That One May Smile

by Valerie Keogh

Adam Fletcher looked annoyed rather than curious and refused to answer.

  ‘We didn’t know either, until today, did we Detective Garda Andrews?’ West asked looking at Andrews.

  ‘No, Sergeant West, I thought criminals were safe when they used gloves,’ Andrews fed on cue happily accepting the bit-player role.

  ‘They’re safe, if they take the gloves with them and dispose of them later, yes.’ West said firmly, his eyes never wavering from Fletcher. ‘But you didn’t do that, did you Mr Fletcher? You thought you were safe. You didn’t leave any fingerprints on the murder weapon, you were certain of that so you casually discarded it. Clever enough move, it was a common-or-garden knife, no prints, probably untraceable. But then you did something really, really stupid.

  ‘You dumped your gloves,’ he tapped the photograph, ‘these gloves, in a rubbish bin in the car park, stuffed it down amongst those little pooper scooper bags.’ He shook his head sadly, ‘That was a very stupid thing to do, Mr Fletcher. Do you know why?’

  Fletcher raised a quizzical eyebrow at his solicitor who broke in hurriedly, ‘Is my client here for a twenty questions game, Sergeant West?’

  ‘My apologies, Mr Matthews,’ the sergeant replied. ‘I just wondered if your client was aware that fingerprints could be lifted from the inside of latex gloves. Quite successfully, in fact.’ He tapped the photo on the table again, a quick, continuous tap like a drum-roll before the magician pulls the rabbit out of the hat. ‘Our forensic team lifted a nice set from these.’

  West sat back and waited, happy to let silence do its job. He watched Fletcher closely, almost able to see his him reaching, desperately, for a way out. Time to go in for the kill, he thought, reaching again into his folder for the last piece of the evidence Stephen Doyle had given them. He lifted a sheet of paper and put it on top of the photo of the latex gloves.

  ‘This is a copy of the forensic analysis of a substance found in your car, Mr Fletcher. It’s blood. Simons Johnson’s blood to be exact.’

  Fletcher jumped in, a smirk on his face, positive now of an error, ‘That man has never been in my car, I don’t care what that says,’ he picked up the printout and crushed it dismissively, tossing it across the table. ‘You’re trying to fit me up,’ he snarled and looked at his solicitor for his support.

  Sergeant West removed another photo from his folder and passed it over, forcing Fletcher to take it in his hand. It was a graphic photo of the crime scene in all its gory reality, the photographer having, deliberately or not, emphasised the appalling loss of blood by capturing a long clotted string of blood falling from the edge of the box grave. Fletcher dropped it with a so-what shrug and stared balefully at West.

  ‘You see, Mr Fletcher, when you stabbed Simon Johnson you pierced the aorta. You really should have left the blade there, but no, you stupidly pulled it out and got showered with his blood as a result. Mr Johnson wasn’t in your car, no, but when you got back into your car after murdering him, some blood transferred, from you or your clothes, onto your upholstery. Not much blood, Mr Fletcher, you probably didn’t even notice it. Not much but enough to positively identify it as Simon Johnson’s.’ With a deep sense of satisfaction, he saw Fletcher slump in his seat. Mr Matthews moved agitatedly in his seat, glancing, nervously now, at his client.

  ‘In light of this evidence,’ he said trying for professional calmness, ‘may I have a word in private with my client, Sergeant West?’

  ‘Of course, Mr Matthews, as you wish, but perhaps we should finish laying out our evidence. Then you will have all the information to correctly advise your client,’ he waited expectantly and at a reluctant nod from the solicitor, he continued. ‘Our forensic team also found this, Mr Fletcher,’ he handed Fletcher a photo. ‘Hidden in the chassis of your car, two hundred and ninety one thousand euro. Cash. Strangely enough the exact amount that was extorted from Kelly Johnson. Her bank confirms that the serial numbers also match. Kelly Johnson will testify that you demanded this money to repay the five hundred thousand Cyril Pratt took from you. She will also testify that you told her you had murdered him.’

  ‘That her word against my clients, Sergeant West,’ Fletcher’s solicitor interjected, glad to be able to make a solid objection at last.

  ‘Perhaps.’ West smiled deliberately. ‘Perhaps, Mr Matthews. But the fingerprint we lifted from the glove, the fingerprint that proves Mr Fletcher murdered Simon Johnson, matches the fingerprint we found at the crime scene where Pratt was killed. The rope used to strangle Cyril Pratt, a common-or-garden variety of rope, was found discarded carelessly nearby – much in the same way the knife was – a classic modus operandi, Mr Matthews. Putting all our evidence together, we have enough to arrest your client for the murders of Cyril Pratt and Simon Johnson.’

  ‘Gentlemen,’ Mr Matthews interrupted urgently, ‘I must insist on a private word with my client.’ West, smiling enigmatically, nodded, and leaving the bloody, accusing photographs on the table in front of the deflated figure of Adam Fletcher, he and Andrews left the room.

  West and Andrews sat over coffee and discussed their progress. ‘You think our case for Cyril Pratt is a strong enough, Sergeant. We’ve not much solid evidence, one fingerprint.’

  ‘I think you underestimate juries, Peter. Ok, it’s one fingerprint but I think a good solicitor would be able to persuade the jury that there is no way Fletcher’s fingerprint would accidently get into Pratt’s wallet. Plus our interpretation of his arrogant discarding of the murder weapon in both cases as a classic modus operandi is a valid one.’ West took a mouthful of his strong coffee and continued, ‘I think we have enough, but let’s see if he’ll hang himself for Pratt’s murder without any help from us.’ He looked at Andrews, ‘Time for our best poker faces, Peter, let’s go.’

  They met the, rather shaken looking, solicitor in the corridor outside the interview room. Seeing them approach he launched into speech without preamble. ‘I’m sorry, gentlemen, I have told Mr Fletcher I cannot represent him. I have no experience of criminal law. That is not my remit, as I have tried to explain to Mr Fletcher. I have recommended a colleague but he has refused my recommendation, therefore, I have no option but to leave him to you, gentlemen.’

  With that, without further comment, he turned on his highly polished shoes and left, leaving the two detectives looking at each other with raised eyebrows.

  They entered the interview room, again announcing their arrival to the ongoing recording which wouldn’t cease until Adam Fletcher left the room.

  Fletcher was still slumped over the table seemingly unmoved since they had left. They sat across the table from him, silently watching him, waiting for him to acknowledge their presence. Five minutes passed, counted out in the tick-tock of the interview room clock. West and Andrews sat, both mentally reviewing the case, trying to anticipate what Fletcher might say and preparing to counter.

  Fletcher lifted his head, eventually, and regarded the two men with reptilian eyes. ‘Smart bastards, aren’t you,’ he grunted roughly in acknowledgement and sat back in his chair resting his two large hands flat on the table in front of him.

  ‘Mr Fletcher, I must ask you if you wish us to provide legal counsel.’ West said ignoring his comment.

  Fletcher’s fingers curled, nails biting into the soft, worn wood of the table. ‘The wonderful Mr Matthews was kind enough to inform me, before I told him to fuck off, that the case you have against me is too strong to refute so I don’t see the point, do you? I’ve paid that tosser thousands in the last few years and the first time I really need him, what does he do, eh?

  ‘Anyway,’ he said impatiently, sitting back and crossing his arms, reasserting an element of control. ‘Let’s get on with it, shall we. I want to cut a deal. That’s the way it goes, isn’t it? I offer you something and you help me out. That’s it isn’t it?’ A hint of desperation had crept into his voice, faintly audible even to him, making him stop with a snort. ‘Listen,’ he growled, trying to infuse strength into his voice. ‘I have inform
ation about illegal drugs; I’m willing to name names. Big drug dealers. I have records, dates, times, you name it. They are yours. We can make a deal.’

  Back in territory he knew, Adam Fletcher uncrossed his arms, squared his shoulders and tucked his hands into his trouser pockets, elbows akimbo. It was a classic psychological male dominant position; look at me, how big and powerful I am! West had seen Tyler do much the same thing when faced with a neighbour’s German shepherd. West didn’t think, somehow, that Fletcher would appreciate the comparison and was unable to forgo a small smile at the thought.

  Seeing the smile and misinterpreting it, Fletcher’s confidence in his ability to do a deal increased. In his narrow world everything was for sale, everything had a price and there was always a deal to be made. He looked at the gardai in anticipation of their agreement, eyes shining in expectation of cutting a deal in his favour, already planning what he could give, what he could get, how much he could get away with.

  West looked at the man grimly, his face hardening as he took in the man’s arrogant posture, ‘We are aware of your drug activities, Mr Fletcher, of your manufacturing scam in Bareton Industries. The Drug Squad have already investigated and intend to press charges related to their findings. Should you be able to provide them with knowledge regarding dealers they may, and I repeat may, take that into account.

  ‘We are also aware of your money dealings with Cyril Pratt,’ West kept his language ambiguous. They still didn’t know how Fletcher and Pratt were linked. He continued, ‘And, of course, your subsequent dealings with his wife.’

  Fletcher had wilted slightly at the knowledge that they knew about his drug dealings but interrupted angrily at the mention of Cyril Pratt. ‘That man. I never had any dealing with that bloody man. Ok, yes, you obviously know about my set-up in Bareton. I had a nice little business going. I provided upmarket designer drugs to a dealer who distributed it down his own network. I’d give him a ring when they were ready, let him know where I was leaving them; he would pick them up from the designated spot and a week later, I’d get a phone call and he’d tell me where he was leaving the money and I would go and pick it up.’ His voice was laced with self-congratulatory smugness and a mean smile tilted the narrow slash of his mouth. ‘A simple plan that had worked perfectly for nearly two years,’ he finished. ‘Perfectly, without a hitch.’

  The smile turned even meaner and he frowned angrily. ‘I was delayed getting to work about a year ago and missed the call from my distributer. When I called him a couple of days later enquiring where my money was, he said he had made the usual call, had spoken to me and given the drop off point. He had watched as usual, was slightly surprised that I’d sent someone to pick up the money, but had no reason to be suspicious. Since he already had the goods I was the one who lost out.

  ‘I didn’t know who had answered my phone, or who had picked up the money, and, well I could hardly ask could I?’ Fletcher said acidly. ‘Then almost a year later that guy, Simon Johnson, rang wanting to know why I hadn’t paid him his rent. Turns out that Pratt had used my name and rented the apartment from him and then scammed him by taking his identity and re-renting the apartment to some Italian guy. It wasn’t hard to put two and two together, of course, and I guessed who had taken my money, but I had no way of contacting him.

  ‘I told that fool Johnson how upset I was to have had my identity stolen and to have been used in that way and he was very understanding and promised to let me know if he found Pratt. Later the same day, he rang me and said he had got Pratt’s number from the tenant and had spoken to him for a long time.’ Fletcher raised angry eyes to the two men and thumped the table, ‘That idiot Johnson was sympathetic. Would you believe it? Pratt, he told me, was very upset, had promised to repay him all the money he owed if he was just given time. Pratt told him he had done it to make enough money to impress his new wife and to enable them to live in the house she loved, a bloody great posh house in Foxrock. Johnson told me that he thought it was all the wife’s fault, that he seemed like a really nice guy.’

  Fletcher stopped to draw breath after his tirade and sipped at a glass of water. ‘Could I get some coffee, do you think,’ he asked after a moment. ‘If I’m going to tell you everything I’ll need some caffeine to keep alert.’

  A phone call quickly brought coffee, neither detective wishing to give Fletcher time to change his mind, and within minutes, a steaming mug in front of him, Fletcher continued.

  ‘I asked Johnson to meet me, to show him just in what style the Pratt’s were living. He didn’t know Foxrock so I told him to meet me at All Saint’s Church, which is easy to find. We both parked there and I took him through the graveyard and pointed out Pratt’s house. I argued so strongly that Pratt shouldn’t get away with it that I succeeded in changing his mind but...’ he held his mug tightly between his hands and sipped, ‘...I hadn’t anticipated that he’d want to go to the gardai. I was arguing for revenge, thinking he wanted the same and what did he decide he wanted? Justice...can you believe it? Justice.’ He regarded the two men with disgust, sneering at the memory of Simon Johnson. ‘You can understand, of course, that I couldn’t let the police get involved. Would have ruined everything. So I had to try and persuade the bloody fool to back down, that his plan was the right one after all. But the obstinate fool was convinced that Pratt should face up to his wrong doings; that allowing him to go scott-free would be bad for his persona.’ Fletcher’s face took on an ugly cast. ‘He actually said that, can you believe it, bad for his persona.’

  There was silence for a few minutes as they all supped their coffee and thought, in their various ways, about Simon Johnson.

  Fletcher took up his story again, a sneer still curling his thin lips. ‘I didn’t have a choice. I left the fool sitting on one of those grave things admiring the architecture of the church while I went, as I told him, to phone the police. No point in putting it off, I said to him and he agreed. I had the knife in the car, it had fallen out of a set the wife had bought the previous week and I had never remembered to bring it in to the house. I always carried latex gloves in case I had a puncture so it was a quick thing to slip a pair on and head back with the knife concealed up my sleeve.’ He stopped an instant, remembering. ‘He was just sitting there, like a great big fool, looking up at the church spire, which you could barely see in the dark, and I walked up to him and...well, you know the rest.’

  Yes, West thought, they knew the rest. He closed his eyes momentarily, afraid Fletcher would see how much he despised him. They needed to hear the rest, no point in alienating him just yet.

  ‘And Cyril Pratt?’

  Fletcher looked at him from narrowed eyes. ‘What about him? He got what he deserved, no more, no less.’

  Sergeant West said nothing and Fletcher shrugged. ‘You want the details?’

  West continued his silence hoping Fletcher would keep talking. He needn’t have worried. Fletcher enjoyed relating how clever he had been, enjoyed the sound of his own voice. They had the proof anyway, he thought, so what difference did it make. Anyway, he was going to cut a deal, wasn’t he, he was going to give them everything he knew about the drug business. He was arrogantly sure of his ability to twist the system for his own ends. He’d done it before, hadn’t he!

  With a shrug Fletcher continued. ‘I took Johnson’s phone. It had Pratt’s number in it. I tried to contact him but he didn’t answer. I debated knocking on his door but in view of the mess I had left, virtually on his doorstep, I thought that mightn’t be the wisest step. So it wasn’t until the next day that I finally contacted him, then I discovered that that fool, Johnson, forgot to tell me that Pratt wasn’t in Foxrock, he was in some God-forsaken spot in Cornwall.

  ‘I pretended to be Johnson, when I rang, said I wanted to talk to him, to organise a mutually convenient repayment package,’ he smiled humourlessly. ‘I thought it was the kind of thing Johnson might say. He was pathetically grateful, I think he might have cried!’ He looked puzzled at the idea and shook
his head.

  West clenched his fist under the table.

  ‘I arranged to meet him in Falmouth. Of course when he saw me he knew I wasn’t Johnson, but by then it was too late. I had got into the back seat and it was just a moment’s work to get a rope around his neck. I didn’t kill him straight away, of course, I had to make sure he knew why I was doing it.’

  My God, the man is a psychopath, West thought, listening to the man, hearing no trace of regret, no sense of wrong doing. A sudden thought crossed his mind, they had been looking at Fletcher for two murders; how many more were there? Without a doubt, this man had killed before.

  Fletcher continued. ‘Even as I tightened the rope he was trying to make a deal, to repay the money over a period of time. Started telling me the wife had money; that she would probably help. Help? God, he was an idiot. I did the world a favour removing him.’

  ‘So you strangled him?’ West asked. They needed him to say it on record, without qualification or misunderstanding.

  Fletcher grinned cruelly. ‘I happily strangled the whinging fool, Sergeant West. Without compunction.’

  West took a deep breath. They had it. The full confession. It was over. He stood, Andrews following suit, and addressed Adam Fletcher. ‘We’ll have that printed up, Mr Fletcher, and if you would just check it to make sure all is in order you can sign it, please. Our colleagues on the Drug Squad will want to have a word with you, when that is complete. You can offer them any deal you think may be of benefit to you or them.’ He wanted to say more, wanted to castigate, condemn, judge. But, he knew he had done his job, the rest was up to someone else. All he could do was make sure all the i’s were dotted and t’s crossed to make sure this bastard didn’t wriggle out of it. He could do that.

  They headed back to the main office where the rest of the team had gathered, everyone finding an excuse to stay in the station. They were finishing paper work, having coffee, muttering to one another of other cases that had collapsed when they had been sure. They all looked up expectantly when West and Andrews walked in and, as one, held their breath looking for the sign that all had gone well.