Motive Page 13

  Ryan didn’t try to engage them in conversation. Instead, he waited until the sun rose, then pulled out one of the paperbacks from his holdall.

  “What’ya reading?” Phil asked.

  “Fair Game,” Ryan said. “It’s the eighth book in the Spider Shepherd series by Stephen Leather.”

  “Spider shepherd? He rounds up spiders?”

  “No, you gimp,” Terry laughed. “Dan Shepherd. He’s ex-SAS but his nickname’s Spider ’cos he ate one for a bet.”

  “A big, hairy one,” Ryan added. “You know the books?”

  “Read the lot,” Terry smiled. “Brilliant, all of ’em.”

  “Can I borrow it after you?” Phil asked.

  “Sure.”

  “It’s got some big words,” Terry warned Phil, “and no pictures.”

  “Will you stop making out I’m stupid just ’cos I’m buff.”

  “Buff as in big ugly fat fucker!”

  Ryan tried to keep a straight face so as not to antagonise Phil, but it was a battle he was never going to win.

  “Bollocks to the pair of ya,” Phil growled. He turned his attention back to his phone and continued his epic quest to crush his candies.

  It was six in the evening by the time they reached Bari on Italy’s east coast. Terry drove to the ferry port and parked up.

  “We’ve got three hours to kill before we board the ferry. Let’s get something to eat.”

  Terry led them inside one of the terminal buildings. It was a bar-cum-cafe, and he ordered beers for himself and Phil.

  “You can have a few when we get on the ferry. Don’t want you getting pissed and driving into the sea.”

  That suited Ryan just fine. While they started another binge, he tucked into a sandwich. As before, their conversation was about football, girls and fights. Ryan tried to turn it to other topics, but they pretty much ignored him. He even tried a couple of jokes, but they still seemed unwilling to let him into their little circle.

  Eventually he gave up and said he was going to wait in the van and read. Terry tossed him the keys, and Ryan walked back to the vehicle.

  He’d finished his book and was making inroads on the second when they came stumbling towards the van, their spirits high. Terry locked Phil in the back and got into the passenger seat. Ryan put the book back in his bag and tossed it into the cargo hold.

  “Where to?”

  “Take that road there,” Terry said, pointing vaguely out the window.

  Despite the poor instructions, Ryan got them on the ferry. It was a 150-metre roll-on-roll-off, and once parked they headed straight for the bar on one of the upper decks. Terry peeled off and joined them ten minutes later. He handed Ryan a key to his cabin.

  “Where are we heading?” Ryan asked as he sipped his first cold beer of the trip. Terry had kept hold of the boarding passes and his Italian wasn’t good, so he was still in the dark.

  “Durres. It’ll take about ten hours.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Albania,” Phil butted in. “Makes Moss Side look like a fuckin’ boom town. When we get there, don’t forget to put your clock back twenty years!” He exploded with laughter at his own joke and chugged his beer.

  “It’s the arse-end of the world, all right, “Terry added. “When we dock we’ll drive to Tirana and stay there for a couple of days.”

  “Then what?”

  “We come home, job done.”

  “We’re not picking anything up?” Ryan asked. “We’re certainly not dropping anything off.”

  “We’ll drop you off if you keep asking so many fuckin’ questions,” Phil said, suddenly serious again.

  Ryan put his hands up in submission. “Just curious, that’s all. It’s a long way to come just to head back again.”

  Silence ensued, until Phil burst into life as he remembered a strip club he’d recently visited. Terry was familiar with it, and the conversation was back on track.

  Admitting to himself that he wasn’t going to be accepted by them on this trip, Ryan said goodnight and went in search of his cabin. It was on one of the lower decks, just above the water line. There was a porthole, bed, dressing table and a bathroom, which contained a small shower, toilet and sink. Ryan stripped off and took his first shower in a couple of days, then got under the sheets naked.

  He wanted to sleep, but one question kept him awake: what was the purpose of the trip? Was it another test? If so, what was the objective? To see if he could drive? Check his tolerance for bodily emissions? They must be bringing something back to the UK, but what, and how? Was it something small enough to carry on their person? If it was, surely it didn’t need three of them to make the journey. Terry or Phil could have flown out, picked it up and flown back in the same day, instead of wasting a week on the road.

  They must have driven for a reason. Was the package too sensitive to take through airport security? If so, surely there would also be a risk getting it through customs at Dover. That said, he’d never known anyone to be patted down when crossing the channel to France and back. The border security officers were focused on finding drugs, cigarettes and illegal immigrants, and rarely the contents of a traveller’s pockets.

  Ryan sensed that the method of transport was key. The van was important somehow, and he needed to find out why.

  He eventually drifted off as the ferry crossed the Adriatic. When he woke, it was still dark outside. Ryan dressed and went up to the café. There were a lot more people than he expected, mostly those who hadn’t bothered to purchase a cabin for the crossing. The majority were asleep at tables, but some were awake. He bought a coffee and took it outside onto the deck. Here, even more people were sleeping.

  “You’re up early.”

  Ryan spun to see Terry standing beside him. “I could say the same about you. You knocked a few back last night.”

  “I can handle my beer,” Terry said. “It’s Phil that struggles in the mornings.”

  “So what’s the plan?”

  “Drive to Tirana, meet a couple of guys, then check into the hotel for a couple of days. You can do what you want while we’re there.”

  “Such as?” Ryan asked.

  “Get pissed. Get laid. It’s up to you. We’re booked into a hotel in a place called The Block. It’s where the last dictator used to live. Nice area. Got a casino, bars, nightclubs, restaurants, everything.”

  “What about you two? What will you be doing?”

  “We’ll be around,” Terry said, sipping his hot drink. “Phil likes the casinos. Reckons he’s an expert at blackjack but every time he plays he spunks his dosh. I tried telling him it’s fixed but he won’t listen. Not the sharpest tool in the box, our Phil.”

  Ryan decided to try his hand once more. Terry seemed a rounded guy, unlike Phil, who was likely to explode at the drop of a hat. “How come it took three of us to drive all this way when one could have got on a plane? Is this just another one of Paul’s tests?”

  “No, we’re here on business, and that’s all you need to know. After you’ve done the run a few times, we can let you in on it, but until then, you do your share of the driving and that’s it.”

  “Fair enough,” Ryan said, and immediately changed the subject. “There’s a casino, you say?”

  “Yeah, right next to the hotel. You play?”

  “Sometimes,” Ryan said. “The trick is to go in expecting to lose everything. Anything else is a bonus. But I do know one way you’re guaranteed to walk out with a small fortune.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Walk in with a big one.”

  Terry laughed. “I like that one. Tell it to Phil next time he comes out empty.”

  “No, thanks. I’m not sure he likes me as it is. Not sure I want to piss him off.”

  “Phil’s a teddy bear,” Terry said, spitting over the side of the ship. “Once he’s a mate, he’s a mate for life. As I said before, he don’t like new people. He’ll come round eventually.”

  “I hope so. It’ll be pr
etty shitty if all the trips go like this one.”

  “That it would,” Terry agreed. He tossed his empty paper cup over the rail. “Let’s go get breakfast. We’ll be docking in a couple of hours.”

  Terry went to rouse Phil from his slumber and they entered the café just as Ryan was sitting down to a bowl of muesli. They ordered a plate of cold meats and bread and sat down next to him.

  “Feeling okay?” Ryan ventured.

  Phil looked at him blearily through yellow eyes, then put his head down and stuffed some meat into his mouth, chewing noisily.

  “I’ll drive to Tirana,” Terry told Ryan. “It’s only a couple of hours. When we meet our contacts, say nothing. They’re suspicious of new faces, just like me and Phil.”

  “Who are they?” Ryan asked, then put his hand up. “Never mind, it’s need to know.”

  “That’s right,” Terry said. “Once you’ve been here a few times, I’ll let you know what’s going on.”

  After breakfast, Ryan went down to his cabin and packed his bag, then joined the others on the car deck. Phil was waiting by the rear of the van, and Ryan guessed he was getting the cheap seat. He climbed in, and ten minutes later they were on Albanian soil.

  Ryan didn’t know what Phil or Terry were referring to when they’d described the place. It certainly wasn’t London or New York, but it wasn’t as run-down as he’d imagined. There were lots of apartment buildings, but they looked quite modern, and the streets were relatively clean.

  They were soon on the main highway that linked the port town of Durres to Tirana, the country’s capital. This was more like the Albania Ryan had imagined, the two-lane road lined with old-style buildings nestled among their more modern glass-fronted contemporaries. After ten minutes of more of the same, Ryan settled back with his book.

  Before he knew it, they’d arrived at their destination. Terry opened the back doors. “Out you get, and bring your bag.”

  Ryan did as he was told and found himself on a narrow road between two breeze-block walls, beyond which were single-storey dwellings to the right and on the left a four-storey house in the early stages of construction. It wasn’t the kind of place Ryan would have chosen to stroll through on his own. He joined Terry as he headed for a green metal gate. “Remember, leave the talking to me.”

  Ryan nodded. The gate opened before Terry had a chance to knock. The man who emerged looked to be in his forties and had a body much like Phil’s, only leaner. He wore a black leather jacket and black jeans, with a T-shirt that had once been white but was now a faded cream colour. His face hadn’t touched a razor in a few days. Terry approached and gave the man a one-armed hug, and Ryan could see that the Albanian had a pistol tucked into the front of his trousers.

  Phil was next to say hello, then Terry introduced Ryan.

  “This is Endrit. Endrit, Ryan.”

  Ryan shook his hand, which felt like a vice.

  Terry put an arm around Endrit’s shoulder and they walked away with the Albanian doing most of the talking. They looked back once at Ryan, then continued their discussion. Ryan couldn’t hear what they were saying, but Terry seemed to be in conciliatory mode. He reached into his jacket and handed Endrit a stuffed envelope. The man toyed with it for a few moments, then nodded and put it inside his own jacket and held his hand out. Terry gave him some keys and Endrit walked back to the gate and closed it behind him.

  “Now what?” Ryan asked when Terry rejoined them.

  “A cab will be waiting at the end of the street,” Phil told him, and set off walking away from the green gate. “We check into the hotel, then you can do what you like until Friday afternoon.”

  That gave Ryan just over two days to kill, and he planned to use the time constructively.

  If they wouldn’t tell him the purpose of the trip, he’d find out for himself.

  Chapter 13

  John Latimer waved goodnight to Paul Benson as the detective sergeant left the office. The shift had long since finished, but Latimer was using every spare minute of the day to help build a defence for his friend James Knight.

  It wasn’t looking good.

  Forensics had confirmed that the hairs found on the body of Sean Conte belonged to Knight, and along with the shoe imprints, motive, lack of alibi and fingerprint evidence, the case against him looked watertight.

  His personal investigation into the shoes had been a waste of time. The size and make had been available in dozens of stores across the country, and he’d requested details from each of them for credit and debit card purchases. It had taken a couple of weeks to get the information, but ultimately it had proven fruitless. None of the sales were to people on the list of suspects Latimer had compiled. These were people Knight had arrested during his career, but if one of them had bought a pair of size-nine Minster Wayfarers, they must have done so with cash.

  Latimer had even made a second list containing the names of everyone who had worked with Knight over the years, but a comparison with the shoe list had drawn a blank, too.

  The deadline was getting uncomfortably close. Knight was on remand in Brixton and the trial was due to commence in just under six weeks. All the defence lawyer had to offer was to point out that evidence could be fabricated and planted at the scene. That wouldn’t explain how Knight’s bloody fingerprint came to be on the inside of Conte’s wallet.

  The autopsy had concluded that Conte had died of blunt force trauma after having been subdued with a stun gun. Toxicology had revealed no foreign substances.

  Latimer didn’t think Knight was capable of beating someone to death, particularly a helpless man, over a building extension. Sure, the episode had cost Knight his entire savings, but was that enough to make such a level-headed man take such drastic action?

  One thing that gave Latimer hope was the lack of tyre tracks. Having visited the crime scene, it was clear that a vehicle had driven into the woods and that Conte’s body had been dragged from it to the grave. There were scuff marks in the ground where his heels had dug in, but they ended abruptly a few yards from his final resting place. Someone had taken the time to obscure the tyre tracks. Why go to that trouble, yet leave some much other evidence on and around the body? It pointed to someone setting Knight up, and he didn’t have long to find out who it was.

  DCI Ingram passed his door. Latimer hoped she would keep walking, but she paused and then stepped into his office.

  “Your shift finished a couple of hours ago,” she said. “Tell me you’re not still wasting time on the Conte murder.”

  Latimer had told her his theory about the tyres a week earlier, but she hadn’t been convinced. As far as she was concerned, the evidence gathered at the scene was just one step short of a full confession.

  “I was just researching ways to transfer fingerprints,” he told her. “It wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened.”

  Ingram sighed. She put her briefcase on a chair and draped her coat over it. “I know you and James were close—”

  “—are close,” Latimer corrected her.

  “Quite. But I fear this…misguided loyalty is only going to lead to disappointment. The evidence against him is overwhelming, John. Surely you can see that.”

  Latimer could. If he were the investigating officer, he’d be rubbing his hands together right now, convinced that he would secure a conviction. The lack of tyre marks wouldn’t be a concern for him.

  But he wasn’t heading the case, and James Knight was not a killer. Latimer was certain of it.

  “The odds do seem stacked against him, I’ll admit, but he’s a friend, and he deserves the best possible defence. I aim to give him that.”

  “Even at the expense of your own health?” Ingram asked. “Look at you. When was the last time you had a good night’s sleep? And this issue with your wife can’t be helping matters.”

  “What issue?” Latimer asked.

  “The court case. I read about it in the paper.”

  The last thing Latimer wanted was the entire force know
ing his problems, but it was too late now. The reporter had come to his home wanting to hear Fiona’s side of the story. She’d given him the standard response, that she couldn’t comment on it with the trial looming, but he’d been persistent. Eventually he’d left, and Latimer had expected to hear nothing more until the trial was over, but the story made page two of the local paper. It had been a rehash of previous articles including the original social media posts, and the only input from Fiona had been her refusal to comment.

  “That’s not a problem,” Latimer told her. “The other woman hasn’t got a case. It’s not something we’re worried about.”

  He hated lying to his boss, but he didn’t want Ingram thinking he was spreading himself too thin. If she knew how much it was affecting him, she would force him to drop the Knight enquiries.

  In truth, the prospect of having to hand tens of thousands of pounds over to an unknown author simply because she wrote a book along the same lines as his wife wasn’t pleasant. With that financial sword dangling above his head, he could understand why people did crazy things when money was involved. Latimer had fantasised many times about what he’d like to do to Bethany Ambrose, and none of it was sexual.

  “Any luck following up on the tip-off?” Ingram asked.

  That had been another thing that made Latimer think Knight was being framed. The email account that the message had been sent from had been created the day before Hampshire police had been told where to find Conte. It hadn’t been used since. The email provider had logged the IP address and other details of the device used, but it was a common brand of phone and had been connected to a public Wi-Fi account. The phone hadn’t been registered or used again since, and even if the shopping mall still had CCTV recordings, it would take him weeks to go through the footage. He’d be looking for someone using their phone, and that would be fifty per cent of the people on the premises. Trying to pick the informant from thousands of suspects would be impossible.

  “No, that’s a dead end. Whoever sent the email went to a lot of trouble to remain anonymous, which again makes me think James is being screwed over.”