Motive

by Alan McDermott

  Mrs Latimer?” Atkinson prompted after a few minutes.

  “This is…ridiculous.” She waved the paper at Ambrose. “It says both books have an unreliable narrator. Are you seriously telling me that you were the first person in history to use that technique in a novel? And...and this one, the protagonist is female and the villain is also female. Again, were you the first person in history to write about a woman going after another woman? This is pathetic.”

  Latimer was stunned at Fiona’s outburst. He watched her throw the paper back across the table at Ambrose, who looked fit to burst. Fiona then took a sheet of paper from her own file and gave it to Atkinson.

  “Bethany’s book is self-published and only available on Amazon. That is a printout of all the books I have purchased from Amazon in the last two years. As you will see, Death by Opinion is not listed. How could I have stolen her ideas if I’d never read the book?”

  “It’s been found available for download on several pirate websites,” Ambrose said. “You must have got a copy from one of them.”

  “A pirate website? Are you serious?”

  “Oh, I’m serious, alright. It’s up to you to prove otherwise.”

  “Actually, the burden of proof is on the plaintiff,” Latimer broke in. “In this case, you, Miss Ambrose. But, if that’s the way you want to play it, my wife saves a copy of her work in progress to the cloud after each writing session. She also sends a copy to herself via email each day. Prove to me that you don’t have access to either her online storage or her email account. You could have read her first draft, made a few changes here and there and self-published it while her publisher was getting it ready for release.”

  “Are you suggesting Bethany stole your wife’s idea?” Ambrose’s solicitor asked.

  “Why not? Does she have the monopoly on outlandish ideas? If it wasn’t Miss Ambrose, then one of her friends, perhaps. I will contact my internet service provider and get a list of all websites visited in the last two years to prove that we haven’t been to any pirate download websites. I’ll let you decide how to refute my allegation.”

  Ambrose was almost purple with rage. She snatched up her papers and stuffed them into her bag. “I told you this was a terrible idea,” she told her solicitor. “These people have no intention of settling this amicably. Let’s go.”

  “Bethany, I strongly advise—”

  Ambrose stood and left the room before her brief could finish his sentence. He apologised to those present, then joined her in the reception area.

  “That went well,” Latimer said.

  “At least it’s given her something to think about,” his wife smiled. “When did you come up with that?”

  “I don’t know. I was just thinking her idea was preposterous, and how would she like it if we’d done the same to her.” Latimer grinned. “Seemed to get her attention.”

  That mediation meeting had been eighteen months ago. Everything had gone quiet, and both Latimer and Fiona believed the entire episode was behind them.

  It clearly wasn’t.

  Latimer went and put his arms around his wife. “Just write back to her solicitor and remind him—”

  “Her. The solicitor’s a woman.”

  She must have got a new one, Latimer thought. Not surprising. “Okay, remind her that the burden of proof is on Ambrose. She has to come up with evidence that you ever had a copy of her book. You’ve still got that list of purchases from Amazon. Send that to her.”

  Fiona nodded, but didn’t look convinced.

  “Look,” Latimer pressed, “the books aren’t word-for-word. In fact, most people said your version was vastly superior.”

  “It’s not about who did it better, it’s…it’s…”

  “It’s time to knock off the wine,” Latimer said, taking the glass from her hand. “You’re working yourself into a state. Let me fix something to eat and we can discuss this tomorrow. Don’t go responding to anything she says on Facebook or Twitter, and don’t reply to the solicitor until you’re calm enough to make sense.”

  “But what if she takes me to court and the judge awards her all of my royalties? That’s over eighty thousand pounds! Where would we get that kind of money?”

  It was indeed a formidable sum. The money hadn’t come in all at once, and whenever she received a cheque, most of it went toward the mortgage. They’d spent twenty grand on a new car, and the rest on a couple of holidays.

  “It won’t come to that. British law says it’s up to Ambrose to prove you did it.”

  “Yes, but not beyond a reasonable doubt. I looked into civil cases, and it says that Ambrose only has to prove her case on the balance of probabilities. That means if the judge has even the slightest doubt about my testimony, she’ll win.”

  “Then we get you the best lawyer available and make sure the judge has no choice but to rule in your favour. You and I both know you didn’t steal her idea. Anyway, it might not even get that far. Once you send her solicitor the evidence, she’ll probably walk away from the case.”

  Fiona kissed his hand. “I hope so.”

  “Now, what’s for dinner?”

  “There’s salmon in the fridge. I thought we’d do it with boiled potatoes, asparagus and cauliflower cheese.”

  Of all the aspects of his recent health transformation, the diet was the part he hated most. He’d never been a big lover of fish, but the plan the doctor had given him called for plenty of tuna, salmon and mackerel. He forced himself to eat them three times a week, as well as avocado and plenty of salads. Bacon and sausages were out, as were takeaways. No more curries, no more kebabs. It sometimes felt like his life was already over, especially at meal times.

  The fact that Fiona was a great cook and could disguise the taste of the fish with subtle spices helped a great deal. He’d asked her to teach him a few simple recipes to give her a few nights off from the cooking, and the salmon dish was one of the easiest. The cheese sauce also hid the fish taste nicely.

  Latimer chuckled. “You mean you thought I’d do it.”

  Latimer kissed Fiona and tried to walk away, but she grabbed his arm. “You’ve been drinking.”

  He’d expected her to fly off the handle, but she seemed calm, even sanguine. Latimer put it down to the bottle of wine she’d drunk.

  “I only had a half. I went in for an orange juice to celebrate closing a case, but Paul bought me a beer. It would have been rude to say no. Besides, the last time I had a drink was eight days ago. It’s not going to kill me.”

  “Maybe not, but when two weeks becomes eight days, then six, then four, you’re back to where you started.”

  “It was a one-off,” Latimer said. “I promise.”

  “Then you might as well make the most of it. I’ll prepare the salmon, you nip to the shop and get some beer and another bottle of rose.”

  The twinkle in her eye told him that wasn’t the only pleasure he was going to get that night.

  Chapter 8

  Ryan Anderson turned off the television when the doorbell rang.

  “Who is it?” His voice easily carried from the cheap sofa to the hallway outside his bedsit.

  “Paul. Open up.”

  Ryan went to the door and looked through the spyhole. The man who’d let him into the Vine two days earlier was there alone. Ryan opened the door and stood aside to let him in.

  “How did you get past the front door?”

  “Some fat bird let me in.” Paul looked inside the room, but stayed where he was. “Get your coat.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Out.”

  Guessing he wasn’t going to get anything more from Marsh’s heavy, Ryan put on his jacket and walked out, closing the door behind him.

  Paul told him to put his arms out, just as he had at their previous meeting. Ryan obliged, and Paul patted down every inch of his body, even checking inside his ears. When he came across Ryan’s phone, he told him to leave it at home.

  Ryan unlocked the door, tossed the phone on
the bed, then locked it again.

  “How come you live in that shithole?” Paul asked as they walked down the three flights of stairs to the entrance to the building.

  “It’s all I can afford,” Ryan shrugged. “It’s here or the streets, and the bedsit is slightly warmer.”

  That was the truth. Even though it was late summer, the single room leaked heat at night. It also made his clothes stink of the food he cooked, and the walls were so thin that he could hear conversations taking place two floors below him. The worst part was having to share the toilet and shower with five other tenants.

  Outside, Paul led him to a black BMW and got in behind the wheel. Ryan took the front passenger seat.

  “Nice motor,” Ryan said as Paul started the car. “Does this mean I’ve got the job?”

  “Not yet. Consider yourself on probation.”

  They pulled out into traffic and were soon heading south from Cheetham Hill toward the city centre.

  “What’s with the pat down?” Ryan asked. “Are you gonna do that every time we meet?”

  “Pretty much,” Paul said. “The boss likes you, but that doesn’t mean he trusts you. The way you happened to bump into him last week was too much of a coincidence for his liking. Mine, too. Until we’re both convinced you’re not a copper, we’ll take precautions.”

  “All you have you do is check my past,” Ryan said. “I’ve got a full work history since I was seventeen.”

  “We’re checking, don’t you worry. The boss has got people looking into you as we speak.”

  “Well, when they get round to interviewing Johnny at the factory, tell them not to shake his hand. He was on his phone when he opened the lunchbox and he put his hand inside before the smell hit him.”

  The laugh surprised Ryan. It sounded like Paul was fighting for breath, a timid sound for such a big guy.

  “Yeah, someone went round to visit him a couple of days ago. Johnny still hates you, by the way.”

  “I’m heartbroken,” Ryan said, feigning sorrow.

  Paul joined the ring road.

  “So where are we going?”

  “Salford,” Paul told him, all humour gone from his voice. “Time to put your skills to good use.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Paul pulled up at the side of the road and nodded towards a side street. “Down there, number eleven. It’s the fifth house from this end. I’ll go in the front, you cover the back.”

  Ryan followed Paul’s finger and saw a metal gate leading to a small alleyway that ran between two rows of terraced up-and-downs. They got out of the BMW and crossed the road.

  “He’s a slippery bastard, so watch yourself,” Paul said. “And when we get inside, just do as I say. Got it?”

  “No problem.”

  Paul walked down the road and turned right, out of sight. Ryan pushed the gate open and counted down the houses. They were all red brick with white lintels over the windows. The only differentiating features were the numbers on the back gates.

  Ryan reached number eleven, one of the digits hanging askew, held in place by a single rusty screw. None of the houses looked in particularly good repair, but this one was exceptional. The wooden gate hadn’t seen a coat of paint in years, and the bottom corner had rotted away. Beyond it, Ryan could see green mold growing on the wall where rainwater had run over the clogged guttering and down the side of the house.

  Out of sight, a door opened. Ryan heard the footsteps of someone in a hurry, and the wooden gate flew open. A stick-thin man in his thirties, wearing tracksuit bottoms and a grubby t-shirt, ran into Ryan’s arms.

  His face was pasty-white and panic-stricken. “Lemme go, please!”

  Ryan said nothing. He held on to the man’s shoulders and pushed him back through the gate, toward the rear door of the house. The man resisted, and despite being six inches shorter than Ryan, he made progress difficult. Ryan adjusted his grip, and felt a searing pain as the scruff raked his foot down Ryan’s right shin. As Ryan lifted his foot from the ground he was pushed backwards and lost his balance, clattering into a rusty metal barbecue that hadn’t been used in years.

  Ryan looked up as his quarry dashed through the gates. He cursed as he got to his feet to give chase, his shin still aching. He limped through the gate, and was relieved to see that Paul had followed him into the alley. He was gripping the man’s throat and marching him back toward the house.

  “I told you he was a slippery bastard,” Paul said as he pushed past Ryan and forced the man inside the house. Ryan joined them in the gloomy living room just as Paul pushed the man backwards onto the fake-leather sofa.

  The interior of the house was worse than the outside. Black mold clung to the walls, window frames and skirting boards, throwing off a putrid stench that made Ryan’s stomach turn. The ill-fitting orange curtains were stained black, too, and probably hadn’t been drawn in months. The carpet had been down for at least twenty years, and was marked with stains and cigarette burns. If there was a vacuum cleaner in the house, Ryan doubted the occupant knew how to use it. The only thing out of place was the fifty-inch television which sat on top of a dust-covered sideboard.

  “Mickey, Mickey, Mickey. How come you always do a runner when I show up?”

  “I didn’t know it was you, Paul. I swear.”

  “You’re a lying little shit.”

  Mickey fumbled through the drug paraphernalia on the cluttered table for his cigarettes and put one in his mouth with a trembling hand.

  “Mickey here owes the boss some money,” Paul said to Ryan.

  “What for?”

  “Never you mind. All you need to know is that he wants his grand, and Mickey is going to pay up or lose the use of some of his body parts.” Paul turned to Mickey. “Where’s the cash?”

  “I…I ain’t got it,” Mickey said, and Ryan could see fear in his eyes. But also something else.

  Deceit.

  Paul must have spotted it, too, because he reached over and slapped Mickey’s stubble-encrusted face. “I know when you’re lying. I’ll give you one last chance to tell me where the money is.”

  Mickey put his hands up to protect himself from the next onslaught. “I swear, Paul, I ain’t got it. Drew Matthews screwed me over, honest.”

  “Then how come you got a new telly?”

  “That was a present,” Mickey said. “From me mum.”

  Paul picked up a heavy glass ashtray and threw it at the screen. It bounced off, leaving a crack that spiderwebbed out from the centre to the edges.

  Mickey wailed, then put his head in his hands.

  “We should have taken that and sold it,” Ryan said. “Could have got a couple of hundred quid at least.”

  Paul thrust a finger in Ryan’s face. “I told you to shut up and do what the fuck I said.”

  Ryan backed off and put his hands up in submission. “Just making a point, that’s all.”

  “Well, don’t.” Paul kicked Mickey’s shin to get his attention. “Last chance. Where is it?”

  “If I had it—”

  Paul silenced him with a slap to the head, then turned to Ryan. “I want you to fuck him up.”

  “Sure,” Ryan said. He took off his jacket and handed it to his companion, then stood in front of the cowering Mickey. “Want me to break anything, or just kick the shit out of him?”

  “Whatever floats your boat.”

  Ryan’s fist connected with Mickey’s face before the drug addict had time to react. His head snapped sideways and he fell off the couch, landing on the floor on his front. Ryan threw the coffee table aside and kicked Mickey in the kidneys, then stamped on his fingers.

  “No more! Stop! It’s in the kitchen!”

  “Where in the kitchen?”

  “The freezer. In the fish fingers.”

  Paul nodded toward the kitchen, and Ryan took the hint. It was as neglected as the rest of the house. Dishes piled high in the sink, and there was so much burnt food on the electric hob that it was impossible to tell whether it had once bee
n enamel or stainless steel. Ryan opened the small fridge. It was almost empty, apart from some milk and half a block of cheese. The small freezer compartment at the top was stuffed full, though. He pulled everything out and found the box of fish fingers at the back. He emptied it out onto a greasy countertop, and after three dodgy-looking fingers fell out, he ripped open the box. A wad of notes fell out, and Ryan caught them before they hit the grimy floor. He did a quick count before returning to the living room. Mickey was sitting up, but still on the floor.

  “There’s four hundred,” Ryan said, handing the money over.

  “That’s a start,” Paul said. “You still owe me seven, though, Mickey.”

  “Six,” the drug addict corrected him.

  “No, seven. An extra hundred for lying to me.”

  “I didn’t lie, I just forgot I had it in there…”

  “Well then, my friend here is going to ensure you never forget anything else in future.”

  Ryan took his cue. He grabbed Mickey around the throat and pulled him to his feet, then punched him in the stomach. Mickey doubled over, gasping for breath, and Ryan delivered a left to the side of his head. He crumpled to the floor, and Ryan stamped on his ankle. He heard a bone snap, and Mickey let out a scream, throwing his hands in the air.

  “That’ll do,” Paul said, throwing Ryan his jacket.

  “At least we know he won’t run next time we pop round,” Ryan smiled.

  He managed to draw a chuckle from Paul, who swung a leg and caught Mickey in the stomach.

  “You’ve got one week.”

  Mickey just about managed a nod of acknowledgement, and Paul led Ryan out the back way.

  “Where next?”

  “Wherever you want. You’re done for the day.” Paul took the wad of money from his pocket and counted off a few notes. “There’s a couple of hundred to keep you going.”

  Ryan took the cash. “Thanks, but I was hoping for something more permanent. I don’t want to live in a bedsit forever, but I can’t move until I’ve got a regular income. How long before Marsh makes up his mind?”