“You can stay if you like. I’ll be cooking soon.”
Thanks,” Brigshaw said, “but I have to get back to the office.” He took a rolled-up envelope from his inside pocket and put it on the table. “That’s everything the police have. Forewarned and all that.”
Brigshaw patted Ryan on the arm as he passed. “For what it’s worth, I’m truly sorry…about everything.”
Ryan said nothing. He opened the door and closed it behind his former employer.
Back in the living room, he sat on the sofa and picked up the envelope Brigshaw had left. He tore it open and took out the contents. The first few sheets contained crime scene photographs, the one on top being a shot of the corpse. There were pictures of the murder weapon, a knife with a blade caked in dried blood, images of shoe prints, blood traces on the victim’s arm. Ryan put them aside and looked at the reports. The fingerprints were of excellent quality, though no match had been found on the police national computer.
Brigshaw had been able to match them, though.
To Ryan.
One thing he knew for sure was that he hadn’t committed the murder. He could visualize almost every moment of his trip to London, and that meant he was being framed. The only person who would want to do that was Franklin Marsh.
The fact that the gangster was sitting in a cell in Strangeways, and would be for the next two years, didn’t preclude him from orchestrating the killing. It simply had to be one of Marsh’s people, though how they managed to get his fingerprints on the knife was a mystery. They had to have picked up something he’d touched, like a glass in a restaurant or café, then used tape to transfer the prints to the murder weapon. They certainly hadn’t been in his home, because he had hidden cameras and an app on his phone that let him know if there was any movement in the house when he wasn’t there. So how did they know what style of shoes he wore? Ryan tried to think back to all the occasions when he’d been out, either alone or with Kelly, but he couldn’t recall seeing anyone taking an interest in him.
The final sheet in the file was a photograph of a middle-aged man with bicycle clips on his ankles about to put on a cycling helmet. At the top of the page it had his name, Detective Inspector John Latimer, and his home address.
Ryan knew that if he wanted answers, he had to pay Detective Inspector Latimer a visit.
Chapter 31
Karen Harper wished she could watch the video again, but it had long since been purged from the internet for some reason she could not imagine. She still had the print account of the incident, though, tucked away in her pile of Evening Standards by the workroom door. Like millions of others, she’d seen the recording of the confrontation in the supermarket car park. If ever someone had motive, it was the guy on crutches.
The guy who turned out to be Scott Davison.
She’d watched as the fat builder had levelled a verbal volley at him, an expletive-filled tirade that the man on crutches had done nothing about. How could he, though? He was barely able to get back to his car afterwards. She had no idea how he managed to drive it, though she suspected it had been retrofitted with controls for the disabled.
At that point, she knew she had the perfect pair, the victim and the murderer.
He’d almost got away from her.
A few days after seeing the video, Karen arranged a lunch date with a friend, Phillip, who worked for a parking enforcement company.
He placed two coffees on the table and sat opposite her. “How’s work?” Phillip asked, as he always did. It was his way of turning the conversation to how much he hated his job, and she was sick to death of listening to it.
If you hate it that much, quit and find something better!
“Not bad. You?”
“Don’t get me started,” he said, sipping his drink.
Karen wished she hadn’t, but she needed his help.
“I was spat at twice yesterday, and the boss doesn’t give a shit. They’re supposed to make sure their employees are safe when they’re working, but all they care about is profit. I should write to the papers, I should.”
“You really should,” Karen said, jumping in to change the subject. “But before you do, could you do me a huge, ginormous favour?”
“I’m afraid I’m skint, if that’s what you’re gonna ask.”
“No, nothing like that. In fact, I could put a few quid in your pocket.”
Phillip perked up. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. You see, a few days ago I was coming back from a restaurant and some guy hit my car and then ploughed into a van. I got out to exchange details but he just drove off! I was wondering if you could look up the guy’s details on your computer.”
“Why didn’t you just call the police?”
Karen looked ashamed. “I’d had a few glasses of wine with my dinner. I only planned to have one, but then…you know. If I called the police, they’d have taken my license.”
“You could have called them the next day,” Phillip said.
“I could, but then how do I explain not calling them at the time of the accident? They’ve heard all the excuses before, and I’m not a very good liar,” she lied.
Phillip looked unsure.
“Please,” she begged taking his forearm in both hands. “I need to claim on the insurance but I need to speak to the other driver first.”
“What if he asks where you got his details from?”
Karen stalled, as if coming up with an answer, but she’d already anticipated the question. “I’ll just say I was driving past and noticed his car in the driveway, and had noted the license plate just after he hit me.”
Phillip shook his head slowly. “I don’t know…”
“I’ll give you fifty quid.”
“Fifty?”
Karen dug into her bag and pulled out five tens. She handed them to him before he could change his mind. “If you could also get me the details of the van owner, that would be great. I’d like to let him know who hit his vehicle.”
While he studied the money in his hands, Karen took out the two license numbers and handed them to him. “If you could get them to me tomorrow, I’d really appreciate it.”
The following day, she had everything she needed on Scott Davison and Robert Waterstone.
Her first port of call was to Scott’s house, a detached property to the west of London. She’d checked the place out on Google Earth and seen that the windows were the old sash variety, so she armed herself with a set of brochures from a double-glazing company. When she got there, her heart sank. Even at a glance, she could see the house was uninhabited. The curtains hadn’t been drawn, and the living room was completely empty. She tried around the back, but the kitchen, too, was lifeless.
Disappointed, she went home to wait for the next opportunity to arise. That came in the shape of James Knight and Sean Conte. Their story was in the Evening Standard, and the challenge of framing an ex-police officer was too much to resist.
It took her some time to find the addresses, but eventually she tracked them down on the council website, going through all planning applications in the area mentioned in the article until she hit the jackpot. Google Earth’s Street View showed that Knight already had double glazing, so she got her hands on some solar panel leaflets instead.
The news story had mentioned—and pictured—Knight’s wife, Jenny. Karen watched her leave for work, then half an hour later, knocked on Knight’s door.
Knowing how most people, herself included, reacted to cold callers, Karen launched into a pitch as soon as the door opened.
“I can see from the double glazing that you’re conscious about your heating bills. That’s why I want to offer you the very latest in solar technology at an absolute steal. We’re having a sale at the moment, offering sixty per cent off all of our products, with no deposit and three-year, interest-free payments starting three months after installation. If you’re not completely satisfied by then, we’ll uninstall them free of charge and you won’t pay a penny.”
It had taken her hou
rs to type up the contract, similar to one she’d received through the post from the real solar panel company, improving it to create an offer few could refuse.
She was relieved when Knight invited her inside, but her task had only just begun. She needed an excuse to visit the upstairs bathroom to get hair samples from his comb, but she’d already thought that through.
“Can I get you anything?” Knight asked. “Tea, coffee, water?”
“Coffee would be great, thank you. Would it be okay to use your toilet?”
“Sure. It’s just there, in the hallway.”
Karen had been hoping to be shown upstairs to the bathroom, but had anticipated this, too. She went into the room Knight indicated and locked the door, then took the toilet paper from her jacket and trouser pockets. She’d brought about a hundred sheets with her, and she used the toilet brush to stuff them around the u-bend, along with a couple of sanitary towels. After that, she waited a few moments, then flushed. She was pleased to see the water rising, then staying in the bowl.
Karen went back into the living room with a startled look on her face. “This is so embarrassing. I think I blocked your toilet.”
She led Knight back to the scene of the crime and stood outside the toilet door while he investigated. While he was plunging away with the toilet brush, she took out her phone and snapped a few photos of a pair of shoes that were sitting in the hallway, getting shots of the top, profile and sole.
“Yep, that’s proper blocked,” Knight said as he washed his hands. “I’ll get a plumber round to fix it.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said.
“Heavens, don’t worry about it. You just happened to be the one who flushed. It could have been me, or my wife. So, shall we…?
Karen took the hint and they returned to the living room, where she explained the benefits of the solar panels and how much he could save each year. She drank her coffee as fast as she could and made a show of the empty mug.
“Can I get you another?”
“Oo, yes please. Is that a special roast? It’s delicious.”
“I don’t know. My wife buys it.”
“I’d love to know the blend.”
Knight was back a few minutes later with a fresh brew and the name of the manufacturer.
“She buys it from a shop in the high street,” he told her.
“I’m going there right after we’re done,” Karen smiled.
She asked questions about his current bills, what energy saving steps he took, then did a calculation that showed Knight could expect a seventy-six percent reduction in fuel bills.
“The panels will pay for themselves within forty-seven months, according to my calculations, and with a twenty-year guarantee, you’ll be quids-in for at least another sixteen years.”
“So what’s the catch?” Knight asked. “If an offer looks too good to be true, it usually is.”
“No catch,” Karen said, handing him a copy of the doctored contract. “Everything I mentioned is in here. Feel free to read through it. It’s plain English, no hidden surprises.”
Knight took it and started reading, giving Karen to chance to make her move.
“Do you mind if I use the toilet again? I’m afraid the coffee’s going right through me.”
“Sure, it’s in the hallwa…actually, better use the one upstairs. It’s the first door on the left.”
She left him to study the document and went upstairs. The bathroom was nice, with a shabby-chic décor. Thankfully, Jenny Knight wasn’t the most house-proud. There were plenty of hairs to choose from, and after discounting the longer ones likely to be the wife’s, she selected a few short grey ones and put them in a bag, which went in an inside pocket.
When she returned to the living room, Knight handed her the contract. “It says here that projected savings are only twelve percent a year, and given the price you quoted, I’ll still be out of pocket after twenty years.”
“Ah. That’s the manufacturer’s estimate,” she said, seeing the deal going south and hoping to help it on its way. The last thing she wanted was him signing the contract and the panels not being delivered. That would give him cause to remember her. “I’ve known one customer who did save over seventy percent.”
“It also says there’s a twenty per cent deposit to be paid within fourteen days.”
“Would that be a problem?” she asked.
“Coming into my home and lying to me is a problem,” he said, his pleasant manner evaporated.
“I’m sorry,” Karen said, gathering her things. “I’m new to this, and I haven’t been able to make a sale yet. I was desperate.”
“Then just tell people the truth. Better still, consider another career.”
Karen looked sheepish. “I think I will.” She headed for the front door. “Thank you for the coffee.”
Knight let her out and closed the door behind her, and she walked to the next street where she’d parked her car.
Back home, she copied the prints from the back of the clipboard and set to work making the gloves she would use to kill Sean Conte. The feeling she’d have when she got to read about Knight’s arrest would make it all worthwhile.
It was by complete happenstance that she’d bumped into Scott Davison soon afterwards. She’d been working on an intricate brooch for a customer who’d relocated to France, and after delivering it in person, she’d stopped in town for something to eat. She’d recognised Scott the moment she set eyes on him. He’d been sitting alone outside a café, his head stuck in his phone, and she knew that fate had delivered her to this spot. With no way of knowing where he lived, or whether he was just on holiday, she’d taken a window seat in a restaurant opposite and ordered a small salad. An hour later, Scott had paid his bill and left, hobbling away with the aid of his walking stick. She’d given him a head start, then followed him to his car. Fortunately, there’d been a taxi rank nearby, and after finding a driver who spoke good English, she’d instructed him to follow Scott’s Citroen. Once she knew where Scott lived, she made a note of the address and flew home to London.
The first thing Karen did was look to see if the house was a holiday apartment. If it was, Scott could leave at any moment and she might never find him again. After hours of searching, she saw no trace of it being a temporary let, so she formulated a plan.
She would have to get Scott to travel to London around the time she planned to kill Waterstone, and for that, she would need a new passport. It had taken a couple of weeks to find the right person, then another three to get the document in the name of Kelly Thorn. Once she had that, it was just a case of coming up with a reason for spending a few weeks in Auxerre, and work seemed the perfect cover. Her normal MO was to pose as a saleswoman, peddling various wares, but that wouldn’t work due to the location. Instead, she would have to worm her way into Scott’s life.
Armed with everything she needed, she’d flown back to France and checked out Scott’s place. The same Citroen was in the driveway, so he hadn’t moved house. It was just a case of waiting near his home each morning until he left to go into town. She’d then followed him to the café, where he’d met his friend and talked over coffee. Not wanting to make a move while Scott had company, she’d once again waited in an adjacent café until she saw Scott’s friend drain his cup and make no move to get a refill. When Scott went to the toilet, she walked over and found a seat close to his, and minutes later, she was in conversation with him as Kelly Thorn.
The sad thing was, she actually liked Scott. He was moody at first, sure, but such a bad accident was bound to leave a mental impression. He was otherwise kind, and over the days and weeks that followed, she’d grown to really like him. Not as much as he liked her, that was clear. She could see the puppy-dog look he always gave her, and it nearly broke her heart to lie to him about Australia.
But someone had to take the fall. It was the way it worked.
Seeing the news report about the discovery of Robert Waterstone’s body meant the search for Scott would
be well under way by now. She was tempted to send another email with his whereabouts, but that would be counterproductive. The police would wonder why anyone would send them that information, and probably deduce that the sender was at least an accomplice. No, best to let the police work it out for themselves. Once they contacted Interpol, Scott’s days would be numbered. She could only foresee one problem, and that was if the police checked Scott's movements. His passport would show that he'd travelled to France the morning Waterstone died. There was nothing she could do about that except hope that the police couldn’t establish an exact date of death, and as Waterstone was in the pub most nights, it was unlikely that anyone would remember the precise day he last popped in.
It was time to move on to the next one, though this time there wouldn’t be months of preparation. On reflection, the previous killings were too similar. Fingerprints and DNA were overkill, and the police would surely detect a pattern if she continued in the same vein. Her fifth victim wouldn’t be buried in a remote location, she wouldn’t send an anonymous email to tell them where to find the body, and she wouldn’t leave prints on the murder weapon. No, just motive, DNA and opportunity were called for.
Armed with only a notepad, pen, and the laminated ID she’d created on her laptop, Karen drove to within half a mile of John Beckett’s house and parked up.
His home had been easy enough to find, thanks to the article she’d read in the Evening Standard. It had mentioned the street Beckett lived in, and through public records she had found his house number. It was a seventies terrace with a tiny front garden and wood cladding on the upper floor. Karen prepared her best smile and knocked on the uPVC door.
The man who answered looked older than he had in the newspaper. His dark hair was peppered with grey, suggesting he’d worn some kind of product in it before his photograph had been taken. His skin looked sallow, and the eye bags were more pronounced. For someone in his late fifties, he looked a lot older.
“Hello, mister Beckett,” Karen beamed. “I’m Sally Hanson from the Herald. I was wondering if I could do a follow-up story on the scam you were involved in.”
Motive Page 24
