Despite it being early May, there was a fire 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 sidelights and the light was warm, glowing and flattering. It was the perfect place for a romantic meal or a passionate assignation. Several people sat chatting in its nooks and crannies and most were perusing menus so she guessed the food was still as good as she remembered. 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 expected him to turn up, but here, in this room where they had sat and laughed, it just seemed more possible somehow.
She shook her head, her auburn hair falling over her face 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, she picked up the menu as one of the bar staff approached and ordered something to eat. A short while later, she was tucking into chicken stuffed with mushrooms and ham, and sipping on a glass of wine. She ate slowly, savouring the best meal she’d had in a very long time.
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 the question she was going to ask the landlord.
There was a contented hum in the air and the constant click-click of cutlery hitting plates. A small plump woman, who, Edel 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. It was the perfect opportunity to ask him about Simon. She rehearsed in her mind what she was going to say, what she wanted to find out. She could feel herself breaking into a sweat, panic starting to bubble. What if… all the what-ifs… ran through her head.
Picking up the glass of water they had brought with the meal, she took a mouthful and swallowed. She willed herself not to panic, but as she saw the landlord approaching her table, she could feel all her attempts to stay calm evaporate, leaving her almost witless as he stopped and asked her a question. Nervous, but also unable to hear with all the chat around, she stuttered an apology. It worked in her favour as, instead of repeating his question while he stood beside her, he sat down.
‘It’s a bit noisier than usual tonight, all right,’ 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.’
‘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 expected a standard answer, the he’s had to work or he’s coming later or maybe oh, we’re divorced I’m afraid. 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. Edel 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. I haven’t heard from him.’ Genuine tears came to her eyes and for a change she allowed them to 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, struggling 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.’ When it came, he patted her arm 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 hoped… 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, trying not to sound too eager. ‘His name is Simon Johnson. He’s about six two, brown hair and eyes.’ She was babbling but she felt so close.
‘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.’
‘He would’ve had to sign in, wouldn’t he?’
Without hesitating, he got to his feet, crossed to the bar and leaned over to grab the ledger. Returning, he sat and put it in front of her. She hesitated a moment, her hand resting on the cover, then slowly began to turn the pages. Starting on 19 February, the day Simon vanished, she slowly worked her way through to her entry of that morning.
‘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 positive there would be something. Are you sure everyone signs in?’ She looked at him intently, wishing him to say no.
‘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. ‘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. Sitting, she looked at the photo. It was a good likeness of Simon; he’d looked straight into the camera and it had captured him perfectly; his lips were curved in his habitual smile, well-cut brown hair brushed back the way he liked to wear it. He had strong white teeth, a neat nose and firm chin. She hugged the photo to her chest, reluctant to hand it over and be disappointed again. It wasn’t until the landlord held his hand out for it that she let it go.
The landlord looked at it closely, his eyes narrowing. A good-looking man, he remembered him well. His name too, and it wasn’t Simon Johnson. What the hell did he 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 the 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 all right, but why, and did he want to help her? He looked at her as she watched him with an anxious expression on her face, waiting for him to say something. He didn’t believe her story but he did believe the tears in her eyes to be genuine and there was a look of hope on her face. Deciding to tell her the truth, he said, ‘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 and stayed about two weeks. Mostly, he stayed in his room, coming down for breakfast in the morning and dinner in the evening. Never said very much.’
He stopped, taking in the stunned look on her face. ‘He was on his own, love. No woman or anything. He was using an odd name, too.’ Frowning, he looked up at the ceiling and tutted. ‘What was it? Ah, yes… Cyril,’ he said, and then looked at her. ‘Pratt. That’s it, Cyril Pratt. That’s why I remember it, I’m afraid. Penny and I were laughing about it, we 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 wit
h it. That I would have remembered, believe me.’
Ignoring his wife, who was trying, vainly, to get his attention, he kept his eyes on her pale, shocked face. ‘What are you going to do now?’ he asked gently.
‘I don’t know… I really don’t,’ she said. ‘But thank you for being honest.’
He sat a moment, watching her as she stood and 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. Tell her more tales of folk and their strange and unfathomable ways.
5
Routine was being followed back in the police station. Leads chased, phone calls made, contacts contacted. Most led nowhere but each of the gardaí working the case knew that one of those leads, calls or contacts could hold part of the answer they sought or, at least, 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, more than likely, 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.
Andrews sat in West’s office shuffling pages of notes in his hands. ‘Dr Kennedy puts our victim’s height at six two, and weight about one ninety,’ he muttered, 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 tilted his chair back precariously. ‘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?’
He 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?’
‘They’d hardly be able to see themselves in there at night,’ Andrews said, unconvinced, ‘never mind anyone else 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.
‘If you break that chair, supplies will be pretty cheesed off,’ Andrews grumbled. ‘It’ll be the third in six months. They don’t understand how they keep breaking, they would if they saw the way you abuse it.’
Ignoring him, West brought the chair down on all fours with a crash. ‘Who goes to a meeting of any kind armed with a large knife? Someone who means business, expects trouble and goes prepared.’ He stood and walked to the window, looking out on the grey and dismal walls of the surrounding industrial buildings. ‘It doesn’t look as if our victim expected trouble though. He goes to a dark, isolated spot dressed in a smart, expensive suit, sits relaxed on a box grave to talk to our murderer and puts up no resistance when attacked.’
‘One streetwise man, one foolish,’ Andrews said.
‘On the surface anyway,’ West agreed. ‘We’ve also got that scrap of paper and its connection to Edel Johnson to think about. I know it’s tenuous but there’s something there, 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 sat and drummed his fingers on the desk. ‘No, let’s leave it for the moment. We need to concentrate our efforts on finding out who our victim is, and hopefully why he was killed 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 there’s nothing, 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 Andrews’ 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 international symposium on terrorism, returned his call. Normally a placid man, Andrews entered West’s office with a buzz of excitement.
‘Remember Doug Potter, 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 and 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.’
‘He has a record there?’ West said in surprise.
‘Not exactly,’ Andrews hurried to explain. ‘Our victim travelled to the States on a number of occasions but he also flew to a number of Middle Eastern and Far Eastern countries and that attracted the FBI’s attention. Nothing overtly suspicious, he worked for a number of engineering companies as a consultant but they were always a suspicious bunch and since 9/11 they suspect everyone.’
‘So, what’s the name?’ West asked, pen poised to write. There was silence and he looked up expectantly. A smirk split Andrews’ face. ‘You wanted a complicated case; I think you got one. His name is Simon Johnson.’
West sat back in stunned disbelief, pen falling from his hand. ‘The missing husband? You’ve got to be joking. She would have recognised her husband; she was almost close enough to touch him.’
‘Uh, uh, just the same name. Here are the details and photo,’ he said, handing over a computer printout.
A frown gathered on West’s brow as he scanned the page quickly. ‘Coincidences are piling up here. Edel Johnson’s husband disappears and she finds a dead body whose name happens to be the same as that of her husband. Fishy as a tin of mackerel.’
‘I thought so too,’ Andrews said, taking a seat, ‘so I took the liberty of contacting Sergeant Clark and asked him to bring over his file on the Johnson case. He said he’d be here in about ten minutes.’
Five minutes later, the door opened with a bang. A bedraggled body filled the doorway and slouched into the room. Across the desk, West and Andrews exchanged a look as Tadgh Clark, without invitation, lowered himself into a chair designed for those with less ample proportions. Loud creaks accompanied his gruff, ‘Hey, Mike, Pete.’
West had never had much time for Sergeant Clark, thinking him a lazy, boorish jerk. His opinion didn’t change as Clark reached forward to hand over a very thin, scruffy file. ‘This is it?’ he questioned in obvious disbelief, holding the file in one hand.
‘That’s it,’ Clark agreed with no sign of embarrassment, sitting back in the chair, ignoring the ominous creak. ‘There was never much to it. Simon Johnson and his wife, Edel, got on a tr
ain in Belfast in February. He went to get coffee and never came back. Nobody saw anything out of the way. No bodies were found along the track. CCTV in the stations where the train stopped didn’t show him getting off. Not that they were all working, I must admit. He hasn’t been in contact since. Hasn’t used his credit cards, his passport is at home.’ He shrugged big shoulders. ‘That’s it,’ he reiterated.
West opened the file. He took the photo of Simon Johnson from it and laid it side by side with the computer printout of the photo of their victim. They were definitely not the same person. Putting the photos to one side, he examined the rest of the information in Clark’s file. As he expected from its size, there wasn’t much in it. Credit card statements showed no activity. Interviews with the wife and train officials said little of worth. CCTV reports were all negative.
Nothing was in order, he noted with a grunt of irritation. He flicked through the file, seeing gaps in the information, formulating questions.
‘Where did he work?’ he asked bluntly.
Clark shrugged again. ‘Some kind of engineer, his wife said. Worked on a contract basis for a number of companies and also worked, I gather, from home. Hadn’t worked for any of the companies for several months.’
‘How about their financial status? Any money worries? Reason for the husband to top himself? Insurance claim or anything?’ West threw the questions out staccato fashion, his irritation rising in face of obvious incompetence.
Clark wasn’t the kind of man to get upset easily. He lounged in his chair. ‘No,’ he finally answered, just as West was thinking about getting up to strangle him. ‘The wife was quite clear; their finances were in order. They’d no debts. They own the house outright and have a nice comfortable lifestyle. Didn’t have life insurance at all so there was no kind of scam based on that.’
‘They’re only in that house nine months. Where did they come from?’ Andrews queried. ‘That’s an expensive house they live in and they have no mortgage?’
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