Motive Read online

  The fireplace!

  Karen ran back into the living room. The coal fire was stocked with kindling and coal, and next to it was a box of extra-long matches. She grabbed it and retreated from the room once more. After another check outside to ensure no one was around, she dragged two matches along the strip of sandpaper down the side of the box and waited until the flame took hold, then dropped them on the carpet.

  The fire caught immediately, a yellow line snaking towards Hamilton’s dead body. Karen watched until it reached him and flared up, then walked out of the house, closing the door behind her. She threw the bag into the boot of her car along with the other pair of latex gloves, then got behind the wheel. With one last look at the house, she started the engine and did a three-point-turn, then drove out into the country lane.

  There were bound to be cameras of some kind in the small village nearby, so Karen headed in the opposite direction, using the satnav to avoid major roads. Seven miles from Hamilton’s home, Karen found a country pub and pulled into the car park. It was two in the afternoon, so the lunchtime rush would be over, which was perfect. She went inside and asked to see a menu, telling the barmaid that she’d heard great things about the food here and had put aside a day to try it out.

  “I’m sure you won’t be disappointed,” the barmaid said, as she poured Karen a glass of lemonade. “You should try the chicken stuffed with black pudding. It melts in the mouth.”

  Karen had gone with the recommendation, and it had been spot-on. The smashed potato with bacon and cabbage was to die for.

  After her meal, Karen left a large tip—yet another reason for the staff to remember her if the police should come calling—then got in her car and drove around looking for somewhere to dump the evidence in the boot. She eventually came across a small wood that looked thick enough to hide her activities from passing motorists, and used the small shovel in the holdall to excavate a hole. She dumped the bag in it, as well as the spade, then used her hands to fill the hole in again. Her final act was to get piles of dead leaves and scatter them on top to hide the disturbed earth. Back at the car, she used wet wipes to clean her hands and dropped them out of the window half a mile down the road.

  It was done. The only clear evidence they would find would point to John Beckett, and this time she wouldn’t have to wait weeks for the police to identify the main suspect.

  Chapter 34

  Ryan Anderson presented a calm exterior, but inside his stomach was churning. If Brigshaw had told the policeman about his Scott Davison legend, the next few minutes were going to be interesting.

  Ryan made it to the head of the immigration queue at Paris Gare du Nord rail terminal and handed over his passport with a steady hand. The Asian lady behind the desk glanced up to compare him with the photograph in the document, then scanned the passport and handed it back with a smile that flashed across her face for barely a second, her interest already on the next person in the line.

  Twenty minutes later, Ryan was on his way back to London once more. He still didn’t feel comfortable, despite clearing the first hurdle. French immigration could have tipped off the British about his imminent arrival, resulting in a swarm of police waiting for him at St. Pancras International.

  His other main worry was bumping into one of Marsh’s people. Although their patch was Manchester, they sometimes did business in the capital. Ryan had even been down as part of Marsh’s entourage to watch a heavyweight boxing match, so he couldn’t rule out coming across one of the gang in town on a social visit. Ryan didn’t want to happen across one of them by accident; he wanted to plan each confrontation. He’d spent the last year worrying that the gang he’d infiltrated might find him once more, but now it was time to go on the offensive.

  He wanted payback.

  The fear he’d felt for the last year had turned to anger. If Marsh would just serve his sentence—lenient as it was—and let it go, Ryan could do the same. By framing him for murder, Marsh had pushed too far, but Ryan was no longer vulnerable, unable to defend himself. A few months ago, Ryan might have gone into hiding, but now his legs were almost completely healed. He’d returned to running a couple of weeks earlier and he would step up the intensity until he was back to his former fitness. By that time, Marsh, Phil Walker and Paul Gardner would be out of jail, but in the meantime, he would deal with whomever had set him up.

  Franklin Marsh’s short sentence had been an insult to Ryan when he’d first heard about it, but now it was a blessing. Four years for conspiracy would mean two spent inside, and one of those had already passed. This time next year, Marsh would be a free man, and Ryan would be waiting for him.

  Ryan tried to put such thoughts behind him. He was here to find out how he’d been framed for murder, not to wallow in the past or dream about the distant future. He needed a strategy, and so far, he had a few bones to throw Latimer’s way.

  He checked his watch and saw that it was still far too early to call Kelly. He’d taken the night train to London rather than wait for the morning. He wanted to speak to Latimer as soon as possible, and the best time to catch him would be on his way to work the following day. He would book into a hotel that night, one that would accept cash and not ask for ID. He’d also purchased a new, unregistered pay-as-you-go phone in Paris, along with forty euros of credit. He didn’t want to make it any easier for Brigshaw to track him. He would get what he could from Latimer, then start his own investigation, and he didn’t need his old boss climbing all over his back.

  At London St. Pancras station, Ryan went through customs unchallenged and out into the night. After an hour on the subway, constantly changing trains to see whether he’d picked up a tail, he declared himself clean and walked down a street in Earl’s Court looking for a place to stay that night. The fourth hotel he tried accepted his story that he’d been mugged and lost his wallet, and that he’d borrowed money from a colleague until he could get back home to Durham.

  The room was what he’d expected for £60 a night, but the shower worked and the bed wasn’t too uncomfortable. Ryan set his alarm for five and got his head down.

  * * *

  Ryan jogged past Latimer’s semi-detached house just before six in the morning. The sun would be up in a few minutes, but it was already promising to be another scorcher. It was a quiet street, which meant he would stick out like a sore thumb if he just waited for the detective inspector to emerge. Fortunately for Ryan, that wouldn’t be necessary. The house was in a cul-de-sac, with only one way out. He continued on to the junction with the main road, and from there he could see the house where the policeman lived. Across the road was a bus stop that served several routes, the perfect place to wait out in the open.

  Ryan sat in the shelter and pretended to be engrossed in his phone, glancing up every few seconds to see if any lights came on at Latimer’s place. It was six-thirty before a small yellow glow came from the frosted bathroom window.

  He had to wait another hour as buses and commuters came and went, but eventually Latimer left his house and climbed onto his mountain bike. Ryan pulled a scarf up over his face so that only his eyes were visible, raised his hood over his head and dodged between vehicles to get to the other side of the road just as Latimer reached the junction. The policeman had to give way to traffic, which gave Ryan his opportunity. As Latimer scanned the road for a gap to ease into, Ryan walked up to him and stood by his front wheel.

  “I’m Ryan Anderson. We need to have a word.”

  Latimer looked stunned, and Ryan quickly nipped the idea of an arrest in the bud.

  “I just want to talk. If you try to detain me, it’ll turn out badly. For you.”

  Latimer hesitated, then shuffled his bike over to the kerb. “Okay, talk.”

  “Not here. Get off the bike and come with me.”

  Ryan waited for him to dismount, then set off towards a park two streets away, feigning an exaggerated limp. He kept Latimer in his sight all the way, just to make sure he didn’t use his phone or signal anyone.
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  When they got to the park, Ryan led Latimer to a bench and they sat down.

  “You spooks never heard of offices?” Latimer asked. “Isn’t this a bit clichéd?”

  “I have a feeling that if I went to the station with you, I wouldn’t be coming out in a hurry. So, tell me about this murder I’m supposed to have committed.”

  “It’s hard to hear you with that scarf over your face.”

  “Get used to it,” Ryan told him.

  “I’m sure your boss filled you in. Robert Waterstone was killed a couple of weeks ago, and you’re the prime suspect.”

  “Because my prints were on the knife.”

  “And your DNA was at the scene,” Latimer added.

  “Which could have been planted there.”

  “I’ll grant you that,” Latimer conceded, “but the fingerprints?”

  “Whoever did this picked up something I used and lifted the prints somehow. That’s the only explanation I have. One thing I need you to clear up. What time was he killed?”

  “We can’t pin it down, but the autopsy suggests it was on or shortly after the fifteenth, which was the last time he was seen alive.”

  “Then I have a cast-iron alibi,” Ryan said. “I was in London with a friend, Kelly Thorn, on the fourteenth. We were together from five in the evening until we returned to France the next day.”

  He didn’t mind giving Latimer his vague location; the cop would probably want to verify his movements in order to rule him out of the inquiry. It also meant blowing his Scott Davison legend, but he could always ask Brigshaw to arrange another ID so that he could disappear.

  “I’d like to speak to her,” Latimer said.

  “Me, too.” He’d meant to call her that morning, but when he’d woken he’d been so focused on meeting Latimer that he’d forgotten. It would have to wait. “She’s currently in Australia. I’ve been having trouble getting hold of her for the last couple of weeks.”

  “Sounds convenient. Your one alibi can’t be contacted.”

  “She’s real. You can check with Eurostar and French immigration. They’ll both have records of her arriving on the fourteenth and leaving the next day. I was travelling with her under the name Scott Davison.”

  “Why?” Latimer asked. “Why the false name?”

  It wasn’t something Ryan wanted to go into, but the more information he gave Latimer, the better his chances of clearing his name.

  “Does the name Franklin Marsh ring any bells?”

  “Sure. He went down last year…wait. You were the guy he put in the hospital?”

  “I wouldn’t put it so mildly, but yeah, that was me. And six months later, he sent his men after me again. I was in a safe house here in London when six guys broke in and attacked me. My legs were about a month away from healing properly, but they smashed my knees again and I spent another six months recovering. Now I think he’s setting me up for this murder.”

  Latimer shook his head slowly. “This makes no sense. Why kill some random guy? Why not someone you know? At least then we could pin motive on you.”

  “I did know him, apparently. You remember a video that went viral in the winter? The builder and the cripple, they called it?”

  “I remember.”

  “That was us,” Ryan said. “I was the cripple, Waterstone was the builder. We believe Marsh’s men saw the video and tracked me by the licence plate on my vehicle. They paid me a visit a few days after it hit social media. That’s why I moved to France.”

  Ryan couldn’t tell whether Latimer was buying his story. He didn’t look sceptical, though, which was a bonus.

  “I want you to look at Marsh’s known associates and see if any of them travelled to France in the last two months. If they did, that’s your starting point.”

  “If I do that, someone’s going to ask why I’m searching for them, and then I’ll have to reveal that we had this conversation. I think it would be better if you came in and made a statement.”

  “No way,” Ryan said. “Once I’m in the station, you’ll never let me go. Check out Marsh’s men, and don’t forget Kelly Thorn. Once I get in touch with her, I’ll tell her to give you a call.”

  Ryan rose, but Latimer grabbed his arm. “How do I get I touch with you?”

  “You don’t. I’ll call you.”

  Ryan shrugged off the grip and jogged deeper into the park, his gait uneven, before Latimer could say anything else. He looked around once to see whether the detective was following him, but Latimer was still sitting on the bench, as if mesmerized. Ryan found a block of public toilets and ran around the back. With no one to observe him, he took a black holdall from the backpack and opened it up, then dumped the backpack inside it along with the hoodie, scarf and jogging pants. Underneath he had jeans and a grey wool jumper. A minute later, he was walking back along the same path, his fake limp gone. Latimer was pushing his bike towards the exit of the park, his phone to his ear. He was obviously calling in the encounter, but any description he gave would now be obsolete.

  When Ryan reached the exit, Latimer was still on his phone, looking around as he spoke. Ryan could hear what he was saying, and it sounded like his sole focus was on finding Ryan, not following up the leads he’d given to the detective.

  He’d expected as much. Ryan walked away and pulled his own phone from his pocket. He dialed a number and it was answered almost immediately.

  “We have to meet.”

  Chapter 35

  The place Ryan had chosen was a pub just a few minutes’ walk from Piccadilly Circus. It was convenient enough for Brigshaw to reach from Thames House, and busy enough for Ryan to disappear into the crowd if necessary.

  Ryan arrived by tube. He’d dumped his bag back at the hotel and eaten breakfast, leaving enough room to swallow his pride. He was going to do the unthinkable: ask Brigshaw for help.

  He navigated his way through the ticket barriers and headed for the exit that led to the Shaftsbury Memorial statue, commonly known as Eros.

  He saw the flick of a high, blonde ponytail from the corner of his eye, and it made him pause. He’d seen something similar before, but the hair had been dark. Ryan turned and watched as the woman made for the barriers that led to the Piccadilly line.

  It looked a lot like Kelly, but it couldn’t be. She had dark hair, almost black, and was thousands of miles away in Australia.

  Or was she? It might explain her reluctance to answer her phone.

  “Kelly?”

  Several heads turned when he shouted the name, but not the blonde. She reached the turnstiles, presented a card to the reader and took a step forward, but the barrier didn’t open. When she looked back at the sensor and tried again, Ryan got a look at her face.

  It was definitely Kelly.

  “Kelly!” he shouted again as he moved through the crowd to get to her. He tripped over a suitcase being dragged by a Japanese tourist and landed heavily on his front, instinctively doing all he could to protect his knees. When he got back to his feet, the blonde had moved through the barrier and was following the masses toward the trains.

  Ryan reached the turnstiles, then cursed. He’d only purchased a one-way ticket to get to Piccadilly, and the machine had swallowed it when he went through the barrier. He considered jumping the gate, but two transport police were watching him, probably because of all the noise he was making. Ryan cursed again, then fought his way through the oncoming surge to get to the ticket machines. He found an empty one and purchased a ticket that would give him a days’ travel to all zones, then ran back and inserted it in the barrier. The gates opened, and he barged his way to the platforms.

  Now he only had to discover which way she would be going. He heard the sound of a train approaching the westbound platform, so he tried there first. It was packed. Fortunately, he was tall enough to see of most people’s heads, but there was no sign of a blonde woman in a black jacket. Then again, Kelly was a few inches shorter than him, so she might be obscured by one of the larger passengers. />
  Ryan pushed his way through the crowd as the train came to a stop. The disembarking swarm pushed Ryan toward the exit. He did his best to see whether the blonde got on the train, but it was impossible to tell.

  As the doors closed, Ryan gave up. He let the tide of commuters carry him off the platform, then he ran across to the eastbound side. A train was already waiting, having disgorged its passengers, and those on the platform were fighting their way aboard. Ryan jumped up to see over the heads, and on the third attempt he spotted a blonde ponytail as it slipped through the door four carriages away. He got on at the nearest open door just before it closed, then stood by the door as it pulled away. He considered going from carriage to carriage through the connecting doors, but that was not only dangerous, he might be reported by a fellow traveller. If the police then got involved, his day could be ruined.

  When the train stopped at Leicester Square, Ryan got off and moved down three carriages, all the while looking at the people getting off ahead of him.

  There was no sign of Kelly.

  He waited until the very last moment, then got on the train again, in the carriage next to hers. He made his way to the end and looked through the window. The blonde with the black jacket was standing with her back to him, her head down.

  When the train reached Covent Garden, she made no move to get off, but as it approached Holborn, she eased her way closer to the door. Ryan did the same, and as soon as the doors opened, he rushed out and toward her carriage. The blonde was one of the first off, and Ryan easily caught up with her.

  “Kelly!” he said as he grabbed her arm.

  The woman turned, shock written all over her face. “Get the fuck off me!”

  Ryan immediately let her go. “I’m sorry, I thought you were someone else.”

  The woman backed away, now angry more than anything, then turned and walked to the exit.

  Ryan watched her leave.

  What the hell are you playing at?