That One May Smile

by Valerie Keogh

  ‘That’s fantastic, Joe,’ West said trying to sound surprised but even to his ears his voice sounded forced. He wasn’t a good liar and wasn’t sure he had pulled it off and was annoyed with himself, and with Andrews for putting him in the situation. It wasn’t as if the information led them anywhere, he thought, with increasing irritation.

  ‘Unfortunately, the print isn’t on our system, Mike. Still if we get a suspect we can connect him to Pratt.’

  ‘Won’t prove he killed him, though, Joe.’

  Pengelly agreed, ‘Still if we get a suspect, we can use it, Mike.’

  Hanging up, Mike sat back dispirited. The only piece of concrete information they’d got all day and it didn’t lead them any closer. Closer, he mocked himself, it didn’t lead them anywhere. You had to be somewhere to get closer to it and they were exactly nowhere.

  He was busy criticising his handling of the case, busy thinking he had made a mistake, somehow missed something, when the phone rang, ‘West,’ he answered abruptly.

  ‘She’s not here, Mike.’ Andrews said without preliminaries. ‘I checked the garden. I was peering through her letterbox when a nosy neighbour came over to ask what I was doing. According to him, she went out on foot just before ten this morning, and came back a short while later carrying a parcel. Then, he says, he noticed her getting into a taxi around midday carrying her handbag and the same parcel and she hasn’t been back since. It looks like she has scarpered...’ Just in time, Andrews decided that adding ‘again’ mightn’t have been the best idea.

  But both men knew the word hung there, tantalising them. Andrews rushed to fill the ominous silence. ‘It was an A-Z Taxi, Mike. I’ll call into their office; it’s just down the road in the village, and find out where they took her.’

  ‘Ok, do that.’ West said, his voice tight. ‘Then get back here.’

  West rang off leaving Andrews alone with the Nosy Neighbour who he got rid of with difficulty.

  ‘I always thought there was something suspicious about her,’ Nosy Neighbour was explaining for about the third time. ‘Losing her husband like that. Doesn’t make sense. I’m still convinced she buried him in the back garden, you know. I told those young gardai a couple of months ago, but did they arrest her, oh no.’

  Andrews was taking steps backward in preparation for departure. Nosy Neighbour took a few steps forward, intent on keeping him a captive audience. Afraid he’d be there the rest of the day listening to him, Andrews decided to do something he had seen in a movie years before, or maybe read in a novel, he couldn’t quite remember, just hoped he could pull it off.

  ‘You’ve been a great help,’ he said interrupting Nosy Neighbour’s flow, ‘You’re obviously a very observant man, I wonder if we could ask you to do some surveillance work for us.’

  The man’s eyes brightened with fervour and he took a step closer to Andrews. ‘You want me to keep an eye on the house and see if she comes back?’

  Grateful that he had come to the correct conclusion Andrews nodded emphatically. ‘That would be fantastic.’ He took a card from his pocket and scribbled a phone number on the back.

  ‘That’s my card and my home number on the back. If you see or hear anything give me a ring.’ Nosy Neighbour took the card and read it fervently. Andrews couldn’t prevent himself gilding the lily, he put a hand on the other man’s shoulder, gazed into his eyes without a hint of a smile, and said in portentous tones, ‘We’re depending on you.’ He kept his hand on his shoulder a moment more, gave it a squeeze and without further ado turned and walked quickly away.

  Brad Pitt eat your heart out.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Many miles away, Kelly Johnson had no reason to laugh. She was sitting, squeezed into the window seat of the Cork train by the incredibly overweight man who had taken the seat beside her. As she struggled desperately to keep her grip on reality, she watched her reflection in the window, overlarge eyes in a thin face staring back. She didn’t look as if she was going mad, she thought, but she, more than most people, knew that appearances could be deceptive. She was the suspect in a murder case, not under arrest, no, but requested politely to stay in her house, to stay available, and here she was chugging across the countryside.

  She had been leaning over the banister staring stupidly at the black, rubbish-bag she had thrown down the stairs, when she heard the sound of the bedroom phone ringing. Her first reaction was surprise; the phone hadn’t rang in such a long time. She stood, still naked, suddenly unsure of what to do. It continued to ring, the noise jarring and then stopped and the silence that followed was, for some reason, equally jarring. Kelly returned to the bedroom and stood looking at the phone, wondering who it had been. She jumped and swore when it rang once again.

  This time she picked it up and looked at it for a second before lifting it to her ear and saying a very hesitant and barely audible hello.

  ‘Is that Kelly Johnson?’ a male voice asked, the voice gruff and soft.

  Kelly nodded and then shaking her head at her own stupidity, said quietly, ‘Yes, yes this is she.’

  ‘The widow of Cyril Pratt,’ the voice continued.

  Kelly’s eyes flew wide open, startled. What! ‘Who is this?’ she asked trying to keep the shiver that had run up her spine from translating to a tremble in her voice. Her hand gripping the phone was white knuckled.

  ‘I suppose, in a way, you could say I was a business acquaintance of Cyril’s.’ The voice went on calmly, ‘He...how shall I put it...let’s say borrowed, yes, he borrowed some money from me. He used it, he said, to buy a house. The house you are living so comfortably in, Mrs Pratt. Cyril seemed to think he could negotiate the return of my money, such strange ideas he had; he actually believed he could keep living in comfort and pay me back in instalments.’ The voice turned hard, ‘I was amused,’ he said, although Kelly could hear no amusement in the voice, ‘Well, for a few seconds anyway.’

  Kelly shivered and began to pace the floor. ‘You spoke to him?’ A thought came to her, ‘You were the man he was going to meet? In Cornwall?’

  ‘I wasn’t happy having to go all the way there, not happy at all. But we had a very interesting meeting. Indeed we did. Unfortunately, it ended badly for poor Cyril. He really was a very foolish man, Mrs Pratt.’

  Kelly stopped her pacing, his cold voice like a slap stopping her in her tracks. ‘You killed him!’ she gasped in horror. Feeling her legs weaken she sat hastily on the bed, now was not a good time to faint.

  ‘I’d say exterminate is a much more appropriate word,’ the voice continued evenly, and Kelly, the phone pressed tightly to her ear thought she had never heard a voice so completely devoid of emotion. ‘He was vermin, after all, Mrs Pratt.’ The voice continued, relentless, ‘You are so much better off without him, my dear. Now, before he...shall we say left us...Cyril did mention you had certain funds in your bank account, Mrs Pratt or should I say Johnson. Whatever. I need you to withdraw those funds and bring them to me.’ His voice remained quiet and detached as he added, ‘otherwise...I really don’t like to threaten so I’ll make a promise instead...otherwise, you’ll be very sorry. Understood?’

  Kelly understood completely her fingers hurting as she gripped the phone even harder in an effort to stop trembling. She was perspiring heavily, could smell the fear emanating from her body in waves. Attempting to speak, all she could manage was a pathetic, mangled squawk. Drawing all her remaining resources, and there were few left, she cleared her throat and tried again.

  ‘How much?’ Her voice came out in a feeble whisper. But it came out. She wiped her forehead with a corner of the sheet and waited for a response.

  A sigh of satisfaction came down the phone. ‘You’re a much more sensible woman than your late husband,’ he informed her. ‘Cyril relieved me of five hundred thousand pounds.’ A gasp from Kelly interrupted him. ‘Yes, quite an amount, isn’t it? You can, perhaps, understand now why I’d like it back. According to the late Cyril Pratt you have about three hundred

&n
bsp; thousand in your personal account. It means I am at the loss of two hundred thousand but I’m not a greedy or stupid man, Mrs Pratt, I’ll settle for that. Here’s what I want you to do.’

  Kelly listened to the list of instructions. He insisted she repeat them a number of times to ensure she had them correct. Finally, she gave him her mobile number and hung up wiping the perspiration from her hand on the sheet. She glanced at the clock. It was still only eight o’clock. The bank wouldn’t be open for another couple of hours. She sniffed her naked body in disgust, the cloying smell of fear lingered. She stepped into the shower and stood while water cascaded over her wishing she could stay there forever.

  She stayed there a long time but finally she faced reality and turned the shower off and stepped out into the steam-filled room. She brushed her wet hair and caught it in the nape of her neck with a scarf. Smoothing moisturiser onto her face she gazed at herself in the mirror, seeing lines and shadows that weren’t there three months ago. She was trying, desperately, not to think about things, to remain outside the events, like watching a disaster unfold on a television screen. A heavy fog of despair settled around her, enveloping her, clouding her mind. From its depths she couldn’t see an exit, no emergency lighting showing the way. She squeezed her eyes tight, rubbed her hands roughly over her face. She didn’t have time for this. She would, as the saying went, make time for a breakdown later. Now, well, now she had to do whatever the man who murdered Simon wanted.

  Looking around her room she remembered she’d brought all the clothes that had littered the room down to be washed. With a hiss of annoyance she opened the wardrobe door and searched within for something to wear. She found jeans she hadn’t worn for months and put them on. The waistband sagged attesting to her weight loss since Simon had vanished and she frowned in annoyance. A hasty search located a leather belt and she threaded it through the belt loops and drew it tight. Pulling a white t-shirt from a hanger she pulled it on and finally pulled out a navy jacket. She was going to the bank; she had to look somewhat respectable!

  She had coffee and some dry, stale biscuits watching the hand of the clock creeping, inexorably toward nine. Convinced at one point the clock had stopped, she rummaged frantically in her bag for her mobile phone, and breathed a sigh of relief. Finally, the hand hit nine and she picked up the phone only to hand up in frustration when she got a recorded message telling her the opening hours of the bank. It seemed to go on forever and then, instead of being transferred to an operator she heard another message telling her the lines weren’t open until nine.

  ‘It is nine,’ she screamed down the line in fury before slamming the phone down. She waited another minute then tried again. She listened impatiently while the recorded message gave her all the opening times again and then, to her relief, she heard the voice say she would be transferred to an operator.

  Finally, she was speaking to a real, live person. ‘I need to make a large withdrawal,’ she explained carefully. She had to get this right.

  ‘Just one moment, please,’ the bored voice informed her and she was put on hold. For ages. She was pacing the kitchen, up and down, backward and forward. ‘Oh, for goodness sake!’ she cried.

  Another round of pacing and then, at last, another voice asking if they could help her. ‘I need to make a large withdrawal,’ she said again.

  ‘Customers may withdraw up to a maximum of five hundred euro a day. There is also a facility whereby you can withdraw up to five thousand euro, but that requires a week’s notice, madam.’

  Kelly took a deep breath. This wasn’t going to be easy, was it! ‘I need to withdraw three hundred thousand euro, in cash, today.’

  Her request was met with silence.

  ‘Hello?’ Kelly asked. ‘Hello, can you hear me?’

  ‘Is this a joke,’ a sharp voice asked her.

  Kelly could feel beads of perspiration building on her forehead. ‘No it is not a joke. I have three hundred thousand euro lodged with you. I need to withdraw it today.’

  The sharp voice became sharper, ‘Madam, our rules are strict, five hundred euro a day is the maximum you can withdraw without notice.’

  ‘If you can’t help me,’ Kelly replied, her voice equally sharp. ‘Put me on to someone who can!’

  Minutes ticked quickly by. Her call was passed from person to person up the line, each voice more sombre but all saying the same thing, sorry but no can do. Each time she responded by demanding to speak to the person’s superior until, finally, she was at the top of the pile speaking to the bank manager.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Johnson,’ he began in deep calm tones. ‘You wish, I believe, to make a cash withdrawal. A very large cash withdrawal.’

  Kelly struggled to remain calm. ‘As I have explained to your assistant and before that to someone else and before that to someone else, I need to withdraw three hundred thousand pounds in cash. Today.’ She heard her voice rising in agitation and took a deep, calming breath.

  ‘You must realise, Mrs Johnson,’ the bank manager continued in a conciliatory manner, ‘Even if we could bend our rules, we don’t keep that amount of cash here on a daily basis. I can hear a measure of desperation in your voice, I realise your need is acute, so here is what I can do for you. I can let you have ten thousand euro today and perhaps, if you still require it, I could organise the rest over a number of days. Would that be suitable?’

  Despair threatened to sweep over Kelly again and only the memory of the man’s menacing promise urged her to keep control. ‘Listen to me carefully,’ she whispered into the phone, ‘I need the money, in full, today. I don’t care if you have to collect it from every bank in the Republic, I have to have it.’

  The bank manager wasn’t a stupid man or an unimaginative one. He recognised the note of fear in her voice and smoothly pressed a button on his phone allowing him to record the conversation. ‘You need three hundred thousand euro in cash today,’ he stated, confirming her request and recording it.

  ‘Yes! This morning. I need it this morning, by eleven.’

  ‘Can you tell me why you need it, Mrs Johnson?’ He waited as the silence stretched.

  ‘It’s for personal reasons. I don’t need a reason to withdraw my money, do I?’

  He tried again, ‘Can you assure me you are not being held under duress, Mrs Johnson.’

  ‘Of course not! As I have said, it is for immediate personal reasons.’ Her voice trembled, she didn’t know if she could keep going.

  ‘I’m just wondering if I should ask the gardai to call around. Just to check, Mrs Johnson.’

  She bit her lip to stop herself screaming, tasted the metallic taste of blood as she pierced her skin. Her voice, when she managed to speak was eerily calm, ‘The only thing I want you to do is organise getting my money. By eleven.

  The bank manager debated asking more questions but he could hear it in her voice, she wasn’t going to tell him anything. If he followed his instincts and rang the gardai he might be doing the wrong thing; if she were in trouble it might make the situation worse. He frowned; it may be highly irregular but not illegal to want to withdraw such an amount from the bank. It was his job, however, to protect the bank from any hint of wrong doing. And to optimise profit for the bank, of course.

  ‘Ok,’ he conceded with his bank-manager’s hat firmly in place, ‘We will, of course, have to levy a fee for withdrawing such an amount without notice.’

  ‘Yes, yes, whatever,’ Kelly replied. ‘How soon can I have it?’

  ‘I’ll need to make some calls. I’ll get back to you within the hour.’ The manager hung up and sat gazing at the phone in indecision. Confidentiality was the bank’s god he knew, but this woman was in trouble; it was blindingly obvious, so shouldn’t he try and do something? He could call the gardai, ask for their advice. But what would happen if that led to more trouble?

  He knew the woman by name, had heard all the rumours about her missing husband. Maybe she had killed him. Maybe she was being blackmailed. He tapped his pen o
n the desk, thinking. She’d have to call in to pick up the money, he realised, and he could talk to her then, see if he could help in some way. With that thought in mind he relaxed a little and concentrated on the job in hand. Swearing softly under his breath he picked up the phone and made a series of calls to organise having three hundred thousand pounds delivered.

  Less than an hour later, he rang her back and gave her the good news.

  ‘It wasn’t easy, Mrs Johnson,’ he pointed out, ‘it has also cost a great deal of money because security vans have had to come to us from a variety of places and for this purpose only. But I have been able to organise the delivery and we should have the full amount here by ten forty five. I should warn you though, we will need to take an administrative levy of three percent to cover our costs.’

  He heard the long sigh of relief, ‘Thank you,’ she said with sincere gratitude and put down the phone, her hand shaking. This was only the first step and she was falling apart. She looked at the clock. It was ten fifteen. She had less half an hour to pull herself together, she had to because then she had to follow the rest of that man’s instructions.

  That man...his voice...she shivered. She didn’t imagine the menace; he sounded cold and mean and she didn’t, she really didn’t want to have to meet him. But she didn’t have a choice, did she; he meant every word he said. After all, he had killed Simon. He had killed Simon, and he had laughed about it. What kind of monster was he? Unfortunately, she was going to find out.

  At ten forty she made her way to the bank and arrived at ten forty four on the dot, checking her watch several times as she walked the short distance from her house. She didn’t have time to spare; everything had to go to schedule.