Motives

By Terri Peterson

Whenever a crime is committed, there is always a motive, but the motivation is different in each case.

Here is a collection of short stories, each with death at its heart, about the differing reasons for the crimes to be committed.

A jilted lover, or a jealous partner.

A grieving father or an uncontrollable rage.

Each has a tale to tell.

Each has a motive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Terri Peterson
• Release date: Aug 9, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201250676

Book preview

01 Tuesday

People often say that God moves in mysterious ways, but the god of sexual attraction is more inscrutable, don’t you think? I mean, I think it’s a case of different strokes for different folks, isn’t it? One man’s poison is another man’s mead, and all that jazz? I didn’t intend to become infatuated with Claire. It happened by chance; a random event.

When it comes to women, I never really had a type, unlike my peers, and I guess you could say that I’m what some might call picky. I have a couple of friends obsessed with breast size, who adore a more voluptuous frame but, for me, tits are just functional appendages. They’re simply a means of feeding children; mammaries, right? Gravity is a great leveller in that department because, when a lady is in the horizontal position, tits have a tendency to vanish; disappearing into armpits, or lying flat to the ribcage. So, if I ever spend time appreciating a woman’s charms, the last thing I tend to notice is the size of her chest.

Some guys like wide hips, narrow waists, long legs or a pair of finely-chiselled calf muscles to drool over, but none of that has ever been high on my list of priorities. I like to find out what’s going on between their ears, rather than their thighs, to see if their grey matter is firing on all cylinders, and that takes time. Oh, I know, there has to be some kind of spark for an initial attraction, or interaction; a catalyst for the magic of body chemistry to happen but, if I’m honest, I rarely take things beyond an appreciative glance. It might be a shock of blonde hair, shimmering in sunlight, or clicking of a perilous high heel on tiled floors that sets the interest ball a-rolling. Occasionally, a hint of heady perfume as they saunter by, or the wicked glint in a knowing eye, is all it will take to arouse my curiosity.

I’m not looking for love, or long-lasting relationship, because I had that in the past, and found it disappointing and, ultimately, soul-destroying. Plans you make together for the future evaporate, or are devastated by an infidelity. So, when my marriage broke down, I swore I’d never get on that horse again, vowed to remain single and happy.

My friend Peter can never understand why I refuse to indulge in online dating, singles clubs and bars or, if push came to shove, finding sexual relief with prostitutes. God, I could never pay a woman to have sex with me. I’m not prudish or trying to take the moral high ground on this. I mean, if they want to do it, well fine, let them get on with it, but I’m not interested. I couldn’t do it.

He asks me if I ever feel lonely, but I never do. Being happy in my own skin, and my own company, has never been a problem to me. Why should it? Yes, since I retired from my post as a college lecturer at the tender age of just fifty-five, I have more free time on my hands, so what? I fill the hours by writing stories that no-one will read, meet up with friends for a drink regularly and, whilst I miss the banter and the social network of colleagues, I’m a happier person. No more slaving over lesson prep, marking papers or enduring hours of blank faces and empty heads in the classroom, chattering and ignoring lectures. I don’t have to compete with mobile phones pinging and ringing, hear the same stupid questions over and over. No, I’m glad I’m out of that loop, thank you. It nearly killed me.

I catch an earlier bus to town tonight, not by choice, but because it happened along; fate, I suppose. Perhaps it was God and his mysterious ways, who knows? I pull my coat tighter around my shoulders against the rain, clamber aboard, and sit at the rear of the lower deck, rehearsing a menu of topics for debate with my oldest chum, David. Politics, films or books are the usual fare for discussions on our Tuesday soirées, but there hasn’t been anything decent screening lately at the cinema, and I haven’t read a good book in ages. I can’t remember the last book I read.

To kill time, I call in at the Shakespeare. There’s no point arriving at the Fat Cat before eight-thirty, as David’s wife Wendy is always late dropping him off. The Shakey, as I refer to it, is a shithole, to be honest, and in dire need of more than just a lick of paint. The furniture is crappy, mismatched house-clearance junk and, in the summer, the drains back up and stink out the beer garden. To offset the overall air of neglect, and mask shoddy lighting, candles are stuffed into the necks of old gin or wine bottles, and lit in the evenings. It creates a more intimate atmosphere, I suppose; a kind of Fellini fuzz reminiscent of Christmas long gone. It drags punter’s attention away from the décor but, at its heart, the Shakey is decidedly seedy, and run-down; it’s the sort of place my ex wife would call an old man’s pub.

I order a pint, hand over my cash to a fat guy behind the bar, and shuffle to the rear of the lounge and sit by one of the bay windows. I sip froth from the head, stretch out my legs and relax, thinking of nothing in particular.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a brief glimpse of a young lady reappearing from either the cellar, or the stockroom adjacent to a grubby kitchen. I only see three strides in black, lace-up, wedge-heeled sandals - are they called espadrilles? I’m fairly certain they are. You must have seen them. The wedges are made of cork. Anyway, I watch her take the three paces necessary to arrive at the bar, lifting the hatch, and then perching on a stool behind it. She’s wearing sheer black tights, a short black skirt, and a black scoop-neck top. The tights - I assume they’re tights - are not those thick, frumpy woollen things, but delicate fifteen denier see-through types. I have absolutely no idea of what fifteen denier is, by the way. It’s just a guess. The short black skirt, however, hugs slender hips like a glove, accentuating pert buttocks, but not creating that dreaded visible panty line women always gripe about.

As she sits atop the stool, she’s framed by the serving hatch, and I see the scoop-neck is practically backless, so I’m treated to an expanse of naked flesh that runs from a hairline at the nape of a slim neck, to somewhere above those delicious dimples near the buttocks. She is wearing no bra and, this random catalyst of exposed pale pink fires up a chemical reaction; a chain of thought that cannot be stopped, like the juggernaut of lust. I am fascinated, and enthralled by what I see. The ancient, smoke-stained oak square of a serving hatch frames porcelain perfection, and I cannot stop staring. I want to run fingertips over smooth, silken shoulder blades, slide them along her spine, playing her vertebrae like a piano of pleasure. No, I don’t play the piano, but I know a lilting lullaby I’d be strumming on her flesh, if I could. I’m certain that pianists don’t strum the instrument, but you know what I mean, right?

The barman mutters something, causing her to turn, letting me see her face, in profile, for the first time. She pulls errant strands of medium length blonde hair from it, tucks them behind an ear, as she replies. I can’t hear their conversation, but she rises gracefully, slides around tilted bar hatch, and drags the stool over to a disused fireplace. Above it is a chalkboard, with a list of the available beers, strengths and prices, but I can’t see it, or read it, from my vantage point, nor do I wish to. I only know that, through a square portal linking the room in which I sit, gazing, to the room in which she clambers onto a stool, I am treated to the sight of long, lithe legs, ripe buttocks, and taut flat stomach. I am instantly smitten with her.

I don’t contemplate her sexuality, age, or whether or not there is a lucky chap, somewhere in this city, who has unfettered access to those charms. I don’t think of past, or present, but of the future. I see a possible future, unknown and uncertain, but it begins with the vision of a pale, elfin goddess, clambering onto the pedestal of a mere bar stool, for me to worship at the altar of her perfection.

I want to drink in, or drown in, this mirage of her but, seeing time on a grandfather clock marching on; I know that I have to leave. Reluctantly, I drain the dregs of my pint, place an empty pot on the bar, and head out into the rain, with mind in turmoil. I cannot shake the images. I spend the evening blanking out David’s droning voice, contemplating only one thing; when will I see her again?

02 Friday

On the first Friday of every month, I hook up with a group of other former lecturers, to touch base, get back up to speed, or some other idiotic academia speak for having a drink and a gossip together. We meet in the back room of the Kelham Island, at around five o’clock, drinking and reminiscing, talking the usual bollocks, until we’re either bored, or pissed, and call it a night. By seven-thirty, there are usually four of us remaining, and by eight o’clock I’m on my way home via a takeaway emporium for supper.

This Friday, however, is different.

As I’m walking briskly past the fire station museum, rain begins to bounce from glistening pavements, soaking shoes and coat, pelting me in a relentless downpour, so I take refuge in the Shakey. Of course, I’m secretly hoping I’ll see the young lady who has been on my mind all the time since Tuesday, but I’m crestfallen when I enter. The pub is packed to the rafters with students, eager to explore the city’s real ale trail, but unable to cope with the strong beers and, as a consequence, becoming rowdy and drunk. A queue for service has formed at the bar, so I’m jostling a path around and through them, waving to the fat barman for attention.

I squeeze between two gangly youths, who grin like Cheshire cats, spilling cheap imported lager onto the floor as they stand, swaying in unison. I fail to notice someone seated on a stool to my right, ignore a champagne mink faux fur jacket topped by blonde hair, until a voice husks in my ear above the student din,

‘So, it’s still raining, is it?’ she asks.

Oh, God, it’s her. What do I say?

‘Bouncing down,’ I reply, as my mind accelerates to breathtaking speed, constricting my lungs, and I summon up the will to speak, but my tongue hangs limp.

She swivels on the stool to face me, champagne mink parting to display an alluring, body-hugging, red roll-neck sweater that brings out and accentuates auburn tints in her blonde hair. Long legs whisper as they uncross; no black today, and they have a nude or light tan sheen below the hem of a cream skirt. Red stilettos anchor her to the rail of the perch. Above rich red lips, I notice two minor defects in otherwise flawless makeup. A thick blob of mascara clings to an upper left lash, whilst a thin smear of eyeliner pencil screams from the corner of her right eye.

Impaled by eyes of indeterminate colour, I watch and wait for those luscious lips to form words,

‘Damn, it would be,’ she hisses, ‘I knew I should’ve brought my umbrella—’

‘It’s windy too,’ I interject, adding to her misery.

The fat barman coughs into a fist, reminding me that I’m waiting to be served, so I order a pint, as Claire spins to face the bar once more with a muttered,

‘Oh well, give me a top-up when you’ve pulled that one, will you, Steve?’

If I hadn’t been in fucking La-La Land, or away with the bloody fairies, I could’ve offered to pay for her drink, continued the conversation. I could have deposited my fat, stupid arse on the adjacent stool. I should have done so many things on this wet and windy afternoon but, in the end, I do none of them. Like an idiot, I pick up the beer, stroll around the bar into the back room, and take a seat directly opposite the serving hatch, watching her.

Could’ve, would’ve, and should’ve argue in my head for supremacy, but didn’t silences all three.

She nurses her phone, muted glow highlighting those perfect cheekbones, reflecting in eyes as she scrolls along the screen, fingers nimbly dabbing here and there. They hover delicately, before pecking, a grin widening on lips, creasing the corners of her mouth. A full, sensuous curve, hinting at yielding warmth and passion, and I know that she will taste of ripe cherries, mint and alcohol. She will smell of honey and almonds, and I long to find out.

Then I feel the heat of other eyes burning holes in my flesh, distracting my attention from her, ripping my gaze to her left. He’s clad in bib and brace overalls, spattered by paint of different hues, stiffening the material, in stark contrast to the white. A huge meaty fist is curled around a glass of amber and, as he sips at froth, those piercing grey eyes impale me with venom. He is watching me watching her, and I can tell that he definitely doesn’t like me doing so. I look away, pretend to be interested in my drink, but I can still feel the heat of that wicked stare.

I cast another glance in his direction, see the frown on his forehead, topped by short-cropped blonde hair, or is it grey? His head moves slowly up and down, eyes on me, assessing me; mulling things over, before coming to a decision. I find him intimidating. There is violence in this man. There is a capacity for unbridled, unstoppable rage in him, and it is being directed at me.

Claire notices me as he mutters something to her, and she smiles. Whatever he’s said has amused her, and then her eyes flash over to where I’m seated, and I realise that her smile is forced. She’s trying to placate him, to pass off my appreciative attention as inconsequential, but I don’t know why.

I look at the clock, decide to head off to the Kelham, but need to empty my bladder first. I drain the glass, place it on the bar, and shuffle toward the toilets. As I wash my hands, the door opens behind me and, as I push them, wet and dripping, under the dryer, a hand grabs my shoulder, spins me around.

My back is pressed to cold unyielding porcelain as a meaty fist clamps around my throat in a choking grip. The ground slips from under me as I’m hoisted higher to look straight into hate-filled eyes. I smell alcohol-induced rage on vicious snarling lips that part in a grimace. A clenched jaw forces teeth to allow an escaping halitosis hiss,

‘Don’t look at my girlfriend,’ he growls.

Despite my predicament, I want to giggle. I have the lyric of a Supertramp song hammering in my head as I’m gasping for breath, heels drumming the wall, before black mist and bright stars cloud my view,

Don’t you look at my girlfriend—

Girlfriend? My mind echoes in the chorus. She’s the only one he’s got.

Not much of a girlfriend—

Girlfriend? Why would a woman like her want to be with a shit-for-brains like him?

‘Claire is mine,’ he says, ‘understand?’

‘Yes-yes,’ I gasp, hoping this will defuse things, that his grip will slacken just enough to let me breathe again, ‘sure.’

I slither to the floor, almost collapse in a heap at his feet and, as I try to draw much needed air into my lungs, it is forced back out by a steam-shovel fist, pumped deep into my solar plexus. Jesus, that fucking hurts.

‘Got it?’ he says, casting me aside with disdain.

‘Yes-yes,’ I manage, ‘I’ve got it.’

Her name is Claire.

Now I know her name is Claire.

‘Right,’ he sneers, ‘Well, fuck off out of here. I don’t want to see you looking at her again - ever. Okay?’

I nod repeatedly, slip through the door, and make a beeline for the exit. The weird thing is that, as I leave, I see the look on her face. It is a mixture of disappointment and puzzlement, as if she’s surprised that I haven’t spoken to her, haven’t plucked up the guts to resume conversation with her, and I feel guilty about it.

That guilt haunts me throughout my meeting with my former work colleagues. It festers and builds, like a huge rolling boulder gathering a moss of anger, and I know in my heart that I am not going to let some Neanderthal, in a fucking bib and brace overall, stop me from seeing Claire. No chance. Not a prayer.

I don’t care if he is her boyfriend, or if he just thinks he is. He may be larger and stronger, but he caught me off-guard, and he had the element of surprise on his side. Well, that won’t happen again. Fuck him.

The look on her face told me the truth; he is not what he thinks he is to her, and I am not what he thinks I am. I am cleverer than him and, for the first time in a long time, I have something that I think is worth fighting for. There is more than one way to skin a cat, you dumb ape.

03 Sunday

Hand on heart I can honestly say I never intended for things to go as far as they did, and that killing someone was the last thing on my mind but, you know, God moves in mysterious ways, right? I wanted to scare the brute, put a little fear into those cold grey eyes, and not extinguish the lights forever. I simply wanted to let him know that he couldn’t tell me what I can or can’t do, who I can or can’t see, and things just got out of hand. My bad, as they say, although I don’t really understand the meaning of that.

Did I mention that I write stories in my spare time? I think I did. I cobble together tales of mystery and misery. I shine a bright beam of pure white light into the darkest corners of the human psyche, uncover the hidden depths people are willing to delve and dive into. I study motive, means and opportunity, in an effort to concoct a credible saga that will grip or fire a reader’s imagination. Research is always key to this, and I usually spend hours trawling the internet for information about poisons, knives, guns or other insidious ways to dispatch a victim.

I shy away from any form of social media, viewing it with utter contempt, but today I break that rule. I put my prejudice aside, sign up for Facebook, and scour the pages looking for specific clues. As a lecturer, I hated the way students would spend hours with their phones, or laptops, updating profile pages with inconsequential crap, telling the world their business, as if the world actually cared if they were happy or sad, in a relationship or not. None of it mattered; at least, not to me, and yet, here I sit, computer hard-drive humming, as eager eyes scan for information.

On Friday, the Shakey was packed with students, all hell-bent on getting drunk, snapping selfies for their fake Facebook friends, adding tags, and what they consider to be harmless quips. All pubs have websites now too, and the Shakey is no exception. So, all of the dross and idiotic junk is filtered or posted, including the pictures taken by some of the clientele.

I flick through page after page, rapidly speed-viewing each photograph in turn, hunting and searching for one in particular. Someone in the pub that day must have taken a snap featuring the beast in the bib and brace, either with, or without Claire. Don’t get me wrong, a picture of Claire would be a dream come true but, at the moment, all I want is an image of him. Ah—and here we are. Just look at the arrogant bastard, so fucking cock-sure of himself. I click on the image, download it; enlarge it, ignoring the tags on drunken idiotic faces around him, to zoom closer. There’s a company logo stitched onto the overall, below the left breast fastening; white letters on a red background, and so easy to read; Raven Décor. It even has a silhouette of the bird in flight next to the name. Personally, I think it would have been better in black and white, but what do I know? I click on the inevitable link to their Twitter and Facebook pages, and, yes, I have to register on Twitter too. I’m not bothered. Once I have all I need, I’ll delete the accounts, scrub all trace of it from my hard-drive, and leave it to the vacuous, narcissistic followers it’s designed for.

The home page has the usual click-bait, so I opt to go to the About Us section, where there are pictures of their team in action, at various locations around the city. One is a prestigious new office block refurbishment, not far from the Shakey. It doesn’t take a genius to work out that the man I’m after is part of the crew slapping emulsion on a recently plastered wall, even if his back is to the camera.

On the Reviews page, Steve Lee gushes,

This is the second time we have used Mark, he gave us a professional service, and his work is of the highest standard. I would gladly recommend Mark to anyone who requires a first class job doing.

‘He’s also pretty good at strangling strangers in a pub toilet, if you’re ever in the market for it, Steve,’ I chuckle, before closing the page down and returning to the image of knuckle-dragger Mark. Oh yes, I have a name for you now, you piece of shit, and I know who you work for, and where you are currently painting over the huge cracks in your insecure psyche and fractured ego.

Tomorrow, I’m going to put the fear of God into you, give you a scare, and gloat in your terrified face. I hope you piss your fucking pants when I do. Explain that one to Claire, Mark.

Yeah, that’s fine and dandy, but how do I reduce the hulking painter to a quivering jelly? There has to be a way to do it. I’m about to scrub my Facebook account, switch off the computer and spend the evening devising my plan, perfecting it, but something stops me. A random thought sent by the master of mysterious ways again?

If he has been caught on candid camera, then surely it must follow that Claire will be somewhere on one of the other images, don’t you think?

It’s late in the evening when I find it, almost missing it as the fatigue of flicking through countless, pointless shots of beer, sandwiches, drunken students posing with a pint, stutter over weary retina. The shot is taken from the opposite end of the bar, Mark conspicuous by his absence, but her lovely long legs and face are in profile. Perhaps it was taken when he was throttling me in the men’s room? I download it, enlarge it, and crop it; framing that perfect frame perfectly. My heart aches for her beauty. I print it on photographic paper, and spend the evening gazing at it in rapture.

I sleep fitfully, tossing and turning, replaying events from my, as yet, unimplemented plan; watching the brute writhe and squirm, begging for help. But, will it work? I will only find that out tomorrow.

04 Monday

AFord Transit Connect in white and rust, with paint splashes over the rear doors and side panels, is parked in a side alley, adjacent to the Shakey. There are ladders, on a roof rack, overhanging front and back and, at some point, the rear doors have been forced, so the lock is replaced by a simple hasp and staple arrangement, with a padlock. I watch Mark slide from the driver’s seat, slam the door, and shuffle off into the pub, whistling merrily, spinning a key fob around his fingers.

I’m sitting in the Bar Stewards pub across the road, a pint in one hand, and a carrier bag in the other. Inside the bag is a bottle of barbecue fuel, and a cheap disposable lighter. I intend to squirt fuel through a crack in the rear door, let it pool in the back section of the van and, when the bastard is about to set off, ignite it. Of course, it might not work, and I have to be close to the van before it sets off, but I can hide in overgrown bushes and trees by the pub’s side entrance. In summer, the gate is left open for punters to access the beer garden without having to go through the pub. I want to create a blaze big enough to force him to a stop, to divert his attention so that I can ambush him; take him unawares, as he did with me in the toilet. Let him see how he likes it, you know? A spot of quid pro quo. I’ll pull the bastard out of the van and kick the shit out of him.

I finish the pint, head off around the corner, and then come up the side road where he parked, from the opposite end, to the rear of the vehicle. I’ll wait in the darkness, set the trap, and spring it as he sets off. My hands shake as I squirt fuel into the crack, breathing in the noxious fumes, but giggling in anticipation all the same. I allow the last of the bottle to dribble down the doors onto the rear bumper, stuff a wad of tissue paper in there to act as a fuse.

Time slows to a crawl as I twitch and dither under the cover of darkness, hoping he’s only called in for a quick one after work. I know that Claire isn’t working tonight, because I called in for a snifter before the Bar Stewards. The last thing I want is for her to be in the van with him. I hear a shuffle-scrape of badly fitting work boots, tuneless whistling, and take a peek around an overhanging branch. It’s time for the fun to begin.

When I was at Grammar school, I was shit-hot when it came to the subject of chemistry; king of the class, so to speak, and envied by my peers. But then this goofy swot, Philip Cooke, came along and usurped my position. We called him Cookie, and he was definitely cookie, all right. Anyway, to re-exert my authority, kind of take him down a peg or two, I slipped a half test tube of concentrated sulphuric acid into his pocket during the lesson. I thought it would be a giggle, you know? Make him look even more stupid than he already did, with those milk-bottle-bottom spectacles and his incompetent lips. Okay, it was funny at first, when the once-navy-blue pocket of a blazer turned a shade of orange. All my friends were laughing about it, up to the point where the pocket fell to the floor, that is. Then we