Both men took a look, examining the flimsy padlock with which it was locked. A child could open it, West thought as he rattled it, while the manager searched his white coat unsuccessfully for a key. ‘I know I have one here somewhere,’ he muttered, as the lock fell into West’s hand. It hadn’t been engaged. With a shrug of unconcern the manager took it from West’s outstretched hand.
Inside, the small walk in cupboard was an Aladdin’s cave of pharmaceutical components. Bottles, boxes and bags filled shelves from floor to ceiling. West read some of the labels aloud his voice grim, both he and Andrews recognising many of them as being key ingredients of some of the nastier illegal drugs on the market.
West turned to Alan James all good humour gone. ‘This isn’t a secure unit, Mr James. Even had the padlock been closed it is an easily opened one. When did you last do an inventory of this room?’
Alan James raised an eyebrow and said coolly, dismissively. ‘I’m a scientist, Sergeant West. I don’t do inventories!’
West replied in an equally cool voice. ‘You are in charge of this unit, Mr James. Surely it is, therefore, your responsibility to ensure,’ he nodded at the overfull shelves, ‘that potentially dangerous components are, not only correctly stored, but accounted for?’
‘We are obliged to keep all components in a locked room, sergeant, and I can assure you the lock is usually used. And I can also assure you that none of the components here is, in of itself, potentially dangerous.’
He picked the wrong person to use jargon on. ‘That’s the crunch, though, Mr James, isn’t it? ‘In of itself’. He picked up a bag of sodium chloride. ‘Sodium chloride, or salt as us laymen would call it, isn’t dangerous but,’ he chose three more components and handed them to the suddenly quiet scientist, ‘put it together with these and use some of your laboratory equipment and what do you get?
Getting no answer, Sergeant West turned to Andrews and answered his own question. ‘These are the key components of an illegal drug called Nirvana, similar to Ecstasy, which appeared on the Cork and Dublin streets about a year and a half ago. It has, as far as we are aware, been responsible for at least five deaths in that period.’
For the first time James looked shaken, ‘You aren’t suggesting that this drug is made here, I hope, Sergeant West. That is a very serious allegation.’
‘You admit you don’t keep an inventory of components, Mr James? Just say, for instance, someone was taking a smallish amount every month, would that be missed? Or even a larger amount?’
Alan James had the sense to put the scenario together. ‘You think Adam Fletcher has been helping himself while he worked here in the evenings?’
‘Not just helping himself to the components, Mr James,’ West felt his temper beginning to fray at the stupidity of the man. ‘He had the laboratory to himself, all the necessary equipment to hand, and freely available components. With no check he has been manufacturing illegal drugs for almost two years making a tidy sum of money. A perfect setup.’
‘Illegal drugs,’ James gasped going pale, the realisation beginning to hit home. ‘My God, this will destroy the company. I have to talk to Stuart. Are you sure?’ He looked at the sergeant willing him to refute his allegation.
‘No, Mr James,’ West replied, ‘no more sure than you are that you’re not missing some of your...components.’
TWENTY-SEVEN
West and Andrews left the managing director and the laboratory manager making frantic phone calls to their shareholders. They were trying for damage limitation and at the same time assigning blame to each other.
‘Do we have enough for an arrest, Sergeant?’ Andrews asked as they moved quickly to their car.
‘God, no! It’s still all circumstantial, Peter. We have no concrete proof that Fletcher was stealing components and using the laboratory to manufacture illegal drugs. Even if we knew what was missing, how would we prove he took it? He’s a clever bugger. He sussed out the politics of the laboratory, the power play between the M.D and James and used them for his own ends. We may never know just how much stuff he has managed to make away with but the boys in the Drug Squad may be able to make a good guess.’
As they walked, he rang a contact in the Drug Squad and quickly filled him in on the details of their case. He listened a moment and then grinned at Andrews. ‘Great, that would be great. Yes, as soon as possible,’ and disconnected.
‘That was Inspector Bob Phelan, I worked with him years ago. He’s going to take a team over to Bareton Industries and do a full audit of components delivered, received and stored; he’ll be able to tell us how much is missing and he should be able to extrapolate from his data how much has gone missing over the two years Fletcher has worked there.
‘Even more interesting, Peter, is that Bob said there has been an influx of upmarket designer drugs over the last two years, Nirvana and a host of others, and they haven’t been able to identify the source. He is very interested in talking to our Mr Fletcher.’
‘As long as he remembers he is our Mr Fletcher and not the Drug Squad’s Mr Fletcher, Mike!’ Andrews said as they sped away towards Adam Fletcher’s home on the outskirts of Cork.
A quick phone call to the superintendent on the way ensured local cooperation and they turned down the road to Fletcher’s house to find two squad cars waiting for them, discretely parked in a slight lay-by. A uniformed garda climbed out of one of the cars as West pulled up alongside and came around the car to speak to him, bending down to speak through the rolled down window.
‘Good evening, sir,’ he addressed West firmly, ‘Superintendent O’Grady has asked us to give you our full cooperation.’ He indicated the cars with a tilt of his head, ‘There are four of us, sir. Just tell us what you’d like us to do.’
West nodded. They didn’t expect trouble but they knew that never stopped it happening. ‘Which is the Fletcher house, do you know?’
Garda Doyle turned his head and looked down the street. ‘It’s the fifth on the left, the detached one with the wrought iron railing.’
West nodded again. ‘Let’s all pull up outside the house. Nothing like a little intimidation to get the ball rolling.’
Garda Doyle grinned and returned to his car. Soon all three cars were parked conspicuously outside the imposing Fletcher home.
Andrews walked back and organised the four uniformed gardai, sending two around the back of the house and instructing the other two to guard the front entrance as he and West headed to the front door of the house. Very quickly, the door was opened by a tall, strawberry blonde woman who greeted them with a pleasant smile, the smile dimming as she noticed the cars parked outside the house. ‘Can I help you?’ she asked looking from one to the other.
Sergeant West introduced both of them and asked, ‘Is Mr Fletcher here?’
Looking puzzled, and now a little worried, she nodded and, turning, called into the room behind her. ‘Adam, Adam, can you come here?’
West disliked the man on sight. He came growling out into the hall behind his wife, complaining about being disturbed. He saw the wife rush to explain, putting a restraining hand on her husband’s arm that was brushed off roughly. Adam Fletcher stared at the two men in the doorway then dismissed his wife with a wave.
Kelly had described him well, West thought, looking at him. His eyes were cold and hard beneath heavy, drooping lids that were a contrast to the straight, thin line of narrow lips. He wore an air of cruelty on his stocky, muscular frame like a second skin. He stood looking at them, a hand high on each side of the door frame, a man at home with intimidation, every gesture designed to show power and control.
West and Andrews exchanged glances and West repeated their introduction, holding his identification card out for inspection. Fletcher took it and examined it carefully, checking the photo before handing it back. He held out his hand for the Andrews’ card and did the same. Finally, handing this back, he resumed his stance,
‘I spoke to you on the phone a couple of days ago, didn’t I?’ he s
aid bluntly. ‘I told you then I would be free to talk to you next week and requested that you make an appointment with the secretary.’ He dropped one hand and reached for the door, keeping his other firmly on the frame, ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, I am a very busy man.’
West, watching him closely, wasn’t fooled. He noted the tightening of expression, the white knuckled grip on the door frame, the tension in his musculature that denoted fight or flight. He felt his own body’s response to the unconscious threat and deliberately slowed his quickening breath.
Calmly, he addressed the man in the doorway. ‘We have reason to believe, Mr Fletcher, that you were involved in the death of Cyril Pratt in Falmouth. We have a warrant to search your home and to remove your car and computer for forensic examination.’ West took the paper from his inside jacket pocket and presented it to him. For several minutes, Fletcher didn’t move, his hand gripping the door frame tightly.
Slowly, almost cautiously, he reached out one hand and, without comment, took the document. He read it carefully and slowly, turning the page without removing his other hand from its grip on the door frame.
‘This is a ludicrous mistake, gentlemen. I don’t know anyone called Cyril Pratt. I’ll have to contact my solicitor before you can proceed, I’m afraid.’ His tone was cool and dismissive but the white knuckles gave lie to the calm.
He gave a preparatory step backward before the Sergeant replied in an equally cool voice, ‘I’m afraid you don’t quite understand, Mr Fletcher. We intend to proceed with this warrant without delay. You may advise your solicitor, of course, if you wish, but we are under no obligation to wait for his arrival.’
Adam Fletcher’s heavily lidded eyes gave little away and, with a shrug of his shoulders and a sneer curling his thin lips, he stepped back and waved them into his home. ‘Be my guest.’
Andrews called the four gardai to assist and they made their way quickly and thoroughly through the flotsam and jetsam of the Fletcher household. West didn’t expect to find anything; if they were right, Fletcher had committed two murders, run an effective and very lucrative drug manufacturing business for two years and never appeared on the police radar. That took cunning intelligence, West thought, as he leafed through paperwork on Fletcher’s desk. They weren’t going to catch this man easily.
Two hours later they had finished and found nothing. Stretching wearily, West directed a garda to remove a computer and laptop. Another was directed to drive Fletcher’s car to Dublin where their forensic team were expecting it.
Adam Fletcher’s solicitor had, at this stage, arrived and was arguing vociferously against their removal. ‘My client requires both his laptop and car for work. This is unreasonable and we will be making a complaint to the highest authority. Mr Fletcher has denied any knowledge of this Cyril Pratt and you have given us no evidence that he is in any way involved in his murder.’
Recognising a junior member of a law firm West took pity and merely stated, ‘We have a warrant, Mr Matthews. You are aware, I’m sure, we would not have obtained a warrant without probable cause. We are under no obligation to inform you, at this stage, what that probable cause is. When we arrest Mr Fletcher, then you will be informed of the case we have built.’ West nodded to the solicitor who looked affronted at his attitude, and with a further nod to Adam Fletcher, he and Andrews departed.
Back in the car West rang Bob Phelan and updated him on their search and results. ‘We’re taking the computers, Bob. I’ll have our IT people take them apart and relay any findings to you as soon as. We’ve also taken his car. Our coroner told us that whoever killed Simon Johnson would have had blood on him; if we are lucky he may have left trace in the car. Our forensic team will go through it. Hopefully, by tomorrow, they’ll have gone through all the rubbish we found at the site and found something we can use. Meanwhile, I think we should keep an eye on our Mr Fletcher, don’t you?’
Inspector Phelan, anxious to close this source of upmarket designer drugs, agreed to provide surveillance after assurance that it would be for a very short period.
Andrews raised an eyebrow as he heard West’s confident assurances and muttered under his breath.
West, finishing his call with Phelan, turned to him and smiled. ‘Have faith, Peter. We’re going to get this guy.’
The two remaining gardai came running over to their car and knocked on the window, preventing Andrews’ giving West the reply he would have liked. ‘We’ve been ordered to stay here, Sergeant,’ one of them said breathlessly and added, with a barely suppressed air of excitement. ‘We’re going to keep the house under surveillance.’
West and Andrews exchanged glances and, with a word of advice to the enthusiastic officers, they started for home.
TWENTY-EIGHT
West dropped Andrews home rather than back at the station, it was late, they were both tired. ‘I’ll pick you up early in the morning, Peter, don’t worry. Say ‘Hi’ to Joyce.’
Back in his own house he stripped off and had a long, hot shower. He hated house searches, always felt contaminated by the need to do them. The prying, poking, delving into the detritus of other people’s lives never appealed to him. He used some citrus scented gel given to him by someone, he couldn’t remember who, but the clean sharp smell worked for him and he lathered and lathered again. Finally, feeling clean, smelling clean he stepped from the shower and drying himself briskly he walked naked into his bedroom. The mirror examined him in passing, reflecting back a lithe, athletic body, still tanned from an earlier holiday in Crete, the tan emphasising a thin scar on his left side, a relic of a bullet that had passed a little closer than he had wished.
He pulled on track suit bottoms and a tee shirt and went to check Tyler’s food, checking the machines were full, that he had enough water. As a treat, he opened a sachet of gourmet dog food and emptied it into his dish and left him guzzling while he investigated his kitchen for non-dog food. He found cheese, well past its best-before-date, and a jar of stuffed olives. Damn dog eats better than I do, he thought, sniffing the cheese and deciding it was still edible.
Just.
The freezer had bread and ice and probably more ice than a freezer should have, wasn’t it supposed to be one of those frost free ones? He couldn’t remember. It probably wasn’t supposed to be almost empty, almost all of the time. Breaking off a couple of slices of frozen bread, he stuck it under the grill to toast while he grated the cheese and chopped the olives. When the bread was toasted on one side, he piled the olives and cheese on top and put it back under the grill for a few minutes. He ground black pepper on top, sprinkled a pinch of salt and thought, with a shrug, it would do.
Soon he was settled in his sofa, beer in hand and food on plate. It wasn’t gourmet but, he thought as he munched, it wasn’t bad at all. Guinness, cold from the fridge, definitely hit the spot and he took a long drink with pleasure and lay back against the cushions with a sigh. Tyler, replete from dining on his very upmarket and ridiculously expensive meal jumped up beside him and nestled into his favourite spot between West and the side of the sofa. ‘You never consider I mightn’t want you there, do you,’ West tickled the little dog’s head getting a dog-food-scented lick in reply.
Finishing his food, West drank the last drop of beer and, getting up without disturbing Tyler’s snooze, he headed back to the kitchen for another, opening and pouring in a mind calming exercise, watching the black settle and the creamy head rise. He stood in the kitchen, drinking slowly this time, looking out across his garden to where trees were silhouetted against the moonlit sky. He tried to steer his mind toward the case, the characters involved, strategies and ploys; toward Adam Fletcher, now there was a nasty piece of work. But even he couldn’t keep his mind occupied for long; it appeared tonight to have only one target, her. He wondered if she were sleeping, or lying awake worrying, and whether he should ring her. Just to update her on the case, nothing more. Wasn’t it his duty? Hadn’t he promised to keep her informed?
Beer in hand, he went back t
o the lounge where he sat and reached for the phone. He debated his reason for ringing for several moments, annoyed with himself for the hesitation, before quickly dialling the hotel’s number and asking for her room. Almost instantly, before he knew what to say, he was connected and heard her sleepy voice saying a tremulous hello.
He was immediately guilty. ‘I’ve woken you. I’m so sorry, I just...well...I ...’ he found himself, to his embarrassment and annoyance, stammering, and stopped to draw a breath. ‘It’s Sergeant West, Ms Johnson,’ he said, thinking his rank lent a formality to the call. ‘I just wanted to give you an update on the situation.’ Ok, he decided with relief, he sounded official and formal.
‘Sergeant West?’ Kelly’s voice was alert now. ‘I wasn’t asleep, not really. What’s happened?’
Hearing her voice, West was suddenly less sure about his reason for ringing and the wisdom of telling her about the day’s proceedings. He compromised and told her enough to have merited a phone call at what he realised, looking at his watch, was a very late hour.
‘We think we know who John is,’ he started, ‘and we hope to have enough proof to arrest him soon. For the moment we have him under surveillance, he won’t be going anywhere without one of our lads going with him.’
Silence answered him for such a length he thought he had been disconnected. ‘Kelly?’ he called worriedly.
‘Yes. Yes, I’m here, sergeant. It’s such a relief...so it’s nearly over now, is it?’ her voice was cautious.
‘Nearly. We’re waiting for forensic results, Kelly. We haven’t enough proof, as yet, but, trust me,’ he added with a resurgence of assurance, ‘we will get it.’
In the hotel room, miles away, Kelly sat a little straighter in the chair she had been curled in for many hours and brushed the hair back from her face. ‘Thank you, sergeant,’ she eventually replied, her voice a touch stronger, ‘for ringing me and letting me know what is happening.’
That One May Smile Page 26
