Motive

by Alan McDermott

  Bennett showed Ryan around the house. The ground floor had two reception rooms complete with sofas and TVs, plus a dining room and a spacious kitchen staffed by two cooks. They went through a door marked Security and saw a dark-haired woman in her thirties monitoring a series of screens. Bennett introduced her as Kate, then left her to do her job.

  Upstairs there were eight bedrooms, four with en suites, and two separate bathrooms.

  Ryan was given a room overlooking the rear of the property. It had a small double bed, desk, wardrobe and chest of drawers. A flat-screen TV was attached to the wall, and a DVD player and satellite box sat underneath it. As he was one of the first to arrive, he had his own bathroom.

  “Dinner is at seven,” Bennett told him. “We’ll have a chat afterwards, but the real training starts tomorrow.”

  With a couple of hours until chow, Ryan unpacked his few belongings and took a shower. The house was clearly old, but a lot of work had been done on the interior. The bathroom looked brand new, and the water pressure was strong enough for Ryan’s liking.

  He went down to the dining room five minutes early and found Bennett sitting at the table next to a familiar face.

  “I trust the room’s to your satisfaction,” Malcolm Brigshaw said as he sipped a glass of water.

  Ryan took a seat opposite them. “It’s fine,” Ryan said. “Though I do have some laundry.”

  “There’s a utility room off the back of the kitchen,” Bennett said. “It’s got everything you need.”

  “I’m sure you have a lot more questions,” Brigshaw said, steepling his fingers, “so we best get them out of the way now.”

  There were indeed many questions floating around inside his head, but he knew the answers would come as the course progressed. He decided to just get himself settled in and comfortable.

  “Okay. Shopping. Do I have access to a car to go into town?”

  “We’ll supply anything you need,” Bennett said. “Just let us know and we’ll pick it up for you.”

  “So I can’t leave here?” Ryan pushed.

  “We’d prefer it if you didn’t,” Brigshaw answered. “Just for now, until you’re settled.”

  That was no real hardship. “What about pay? I don’t suppose my salary will show up as MI5 on my bank statement.”

  “No, that money will be paid into a separate account under a different name. You won’t have access to it until your job with us is complete.”

  “So what do I live on?”

  “Whatever you can earn in the next twelve months, though we’ll take care of most things. We’ll be sending you out to build a legend that covers the training period. You’ll find odd jobs here and there, bar work, construction, whatever takes your fancy. You’ll register with the benefits office, everything a normal person would do after being kicked out of the army. If you had a year with no work, no income, it would look odd. In between jobs, you’ll come back here for further training. While you’re away, we’ll give you materials to study.”

  The chef brought in three plates of roast lamb and they tucked in.

  “What are you going to teach me over the next twelve months?” Ryan asked Bennett before filling his mouth with meat and broad beans.

  “Fieldcraft, mostly. How to spot a tail, how to follow someone without them noticing, dead drops, the usual.”

  Ryan had expected those things, but there had to be more to it. “Gadgets?” he asked.

  “There’ll be some, but nothing like the movies. No tie clips that shoot lasers or anything like that. Mostly listening devices and cameras. Some will be for your home, others to wear.”

  “Like a wire? Won’t they check for that kind of thing?”

  “These ones are unnoticeable,” Brigshaw assured him. “They’re sewn into clothing and don’t require power packs. We’ll show you it in good time, don’t worry.”

  Silence descended as Ryan ran out of questions.

  “Nothing else you want to ask?” Bennett said.

  Ryan shook his head.

  “Well, I’m glad you didn’t ask what happens if you want to quit.”

  “The thought never crossed my mind. I wouldn’t have agreed to come along if I thought I’d walk away at some point.”

  “That’s the impression we got from reading your file. You’re not a quitter. That was one of the main reasons we chose you.”

  It was Brigshaw’s turn to ask the questions. While they finished their meals, he quizzed Ryan on his upbringing. Specifically, he wanted to know about any dodgy characters he’d hung around with. There’d been plenty, and for two hours he regaled the two officers with his exploits as a youth. He’d never been in trouble with the police, but some of the stuff he’d got up to had been morally questionable.

  At nine, Brigshaw excused himself.

  “I’d better go, too,” Bennett said, “and you should hit the sack as well. We’ve got a long day ahead of us.”

  * * *

  Ryan would always remember every detail of his first day of training. At six, he went for a five-mile run, then showered before breakfast. At eight, Bennett took him through the house once more, asking if he noticed any changes. Ryan picked up on a few, such as the different wall clock in the dining room and the throw over the sofa in one of the reception rooms. When Bennett pointed out a dozen things he’d missed, he felt ashamed, but Bennett assured him that he hadn’t been expected to get more than a couple right.

  “It’s important that you get to know your surroundings, especially if it’s a place you visit often. If something changes, there’s usually a reason. See that ornament? Take a closer look.”

  Ryan picked up the female figurine from the mantelpiece and examined it. It hadn’t been there the day before. It took a while, but he eventually saw the pin-sized hole.

  “That’s a camera,” Bennett told him. “If you manage to get in with your mark, there’s a chance they’ll use something like this to monitor you at home. It might not be state-of-the-art like this, but you should be aware of any subtle changes to your environment.”

  Lesson over, Bennett took Ryan to the outbuilding next to the house. It was kitted out as a gym, with exercise bikes, treadmills and a weight station. These were set up against the walls, and in the centre of the room was a large, square mat.

  “This is where we do martial arts. I know you’ve had some training already, but we’ll make you better. You could end up in some hairy situations, so the more you know, the better.”

  Ryan’s schedule included two hours on the equipment each day, followed by another two hours on the mat. He also kept up his daily running routine, and at the end of his twelve-month training programme he was fitter than he’d ever been.

  Bennett proved true to his word. Ryan had picked up a lot of useful techniques during his time at the training centre, though after his first ten months working for Marsh, he had little use for them. Most of his confrontations were with low-life drug users who’d made the mistake of owing Marsh money, and none of them challenged Ryan’s skills.

  Not that his stint on Marsh’s crew was a complete waste of time. For the first couple of months, he was given the shitty jobs, like the trip to Albania. He hadn’t been able to tell Brigshaw precisely what had been smuggled through the ports in the van’s wall cavities, but at least they now knew one of Marsh’s methods. It might have been drugs, but Albania was also a known exporter of illegal arms, especially the AK-47s favoured by Islamic terrorists.

  Ryan hadn’t discovered much more over the last eight months. Once, he’d been told to take a van to a remote part of the East Anglian coast. When he got there, he saw a black inflatable powering out to sea and Terry standing next to a pile of plastic-wrapped packages on the shore. Ryan’s job had been to load them onto his van and drive to a residential street in Luton, where he’d been told to lock the van and make his own way back to Manchester. He didn’t have a chance to take a look at the merchandise, but was ninety per cent sure the wrappings contained drugs. They were to
o small to be automatic rifles, though they could have contained ammunition. Given the quantity, though, it was unlikely, unless someone had ordered half a million rounds. He’d passed that on to Brigshaw in the usual manner, but since then he’d been back on thug duty.

  Carrying a phone with his boss’s number on speed dial was an invitation to trouble, so whenever Ryan needed to make contact or pass on information, he would simply go for a run with his digital Sony Walkman. The device had been modified to work as a phone when he pressed a certain combination of buttons. Ryan would leave his flat on the banks of the Bridgewater canal in Sale and make the call, then set off at a gentle jog. He changed his route regularly, making it difficult for anyone to lie in wait and read his lips as he reported to Brigshaw.

  Today’s run took him over the railway bridge that led to Oldfield road, then onto Broad Road. A late spring drizzle made the street wet, but it didn’t hamper Ryan’s progress. As he upped the speed and headed away from the town centre, Ryan gave his boss the latest update.

  “Still quiet,” he said. “I’ve had nothing but debt collection for the last few days.”

  It had been the same for weeks now. Either Marsh’s shipments were not as frequent as Brigshaw had assumed, or Ryan was only being used when there was a shortage of bodies.

  “What about getting closer to Marsh? It’s been almost a year now, and my superiors are anxious to see some results. We’ve invested a lot of time and effort into this.”

  You’re not the only one, Ryan thought. He’d given up a couple of years of his life to help nail Marsh, and there were times when he thought it might all be for nothing. Instead of the training, the jobs on the building site and the factory, he could have been in the SAS by now. He had to admit, shitting in the factory supervisor’s lunchbox had been an inspired idea. It was easy to follow up and verify, and had given him a chuckle every time he thought about the condescending prick putting his hand in to grab a sandwich.

  “There’s not much I can do on that front,” Ryan said. Despite the speed he was travelling, he was barely panting. “I thought taking out one of Marsh’s bodyguards would get me that position, but he replaced him from within. I told you before, it’ll be some time before he trusts me enough to let me into his inner circle. I rarely even see the man, unless I go to his nightclub.”

  “Then maybe we need to create another opening,” Brigshaw said.

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “Take out another bodyguard. We can send a few people into the Vine and create a commotion. When Marsh’s men step in, we damage one of them.”

  It was strange to hear a man in Brigshaw’s position advocating violence. He worked for the government, and that usually meant rules had to be followed. An undercover police officer would have to tread carefully, ensuring they followed PACE procedures, but Ryan had been given free rein. The only way to fit in with Marsh’s crew was to act exactly like them, Brigshaw had said.

  Unfortunately, the plan was unlikely to work. “Marsh has bouncers at the club,” Ryan said. “His bodyguards wouldn’t get involved.”

  “Then we need to come up with a way to get rid of one of them. Any thoughts?”

  “You could give one of them a tug,” Ryan suggested. “Have him pulled over in his car and plant some drugs on him, or a weapon used in a recent violent crime. Even a clean gun would do, as long as it gets him remanded.”

  “That would work. I’ll get some people on it. In the meantime, why don’t you have a word with Marsh? Tell him you’re unhappy with your talents going to waste, that you want more of a challenge.”

  “It’s not easy getting an audience with him,” Ryan said. “I can try and grab a word the next time I’m in the Vine, but generally he likes to distance himself from the guys on the front line. He gives Paul Gardner the orders, they’re passed to Terry and on to me.”

  It was always done by word of mouth. Marsh was too savvy to discuss business on his phone.

  “Well, see what you can do. I’ll get to work on setting up one of the bodyguards.”

  The call ended, and Ryan switched the Walkman to music mode and continued his run.

  Five miles later, he was back at his flat. He showered and dressed in grey slacks and a Lacoste T-shirt that showed off his muscles. He was halfway through a cup of coffee when the doorbell rang, and through the spy hole he could see that it was Terry.

  “Grab your coat.”

  “Where we heading?” Ryan asked.

  “Walkden. Some slag owes us money. We’re gonna collect.”

  Chapter 20

  Their destination was a semi-detached house in Little Hulton, a council estate on the north-west outskirts of Walkden. The adjoining house on the left had a new roof, repointed brick walls and a neatly-maintained garden with driveway. The target house was the polar opposite. Guttering hung loose from the eaves, the grass was a foot tall and strewn with kids’ toys, a fence panel was missing and wheelie bins were being used as garden decorations.

  “What I don’t get is why Marsh would lend money to people like this. They’re obviously skint.”

  “It’s amazing how quickly they find a bit of spare cash after you slap ’em around a bit,” Terry said. “No one forced them to borrow money from him.”

  Ryan didn’t believe that to be true. Government cuts to benefits and child support services meant people had a stark choice: borrow from the likes of Franklin Marsh, or starve. Those with young children and no job often didn’t have good enough credit to borrow from the mainstream lenders, so their only option was to go to the loan sharks.

  Terry hammered on the front door, which shook under the assault. “I know you’re in there, Sharon. Open up!”

  A child started crying inside the house, confirming that someone was home. A minute later, the door opened.

  Ryan was surprised. He’d expected to see…someone different, not the timid young woman who stood before them. She looked to be in her early twenties, with no make-up and her platinum hair tied up in a rough bun to reveal dark roots.

  Terry pushed past her and into the hallway. Ryan followed him inside.

  “Nicky tells me you don’t wanna pay,” Terry said, looking from room to room. Nicky was the collector who did the rounds, taking in the money before handing it on to Terry. Nicky’s job was to ask for the weekly payments, and if someone was unable to meet their obligations, the heavy boys—Terry included—were sent in.

  “I do, I want to,” Sharon said as she walked to the living room, “but I just haven’t got it.” She picked up the screaming baby from the playpen and sat on the sofa, hugging it close to her chest.

  The living room was neat, apart from a few toys lying around. The carpet looked clean, and there was no sign of drug use.

  “What about the kid’s dad?” Ryan said. “When’s he home?”

  Terry laughed. “Oh, mate, you crack me up. You think this bird knows who the daddy is? What does it say under father on the birth certificate, Sharon? Some soldiers? You’ve probably had more pricks than a second-hand dartboard.”

  “My husband left me when I had this one,” Sharon said quietly. “A good job, too. All the money went on his smokes and beer.” She looked down at the infant. “We’re better off without him, aren’t we, darling?”

  “How much does she owe?” Ryan asked.

  “Three hundred.”

  “Three?” Sharon looked up, startled. “I only borrowed a hundred and I’ve already paid back two-fifty. How can it be three?”

  “Late payment fees,” Terry said, “plus interest and my call-out charge. You think I do this for fun?”

  Sharon burst into tears. “There’s no way I can find three hundred quid. I haven’t even got three quid.”

  “Then I’ll do what I came here to do.” Terry’s grin dripped with malice, and Sharon held the baby tight to her chest.

  Ryan had never had any issues doling out a beating to those who deserved it, but Sharon was an exception. She looked like a good mother fallen
on hard times, not the usual wasters who borrowed to fund a drug or alcohol habit.

  “Let’s have a look around,” Ryan said. “There might be something worth three hundred in this house.”

  Terry waved him away, then slowly rubbed his crotch. “Go waste your time if you want. She ain’t got nothing.”

  Ryan was in a bind. He could see what Terry intended to do, but if he intervened it would be out of character. In this organisation, you never gave a sucker an even break. Life wasn’t fair, end of. Word would get back to Marsh, and any chance he had of climbing the ranks would be blown.

  Brigshaw had warned Ryan that something like this might happen. It was inevitable that at some point, Ryan would be forced to do something he found abhorrent, and he had to remain detached as he carried out his orders. That was easy to say when he was sitting at a comfy desk hundreds of miles away. Ryan was the one facing the dilemma, and he would have to live with the consequences of his actions.

  He walked into the kitchen, hoping by some miracle that Sharon had a large screen TV stashed away, but he was disappointed. There was a washing machine that looked a few years old, plus a fridge, cooker, and microwave. They would probably fetch a total of twenty quid second hand.

  Ryan opened a few cupboards, but there was no treasure to be found.

  A scream came from the other room, and Ryan knew he had to act fast. He began rummaging around in the cupboards, hoping that Sharon had squirrelled some money away, but he came up empty.

  A thought struck him as Sharon screamed again and the baby wailed uncontrollably. He took out his wallet. He had just over four hundred pounds. He counted out fifteen twenties and walked back into the living room.

  Terry was straddling Sharon, kissing her neck while his hands roamed over her chest. The crying baby wedged between them didn’t seem to distract him.

  “Tel!”

  Terry turned and glared at Ryan, who was holding up the money he’d taken from his wallet. “What?”