two men took a step forward, closing the gap once more. “Your wife won’t be coming,” one of them informed him, bluntly.

  Nick stared at them with incomprehension. “What do you mean? What’s going on?”

  “Don’t you know?” the first policeman asked, his tone faintly mocking.

  “No, I don’t,” Nick said, bridling, “but it seems you do. Are you going to tell me, or am I supposed to guess?”

  One of the policemen gestured to the waiting squad car. “Get in, Mr Sullivan.”

  “Are you arresting me?” Nick asked incredulously.

  “No,” the policeman said. “We just need to ask you some more questions about the murder of your boss.”

  “Friend,” Nick quickly corrected him.

  The policeman raised an eyebrow. “Whatever you say, sir. Would you please get in? The quicker you come down to the station and answer our questions, the quicker you can be on your way again.” The words sounded more like an order than an invitation.

  Nick did as he was told, his stomach churning. He had no idea what was going on; he only knew that it was bad.

  They drove in silence. Nick realised with dismay that the sympathy shown to him the previous day as the victim of a crime was now absent. Something had changed. He tried to guess what it was, but drew a blank and gave up as they pulled into the car park of the police station. He was ushered inside and shown into an interview room where he was told to sit. He obeyed, not sure whether he should be feeling scared or irritated. The shabby décor and cigarette burns in the desk did nothing to assure him; this was a place for the guilty. A policeman came in and took up a position in the corner without making eye contact. Nick’s spirits sank further.

  “How long am I expected to sit here?” he asked after several minutes had passed in silence. The policeman ignored him, and Nick’s uncertainty resolved itself into anger. He stood to leave. “Sorry, I’m not hanging around any longer. If you want to talk to me, you know where I live.”

  At that moment the door opened and another, older, man strode in. Nick suspected that his timing was more down to planning than luck. He was short with grey hair, but light on his feet, and he gave the impression that despite his
age, he could move fast when the occasion demanded. He threw his dark navy blazer over the back of the chair and loosened his tie, nodding curtly to Nick.

  “Mr Sullivan? Sorry to keep you waiting, my name is Detective Inspector Mason. Please sit down. I need to ask you some more questions concerning the murder.”

  “Of course,” Nick said guardedly. “Fire away.”

  “Right,” Mason began, referring to a thin sheaf of papers that he had brought with him. “You are Nicholas Sullivan; 34 years of age, married to Esther Sullivan and living at ‘Silver Birches’, Pembury Ave, Horsham—”

  “Yes, I know who I am,” Nick interrupted him. “You didn’t bring me along here to confirm what we both already know. What exactly do you want from me?”

  The detective eyed him speculatively for a moment, then seemed to come to a decision. He laid the papers aside and sat back, one leg swung casually over the other knee.

  “You say that your boss, Tim Wellerby, was attacked and murdered after you went to the assistance of three men whose engine had broken down.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “And fearing for your own life, you snatched a life jacket and threw yourself overboard.”

  Nick nodded. “Yes, but I told the officer all this yesterday.”

  The detective scrutinised him over the top of his reading glasses. “I know. But I prefer to hear your account of what happened in your own words, if that’s OK.” He didn’t wait for an answer but turned immediately back to the papers. “The three men searched for you briefly before giving up. Then they scuttled their own boat and sailed back to Medway Bridge Marina in yours.”

  “I didn’t say that,” Nick pointed out. “I said that the three men scuttled their own boat and took mine, but I don’t know where they went.”

  Mason gave a thin smile. “Quite right, Mr Sullivan. Forgive me; I didn’t mean to put words in your mouth.”

  “You said Medway Bridge?”

  “That’s right. Your boat has been found safely berthed at the Medway Marina.”

  Nick was having trouble getting his head around this. “I thought I’d never see it again. I assumed they’d stolen it.”

  “It seems not.”

  “And the men?” Nick asked hopefully.

  The detective was quick to disillusion him. “No sign of them. No sign of anyone, in fact.”

  Nick was confused. “But someone must have seen them when they berthed.”

  “No.”

  “How come?”

  “Someone – a man (that’s the only thing the harbour master can be sure about) – radioed ahead and asked if there was a berth free. He was told yes but by the time someone came along to see what was needed, the boat had been tied up and abandoned. Nobody actually saw who brought your boat into port.”

  Nick‘s feeling of unease deepened. “I get the impression that you feel you’re making a point here.”

  The detective fixed him with an expression that was difficult to interpret.

  “If I was making a point, it would be that no one has seen these three men apart from you.”

  “Meaning?”

  “How do I know that it wasn’t you who brought the boat back to harbour?”

  Nick threw up his hands with frustration. “Because at the time, I was fighting for my life in the seas around Whitstable. Which is several miles further down the coast.”

  “So you say.”

  “What?”

  “If you wanted us to think that you had fled the boat in fear of your life, it would be reasonably easy to stage-manage the whole thing. You would have had enough time to berth your boat at Medway Bridge and then return to sea in something like a small inflatable dinghy. All you would have to do then was wait until first light, when there was a reasonable chance of being picked up, go over the side with a life jacket and sink the dinghy.”

  Nick was appalled at what he was hearing. “Why the hell would I do that?”

  “You tell me,” Mason said.

  Nick scraped back his chair as he began to rise. “I’m not sitting here listening to this...”

  “Stay exactly where you are Mr Sullivan!” Mason barked. “At the moment, you are here of your own volition. Let’s keep it like that, shall we? If you try to leave I’ll have no choice but to arrest you.”

  Nick sat, shocked to the core. “Arrest me for what?”

  “For the murder of Timothy Wellerby.”

  A stunned silence followed this announcement. Nick found himself unable to speak as the detective regarded him quizzically, evidently gauging his reaction.

  “I don’t understand,” Nick muttered distractedly, after several long seconds had passed.

  “Tell me about your relationship with the deceased,” Mason said, abruptly changing the subject.

  Nick gathered his thoughts as he quickly tried to recover his composure. “He was a very good friend. We worked together at the—”

  “That’s not strictly true, is it?” Mason cut in. “He was your boss.”

  “Not really,” Nick said, trying to explain. “He had been at the bank for longer than me, so he was more senior, but in reality we worked together as part of a small team.”

  Mason referred once again to his notes. “You are an investment manager.”

  “That’s correct.”

  The detective sat back, folding his arms across his chest. “I imagine the rewards are generous.”

  “They can be,” Nick agreed, “but only if you invest well and make a lot of money for your clients.”

  “And would you say that you generally ‘invested well’?”

  “I’m one of the best,” Nick said, wondering where this was leading.

  “It’s fair to say, then, that you make a considerable amount of money in a year?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you would be devastated if you lost your job?”

  “Not particularly,” Nick said, shaking his head. “Other banks approach me on a fairly regular basis head-hunting me. If I lost my current job, I’d have another one within the week... But why should I lose my job?”

  Mason leaned forward forming his thin fingers into an arch. “You might, if, for example, it became intolerable to continue working for Mr Wellerby.”

  “And why would that happen?” Nick asked, growing more confused with every passing second.

  The detective fixed Nick with a steady glare. “Do you agree that it would be impossible to continue working for Mr Wellerby if you discovered that he and your wife were having an affair?”

  Nick stared at the detective, unable to comprehend what he was hearing.

  “Particularly if your wife was three months pregnant with his child?”

  “What are you saying?” Nick asked, his face ashen.

  “And if,” Mason pressed on remorselessly, “your wife was going to leave you for him?”

  Nick rose to his feet, pushing back the chair. “I’ve heard enough of this! I don’t know what the hell you think you’re playing at. There are three murderers on the loose, but instead of getting out there looking for them you’re coming out with this shit—”

  The policeman who had been leaning against one wall stiffened and took a step forward.

  “Sit down, Mr Sullivan!” Mason ordered. “I told you before. You are currently here of your own volition, but if you choose to stop co-operating, I’ll have you arrested.”

  Nick was no longer in a mood to be dictated to. “Do what you like. But I’ll be demanding an apology when you’ve spoken to my wife and she’s—”

  “Why do you think she isn’t here?” Mason asked, interrupting smoothly.

  Nick was momentarily thrown off balance. “What do you mean?”

  “We have already spoken to her. It was your wife who told us about the affair.”

  Nick sank back into the chair, dazed.

  “She and Mr Wellerby had been plucking up the courage for weeks to tell you themselves. Your wife was going to leave you, Mr Sullivan.”

 
“No…”

  “Yes. You would have lost everything: your marriage and your job. That sounds like a motive for murder to me.”

  “You’re lying, it’s not true!”

  “It is true. Your wife herself tells us that it’s true. It’s her belief that Mr Wellerby confessed to the affair when you were alone together on your boat, and you lost your temper and killed him.”

  “I don’t believe it. Not Esther and Tim…they wouldn’t do this to me,” Nick said, desperately trying to convince himself.

  “And after murdering him, you panicked and made up this rubbish about three men killing him without a motive.”

  “But there were three men,” Nick protested.

  “You realised that no one would believe you, so you stage-managed the rest, pretending to go overboard in fear of your life. You added the part about them scuttling their own boat in an attempt to explain away the absence of a boat that fitted the description you had given.”

  “It all happened exactly as I said.”

  Mason sat back, a mocking smile on his face. “Could you really not have come up with anything better than that, Mr Sullivan?”

  “I simply told you what happened,” Nick stated.

  “And you expect us to believe that?”

  “I expect you to at least consider the fact that I might be telling you the truth!” Nick snapped.

  “Tell me about the knife,” Mason ordered.

  Nick again found himself wrong-footed. “What knife?”

  “Are you saying you can’t remember?” Mason asked slyly.

  “If you mean the knife that Harris used to kill Tim, then I didn’t see it properly,” Nick admitted. “It all happened so fast.”

  “Actually, I meant the knife that was found in your inside pocket when you were fished out of the water.”

  Nick had to cast his mind back before he remembered what Mason was talking about. “Oh, that knife. I forgot to tell the policeman about that yesterday. I snatched it from the galley to defend myself. I was still carrying it when I dived overboard so I slipped it into a pocket.”

  “What else did you ‘forget to tell us’, Mr Sullivan?” Mason asked evenly.

  “If you’re implying that I killed Tim with that knife, would I really be so stupid as to keep it on me?” Nick threw back.