She unpacked her few clothes, hanging a clean shirt in the antique wardrobe in the hopes the creases might fall out by morning and putting her underwear into a drawer scented with a bunch of dried lavender.
Closing the curtains, Kelly quickly stripped and climbed naked under the incredibly soft duvet. She had a moment to realise how very comfortable the bed was before she fell into a deep sleep that took her from early morning to late afternoon.
She woke confused. Where am I? Then caught the scent of lavender as it drifted from the open drawer and memories came flooding back. Reaching for her mobile she checked the time. Five! My God, she’d slept for hours. She stretched languorously and then lay day-dreaming for a long time, playing and replaying various scenarios in her head. She had no idea what was going to happen, but at least she was doing something. And she knew, she just knew she was going to see Simon again.
Glancing at the time, she saw she had nearly an hour to pass before food was available so, jumping out of bed, she headed for the shower. She chose a couple of the toiletries to take in with her, a lavender scented shower gel, and a shampoo and conditioner, both with the delightful name of Soft Old Rose. She hadn’t bothered with conditioner when she had washed her hair earlier and she was conscious that it stood up like a badly stacked haycock. Now, after washing it she smoothed conditioner through her hair, leaving it to soak in while the hot water beat down on her shoulders, massaging away the aches, pains and stress of weeks.
She towelled herself dry with the incredibly soft towels, and smoothed on another of the basket’s offerings, this time a Lavender skin lotion. Securing a dry towel around her, she used a hairdryer she found in one of the drawers to dry her hair and, looking in the mirror a short while later she was pleased to see a vast improvement. She sighed at her reflection, noticing for the first time how pale she was and how thin she had become. The stress of the last few months had taken its toll; it would take more than one good sleep to recover.
Her lack of wardrobe didn’t give her any leeway to change so she pulled on the same jeans and tee shirt she had worn earlier. At least they were clean, she decided, and the tee shirt was a Ralph Lauren, after all. She looked at herself in the mirror critically. The conditioner had done its job and her hair shone. Searching in her handbag she found a lipstick and she applied this and wished she had thought to bring some mascara. Oh well, she sighed, she would have to do. She grabbed her handbag and, locking the room behind her, she went down to the bar.
Despite it being early May, there was a small fire lighting in the large inglenook fireplace. The light from it threw shadows around the room and made the brass pumps gleam. Additional lighting came from lamps and side lights and the light was warm and glowing and flattering. It was the perfect place for a romantic meal or a passionate assignation, Kelly thought looking around. Several people sat chatting in its nooks and crannies. Most were perusing menus so Kelly guessed the food must be good. She found an empty seat in the corner near a window and sat, facing the room, looking around at the various people seeing nobody she recognised. She berated herself silently, knowing that some small part of her had hoped to come down and find Simon sitting at the bar knocking back his usual gin and tonic. Not a day had gone by in the last three months that she hadn’t thought he would turn up, but here, in this room where they had sat and laughed, it just seemed more possible somehow.
She shook her head, her hair falling over her eyes and catching the light from the lamp behind her, causing a number of locals to ask the landlord who the beauty in the corner was, no amount of tiredness or stress hiding the high cheek bones or the generous mouth. Oblivious to the appreciative male eyes, Kelly picked up the menu as one of the bar staff approached and, without giving it much thought, ordered something to eat. It was very good she thought a short while later, as she tucked into roast chicken stuffed with mushrooms and ham and sipped an equally good glass of wine making her regret she hadn’t ordered a bottle. She ate slowly, savouring the best meal she had had in a very long time.
Her meal finished she sat back lingering over the last drop of wine and contemplated ordering another glass. The good food had restored her mood and optimism and she mentally prepared what she was going to ask the landlord.
There was a contented hum in the air and the constant click-click of cutlery hitting plate. A small plump lady, who, Kelly guessed, was the landlady, stood behind the bar while the landlord went from table to table chatting to his customers. He would get to her table soon, she knew, and it was the perfect opportunity to ask him about Simon. She rehearsed in her mind what she was going to say, what she needed to say, what she needed to find out. She could feel herself breaking into a sweat, could feel the panic starting.
Picking up the glass of water they had brought with the meal she took a long mouthful and then a deep breath. She willed herself to stay calm, not to panic but, as she saw the landlord approaching her table with a friendly smile, she could feel all her attempts at calm evaporate leaving her almost witless as he stopped and asked her a question. She didn’t hear what he said and had to stutter an apology about not being able to hear with all the chat around. It worked in her favour as, instead of repeating his question while he stood beside her, he sat down.
‘It is a bit noisier than usual tonight, alright,’ he admitted as he squeezed his large frame into the small space left between the table and wall, ‘I just wanted to make sure you had everything you needed in your room.’
‘Oh yes, thank you it’s perfect. A really lovely room,’ she reassured him then hesitated before adding, ‘I was here before, almost a year ago, with my husband Simon, we had lunch here and stayed for ages chatting. We always said we would come back someday and stay here.’
He nodded, ‘I thought you looked familiar when you arrived earlier, I have a good memory for faces. Where’s your husband then, is he joining you?’
He probably expects a standard answer, Kelly thought, ‘he had to work’ or ‘he’s coming later’ or maybe ‘oh we’re divorced I’m afraid’. She thought he would be more than slightly taken aback if she told the truth, ‘he vanished on a train and I’m following a message I think he left me three months ago!’ She decided to tell him the story she had been rehearsing and, taking a deep breath, she began.
‘We had a big row, I’m afraid, and he walked out. Nearly three months ago now. I haven’t heard from him.’ Genuine tears came to her eyes and for a change she allowed them fall. ‘We used to talk a lot about this place and…’ she held her fingers against her mouth as the tears threatened to take over. She sniffed, struggled to regain control.
The landlord put a big, gentle hand on her arm and called over to his wife. ‘Another glass of wine here, Penny.’ He waited till it came, his hand still resting on her arm, and when it did he patted her and told her to drink up.
She took a mouthful of wine, and with a sigh continued, ‘I hoped, maybe, he had come here. Clutching at straws, I suppose, but I have tried everything else. Nobody has seen him. We had such a lovely time here, I just thought...maybe!’ She kept her eyes on her wine afraid to look up.
The landlord frowned. ‘We get a lot of people staying here, you know, and a lot of men on their own. Sales reps most of ‘em, travelling between Falmouth and St Austell. Some we know well, some just stay the one night and we never see them again.’
‘So my husband may have stayed here!’ she said excitedly. ‘His name is Simon Johnson. He’s about six two, brown hair and eyes.’ She was babbling she knew but, suddenly, she was hopeful again.
He smiled, ‘Girl, that could be every second man I see. And I haven’t much of a head for names I’m afraid, faces yes, but not names.’
‘What about your register? He would’ve had to sign in, wouldn’t he?’
He was a kind hearted man and ready to help a lady in such obvious distress if he could, so he got to his feet and crossing to the bar leaned over and extracted the ledger. Returning to her table he sat and put it on the table in fro
nt of her. She hesitated a moment, her hand resting on the cover, then slowly began to turn the pages. Starting on February nineteenth, the day Simon vanished, she slowly worked her way through to her entry of that afternoon.
‘Nothing,’ she whispered and bit her lip. She had been so sure.
He looked embarrassed, as if he had let her down, ‘I’m so sorry, love. But it was a long shot.’
‘I was so sure…sure there would be something. Are you sure everyone signs in?’ she looked at him intently, wishing him to say no.
It was his turn to hesitate. ‘Well no, to be honest. I’m not. My wife, Penny, has forgotten more than once,’ he admitted, ‘generally, I notice and get them to sign later. But the odd one or two may have slipped through. It’s a busy place.’
She jumped up, re-energised, remembering. ‘You remember faces? I have a photo. I’ll just run and get it. You might recognise him.’
When she came back, minutes later, the landlord was still sitting but had used the time to get himself a pint, and she noticed, another glass of wine for her. She sat, hugging the photo to her chest, reluctant to hand it over and be disappointed again. He held his hand out for it and slowly she passed it over.
He looked at it closely. It was a good photo of Simon, Kelly knew. A full frontal shot it captured him perfectly, his lips were curved in his habitual smile, his well-cut brown hair was brushed back the way he liked to wear it. He had strong white teeth, a neat nose and strong chin.
A good looking man, the landlord thought, I remember him well. His name too. Not Simon Johnson though…what the hell do I say now? He was no fool and his years behind the bar had shown him there were as many sides to every story as there were ants on his patio in the summer. She was a good looking woman but he didn’t believe her story about the row. She was looking for this man, alright, but did he want to help her? He looked at her. She was watching him, waiting for him to say something. He didn’t believe her story but he did believe the tears to be genuine and he believed the look of hope in her eyes. He decided on the truth.
‘I recognise him. But his name is not Simon Johnson, at least it wasn’t when he stayed here. He came here about three months ago, stayed about four weeks. Didn’t do anything, mostly stayed in his room. Came down for his breakfast in the morning, his dinner in the evening. Didn’t say much.’
He stopped, took in the stunned look on her face and added, ‘He was on his own, love. No woman or anything.’
‘What was his name?’ Kelly asked, her voice a tremulous whisper.
He thought a moment. ‘Cyril…Cyril…Pratt. That’s it Cyril Pratt. That’s why I remember it I’m afraid, Penny and I were laughing about it, thought it was a terrible name. And I’ll tell you something else, love,’ he added, ‘he had a credit card in that name. That’s how he paid his tab here. And there was no problem with it. That I would have remembered, believe me!’
She couldn’t take it in. That Simon might be staying here she had hoped when she found the slip of paper. That he was using a different name, and such an unattractive one, puzzled her, but that he had a credit card in that name threw her completely. He had to have had it, she realised, when he vanished that day in February.
‘What are you going to do now?’ the landlord questioned sympathetically ignoring his wife who was trying, vainly, to get his attention.
She emptied the remainder of her wine in one swallow, choking a little, bringing tears to her eyes. She put a hand out to steady herself as she stood and, with an obvious effort, answered, ‘I don’t know…I really don’t. But thank you for being honest.’
He sat a moment, watching her as she edged out of the room. His missus glanced his way, a quizzical eyebrow raised, but he just shrugged his big, beefy shoulders and getting up gathered the plates and glasses easily in his large spade-like hands and brought them to the kitchen. He’d fill her in later, he decided. Tell her more tales of folk and their strange and unfathomable ways.
FIVE
Routine was being followed back in the police station. Leads chased, phone calls made, contacts contacted. Most led nowhere but each of the gardai working the case knew that one of those calls, leads or contacts could hold part of the answer or head them in the right direction; so they persevered doggedly, drinking innumerable mugs of coffee, ticking off lists.
It was frustratingly slow and, by late afternoon they didn’t know much more than they had done at the start. The autopsy report, when it came, confirmed what they already knew; when and how the man had died and the size and shape of the blade that killed him. The only new piece of information was that the killer was right handed. That was all they knew.
So far they had no identification for the victim.
They didn’t know why he died and they were a long way from knowing who killed him.
Peter Andrews sat in Mike West’s office shuffling pages of notes in his hands. ‘Dr Doyle puts our victim’s height at six two and weight about one ninety,’ he mused looking at the data. ‘A big man. Yet no defensive wounds at all. So what happened? He just let himself be stabbed? Didn’t expect trouble, just sat down on the gravestone for a chat?’
West nodded and, tilting his chair back precariously, suggested, ‘They knew each other, arranged to meet in the graveyard for some reason and had a disagreement which turned ugly. One thing led to another and bingo, dead man!’
‘If it had turned ugly then wouldn’t you expect defensive wounds?’
West shrugged. ‘Maybe our Armani wearing victim is a bit of a softie. Not into violence.’
‘Why would someone choose to meet in a graveyard anyway?’ Andrews asked. ‘And don’t forget it would have been about eleven o’clock. Those church lights are turned off at ten, it would have been pitch dark in there.’
‘They wanted somewhere quiet, where they wouldn’t be seen by anyone?’
Andrews wasn’t convinced, ‘They’d hardly be able to see themselves in there at night, Mike, never mind anyone seeing them. We’ve had no reports of lights being seen either.’
‘Mmmm,’ West murmured, chair rocking back and forward on two legs, grey eyes narrowed in thought.
Andrews smiled surreptitiously. He’d had to replace the sergeant’s chair about three times in the last year. Supplies were getting a bit cheesed off and couldn’t understand how they kept breaking. They would if they could see it now, he thought.
The chair came down on all fours with a crash.
‘Who goes to a meeting of any kind armed with a large bladed knife?’ West asked and answered himself, ‘Someone who means business, someone who expects trouble and goes prepared or someone who goes with murder in mind.’
He stood and walked to the window, looking out on the grey and dismal walls of the surrounding industrial buildings. ‘We’re back to the why, aren’t we? It doesn’t look as if our victim expected trouble, does it? He goes dressed in a smart, expensive suit, sits relaxed on a box grave to talk to our murderer and puts up no resistance when attacked.’
Andrews nodded and added, a frown wrinkling his forehead, ‘I think we can read another important fact about each man.’ At West’s nod he continued, ‘A man who goes to a meeting, in a quiet dark place, armed with a knife is planning trouble and has, more than likely, been in it before. A man who goes to a meeting in a dark, deserted graveyard, dressed in a fancy suit and doesn’t expect trouble, or defend himself when it comes, is not used to it and probably never has come across it before.’
West nodded in agreement. ‘We’ve also got that scrap of paper and its connection to Kelly Johnson to think about. I know it’s tenuous but there’s something there, Peter, her reaction was too extreme to dismiss.’
‘I agree. Do you want me to go and talk to her again? See if I can find out what’s behind it?’
West gave a sigh and sat again. ‘No, let’s leave it for the moment. We need to concentrate our efforts on finding out who our victim was and hopefully the why will fall into place. Check with fingerprints; see if they have
come up with a name. Get his photo around to missing persons and if nothing shows check with external agencies, see if he shows up with them.’ He looked up, a grin lighting his face. ‘Teaching my grandmother to suck eggs again, Peter. You know what to do, just go and do it.’
They walked together to the general office where there was, as usual, a pot of coffee brewing. West poured them each a mug, adding milk and several spoons of sugar to Peter’s and, taking his own, headed back to his office to go through the data again. There wasn’t much to go through but he did it anyway; he had a photographic memory and it proved a useful tool when bombarded with new information to be able to recall the old without hesitation.
Facts often came slowly, trickling from a variety of sources and, an hour later Andrews appeared with one of the crucial ones -the victim’s name. He had acquired it the way information often came - through a complicated tortuous route. The usual channels had not paid up so he reached further afield, calling up favours, tapping friends, acquaintances and colleagues in various other agencies in Ireland and then abroad. Several phone calls later, he was running out of options when an acquaintance he had made at an inter-country symposium on terrorism, returned his call. Normally a placid man, Andrews entered West’s office with an obvious buzz of excitement.
‘Remember Ger Nolan, that bloke I met at the symposium last year?’ Seeing he had the sergeant’s interest, he didn’t wait for an answer. ‘He has some good contacts in the FBI, got them to run our victim’s prints. It seems he travelled to the States a number of times and as you know they fingerprint on entry now. That’s how he came to the FBI’s attention.’
That One May Smile Page 5
