Motive

by Alan McDermott

  Because she killed Waterstone.

  “That’s her. That’s Kelly.”

  “Call Latimer, let him know.”

  It was as if Hayes could sense what he was thinking, and it was a good call. He couldn’t trust himself to face her alone after what she’d done. Better to hand her over to the police and let them prove the case against her. That said, he wanted to be there when she was arrested, to see what she had to say for herself.

  Ryan took out his MI5-issue phone and dialed.

  “Latimer.”

  “I’ve found her. Meet me in Richmond Park Road, Richmond. And come alone.”

  Chapter 39

  Karen Harper checked the bottom of the boot against the picture on her phone, but it wasn’t a match.

  This was infuriating.

  She put the boot back on the shelf and continued looking, but she was sure she wasn’t going to find the right pair. This was the third shop she’d been in, and none of the shoes she’d looked at had a sole that matched the one belonging to failed author Bethany Ambrose.

  She’s probably had them re-soled with a generic pattern.

  She should have known better than to photograph the boots when there were other shoes next to the front door, but she’d been drawn to them somehow. They were old, which suggested they were used often.

  Too often, it appeared.

  Karen walked out into the street and found a coffee shop, where she ordered a decaf latte.

  She wanted to go ahead with the next kill, but something told her it was a bad idea. The fiasco with Hamilton could have ruined everything, just when she was on a roll. Maybe it was a sign that it was time to stop, or cut back at the very least.

  Yes, time to sit back and re-evaluate. The Hamilton episode a few days earlier had been rushed, and she knew it. She should have stuck to her modus operandi, using both hair samples and fingerprints to point to someone else, but no, she had to go barging in and leave blood at the scene. It was reckless, stupid. She’d changed tack because the police might eventually link the murders, but that was easily solved. She could move to another city, even another country. Scotland, Wales, Northern Ireland. By moving around, it was unlikely the deaths would show any pattern.

  Of course they would. That why it’s called the Police National Computer.

  If she were to continue, it would have to be outside the UK. Her language skills were terrible, so it would have to be an English-speaking country, like Australia or Canada, perhaps even the US. Yes, somewhere big, where a provincial murder was unlikely to make the national headlines. Where a small-town sheriff could take the credit for an easy bust.

  It shouldn’t take too much to get a green card. She had a highly-paid skill, and in the land of the dollar, money spoke volumes. Her house was paid for outright, so she could sell that and have at least half a million in the bank to back up her application. While she waited for that to come through, there was nothing to stop her taking a three-month vacation and testing the water.

  Karen felt a new sense of purpose. She would cease her activities here in the UK and wait for an opportunity in America, where—

  Her phone played a doorbell chime that alerted her that someone was at the door to her house. She had bought the app after seeing an ad on TV. She wasn’t expecting a delivery, so it must be a cold caller. She was tempted to ignore it, but better to let a stranger know they were being watched than have them feel comfortable that the house was empty. She opened the app, and her heart almost stopped.

  * * *

  When Latimer cruised down Richmond Park Road, he spotted Ryan easily. He was wearing the same hoodie, only this time his head was uncovered. He could now see that Ryan had a full head of black, shoulder-length hair, with a dark beard that covered most of his face. Latimer pulled alongside him and turned the engine off.

  “What’s the suspect’s name?” he asked as he got out of the car. The rear passenger door opened, and a uniformed Carole Ingram joined them on the pavement.

  “I said to come alone,” Ryan said, adopting a stance as if ready to flee.

  “If John is going to make an arrest today, he needs a backup, and as the suspect is female, I thought I’d tag along. Much more fun than the meeting I was about to attend with the chief constable.” She held out her hand. “DCI Ingram.”

  Ryan shook reluctantly. “This doesn’t mean I’m coming to the station,” he said.

  “If this pans out as you believe, that won’t be necessary. John has updated me on the case, and it seems this woman is of more interest to us than you at the moment. So, who is she?”

  “Karen Harper,” Ryan said. “She lives at number forty, but I did a walk-past and it doesn’t look like anyone’s home.”

  “Then let’s take a look.”

  Ryan led them to Harper’s house, a semi-detached with a one-storey extension built onto the side. There was no car in the driveway.

  “I see your limp’s gone,” Latimer said to Ryan.

  “I knew you’d circulate my description the moment I left you, so I did it to throw you off the scent. I was standing next to you when you called it in.”

  One smart cookie.

  “I’d like you to wait out here,” Ingram told Ryan once they reached the front door. “We have to avoid cross-contamination. As you were the prime suspect in this case, her lawyer could argue that allowing you access to her home invited the planting of evidence.”

  “That would be a bit rich, considering what she’s done.”

  “That may be,” Latimer said, defending his superior’s stance, “but this is an unusual case. If we’re to get a conviction, we need to do this by the book. We can’t afford to give her a way out.”

  Ryan folded his arms and looked ready to argue, then relaxed his posture. “Fine. I’ll wait here. But if she’s in there, I want to talk to her before you take her away.”

  “That we can do,” Ingram agreed. “Once she’s under caution you can ask her questions through me.”

  With Ryan satisfied, Latimer rang the bell. There was no answer. He tried again, but still no one came to the door.

  “Can you break in?” Ryan asked. “I mean, legally?”

  “Only if we have reason to believe she’s on the premises,” Ingram said.

  Ryan looked up. “In that case, I just saw a curtain twitch. Up there, the one with the small open window. Of course, it could just be the wind.”

  Latimer looked at Ingram, who shrugged. “That’s good enough for me.”

  Latimer moved his boss aside and aimed a kick at the front door. It held fast. He stepped back and tried again, but with no success.

  “Allow me,” Ryan said. Latimer made way for him, and with one kick the door flew inwards.

  “Nice work,” Ingram said. “Now, please wait here.”

  Both officers put on blue latex gloves and Latimer took the lead, shouting a warning that the police were on the premises and the occupants should identify themselves. He checked the ground floor while Ingram crept up the stairs.

  The dining room was clear, as were the living room and kitchen. Latimer checked the toilet, but it was empty, too. The only other room on the ground floor was off the kitchen. He opened the door and walked into a workroom, with a large bench up against the outer wall. It seemed an odd set-up, so Latimer went over for a closer look.

  There was a microscope with what looked like a tiny vice underneath it, and to the right of that was what appeared to be wooden guttering screwed into the bench. An assortment of tools lay on the left side of the work surface. None of it looked suspicious.

  There was a pile of correspondence on another bench, and Latimer flicked through them. Most appeared to be invoices, and it soon became clear that Karen Harper was an engraver. She made a tidy sum doing it, too.

  There were a few items on the table that Latimer wouldn’t have associated with engraving. Plaster of Paris was one, and another was a litre tub of latex. Perhaps she was making casts of her work to sell as replicas.

&
nbsp; The one thing he didn’t see was a clear sign that Karen Harper was a killer. He would have to get the forensic team in to go over the entire place and see if she’d left any incriminating evidence. He went to the door, and as he got there, Ingram appeared. Latimer stepped aside to let her in and lost his footing on the head of a broom. He fell backwards, but thankfully crashed into a pile of old newspapers. They fell around him as he ended up on his backside.

  “You okay?” the DCI asked as she leant down to help him up.

  “Fine. Just getting clumsy in my old age.” He stood and wiped the back of his trousers, then bent down to start picking up the newspapers. The first one he grabbed made him straighten up slowly. The newspaper had been folded open on the third page, and the picture above the article was of a familiar face. He passed it to Ingram.

  “Look at this.”

  The DCI took the paper from his hand and stared at the photo of James Knight. “This is about his dispute with Sean Conte,” she said.

  “I know.” Latimer checked the other editions and saw that most showed the front page. Only a few were folded open to reveal the inside stories. He checked one that had been folded on page nine. It had a picture of a man standing outside court.

  “Roger Hamilton. Wasn’t he the guy who was murdered in the gas explosion?”

  “He was,” Ingram said, taking the paper from him. She read for a few moments, then handed it back. “It mentions John Beckett as one of his victims.”

  The connection between the killings was staring Latimer in the face. “It wasn’t random.”

  “She picked these victims for a reason?”

  “I’m sure of it. What’s the first thing we ask ourselves when a body turns up?”

  “Who are they, who would want to hurt them, do we have—”

  “Exactly. Who would want to hurt them? We’d suspect anyone with a grudge against the victim, and if their DNA and fingerprints were at the scene, we’d look no further.”

  “Just like James Knight and Sean Conte,” Ingram said.

  “James and Conte, Hamilton and Beckett.” Latimer got down on his knees and sorted through the papers, looking for other examples.

  “What about Ryan? What’s his connection to Waterstone?”

  “A viral video,” Latimer told her. “He was…wait, here it is.” He passed her another edition. “A piece on their confrontation in a supermarket car park. She saw their stories in the Evening Standard and knew the first person the police would suspect was the one the victim had a disagreement with.”

  “Okay, get a SOCO in here and turn the place upside down. We need…John? Are you all right?”

  Latimer got up slowly with a newspaper in his hand, then ran past her.

  “John!”

  Latimer wasn’t stopping. He belted out of the house to his car. By the time he got there, Ryan was right next to him and DCI Ingram was running to join them.

  “What is it?” Ryan asked.

  Latimer thrust the newspaper at him. “Get in.”

  Ryan was still reading when Ingram caught up and got in the front passenger seat.

  “What the hell’s going on?” she demanded.

  Ryan handed her the newspaper and climbed into the back seat. The car shot forward and both passengers struggled to put on their seat belts as Latimer threw it into the turns.

  When they reached the main road, Ingram looked at the story Latimer had been reading. It had a picture of a woman in her thirties by the name of Bethany Ambrose. Towards the bottom of the page, another photo.

  Of John and Fiona Latimer.

  * * *

  Karen couldn’t believe the image on the screen. She knew the man standing at the door because she’d studied the photograph in the newspaper for hours. His name was John Latimer, husband of one of her intended victims, Fiona Latimer. To his left was a cop, a woman, but what shocked her more was the man standing to Latimer’s right.

  Scott Davison.

  What was he doing there? He was supposed to be in France, or a police cell, one of the two. The last place he should be was outside her front door.

  Somehow, they knew about her. She’d messed up, big time, probably when she’d killed Hamilton.

  The phone began to tremble in her hand, and she realised she was shaking.

  Shit! Shit! Shit!

  Karen tried to picture a way out, but there was none. Scott being at her house meant the Kelly Thorn ID was blown, and she obviously couldn’t use her own. She was trapped, with no way out of the country.

  She hadn’t thought far enough ahead to anticipate this. She’d expected every kill to go smoothly, but in her rush to satisfy her urges, she’d broken protocol and ruined everything. She’d told herself that the change in MO was to throw the police off the scent, but she realised it was because she simply couldn’t wait for the next fix. It wasn’t excellent detective work, but her own impatience that had led to her downfall.

  She watched the scene on her phone, trying to decide whether to reply over the intercom. She could tell them she was out, but that would tip her hand. They didn’t know that she could see them. She kept her hand off the reply button, hoping to give herself some time to formulate a plan.

  She watched Latimer kick at the door, twice, then Scott had a go.

  This was no social visit. As they walked into her house, Karen heard Latimer shout “Police!” The newspaper hadn’t mentioned him being a cop — otherwise she would never have picked his wife as the target.

  Her life was over, that much she knew. She would spend the rest of her life behind bars, locked in a cell with a succession of lowlifes, eating when ordered to, sleeping to a strict schedule. No more shopping, nights out, takeaways and Netflix box sets, constantly watching your back…

  Karen couldn’t live like that. In fact, it was no life at all. Better to be dead than have your soul slowly sucked out of you, year after year, decade after decade.

  She would end it herself, on her terms.

  But how? The drugs she used on the victims were at her home, and that was now off limits. An overdose would have been a nice and peaceful way to go, just fall asleep as if pleasantly drunk, never to wake again. That was now out of the question. She had to think of another method, one that would be quick and relatively painful.

  The only thing she could think of was a bullet between the eyes. She’d be dead before the sound of the shot reached her, and it was a good alternative to a chemical demise.

  The only trouble was, she didn’t have a gun.

  But she knew who had plenty.

  Chapter 40

  “C’mon, pickup!”

  Latimer’s call to his wife rang out and went to voicemail once more. He decided to leave a message this time.

  “Fiona, as soon as you get this, get in the car, drive to the station and call me from there.”

  He hit the button on the steering wheel to end the call and leaned on the horn as a van cut into his lane without indicating.

  Ingram was on her radio, ordering units to Latimer’s house. She also gave instructions to find out which car Karen Harper was driving and put a Be On Look Out onto it.

  “Maybe your wife went out and left her phone at home,” Ryan said.

  “Never. She works from home, and it’s always right next to her laptop.” Latimer pounded the wheel in frustration as another traffic jam developed near a set of road works. It was eight miles from Harper’s house to his, but it had already taken him twenty minutes, and there were still three miles to go. Not even the blue lights in the grill of his unmarked car helped when the vehicles ahead were not moving.

  They inched forward for a few metres, and the oncoming lane suddenly cleared. Latimer swung the wheel to the right and hit the gas. He drove straight toward a lorry and flicked on the siren, then took a right and nipped down a side street. He paralleled the A205 for half a mile, then rejoined it. They were past the obstruction and he was able to put his foot down once more, but it had cost them precious time.

 
A call came in over the radio. The first of the armed response vehicles was two minutes from Latimer’s home.

  “Tell them to wait for us to arrive,” Latimer said. “We’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  Ingram relayed the instructions.

  “Ask if Fiona’s car—”

  He was cut off by the sound of his phone ringing. The display on the dashboard told him the caller was his wife.

  “Fiona, thank God. Where have you been?”

  * * *

  Karen pulled into the driveway and got out of the car, taking her purse with her. She still had the IPOC identification, though she wasn’t really dressed for the role today. She could only hope Fiona Latimer wasn’t as sharp as her husband, but she would only need the policeman’s wife off guard for a few seconds.

  Karen reached the door and took the ID from her inside pocket. From her purse she took the pepper spray she always carried with her and held it behind her back. After taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, she rang the bell.

  The woman who answered looked every bit like her photograph. Fiona Latimer offered Karen a smile. “Hello.”

  “Hi,” Karen said, holding up her ID. “Kate Hooper, IOPC. We’re investigating a case that your husband’s involved in. Can I come in?”

  Fiona looked almost panic-stricken. “Of course.” She held the door open and Karen walked in. She waited while Fiona closed the door, and when she turned, Karen emptied half the can of pepper spray into her face.

  Fiona screamed, her hands over her eyes. She collapsed to the floor, her back to the door, but Karen kicked her shin and told her to get up. A phone rang somewhere in the house, almost drowned out by the sound of Fiona wailing like a maniac. Karen grabbed her by the hair and dragged her through to the kitchen. She let go and Fiona fell to the floor. Karen left her there while she went through the drawers until she found what she was looking for. Armed with an eight-inch blade and a roll of tape, she took hold of Fiona’s hair once more and pulled her to the living room.