Motive

by Alan McDermott

  Beckett gave her a tired look. “There’s not much more I can tell you,” he said. “They covered everything last time.”

  “Yes, I read the story in the Standard, but I’m here for the human interest aspect. They didn’t really touch on that last time.”

  Beckett hesitated, then opened the door and walked down the hallway. Karen closed it behind her, then followed him into the living room. It was packed with ornaments and photographs, most of them of Alice, the wife he’d lost three years earlier, according to the Standard’s piece.

  Beckett clearly enjoyed his cigarettes. The room stank of stale smoke, and the sofa was covered in a nicotine-stained throw. She took a seat anyway, pretending not to be disgusted by the pervading odour.

  “Can I get you anything?” Beckett asked. “Tea? Coffee?”

  “Coffee would be wonderful. Milk, one sugar.”

  “It’s instant, I’m afraid. I know most of you youngsters prefer the Starbucks blends these days.”

  “Instant’s fine,” Karen assured him.

  Beckett left the room, and moments later Karen heard the kettle start to boil and a teaspoon clink against cups. Karen spotted a pair of boots near the living room door and quickly took photos of the soles and top, then picked a few hairs from the back of the armchair that faced the television. She placed them in a small plastic bag and stuffed it in her pocket before Beckett returned with the drinks.

  “So, what do you want to know?” he asked as he sat in the armchair and sipped his coffee.

  “What we want to get across to our readers is the devastation these scams cause. How has it impacted you personally?”

  Beckett spent five minutes on his story while Karen pretended to take notes in shorthand. Beckett had been sucked into a land-for-sale scam, where people were cold-called and invited to purchase land that they could sell on to developers. The pitch had been professional, the returns mouth-watering. After Beckett handed over his life savings, he discovered the plot he’d purchased turned out to be protected greenbelt, with zero chance of getting planning permission. He’d basically bought a field two hundred miles away that he could do nothing with other than growing crops —and he was no gardener, let alone a farmer.

  Karen nodded sympathetically at the appropriate times, and once he’d finished, she asked what he hoped to see happen to the fraudster, Roger Hamilton.

  “I want my money back, first and foremost,” Beckett said. “He took everything. I retired early to look after my wife, and now I have nothing. No income, no job, nothing. After that, he should go to jail so he doesn’t do it to anyone else.”

  He’ll get more than that, Karen thought.

  She thanked Beckett for his time, then put her notepad in her bag and let him lead her to the front door.

  “When do you think it’ll be in the paper?” Beckett asked her as she stepped out of the house.

  “We do a human-interest section once a month, and I’m hoping this will be selected for the next edition. If not, it’ll be the month after.”

  By which time you’ll have other things on your mind.

  On the way back to her car, Karen felt little sympathy for Beckett. Anyone stupid enough to hand over their life savings to a voice on the phone deserved to be taken for a ride.

  And anyone evil enough to prey on the vulnerable deserved what they had coming.

  Like John Beckett, Roger Hamilton hadn’t been hard to find. A quick search of the Companies House database gave her his address, and she went there straight from Beckett’s house.

  It took her just an hour to get to Hamilton’s home on the country lane in leafy Surrey. She knew the way, having been there twice already. She thought it prudent to see if she could get to Hamilton before going to get what she needed from Beckett, and his home looked the perfect place to take him out. No CCTV cameras, its own driveway and five-foot-tall, well maintained hedges all the way around the property.

  On both her previous visits, one during the middle of the day and the other first thing in the morning, she’d looked for other vehicles parked outside the house, but on both occasions there had only been the two-year-old Jaguar.

  It was the same this time, but that didn’t confirm that Hamilton lived alone. He could share the car with his partner, or his other half may not drive. There had been no mention of a Mrs Hamilton as director of his company, though, and married couples often appointed the spouse as a director or company secretary, drawing dividends rather than salary to make it more tax efficient. It could be that Mrs Hamilton wanted nothing to do with his illegal operation, so Karen thought it best to visit as many times as possible to see who was actually staying in the house.

  Hamilton’s place was near a layby that was used by walkers making the most of the hiking trails. Karen parked there and got out of the car, then walked back along the lane. As she passed Hamilton’s house, she noticed the driveway was empty.

  That meant he had to come back at some point, but she had no way of telling how long that would be. Preparation, though, was her strong point. She took a folding chair from the boot of her car and set it up so that she had a good view of the Hamilton residence, then put out the small folding table and her picnic bag. She placed a Thermos of coffee and a bag of sandwiches on the table, then sat back and pretended to enjoy the view across the field to the hills beyond.

  It was a beautiful day, the sky cloudless, the breeze just subtle enough to take the edge off the heat and keep her comfortable. An elderly couple with a dog walked past, offering her a smile. She returned it happily, just a city girl making the most of the gorgeous weather.

  It was an hour before she saw Hamilton’s car approach the house. She waited until it pulled through the stone gate posts and into the driveway, then stood and stretched. From where she was standing she could see the top of Hamilton’s head as he got out of the car.

  Alone.

  Karen watched him put the key in the front door and open it, walking in without calling to anyone inside.

  She’d seen enough. She still had some shopping to do, but within the next few days, she would have another kill under her belt.

  Chapter 32

  John Beckett stared at the boxes of Losartan and Amlodipine on the table in front of him. They were sitting next to the half bottle of whiskey and the photograph of Alice, his wife of over thirty years.

  It should have been forty years, then fifty, but God had decided to cut short their time together.

  No, that was wrong.

  There was no God.

  How could there be? He and Alice were good people. They never crossed anyone, rarely had a bad word to say to each other, they went to church regularly and had been faithful throughout their marriage. So why would God rip his life apart like this? Why let the thieves, murderers, liars and conmen prosper while he had to spend the rest of his life mourning the only woman he’d ever loved?

  Why?

  If Alice had still been with him, she would have seen through Hamilton’s lies immediately. She was—had been, he corrected himself—a strong, clever woman, and she would have told Hamilton where to go. But, no, God had to rip her from him in such a painful manner, leaving him vulnerable to the snake oil salesman. Not only had God taken the only thing he ever loved, He’d also introduced the conman into his life. God had piled misery upon misery, and for what? To test his faith? What kind of God did that? What cruel entity would look down from above, see that John and Alice Beckett were good people, and punish them for it?

  Shouts erupted from the house next door. Beckett had tuned them out over the years, but now they got his attention. It was the woman who made all the noise, the Filipina with the split personality. Whenever Beckett met her in the street she was kind and polite, but when she was alone with her English husband she would explode in anger several times a day.

  If ever God needed another soul, why not take Rose instead? Why take Alice, who was so full of love, when there was a hate-filled monster living right next door?

 
; Because there is no God, he reminded himself.

  Beckett went to the kitchen and returned with a glass and a small bowl. He poured himself a generous shot of Macallan 18-year-old triple-cask single malt. The bottle had cost him a week’s income support, but he no longer had a need for money. He took the plastic strips of hypertension drugs from the packets and slowly emptied them into the bowl, one by one, all the time looking at the photograph of his wife.

  Won’t be long now, he told her, but was that really the case? If there was no God, where was Alice waiting? Was she waiting?

  He would soon find out.

  Once all the pills were in the bowl, he took a handful and put them in his mouth, washing them down with the smooth whisky. After a few minutes, the bowl was empty. John Beckett had one last shot of amber, then closed his eyes and waited for the inevitable.

  Chapter 33

  Karen’s only dilemma had been how to gain access to Hamilton’s home. She had the option of a forced entry, hitting him with the stun gun the moment he opened the door, but that was risky. He might have it on a chain, or keep his weight behind the door, offering a small profile that would be difficult to hit.

  In the end, she’d decided on the official approach. She’d spent a day on her computer creating an identity card that was guaranteed to get her through the door, and as she pulled her car into Hamilton’s driveway, she took it from her handbag and put it in her inside pocket.

  Karen was dressed conservatively in dark pants and jacket over a plain white blouse. Her hair was once more coloured dark with a temporary dye that would wash out in minutes. Confident that she looked the part, she picked up her clipboard, got out of the car and walked to the house. It was a large red brick structure with marble columns framing the entrance.

  Karen knocked on the door, and Hamilton opened it a couple of inches and peered out through the crack. “Yes?”

  Given the way he was standing, Karen was glad she’d made the effort to adopt the Independent Office for Police Conduct role.

  “Kate Hooper,” she said, taking the leather wallet from her pocket and showing him the laminated card. “May I have a word?”

  Hamilton scrutinised the ID. “What’s this about?”

  “I’m with the IOPC,” Karen said. “We’re investigating complaints about the officer leading the investigation into your case. There have been suggestions that evidence has been manufactured to secure convictions. I’d just like to ask you a few questions, if that’s okay.”

  As she’d expected, Hamilton was happy enough to open the door and let her in. Karen gave him a smile as she stepped over the threshold and into a large hallway. The house was just as impressive on the inside. An oak stairway clung to one wall, and doors led off to three rooms on the ground floor. Karen followed him into the living room, all the time looking for clues that he might not live alone. She saw none.

  The view out through the large conservatory onto the vast rear garden was stunning. However he made his money, Hamilton sure knew how to spend it.

  “Can I get you anything?” he asked.

  “No, thank you.”

  Hamilton gestured for her to take a seat on one of two huge sofas facing a large fireplace, coal and logs ready to be lit, but she told him she wouldn’t be staying long.

  “So, what do you need from me?”

  Karen handed him the clipboard and asked him if any of the technical information seemed familiar. It was a diagnostic dump she’d taken from the internet, absolute gobbledegook to anyone but the most computer-savvy.

  As Hamilton looked at it with a furrowed brow, Karen took the knife from the leather sheath tucked into the back of her pants and thrust it up under his ribs.

  She expected his face to contort in shock, not for the clipboard to smash her in the face. Karen stumbled sideways and tripped over the solid wood coffee table, landing in a heap next to the sofa. Her eyes watered, mixing with the blood pouring from her nose. She shook her head and got to her feet, just as Hamilton pounced on her, the knife still sticking out of his chest. She had clearly missed the heart, and now her intended victim was trying to turn the tables. Hamilton grabbed her around the throat with surprisingly powerful hands, a ferocious, animal-like growl emanating from him.

  It was all going wrong, and Karen began to panic. She flapped at Hamilton’s head, but it was just out of reach, and her vision clouded as he maintained his powerful grip on her neck, his face red with the effort. Karen clawed at his hands and punched his arms, but to no effect. She was blacking out and flailing wildly when her hand hit the handle of the knife. Hamilton winced in pain but continued to strangle her, and Karen grabbed the knife and used the last of her strength to twist it. Hamilton’s grasp weakened, and she pulled the knife from his chest and stabbed him in the side of his neck. He released her, both hands going to the new wound, but despite applying pressure, blood spurted between his fingers. Karen plunged the blade into his abdomen, again and again, and when Hamilton put his hand out to stop her she sliced through two of his fingers. He staggered and fell to his knees, doing his best to stem the flow of blood and failing miserably. He knelt on the floor for what seemed an age before finally collapsing to the carpet, his fight over.

  Karen panted, trying to regain her composure, but the scene before her was a nightmare. There was blood everywhere, and some of it was hers.

  That hadn’t been part of the plan.

  Get inside, stab him, leave, burn your clothes. That was how it was supposed to go down, not like this.

  Think, woman, think!

  Cleaning up the mess would do no good. Any semi-competent forensic team would find traces of blood in the carpet, even after the most thorough of washes, and her DNA was bound to be under Hamilton’s fingernails. She would have to cut his hands off and take them with her, but what about the blood?

  Start a fire, a voice in her head told her.

  That was it. If she burnt the house to the ground, it would surely be impossible to identify the blood spatters. But she had to act quickly.

  Karen put on two pairs of latex gloves—bit late now—one on top of the other, and went through the conservatory and out into the garden. There was a shed at the bottom, a big structure made of the same red brick as the house, and it was unlocked. She went inside and saw what she was hoping to find. A petrol-powered lawnmower. It didn’t take long to find the petrol can, and when she lifted it up it felt almost full. It would have to be enough. On the wall she saw a set of power tools, the kind with interchangeable attachments. This one had a sander, drill, and most importantly, an electric saw. Karen put the saw together and checked that the battery contained a charge, then took her haul back to the house and dumped the items next to the body.

  Think it through, she told herself. Once it was done, there was no going back.

  Karen sat on the sofa and pictured the process. First, she needed something to take the hands away in. A couple of plastic bags, wrapped double, from the kitchen would do. Then she had to leave Beckett’s hairs in a place that wouldn’t be affected by the fire. The only thing she could think of was inside Hamilton’s mouth. His wounds would indicate a struggle, and it was feasible that his mouth might get close to the attacker’s head. She also had to leave footprints using the brand of boots Beckett wore.

  Okay, bag the hands, hair in the mouth, leave footprints, douse the body and set it alight.

  That wasn’t sure to get rid of all evidence that she’d been there, though. The fire might not burn hot enough, or it could fizzle out.

  Karen went into the kitchen and searched for more accelerants, but discovered something even better: the hob was gas-powered. She found some plastic bags in a cupboard and took them through to the living room, then went to the front door. She opened it a crack, and after confirming that there was no one around, Karen quickly ran to her car and took the holdall from the boot. Back in the house, she removed the change of clothes she’d brought along and put them on a sideboard far away from Hamilton’s body. She�
�d assumed she would get blood on her from the knife attack, and how right she’d been. Karen put on the boots she’d purchased and went into the back garden once more. At the bottom of the property was a large wooden fence, and in order to make it look like Hamilton’s attacker climbed over it to gain access to the house, she jumped into the flower bed. The imprint was deep and clear.

  Karen wore the boots back to the house, then switched to her own footwear once more. The trail of mud she’d left on the carpet might not survive the imminent fire, but she’d left a strong enough clue near the fence.

  The next step was to leave Beckett’s DNA at the scene. Karen took the small plastic bag from her pocket and plucked two hairs from it, placing them in Hamilton’s open mouth. She tried to close it afterwards to protect the hairs from the fire, but it flopped open again. The only way to get it to stay closed was to turn him on his front.

  Karen then picked up the electric saw and took Hamilton’s left hand in hers. The blade buzzed into life, but slicing through his lower arm was far more difficult than she’d imagined. She placed the severed body part in the plastic bag, then removed his other hand and put it with the first. She tied the bag tight, then put it in another bag and secured that one, too, before putting it in the holdall.

  All that remained was to change and then light the place up. She put her holdall by the front door and stripped naked, removing the outer set of gloves, then went and got the clothes from the living room, giving the body a wide berth. Once dressed, she emptied the petrol can over the corpse and laid a trail to the kitchen, where she turned the knobs on all six burners. The smell of gas was immediate. She ran back to the living room, dripping petrol to the door leading to the hallway, then threw the empty can aside.

  Karen patted her pockets.

  Shit!

  She didn’t have a lighter or any matches, and there was no sign that Hamilton was a smoker, either.