That One May Smile

by Valerie Keogh

  ‘Pratt was trying to sort out the problem that forced him into hiding, not any problem due to Johnson’s return, that’s why he told Kelly their life could return to normal. From what she said I think the time spent in that isolated cottage may have made him realise he couldn’t live a lie forever. He told her he would explain things to her, hoped she would understand.’

  ‘So we’re back to why did he go missing in the first place?’ It was Andrew’s turn to smother a yawn. Speculation country was an exhausting place to spend time in, it required mental dexterity, a capacity to make connections between tenuous links and the ability to start again from the beginning when, as sometimes happened, the connections fell apart like a playing-card house.

  West declared confidently. ‘It’s the money. Something to do with the money, I’ll bet on it. Peter. We just have to find out how, where and who?’

  ‘No problem, then,’ Andrews said, his voice dripping sarcasm.

  ‘What about Bareton Industries?’ West asked, remembering the second of Peter’s visits in Cork. ‘Anything of interest turn up there?’

  Peter shook his head. ‘Nothing we hadn’t already guessed. I was lucky enough to get to talk to Tom Bareton; he is semi-retired and only pays a courtesy visit once in a blue-moon which happened to be the day I called. He was more than delighted to be of assistance and quickly rubbished the signature on the reference. He showed me his, Pratt didn’t even try to copy it.’

  Mike leaned back, ‘It was on headed paper. Johnson wouldn’t have doubted its veracity for a moment. Did you get to speak to...?’

  Andrews supplied the name, ‘Adam Fletcher?’

  West grinned and nodded.

  ‘No, he wasn’t in work today but I managed to catch him by phone at home. I asked if we could meet and he got quite snotty, Mike, told me he was having a day off with his wife and children and if we really needed to speak to him he would be available next week. He did agree to answer a few questions over the phone; he has no idea why Pratt would have picked his name or how Pratt knew that he had never met Simon Johnson. He did admit though that it wouldn’t have been hard to find out their work rota and it was fairly obvious from that, that they wouldn’t have had a chance to meet, at work anyway. He didn’t have anything else to add. I told him we’d be in contact next week if we needed to.’ He grinned. ‘He told me to make an appointment with the Bareton Industries secretary. He wasn’t meeting me on his time. If we do need to speak to him, Mike, I’m volunteering you!’ He yawned tiredly, ‘I suppose Pratt took a chance picking his name to use. Con men do, don’t they?

  ‘Fletcher was quite indignant that his name had been used in a scam, wanted to know if it would have any repercussions, if it would affect his credit rating!’ He raised his eyebrows, ‘The things people worry about. Anyway I reassured him that, as far as we knew, Pratt had just used his name to gain access to the apartment and nothing else. I did advise him, however, that it might be a good idea to have his credit rating checked, to be on the safe side.’ Andrews grinned.

  West’s legal training kicked in. ‘He’s right to be worried, Peter. Unfortunately, it is far easier to get a poor credit rating than to have a poor one overturned. Obviously, Fletcher is aware of this. A more streetwise man than his colleague, Simon Johnson, then.’

  ‘Strange how they never met, isn’t it?’ Andrews commented.

  ‘Independent contractors working flexible hours, not really surprising, Peter.’ He yawned tiredly.

  Peter Andrews leaned back in his chair and yawned widely, stretching his arms over his head.

  Then both men yawned simultaneously.

  ‘Hell, let’s get some coffee before we start into this blasted thing,’ Mike said nodding at the briefcase that sat on the desk between them. ‘Maybe we’ll find some answers in here, Pete,’ West said optimistically, patting the worn leather hopefully.

  Andrews eyed the briefcase with distaste. ‘It will be full of rubbish that will take us hours to go through, and with our current run of luck is more likely to give us more annoying questions than any answers.’ He stood and stretched. ‘I’ll go and get the coffee; you can start without me if you like.’

  West smiled, and, flicking the catch, he looked inside with a groan that followed Andrews through the door, his optimism vanishing quickly. Reaching in he lifted a handful of papers that were thrown in any which way. Kelly’s doing, he guessed, she’d piled all the documents she found in the house into the briefcase. Cyril Pratt had kept his two lives separate; his Pratt life fastened away in a worn-out briefcase and his Johnson life on display. She had mixed them both together; fastened both away in the sad, old briefcase.

  With a sigh he let the papers fall back in disgust. This was probably going to be a bloody waste of time but he knew it had to be done. Making a space on his desk he upturned the briefcase allowing the contents to spill over the surface. Checking it was empty, he threw the briefcase into the corner of the room where it sagged sadly. West looked at it lying there, empty, both its lives removed and felt chilled.

  Andrews, returning with two steaming mugs of coffee, eyed the case with disfavour. ‘Finished already?’ he asked.

  West raised his eyebrows and grinned, the chill he felt dissipating quickly, ‘I couldn’t start without you, Peter, wouldn’t seem fair. Pull your chair closer and dig in.’

  They separated the paperwork into two piles, one for Cyril Pratt and one for Cyril as Simon Johnson. They quickly discovered the common denominator. He overspent in both lives.

  ‘Look at this, Mike!’ Peter Andrews gasped and held out a restaurant receipt.

  West took it, read it silently, and then raised his eyes to meet Peter’s. Seeing the stunned expression on his face, he smiled and handed the receipt back. ‘They certainly lived the high life,’ he commented.

  ‘Two hundred and fifty quid for a bottle of champagne!’ Andrews condemned, ‘That’s ridiculous!’

  ‘Well...’ West temporised, ‘it was Louis Roederer ‘Cristal’, Pete. That’s about right, I’d have thought.’

  Andrews looked at him askance and said nothing. He didn’t show West any more receipts but now and then West heard a muttered ridiculous, and smiled to himself.

  After an hour they were finished going through it all and they sat back, both regarding the various piles of paper in equal frustration.

  ‘He’s kept every bloody piece of paper about everything,’ West said in vexation, ‘but not one mention of where he got his mitts on five hundred thousand euro. Not one answer to any question.’ Opening a drawer in his desk, he pulled out a handful of A4 envelopes and put each pile into a separate envelope, marking each with a name and description of the contents. It was unlikely, but not impossible, that they would need to check some receipt or credit card statement in the future, and he was dammed if he was going to go through the whole lot again.

  He’d sealed the last envelope when Andrews said thoughtfully, ‘All those debts, Mike...’

  West put the envelopes to one side, and looked quizzically at Andrews. ‘What about them?’

  Andrews shrugged. ‘Just a thought.’ He reddened slightly. ‘All those debts, yet when somehow he got his hands on a lot of money, what does he do with it? He buys a house for Kelly.’ He paused and shrugged before continuing, ‘He must really have loved her.’

  West nodded. ‘They fell in love with the house when they saw it, she said, but I’d guess she fell in love with it and he just wanted to make her happy. She still loves it, Peter, but she will probably lose it. She’s not legally married to him, is she? It will go to your delightful Cork dragon, won’t it? Or if we find out where the money came from it’ll probably have to be sold to repay that.’

  Andrews shook his head and looked at West sharply. ‘Don’t you remember? The house is in her name only.’

  TWENTY

  West was annoyed, he had forgotten completely. It wasn’t like him to forget such an important piece of information.

  ‘It’s another motiv
e for her to have killed Pratt.’ Andrews said bluntly.

  ‘She doesn’t know, Peter,’ West said. ‘I’d swear,’ he continued, seeing the sceptic look on Peter’s face. ‘She asked me what her situation was regarding the house when we were in Cornwall. I told her she should see a solicitor and find out. No way is she that good an actress.’

  Peter Andrews nodded but thought to himself that maybe she wasn’t or just maybe West was further under her spell than he had thought. It wasn’t like him to forget an important piece of information. For the first time, Andrews was worried.

  The phone rang startling both men, and West turned to answer it. Andrews picked up the A4 envelopes, and nodding in the direction of the general office left and kicked the door shut after him.

  ‘Your lady friend appears to be definitely off the hook, my friend,’ a voice said without any preliminaries.

  ‘Inspector Pengelly, I assume,’ West returned with ill concealed annoyance, and then took a deep breath. No point in blaming Joe for his mistakes. ‘Apart from fantasies about my relationship with Ms Johnson, Joe,’ he said more calmly, ‘what do you have for me?’

  ‘My men checked out that car at the cottage. They describe it as an ancient clapped-out heap and would have thought it hadn’t been on the road in a long time. I told them it was on the road yesterday and they laughed and said it wasn’t moving now. Some problem with a gasket or something, I believe, although car innards make absolutely no sense to me. Seems that’s why Pratt took her car. So there is no way your...I mean Ms Johnson...could have made it to Falmouth.’

  ‘Could she have sabotaged it on her return from Falmouth?’ West asked, determined to put the suspicion to bed for good.

  ‘I asked that very question and they say, categorically, resoundingly, absolutely, no,’ Pengelly replied, ‘Just to be on the safe side we checked all the taxi firms in the area, in case she may have taken a taxi to and from the cottage. My lads showed her photo. If she had she would have been recognised; the storm set the date fairly well in people’s heads, Mike. Nobody saw her; no taxi firm had a call from the cottage looking for a ride into Falmouth. I had them check the car-hire companies; again nada, zilch, nothing. She is off the hook, Mike.

  ‘Send us her fingerprints when you have them though, it’ll keep it all right and tight.’

  West refused to explore the relief that he felt at the news, ‘Thanks Joe, you’ve covered every base. We’ll get those fingerprints to you as soon as we can organise it, ok. You have removed our only suspect, you know,’ West added, with a sigh.

  ‘Yea, like you wanted to lock your lady-friend away for murder. You can’t pull the wool over my eyes, Mike. You never could.’

  West ignored the comment. ‘We’re no closer to finding out who killed either man, Joe, we have absolutely no suspects.’ Frustration edged his voice, ‘The money angle is proving to be solid concrete. We’ll keep chipping away at it, but so far, as you’d say yourself we’ve nada and a big fat zilch.’ He frowned, shook his head and finished the call, ‘We’ll let you know when we break through, Joe, thanks again.’

  Hanging up, he went through to the general office and looked around for Andrews. There was a general air of industry about the room he was glad to see, most of those present either on the phone or busily writing up their notes, but he would have been happier if the industry translated into results. It didn’t always, West knew, but this was where success lay, the long hard and often frustrating slog and careful attention to every little detail in the hope that something might, just might, lead to a trail that, when followed, might lead to a murderer. It was hard, frustrating and usually thankless work but looking around the room, West knew he wouldn’t do anything else.

  He poured a mug of coffee and spent some time chatting to various members of the team as they wandered in and out, following up this and that. Keeping up morale, he considered it an important part of his job. Finally he stood looking at the case board, trying to see...anything. Andrews coming hurriedly into the room, a piece of paper in his hand and a broad smile on his face, joined him. He pinned the paper to the case board and gestured to the sergeant. ‘A bit of good news, at last. The Cornwall team have found one stray finger print.’

  ‘I’ve just spoken to Inspector Pengelly,’ West said in surprise. ‘He never said anything about a stray fingerprint.’

  ‘That’s probably because he doesn’t know yet, Mike. I was on to a pal of mine down in Falmouth, who just happens to work in the office in the forensic lab and...well...between one thing and another he let the information slip.’ Andrews tried but failed to look embarrassed at this slip in official channels.

  West looked at him sharply. ‘They are being very helpful, Peter, let’s not piss them off, eh?’

  Andrews’ fake look of apology made West shake his own in genuine annoyance. He didn’t like irregularities, didn’t like short-cuts. Dammit, Andrews knew that. Oh, hell, there was no point in blowing it out of proportion. ‘You know how I feel about that kind of thing, Peter.’

  Andrews gave a sigh of frustration, and nodded, ‘Sorry, sorry, I was just getting frustrated going nowhere...’

  West waved it off, ‘Forget about it. What did you find out?’ After all a bit of useful information was what the team needed, keep them from getting despondent, might even give them somewhere to go.

  Andrews tapped the paper with his forefinger. ‘They found it in Pratt’s wallet. Forensics think the perp used gloves but couldn’t search the wallet pockets with them on. He was careful, wiped it clean but missed one on the inside of one of the pockets. The bad news, I’m afraid,’ he continued with a grimace, ‘is that it’s not on the system.’

  West eyes narrowed in surprise. He had hoped that whoever had killed Cyril Pratt and Simon Johnson would be known to them in some capacity or other. He considered the details. He or she had persuaded Johnson into a graveyard at night without arousing suspicion, where Johnson was relaxed enough to sit on a gravestone. So relaxed and unaware that someone was able to take a large knife and stab him to death without giving him the opportunity to defend himself. No defensive injuries at all.

  Someone. He or she.

  He quickly told Andrews about the call from Cornwall. ‘Inspector Pengelly’s men have ruled out any possibility that Kelly organised transport to Falmouth. They seem to think she is off the hook, Peter. They’ve asked for her prints to identify the second sets of prints they lifted in the car so get her in and ask her if she would consent to being fingerprinted. I don’t think she will have a problem with that. Have them e-mailed directly to the forensic department in Cornwall. Once they have her prints they’ll automatically check them against the one in the wallet.’

  Andrews nodded. ‘I’ll give her a ring and go and pick her up. She won’t have a car yet.’ He stood looking at the case board a moment longer. ‘What was he looking for in the wallet do you think? The money was still there, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, and his driver’s licence and credit cards. He was looking for something, something important enough that he took a risk to look for it,’ West considered thoughtfully. ‘This was a guy clever enough to have set a meet with a career criminal like Pratt and come off best; someone canny enough to have left no evidence...or at least, he thought he had left none. What the hell was he looking for? And did he find it?

  ‘So, what do you think Peter. Are we dealing with a very lucky bad guy?

  Andrews didn’t answer immediately. He stood, shoulder to shoulder with West and perused the information on the board, his eyes passing from detail to detail. The two men were a similar build as well as height; both wore their hair almost militarily short. Andrews’ suits were cheap, off the peg and looked shabby next to West’s made-to-measure suits, but both men exuded a quiet confidence.

  ‘We still haven’t found the source of the money,’ Andrews replied eventually.

  West stared at the board then rubbed his hand tiredly over his face. ‘I have a feeling we’re missing something. A link
somewhere, we’re missing it.’

  Andrews looked at him, ‘You’re thinking the missing link is the source of the money? A rich, lucky, bad guy then?’

  Still perusing the board, both men nodded.

  ‘Give Kelly Johnson a ring, Peter. Ask her to come in. We’ll get her fingerprinted and interview her again, maybe come up with something new. Maybe she knows something but doesn’t know she does, we’ll take her through the whole thing, see what comes out.’ He headed back to his office leaving Andrews to make the call.

  He’d barely sat when Andrews appeared in the doorway. ‘She’s not answering, Mike.’

  West swore. ‘I told her not to leave the house,’ he said in annoyance, running an impatient hand through his hair.

  ‘I suppose she could be in the garden.’ Andrews guessed, ‘Do you want me to wait and try again?’

  ‘No,’ West muttered. He had a bad feeling about this, ‘Go and pick her up Peter.’

  A short conversation with Inspector Duffy, about lack of progress in the case, put him in a grim mood. ‘We don’t seem to be any closer to making an arrest, Sergeant West. Or have I missed something?’ Inspector Duffy asked coldly. ‘Of course, with your time spent flitting between here and Cornwall it must make it difficult for you to focus. You don’t have any more jaunts planned, I hope.’

  West bit his tongue and kept his temper in check. There was absolutely no point in giving Duffy more ammunition to shoot him with. ‘I don’t expect to have to go to Cornwall again, Inspector. And we are making progress,’ he lied confidently, ‘but it is a complicated case and needs to be handled carefully. We will get results, I assure you.’

  Inspector Duffy looked at him with acute dislike. ‘Get on with it then,’ he said dismissing him with a wave of his hand.

  Back in his own office West’s irritation was further exacerbated by another call from Inspector Pengelly.

  ‘Good news at last,’ he said, his voice cheerful, ‘the lads have found a fingerprint, just one, in one of the pockets of Pratt’s wallet. It doesn’t match either of the two sets of prints they found in the car. Assuming the prints in the car belong to Pratt and Kelly Johnson then there was a third person. He’d wiped the wallet but missed one in the inside. He must have been looking for something, Mike.’