Motive

by Alan McDermott

  “We’re heading over to the pub now,” Paul Benson said, sticking his head around the door. “Sure you don’t want to join us?”

  “You guys go ahead. I’ve got a few things I need to do first.”

  “Does that mean you’re coming?”

  “Maybe,” Latimer said.

  Benson hesitated, then walked into the office and closed the door.

  Latimer knew what was coming. “Spit it out, Paul.”

  “It’s about the information you shared with Knight,” Benson said. “Are you sure that was a good idea?”

  The DC had a good point. It was unusual for a copper to divulge the nature of the evidence they had against a suspect. That was usually held back until later in the questioning, aimed at tearing apart their story. More importantly, it was done when the interrogation was being recorded on audio, video, or both. It might even be given to the suspect’s solicitor if requested, but it wasn’t usually offered up by the arresting officer. Forearmed with the information, Knight would have the advantage over Hampshire’s finest.

  “You’re right,” Latimer acknowledged, “but I’m missing something, and I was hoping he could fill in the blanks.”

  “Unless he actually did it, in which case he’d steer you in the wrong direction.”

  Another valid argument, and Latimer would have expected nothing less. Paul Benson was one of the best coppers he’d worked with. His work ethic was exemplary, his attention to detail bordering on obsessive, and he knew the rule book inside-out.

  But sometimes, the rules could be bent a little, and the appropriate moment to disclose evidence was more down to experience and best practices than inflexible directives.

  “I made a judgement call,” Latimer said. “I’m not sure it’s going to make much of a difference in the long run. If you’re worried that it’ll become a habit, you can rest easy. James is a friend, and it was a one-off.”

  Benson nodded solemnly, then turned and opened the door. “Don’t be too long, your beer’ll get warm.”

  Latimer watched him leave, then sifted through the results of his PNC search. He discarded those who had been charged with non-violent offences, but that still left over eight hundred names. He then looked for those who had been incarcerated on the date of Conte’s disappearance and that got rid of another three hundred. It still left around five hundred possibilities.

  Latimer saved the results. There wasn’t much he could do until he got a list of retailers from the footwear company. Once he had that, he would contact each one and ask for the details of anyone who had used a card to purchase a pair of the Wayfarer variant in size nine. From experience, he knew that could take a while. Companies were often happy to help the police with their enquiries, but profit came first.

  Simon Ellis from Minster Footwear rang just before six. He sounded sceptical when Latimer asked for a list of companies that had ordered size nine Wayfarers in the last twelve months.

  “How do I know you’re the police and not one of my competitors?”

  Latimer told him to call 101 and ask for him at Lewisham Central. He gave his name and warrant number and hung up before Ellis could object.

  It was three minutes before the call came through on his desk phone.

  “This is most inconvenient,” Ellis moaned. “You could have just sent a Bobby round in the morning.”

  “Ten years ago I might have done, but funding cuts mean we have to work smarter. Now, how long before you can get the list to me?”

  “I’ll have my team prepare it first thing in the morning,” Ellis said.

  “Can’t you get something to me this evening? It’s part of a murder enquiry, and time is of the essence.”

  “I’m afraid not. Most of the staff has gone home. There’s no one here to run that kind of report. Besides, don’t you need a warrant for this kind of thing?”

  “Only if we don’t get co-operation,” Latimer said. He’d dealt with many people like Ellis over the years, and one thing always brought them to heel. “Tell me, do you wear Minster shoes?”

  “Of course,” Ellis replied, affronted.

  “That might explain why you appear to be so reticent. We’re looking for a suspect who wears Minster shoes, and you seem to be doing everything you can to impede our investigation. It might be best if I send a couple of detectives over to pick you up and bring you back to the station. You can spend forty-eight hours in the cells while we pick your life apart.”

  “That’s preposterous! I don’t even wear the Wayfarer design, and I’m a size eight, not a nine.”

  “But you have easy access to the shoes, and a size nine would easily fit onto a size eight foot. It’s not unusual for killers to wear oversized shoes to a murder to throw the police off the scent. And how did you know the killer wore a size nine? I don’t recall mentioning that.”

  He had, and he knew it, but the lie was designed to get Ellis worked up.

  “You did! I have it written down here, size nine Wayfarer and your warrant number!”

  “I definitely recall saying Wayfarer, but not the size. Perhaps I should come down and pay you a visit myself.”

  Latimer smiled to himself as Ellis protested his innocence. He gave him a minute of silence, then apologised. “Sorry, I was arranging for a detective to join me.”

  “There’s no need!” Ellis almost shouted. “There’s a couple of people left in the office. I’ll give them some overtime to stay and print out your report. It’ll take a few hours, though.”

  “Well…okay, but you’re still on my radar. If we don’t get our man in the next seven days, I’ll be round to speak to you.”

  He gave Ellis the email address to send the file to and asked that it be in CSV or Excel format, then ended the call.

  There was no point hanging around the office waiting for Ellis to deliver. A couple of hours could stretch to four or five. Latimer decided to head home and make an early start in the morning.

  As he walked down the stairs, he saw the pub through the glass wall that stretched from the first floor to the fourth. Two of his detective constables were standing outside with pints of beer, one smoking a cigarette and the other puffing on a vape stick.

  It had been many months since Latimer had shared a beer with the team. He preferred to maintain a professional relationship with the men and women he worked with, and getting too close was a recipe for disaster. Going out with the guys had been fine in the days when he’d been a DC, but as he’d climbed the ranks, his socialising had waned. The last time he’d joined them had been January the previous year, a belated Christmas party. Since then, though, he’d left them to it.

  It was time to show his face once more. The men and women of MIT 14 had done a sterling job in finding Carrie Higson’s killer, putting in all the hours they could manage. The least he could do was get a round in to show his appreciation.

  Latimer took the phone from his pocket, but hesitated before calling his wife. If he told Fiona he was going to the pub, she would try to talk him out of it. She was forever reminding him of his promise to drink just twice a month, especially if they were invited to social gatherings. She only had his best interests at heart, but Latimer thought she was being a tad over-protective. Fiona insisted that if he stuck to his new regimen, he’d live much longer. Latimer had seen things differently at first. He wouldn’t live longer, he’d exist longer. Living meant enjoying life, eating the extra slice of cake, doing the bungee jump, having a couple of pints in the pub now and again. He didn’t want to lie on his death bed, look back on his life and regret the things he could have done. Would he swap another thirty years of eat, sleep, work for ten or so years of doing what he enjoyed?

  If he’d been single, the answer would have been easy.

  But he’d made a promise to the woman he loved. And it wasn’t as if he was the only one making the sacrifice. Fiona liked a drink, too, but when they’d found out about his coronary artery disease, she’d stopped buying wine with the weekly shopping. The few bottles
they had in stock had been consumed over the next few weeks, until the house was alcohol-free. The first few months had been hard, but his wife had supported him every step of the way.

  The prospect of spending the next three decades at her side was what kept him going.

  Latimer put the phone away and walked out of the building, across the road and into the pub. The bar was busy, and his team had pulled a couple of tables together in the corner. A cheer went up as he walked over to them, mainly because most of their glasses were almost empty. He sat down, gave a DC a couple of twenties and told him to get a round in.

  “What you having, sir?”

  “Orange juice,” Latimer told him.

  “One pint won’t kill you,” Benson said. He put a fresh glass of Stella in front of Latimer and took a seat next to him.

  “I guess it won’t.” He held up the pint and glasses clinked against it.

  Five people worked under Latimer, and they were all present: Paul Benson, the only DS, and four detective constables. The newest of these was Simon Jones, who was standing at the bar with Latimer’s money. At the table were the smoker, Gwen Harcourt, the vaper, Tom Adams, and Michael Whittaker. They were a good team to work with. All knew what was expected of them and got on with the job, giving him few reasons to complain. He allowed a little horsing around when appropriate, but otherwise Latimer ran a tight ship. No one had ever requested a transfer from under his command, which was a testament to his leadership skills.

  Latimer was halfway through his pint when another appeared next to it.

  “Nice try, but I’m not staying. I’ve got an early start in the morning.”

  “Looking into Conte’s death?” Benson asked. “I’d like to ask you something about that.”

  “Sure, but outside. I need a vape.”

  The two men walked out into the warm evening, and Latimer took a long drag on his machine.

  “It’s about the victim,” the DC said.

  “What about him?”

  “Why choose Conte? If it’s really someone with a grudge against Knight, why murder Sean Conte? Why not Knight’s wife? Most victims know their killers, and over forty per cent of female victims are killed by their partners or ex-partners. You know Knight well. What’s his relationship like?”

  “With Jenny? Great. Never heard a peep from either of them to suggest any problems.”

  “So he’s hardly likely to kill her.”

  Latimer laughed. “No chance.”

  “But if someone wanted to frame Knight, she’d be the obvious target, wouldn’t she?”

  “Your point being?”

  “Knight doesn’t kill the woman he loves, he kills the man he hates, makes sure he leaves plenty of evidence that a DCI would never overlook, and tries to bluff his way out of it. I mean, who else even knew about the problems between Conte and Knight?”

  “Anyone who had a copy of the Evening Standard,” Latimer said. “About a million people.”

  “Okay, but how many of them have access to Knight’s DNA? How many have the same fingerprints? How many have the motive? My point is, you might be too close to this one. Occam’s razor, boss. Occam’s razor.”

  Benson went back inside, leaving Latimer to his thoughts.

  They weren’t particularly cheerful.

  Perhaps the DS was right. Perhaps he was letting his friendship cloud his judgement. Had it been any other suspect, Latimer would have charged them by now, yet he was prepared to dig to see whether anyone with a grudge against Knight could be tied to the case, no matter how flimsily.

  He stepped towards the pub’s door, then stopped, turned and walked back to the station. He unlocked his bike and took the shortest route home for a change.

  He was still an hour late arriving home, most of that taken up with the Knight searches. Fiona would understand, though. No one stuck to regular office hours in Murder Investigation Team 14, and late nights were the norm by the time you reached DI.

  Latimer took his bike around the back of the house and locked it in the shed, then went in through the back door. When he entered the kitchen, the lack of food smells told him something was wrong.

  “Fiona?”

  He heard faint sounds coming from the hallway. As he tip-toed past the sink, he considered taking a knife from the draining board, but chided himself for over-reacting.

  The living room was the second door off the hallway, and as he approached, the sound grew louder. It was music. Latimer pushed the door open slowly and saw his wife sitting at her laptop, banging furiously at the keys. A glass of red wine was next to her, and the bottle it had come from was almost empty. Her YouTube favourite channel belted out hits from the television.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Fiona looked up, startled. Her ginger hair normally flowed off her shoulders, but she had it tied up in a ponytail. She looked at her watch.

  “I didn’t realise it was so late,” she said, and polished off the wine glass.

  Latimer put his helmet on the sideboard. “What’s with the wine?”

  Fiona poured the last of the wine from the bottle. “Bethany Ambrose, that’s what.”

  Latimer sighed. “I thought that was all done and dusted.”

  “So did I, but today I got a letter from her solicitor. She’s demanding all the income I received for Truly Awful, and she wants me to take the book off the market.”

  That explained the wine.

  Fiona had published her third book, Truly Awful, three years earlier. Her first two had sold in decent quantities, but the third had been a smash hit, selling well over two hundred thousand copies. That had led to an offer of a six-figure advance for her next work, but Bethany Ambrose had scuppered her plans.

  Ambrose was an indie author. She’d self-published a thriller called Death By Opinion a year before Truly Awful hit the bookstores. Both books shared a similar theme, where an unhinged author has a hard time dealing with a one-star review and responds to it. A social media battle ensues and the author’s darkest secrets are revealed online. The author then tracks the reviewer down and kills her.

  Just as in the books, Ambrose had taken to social media, only this time to complain about the plagiarism of her work. She’d started a crowdfunding campaign to raise money for legal fees, and the indie community had filled her coffers.

  As support for Ambrose grew, Fiona’s star faded. The BBC news website picked up the story and asked to hear her side of it. Fiona had given them a six-hundred-word reply, but they’d taken just two sentences for the article, both of which simply said that the accusation was unfounded. When the backlash turned towards her publisher, they withdrew the offer of a new contract. Sales plummeted, and Fiona became a pariah. The only person to stand by her was her agent, and even he had told her that writing under her real name was no longer an option. She would have to start over, which meant re-inventing herself and forgetting about the following she’d built up. Fiona had taken the advice, laid low, and waited for it all to blow over.

  A few months later, they’d gone to mediation. Fiona, John and their solicitor had met with Bethany Ambrose and her own counsel at the offices of a small law firm in the Hammersmith.

  “I’m so nervous,” Fiona said as they sat in the reception area.

  “Don’t be,” Latimer told her, holding her hand for support. “You’re in the right. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “Then why do I feel so guilty?”

  “It’s only natural. Most law-abiding people go to pieces when they’re put in these situations.” Latimer didn’t know that for sure, but he had to say something to boost his wife’s confidence. She wasn’t one for confrontations, and this was as far outside her comfort zone as he could imagine.

  A moment later, two more people entered the building. They spoke quietly to the receptionist, then took a seat opposite the Latimers and their lawyer. They both looked like solicitors, the dark-suited male in his forties, with prematurely greying hair cut short in a side parting. The woman was a head sh
orter, dressed in a black pencil skirt, black jacket over a white blouse. She looked a little younger, perhaps mid-thirties, with long blonde hair tied up.

  “Where are they?” Fiona whispered.

  Latimer checked his watch. The meeting was due to start at one, and it was already five past, yet there was still no sign of Ambrose.

  An office door opened and a short, stout man with receding black hair stepped out. “Hello, I’m Donald Atkinson. I’ll be chairing today’s meeting. Where is the Latimer party?” he asked.

  Fiona raised her hand, and the three of them stood.

  “And the Ambrose party?”

  The two solicitors were already on their feet, heading for the office Atkinson had emerged from.

  The Latimer contingent followed them in. It was a boardroom, with a huge oak table and three walls lined with bookshelves. The other wall had a table full of cups, saucers, a coffee pot and pitchers of water underneath a large window.

  Latimer took one of the five chairs on the left side of the table, sitting opposite team Ambrose.

  “So,” Atkinson began from the head of the table, “today we are here to—”

  “Erm, shouldn’t we wait for Bethany Ambrose?” Latimer asked.

  The female solicitor opposite raised her hand slightly. “I’m Ambrose.”

  Latimer was confused. “You look nothing like your social media profile picture.”

  “I like the anonymity,” she said.

  Her demeanour was abrasive, and Latimer wondered why she would bring such an attitude to a mediation meeting. The whole point of the exercise was to find some common ground, yet Ambrose seemed determined to make waves from the start.

  “I write under a pen name and my profile picture is used with permission,” she added. “Do you have a problem with that?”

  Latimer raised his hands in mock surrender. “None whatsoever.”

  Atkinson regained control of ceremonies, introducing the parties and outlining the case. “Miss Ambrose, it is your claim that Mrs Latimer plagiarised your work. What brought you to this conclusion?”

  Ambrose took a manila folder from her bag and opened it. “I’ve noted twenty-four occasions where her title, Truly Awful, copies directly from my work Death by Opinion.” She handed copies to all parties and waited for a response from Fiona.