Six Wicked Reasons

by Jo Spain

Genres: International Crime & Mystery; Crime Fiction

Synopsis

From the international number one bestselling author of The Perfect Lie comes an intense, clever and gripping thriller, perfect for fans of Liane Moriarty, JP Delaney and White Lies.

It's June 2008 and twenty-one-year-old Adam Lattimer vanishes, presumed dead. The strain of his disappearance breaks his already fragile family.

Ten years later, with his mother deceased and siblings scattered across the globe, Adam turns up unannounced at the family home. His siblings return reluctantly to Spanish Cove, but Adam's reappearance poses more questions than answers. The past is a tangled web of deceit.

And, as tension builds, it's apparent somebody has planned murderous revenge for the events of ten years ago.


READERS LOVE SIX WICKED REASONS

'Jo Spain has done it again!' *****

'Everyone who loves a twisty thriller must read this' *****

'Spectacular' *****

'Kept me up all night' *****

'A twisty thriller rife with family secrets' *****

'Sucked me in from the very first page' *****

'Another cracker from Ireland's Queen of Crime' *****

Release date: January 16, 2020

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 432

Sample

june 4th, 2018

You didn’t swim in the bay.

The locals knew that.

The sailors who had lost their lives in the South County Wexford inlet over the years had all been from other parts of the world. They hadn’t known about the treacherous rocks and tricky rip currents of Spanish Cove, so named for its first recorded casualties – members of an Armada vessel that had blown off course and found itself dashed on the jagged ridge.

Within sight of shore, the sailors, to a man, had drowned.

The tide lifted and pummelled their bodies against the very rocks that had caused their demise, painting the stone crimson.

Some claimed they’d been lured to their deaths by otherworldly creatures.

Other cultures called them mermaids. Sirens. In Gaelic, moruadh. Dangerously beautiful beings with icy skeletal fingers and a grip like tangled seaweed.

Superstition. Folklore. The stories that endure in places like these, away from the bright lights and modern cynicism of the city.

The family who’d hired the yacht for the party on the night it happened were all locals.

It would never have occurred to them to strip off and go ­swimming.

Now that family was gathered in the harbour master’s office, blankets and crinkled silver foil wrapped around their shoulders. Bedraggled, cold and in shock.

Nine had boarded, only eight returned alive.

There’d been fireworks, earlier in the evening. The strains of music could be heard from shore. Crates of champagne had gone on board, delicious canapés, everything to make it the perfect luxury night at sea.

It was a much-anticipated reunion.

A brother, who had vanished from their lives ten years ago, leaving untold grief in his wake, had come home.

The party to mark his return ended when a body was pulled from the water, already deceased.

The victim’s head bore the marks of a heavy blow. The water had washed away most of the blood, revealing an ugly gash, so deep the white bone of the skull was visible.

It was entirely plausible that a boom or some other piece of sailing equipment had swung at the victim, making him lose his balance – except the deck from which he’d fallen seemed free of any such dangers.

He’d been drinking; he could have slipped and banged his head, then somehow managed to topple over the side rail – although it was quite high and designed for safety.

The detective sergeant in charge wanted to know if the victim had displayed any symptoms of ill health, dizziness or confusion? Had he been depressed?

What, exactly, had happened prior to the alarm being raised?

There was a lot of broken glass on deck. Two of the brothers had fought, if their bruises and bloodied noses were anything to go by.

The detective, now living in Wexford town, had once been a local himself. He knew the family, way back. He could have asked to have been excluded from the investigation. But in a small, remote village like this, where everybody ate and drank each other’s business, being seen as one of their own was often to the advantage of the police.

Anyhow, this was a busy night for the county police force, with two serious incidents elsewhere in their jurisdiction. There was nobody else, his boss cheerfully informed him.

But it would be resolved quickly. An accident, wasn’t it?

Wasn’t it?

The family comforted each other, as they waited to give their statements.

The unity, however, was forced.

Their brother had returned and now their father was gone.

Frazer Lattimer, sixty-one years of age, native of Scotland, resi­dent in Ireland most of his adult life, was dead.

His children looked at one another, and wondered.

Which of them had murdered him?

one week earlier

Clio

Adam’s home.

The words still rang in her ears.

Said so casually. Like he’d just popped down to Four Star Pizza and returned with a sixteen-inch deep pan, extra pepperoni.

Or had just arrived back after a long day at work, the headlights of his car illuminating the driveway.

Adam’s home.

The sentence hadn’t been uttered with the weight it deserved, the gravity that captured the fact their brother had been missing for ten years – at worst, presumed dead, at best, presumed dead.

Clio was still reeling from Ellen's phone call, the imparting of the news.

Adam’s home.

Does he know about Mam? Clio had asked. Does he know what he did?

Once upon a time there was a family.

A father, a mother and six children. They lived in the most scenic part of Ireland, in a beautiful house on a hill, and were wealthier than everybody they knew. Rich in every sense, but mostly in the way that mattered. They had class. They had status. They had each other.

And then it all went to hell in a handbasket.

Clio picked up the photograph that had captured the Lattimers at a happier time – her whole family at the beach.

Her parents sat on scratchy, striped towels. Kathleen’s smile came easily; Frazer’s was less enthusiastic but even he looked to be enjoying the day out. Clio’s sisters, Kate and Ellen, shielded their eyes from the sun as they looked up from placing pretty shells on a giant sand monument that Adam had built. Adam grinned happily, his uncomplicated nature apparent in his features. James was self-absorbed as usual, licking an ice cream he’d made last far longer than any of his siblings’. Ryan had pulled a last-minute cheeky face, tongue out, eyes crossed, fingers in his ears.

And there was Clio herself, a chubby little thing sitting at the front, the baby of the family, adored by one and all.

Who’d taken that photo? She was too young to remember. Probably Uncle Danny.

She placed the framed picture in her holdall.

Then she started to move around the room.

It was years since Clio had done this. Said goodbye to inanimate objects.

Goodbye, bed. Goodbye, alcove. Bye, wardrobe. Bye, stairs.

A little OCD in an otherwise chaotic life.

Her eyes scanned the small apartment for the last time. The tiny, functional kitchenette with the pan on the two-ring hob, still burnt on the base from the time she’d got drunk and decided to make popcorn with barely a dribble of oil. The single bed, half the slats broken. She’d propped it up with boxes but it still creaked like hell whenever she had somebody in it with her. The cracked window, through which the sounds of Bleecker Street seeped night and day, reminding her that, no matter how lonely she felt, she was always surrounded by other people.

This was her world. These days, you couldn’t get next nor near Greenwich Village for the rent she was paying for this place. But when Clio had arrived, four years ago, at the tender age of twenty-one, her then-boyfriend had already secured the rent-controlled studio from a departing expat and Clio had clung onto it ever since.

At the time, the boyfriend had told her she’d never grow accustomed to New York. Clio was used to sleeping in the blackest of nights, a blanket of stars overhead, to a soundtrack of lapping waves and gulls.

Bleecker Street was sirens and pneumatic drills and nightclub revellers and car horns.

In the end, it was the boyfriend who ran home. Clio stayed, working in various bars or restaurants, taking cleaning work and other jobs – any position that would pay her cash in hand.

She’d told herself she didn’t need much money once the essentials were covered.

Walking along the Hudson was free. The city’s art galleries and libraries regularly ran open-house nights. Shows could be seen for half price if you were happy to queue or knew somebody on the concession stand. Drinks flowed liberally if you found the right barman to screw.

It said a lot about her personality that she could see the positives. Most people who’d been done out of fifty-plus grand on their twenty-first birthday and endured what she had would have been bitter about their circumstances.

Clio zipped up her holdall and looked around the room one last time.

There was a definite nostalgic lump in her throat.

Here, in a small apartment in a big city, she’d found independence. She’d found peace. The space to be just Clio, and not Clíodhna Lattimer, youngest of the brood, daughter of Frazer and Kathleen, sister to . . . you know the ones.

But it hadn’t all been easy.

In fact, at a certain point, it had been spectacularly shit.

But even prisoners find it hard to leave their cells and face the outside world.

People ran out of empathy, somebody had once told her. They could listen to your pain for a while, but then their worlds moved on. Nobody stayed long in the company of a victim.

So, she would never let anybody know the full truth of what she’d endured.

Clio picked up the white rectangular envelope she’d left on the bed.

She’d taken the letter out of its original envelope. This one was plain, no name or address inscribed on its front.

The letter had started it all. It explained everything.

She’d promised herself she’d get rid of it. If anybody knew she had it, if they read it, they’d learn what she’d learned. But she couldn’t destroy it. She needed to keep reading the words, to remind herself why she was returning to Spanish Cove.

She tucked it into her handbag and grabbed her holdall and wheelie suitcase containing the sum of her worldly possessions.

‘Goodbye, home,’ she said, her voice caught on a sob, and left.

*

The screech of aeroplanes braking on the runway at JFK airport.

A long line of yellow cabs; a wide expanse of stone-grey buildings; glass-fronted terminals; a mass of travellers, the experienced and the wide-eyed.

Inside, in a tiny office, a twenty-five-year-old woman pretending not to give a damn but, truthfully, trembling like a little child.

‘It’s Clio. Clio, like the car, you know? Renault Clio? Not Cleo like the queen. But you pronounce it like that.’

‘It says here on your passport Cleed-na . . . Clee-odd-ha-na, ma’am.’

‘It’s Clíodhna. Clee-oh-na. This is exactly why I use Clio. For the love of Christ, is this going to take much longer? Can’t you hear the announcements? That’s my fucking plane they’re talking about.’

‘Ma’am, please refrain from using expletives.’

The large black security official’s eyes bored into Clio’s. She felt the heat burning red hot in her cheeks. She blinked first, lowered her gaze. This small interrogation office she’d been brought to, after being plucked out of the passport control line post-security, already felt like a prison cell. She wanted out.

‘You will be accompanied through the terminal to your flight. You will stay in the boarding lounge. You will be . . .’

Clio switched off at that point. She had no rights, no argument to make.

She’d overstayed her welcome in the greatest country in the world and now she was being chaperoned out of it. Make America great again. Deport Clio Lattimer.

It wasn’t her fault the plane was running late. Some minor technical fault Aer Lingus was dealing with last minute. Clio tried to tell that to Betty, the female security official she’d been assigned, hoping it would put an end to the dirty looks Betty kept flashing her. Built like a brick shithouse and humanity-weary, Betty’s whole demeanour further diluted the ‘You have a nice day, ma’am’ the previous security official had sarcastically bid as Clio was carted off to the boarding gate.

Now, sitting at the sushi bar in terminal two – because Betty recognised Clio was entitled to eat as long as she didn’t plan to eat anywhere off airport property – Clio relayed the whole sorry experience to a County Galway man perched on the next stool.

‘And their drugs dog ripped a ladder in my tights going past with that stupid thing on his back,’ she said. She turned to her guard. ‘Didn’t he, Betty? Does he need to walk that close? I mean, if he has to get that close to smell the drugs, is he any fucking use, Betty?’

The Galway man, whose name Clio couldn’t be arsed to remember, blushed at the security official’s obvious irritation. He ordered another two vodka tonics from their server. They arrived in seconds, served up on square napkins. Clio knocked hers back, shot-style. Betty pursed her lips. Betty probably had three kids at home and no doubt just wanted to get through her shift so she could fuck off to Stop and Shop and pick up some groceries. Clio almost felt sorry for Betty.

‘So, why are you going back?’ Galwegian asked. ‘If you knew you’d get stung going through JFK? Did somebody die or something?’

‘Why don’t you get another round in while I pee?’ Clio said. She swivelled on her stool. ‘Betty, how about we gals go powder our noses?’

The security official’s features were so scrunched they were starting to disappear into themselves. Clio reckoned if the Aer Lingus flight took much longer, Betty might consider sticking Clio on any plane, going anywhere, just to get rid.

And maybe that wouldn’t be a bad thing.

‘More vodka for the lady on a mysterious trip home.’ Galwegian smiled.

‘Oh,’ Clio said. ‘There’s no mystery, really. The prodigal son has returned. My brother. Disappeared ten years ago and now he’s back.’

She hopped off her stool.

‘Jesus,’ her companion said, taken aback at the turn in the conversation. ‘He vanished, like? Where was he?’

‘God knows.’

‘And he just came back? That’s incredible. So that’s why you’re going back. Makes sense. I’d say you’re dying to see him.’

Clio felt her breath shorten, her chest constrict.

‘Actually,’ she said, ‘it would have been better if he was fucking dead.’

after

‘How drunk would you say you were this evening, Clio?’

‘Do I sound drunk?’

The detective sighed.

‘Earlier,’ he said. ‘During the party.’

‘Does it matter?’ Clio shrugged. ‘I wasn’t driving the boat.’

‘Everybody was drinking, weren’t they?’

‘More or less. What’s your point?’

‘I’m trying to get a sense of the atmosphere. Were people merry drunk or tense drunk?’

‘Ah. Because you think there was a big fight and Dad got caught up in it. Well, there wasn’t. James and Adam argued, Dad wasn’t even there. Nobody saw him go in the water.’

‘If you were drunk, how do you know?’

Clio blinked.

‘When can we go home?’ she asked.

‘When I get all these statements straight. I’m not going to lie, Clio, it’s a bit like pulling teeth at the moment. Which I’m putting down to shock and, perhaps, the after-effects of alcohol. Not deliberate obstruction of justice. Which I know you know is serious. Whatever the reason, I need to know what happened on that boat.’

‘You can’t keep us here all night.’

‘I can, actually.’

Clio frowned.

‘So, James and Adam evidently had a physical altercation,’ the detective said. ‘But did your father argue with anybody?’

Clio felt her body slump. Might as well just get it over with.

‘We all – except Ryan – had a few drinks. We were tense. Over a week, we’d gone from being a family that had learned to live with Adam’s disappearance, to one that had to deal with the knowledge that he was alive and well for ten years. We had to get to grips with the knowledge that he had left us, deliberately. We weren’t exactly happy, to begin with, having that party. As for Dad, he didn’t – um – he didn’t fight with anyone in particular. But . . .’

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

The detective studied her.

‘Okay. Let’s go back to the start. Why you all came back to Spanish Cove.’

‘Aren’t you listening? Adam . . .’

‘I’m aware your brother returned. It’s a big deal, I know. But I can hear how angry you are with him. And, yet, you went to a lot of effort for him, very quickly. Ryan had to come home from Italy. James and Kate both have full-time jobs and busy lives in Dublin. You returned from the States, getting yourself into plenty of bother in the process. He could have visited you. You could have Skyped while you planned how to manage the reunion. Instead, you all dropped everything.’

Clio bit her lip. There was nothing for it. She’d have to tell the truth.

‘We . . . we had no choice,’ she said. ‘And – I wanted to leave New York.’

‘Why?’

‘I wasn’t . . . I wasn’t happy there any more.’

‘No, why did you have no choice?’

‘Oh. Dad did his usual.’

‘And what was that?’

A pause. Then a smile.

‘He threatened to cut us off.’

‘And that’s something your father did frequently?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘You said, he did his usual. Was it a recurring theme?’

‘Dad holding money over our heads? Pretty much.’

‘I see.’

The detective looked down at his notes.

‘Did it upset you, your dad’s – what will we call it – controlling nature?’

‘I was used to it.’ Clio shrugged.

‘Then why emigrate?’

Clio stayed silent.

There was only so much truth she was willing to reveal.

James

This was utterly humiliating. Mortifying. Standing here, people ignoring him, like he was a nobody and mattered to no one.

James wanted to die inside but he was working desperately not to let it show.

Time was, people had recognised him wherever he went. His face had been in all the society pages. He’d guested on chat shows and appeared at red-carpet opening nights. Ireland’s celebrity pool was shallow and James, for a short time, had been its whale.

But that had been a few years ago, when he was hot stuff, the twenty-something producer who had his finger on the button. The man who was going places.

He’d peaked too soon.

It was six years since he’d had a show.

To be washed up at thirty-five – James wouldn’t let it happen. It was ludicrous. Everybody else’s career was just starting. James’ couldn’t be finished.

He glanced at his watch while neatly stepping over cables that were being dragged out of view of the scene shot. He’d been told when he rang ahead that this production was going to picture lock and yet, here they were, still shooting. James had heard the director was a perfectionist but had James been the executive producer, he’d have pulled the plug days ago. It was so easy being one of the creatives. Never having to worry about the little things, like who was going to pay your wages or finance every last detail of every goddamn thing.

His phone rang in his pocket, buzzing silently against his leg. James ignored it, like the professional he was. They were filming the same lines for the fourteenth time and if anybody so much as breathed heavily, they risked being massacred by the rest of the cast and crew. James had heard the urban myth about the crew member hanging himself in the background of a shot that had remained in the final reel of The Wizard of Oz. He’d also heard the cynical reactions of people who didn’t believe anything like that would ever be left in a movie.

None of those people knew how many times a single scene needed to be filmed to get the various angles, let alone everything else, correct. Movie bloopers weren’t so much mistakes as footage editors and directors saying, collectively, ah, fuck it.

He didn’t want to answer his phone, anyway.

Everything was building up to a head of steam. James felt it in his gut. But he couldn’t deal with it. Not right now.

Adam’s return – that’s what he had to focus on.

‘Cut!’

James looked up as the director called time.

‘And we’re done. Break for thirty, then back to the unit base, guys and dolls.’

There was a collective sigh of relief, some half-hearted clapping.

James hurried over to the actor he was seeking before somebody else could grab him.

Darius Lefoy was a star in the making: early twenties, face of an angel, the gaunt-haunted look that women wanted to fuss over and men weren’t threatened by. It came across beautifully on camera.

The young actor now worked mainly in London and there was talk of an LA move.

James’ supposed trajectory, some years previous.

If James could secure Darius for the part in his new production, it would seal the deal. He’d only need him for an eight-week shoot. It wouldn’t interfere in the slightest with the actor’s route to stardom and it would do everything to put James back on the same track.

‘Darius, hi, James Lattimer.’ James tried to sound more confident than he felt as he approached with his hand out, weaving through the crew. The young actor was surrounded by costume assistants who were helping to remove the bulletproof vest and gun-belt he wore for his part.

Darius shook James’ hand limply.

‘Eh, hi,’ he said, uncertainly.

‘From Red Productions?’ James said. ‘Your agent, Naomi, she told you I was dropping by to see you in action, didn’t she?’

‘Eh, yeah. I think so.’

James bristled. He’d come here specially; it had taken weeks to set up.

Behind him, he heard a whisper:

‘Who the fuck is your man?’

The voice was young. One of the costume assistants, probably.

James swallowed.

Be careful who you kick on the way up, he wanted to say.

The actor lifted his arms into the air and let himself be unshackled from his detective gear. It was a ridiculous role for him. He looked good on screen but in real life he stood about five foot in socks and weighed in at nine stone. The director of photography would have his work cut out angling those action-man shots.

‘Listen, I’m starving, man,’ Darius said. ‘I gotta grab a bite on the bus. Were you looking to chat or something?’

James glanced over at the canteen bus, then at his watch. He rubbed the back of his neck, anxiously.

‘I was,’ he said. It was time to play his ace. ‘But, maybe we can reschedule. I’ve got a meeting at two with these Netflix guys and, you know yourself, nobody is too big to be late for them. Especially when they’ve flown over for you.’

Darius was a good actor but not that good. James watched as the wheels turned.

‘Oh, shit; yeah, of course,’ Darius said. ‘James Lattimer. Here, why don’t you grab a salad with me and we can talk?’

James hesitated, then he threw his hands out in submission.

‘I guess if they think it’s a good enough idea to come over from LA for, they’ll wait five minutes for me,’ James said. ‘Go on, then.’

It was all a big game.

But, this was important. When he returned home, he had to arrive as a success.

He needed this weekend to go smoothly. He couldn’t risk anything else.

Kate

Kate wasn’t sure what to pack. It was warm in Dublin but Spanish Cove had its own mini climate. It was a combination of being so far south and also surrounded by hills on all sides, including right over the bay where County Waterford acted as a buffer. This time of year, it should be swelteringly hot, but if a cold breeze came in from the Atlantic, the Cove would act as a wind tunnel, bringing the temperature right down.

She placed two neatly folded sweaters on top of the strappy vests and linen trousers she’d already packed. Kate liked to dress strategically; looking good took a lot more than just going to the gym frequently.

Her mam had been a pear-shaped woman. Not a good shape if you’re after conventional good looks, if you believe the magazines. She had always carried a little bit of weight but it had never mattered. She was beautiful. Her face and smile were all people really saw. The kindness within her. Ask anybody, they’d have described Kathleen as the most attractive woman they knew.

Kate wasn’t a great beauty. At least, she didn’t consider herself so. And she had the same body shape as her mam. She didn’t carry weight well.

In her teens, Kate had carried a lot of weight.

An awful lot.

‘How long did you say you were going for, again?’ Cheng was searching the walk-in wardrobe for his golf shoes. He hated golf, forced himself to play it, he said. Kate reckoned the anarchist in him really enjoyed turning up in the clubhouse populated by utterly Irish, entirely white, overweight and overpaid men. Cheng was wealthier than all of them, but would never be one of them, even though those very same men frequented Cheng’s hotel – a hotel that was, in fact, thriving, with full occupancy, a restaurant going for its first Michelin star and a basement cocktail and jazz club that was jam-packed every weekend.

And at the helm, Cheng was fond of saying, a poor Chinese man from Beijing.

It was a total exaggeration. Cheng’s mother might have been from a lower-class rung by Chinese standards, but his Irish father was very well-to-do. The son of a well-known industrialist, Kate’s father-in-law had travelled to Beijing on one of the first foreign student exchange programmes in the late seventies. He’d gone to learn about a culture that was just opening itself up to the rest of the world; he’d come home three years later with a wife and child.

Now he looked into her bag, swollen already.

‘Just the weekend,’ Kate said. ‘But you never know.’

She turned back to the rails, cheeks burning.

‘Hey,’ Cheng said. ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to come down with you?’ Then, gentler: ‘I know this must be tough for you.’

Kate froze.

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Eh, you haven’t spent a single night in your father’s home since I’ve known you. I’ve only met your father and James once, and none of the rest. And I know why.’

‘Do you?’ she said, her heart beating that bit faster.

‘Come on,’ he said, and laughed thinly. ‘It’s hardly rocket science.’

He wrapped his arms around her from behind and accented his voice.

‘You young white girl. Me big bad China man. East met West and stole its woman.’

She pushed him away, laughing.

‘Wear your Black Lives Matter tee shirt down and see what happens,’ he said. ‘Test how racist they really are.’

‘You’re not black and you’ve lived here since you were two,’ Kate said.

‘Don’t you dare rob me of my agency. I’m a s. . .