West looked at her sharply. ‘He had two apartments in Cork?’
She looked at him, confused. ‘No, just the one. He sold it. He was staying in a hotel when I met him, doing some work for a local company.’
‘You are unaware that he has been receiving money for the rental of an apartment in Cork.’ He was watching her face carefully; he was almost sure she wasn’t lying.
‘That’s impossible. Simon would have mentioned it. He had one apartment; he sold it and used the money from the sale to buy our house. Your information is incorrect.’
She held his gaze, a frown marring her smooth brow, but he noticed she was twisting the napkin she held in her hand into a knot. ‘The money from the sale of your house,’ he continued relentlessly, ‘where did that go?’
‘It’s still in my account,’ she explained. ‘Simon wanted me to keep it.’ She sighed and tried to explain. ‘I don’t make a lot of money from my writing, Sergeant, and deadline pressures are tough. For a long time, I’ve wanted to write adult fiction but haven’t had the time to do so. The money has made a difference. I’ve reduced my workload and spend more time writing what I want.’ She lifted both hands. ‘I don’t know if it’s any good, but I’ve almost finished a novel.’
West’s phone again intruded. He sighed and stood as he took it from his pocket. She rose at the same time. ‘I just need to go to my room for a moment,’ she explained, as he raised an eyebrow in query.
‘I’ll be five minutes,’ he said, heading to the car park.
In fact, it was nearer to fifteen minutes before he sat down again following a long conversation with Andrews and then with Inspector Duffy.
Andrews had run Cyril Pratt’s name as requested and hit pay dirt. ‘You could make your bed with this bloke’s sheet,’ he informed West succinctly. ‘Pratt started with petty larceny, progressing to some weighty post-office robberies. He did a few years inside for those and while there he appeared to have had lessons in the delights of extortion because he has stuck with that since. He’s been put away several times but never for very long, thanks to our wonderful legal system and to the fact that our man is a real charmer and never uses violence. It seems,’ he added with heavy sarcasm, ‘we are now to be grateful for non-violent criminals. On a personal note,’ he continued, ‘he has been married three times. His current wife lives in Cork with their two children.’
‘Current wife?’ West repeated in disbelief. ‘You’re sure they’re still married?’
‘I rang his house and she answered. Her name is Amanda. According to her, her husband works away a lot and she’s not sure when he’ll be home next. I got the impression that she didn’t much care. She mentioned that he took his car this time which he didn’t normally do, something about needing access to paperwork that he kept in the boot of it.’
West wiped his face with his free hand. Another thread to add to the tangle. ‘So, if as we suspect, the missing Simon Johnson and Cyril Pratt are one and the same, we can add bigamy to his list of crimes.’ He sighed. ‘Any news yet on the Cork apartment?’
Andrews hadn’t heard back from the victim’s sister and rang off to chase that up, leaving West to explain the increasingly complicated tale to his superior. He headed back to the dining room with a heavy sigh and a mind racing, only mildly surprised when Edel hadn’t returned. The landlord came bustling in to clear the table and he asked for fresh coffee. ‘For both of us, please,’ he added, indicating Edel’s chair and at the same time beginning to wonder what was keeping her for such a long time.
The landlord continued to clear the table, managing to balance the plates and cups easily in one enormous hand. ‘She’s gone,’ he informed West bluntly, nodding to the empty chair.
‘She’s just gone to her room for a moment,’ he explained. ‘She’ll be back. Sorry if we’re being a nuisance but we’d like more coffee, we have a long journey ahead of us.’ He saw the landlord’s hard stare, maybe they were outstaying their welcome. Was he being too demanding asking for more? He was going to pay for it, after all.
The landlord gave a shrug and left, to return moments later with a fresh pot of coffee and one cup. West was just about to remonstrate when the landlord said, firmly, ‘The lady won’t want coffee. The lady settled up, about ten minutes ago, and left. She drove away in her car.’
7
A wild and wet morning didn’t help to abate West’s anger the next day. He slammed his office door, threw his briefcase on the floor and, sitting heavily into his chair, prepared for an embarrassing conversation with Inspector Duffy. His head ached, adding to his annoyance. He’d had a horrendous journey back from Cornwall, road works on the road to Plymouth slowing traffic down to a forty mile an hour crawl. Then, just when he thought it couldn’t get worse, it stopped moving almost completely, an accident a few miles further on closing two lanes. He had sat seething for nearly two hours, alternately condemning himself for being a gullible idiot, and Edel for being a devious, conniving, manipulative… he ran out of adjectives as he inched along the road, imagining instead weird and wonderful punishments to suit the crime. He was trying to recall all he knew about the Spanish Inquisition, when the traffic began to speed up.
He had missed his flight, had no choice but to pay again to go on the next flight six hours later and had spent those hours making and taking phone calls, trying to run the case from the airport.
The first person he spoke to was an irate Inspector Duffy who criticised his decision in going to Cornwall and his incompetence in losing sight of Edel Johnson, even as he reluctantly conceded that innocent people didn’t generally run, and on that basis, she must be guilty of something. He agreed, once again, to contact Devon and Cornwall police and ask them to be on the lookout for her. ‘They probably won’t be so cordial this time to be asked to be on the lookout for a woman who hasn’t, as far as we know, committed a crime,’ he said acidly. ‘I don’t appreciate being put in this situation, Sergeant West.’
By the time West landed in Dublin at eight o’clock that night, he was seething. He picked up his car and drove home in silence, a headache beginning to pound.
He was met at his front door by a pair of doleful, brown eyes that castigated without saying a word. ‘Don’t you start,’ West snarled unapologetically, throwing his holdall on the hall floor. ‘You can come and go as you please, you’ve plenty to eat. Do not give me grief.’ He poured himself a large Jameson and collapsed into his favourite comfortable chair.
He had furnished his house well. Expensive sofas in a rich tapestry defying the theory that men always choose leather. Rather than modern matching furniture, he had picked up an eclectic mix from antique shops and car boot sales and the result was a pleasant comfortable home that offered an escape from the invariable seediness of his job. He thought he had pretty good taste but then again, he grunted angrily, he’d considered he had pretty good judgement and instincts too. He poured himself another whiskey, sipping slowly this time, allowing it to work its magic. Light footsteps pattered over the walnut floor and he turned his head to see the little chihuahua looking up at him again, prominent brown eyes still accusing.
He sighed and patted the sofa and the little dog jumped up and curled into a ball beside him. ‘Sorry, Tyler,’ he said, ‘I’ve just had a hell of a day.’ Tyler lifted his head and looked at him, gave a short, sharp yelp then curled up again. Moments later, he was snoring with a soft snuffle.
‘Some day your owner is going to get tired of living the high life in San Francisco and take you home,’ he addressed the sleeping dog. ‘And he can take all those feeding machines with him and get rid of that damn cat flap.’ Brendan, an old friend, had pleaded with him to mind the dog while he went off to find himself. West had pleaded long working days as an excuse but his friend had come up with the perfect solution. Three, timed-feeding machines so Tyler would never go hungry and a cat flap so he could spend as long as he wanted in West’s safe, walled garden. ‘Just for a month or so,’ he had begged. That was over a
year ago and there was still no sign of his return. West looked down at the small, hairless bundle next to him and sighed. He’d miss him when he did go but would never admit it except maybe when bone-tired, or after at least two whiskeys.
He reran the morning’s conversation in his head for the umpteenth time, analysing, evaluating, looking for whatever it was that he had missed at the time. He was still mulling over it when he’d poured his third whiskey. Only when he finished that did he head to bed.
He should have stopped at the second. His head ached.
With a long-suffering sigh, he decided to get the worst part of the day over with and call in to see Inspector Duffy. His whiskey-driven headache simmered in the background as he admitted he had fallen for one of the oldest tricks in the book. Luckily, Inspector Duffy who had had a call from the Superintendent of Devon and Cornwall police first thing, apologising for his less than cordial response the previous day, was in the mood to be forgiving. He was even finding the whole episode amusing and was happy to let West see he did.
West had no doubt the inspector would tell the story of the high and mighty, university-educated, detective sergeant brought down by womanly wiles. He knew, too, that the story would grow legs and become more and more ridiculous as the weeks went on. He didn’t consider himself high and mighty but being the butt of derisive stories wasn’t a pleasing thought. He restrained himself from slamming the door behind him with difficulty.
In the general office, he grabbed a mug of coffee and made his way to where Andrews sat cradling a phone and scribbling rapidly. Perching on the side of the desk, he sipped the coffee and listened to one side of the conversation.
Andrews hung up and sat back with a groan. ‘It’s like a skein of wool this. Every time I think I’ve got it unravelled, I get another knot to untie. It’s your fault, Mike, you wanted a nice complicated case.’
‘Fill me in,’ West said, pulling up a chair. ‘You have to have had a better day yesterday than I did.’ He was pleased that Andrews had the good sense not to laugh.
Picking up a folder that lay on the desk in front of him, Andrews handed it over and summarised bluntly. ‘Our friend Cyril Pratt is a five-star con artist.’
Putting down his half-empty mug, West opened it, raising his eyebrows in disbelief as he read.
‘Makes interesting reading, doesn’t it?’ Andrews said with a grin. ‘I’ve arranged a briefing at nine. Some of the lads are out tying up a few loose ends.’
He glanced at his watch. It was ten to the hour. He finished reading the collated information just as the rest of the team assembled. ‘Okay, listen up everyone,’ he started without ceremony. ‘We’ve done well. I’ll let Garda Andrews bring you all up to speed.’ He waved the folder at him to indicate that he take over.
Andrews stood and pointed to the photo of the missing man stuck on the whiteboard. ‘Simon Johnson. Also known as Cyril Pratt, Paul Stokes, John Fisher, and so on. Altogether, we have six aliases listed for him. And they’re the ones that we know of. According to our various sources, our Cyril, as I’ll call him for the moment, worked for a cleaning company, called, with a distinct lack of imagination, Industry Cleaning Company. It appears that it’s cheaper, for big companies and industries, to hire a team to go in and clean on a regular basis than it is for them to hire their own cleaners. They have a headquarters in Cork and send teams of cleaners to various parts of the country where they stay, sometimes for a number of days, and do several premises before moving on to the next area. One of the premises they clean, on a regular basis, is Bareton Industries in Cork.’ He waited a beat and then pointed to the photograph of the murder victim. ‘The same Bareton Industries, where our victim, Simon Johnson, worked on a contract basis, two or three days a month, until last year.’
Andrews checked his notes and continued. ‘According to his sister, Jennifer, Mr Johnson signed a two-year contract to work in the Middle East and decided to rent out his Cork apartment.’ He looked up. Some of the younger officers were eagerly jotting things down while the more experienced just listened, mentally filing information away. He knew they would recall information instantly while the youngsters were still trying to find their notebooks. They’d learn, he hoped. ‘Jennifer describes her brother as being, quote “too trusting for his own good” unquote. Rather than give his apartment to an agency, which would have been the sensible thing to do, he stuck an advert up on a notice board in the office in Bareton Industries. According to the receptionist, the advert listed address, contact phone number and also mentioned that he would be out of the country for two years.’
A collective groan filled the room, with much head shaking and frowns of disbelief at the continuing stupidity of relatively intelligent people.
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ Andrews agreed. ‘We all know how clueless these highly educated, university-softened people can be.’ His sideways glance at West drew a guffaw from the room. Most, at this stage, had heard about Come-to-Good and the disappearance of Edel Johnson. West gave an obligatory grin and a half bow to his appreciative team before nodding a get on with it to Andrews.
‘The receptionist remembers the advert and thinks it was only there a day or two. Unfortunately, she can’t remember what days or if the cleaning team were in while it was there but we are drawing our own conclusions based on what follows.
‘Adam Fletcher,’ Andrews continued, ‘also works on a contract basis, for Bareton Industries. According to Jennifer Johnson, her brother was contacted by Mr Fletcher about the apartment; he subsequently met him for lunch and, found him’ – he checked his notes briefly –‘to be, quote “utterly charming” unquote.’ He looked around the room, noting the grunts of expectation. ‘So charming did he find this Mr Fletcher that, when a crisis arose in the Middle East and he had to go two weeks earlier than planned, he didn’t hesitate. On the basis of their lunch meeting, and a reference from Bareton Industries, he gave him the keys of the apartment. According to Jennifer, Mr Fletcher agreed to pack all his belongings and put them into storage for him. Simon had asked Jennifer to make sure that this was done and to check with his bank that the agreed rent was paid. She checked for a couple of months, there appeared to be no problems, and that was that. She guiltily admitted she didn’t check again.’ Andrews stopped and took a mouthful of what West assumed was cold, sweet coffee.
He liked to listen to him giving the update. It helped clear things in his head and frequently brought up questions that he hadn’t thought about before.
Andrews cleared his throat noisily, bringing the murmurs to a close as he again opened his notes. ‘For those of you who haven’t already guessed, the real Adam Fletcher has never rented an apartment and lives, happily, with his wife and two children in Cork. Mr Fletcher says he knew of Simon Johnson, but as they worked different contractual hours they had never met.’ He closed his notes, sat comfortably on his desk and turned his gaze on Sergeant West. We’re like an old married couple, West thought wryly, as he stepped up to the board.
‘Right,’ he started, looking up at the photos of the two men. ‘So, this is what we know.’ He pointed at the first photo. ‘Our murder victim, Simon Johnson, rents his apartment to a man claiming to be Adam Fletcher and goes abroad for two years. The deposits that were made to his account – three in all – were cash lodgements, lodged according to the bank by a Cyril Pratt. So, we can probably surmise that Pratt doesn’t have banking or other identification in Adam Fletcher’s name, it’s not one of the aliases he has used before according to our files. It is likely that he acquired the name while he worked as a cleaner in Bareton Industries and used it for the sole purpose of fooling Simon Johnson.
‘In Johnson’s apartment, however, Pratt had access to sufficient personal data to allow him to create a complete identity including banking facilities. Alberto Castelione, who rented the apartment two months later from Simon Johnson, identifies this man’ – he pointed to the photo of Cyril Pratt – ‘as being Simon.’
He paced back and forward,
thinking and working things out as he spoke. He turned to the room and continued. ‘The real Simon Johnson comes home for a family funeral and discovers his bank account to be a lot lighter than he’d expected. Garda Andrews spoke to his bank in Cork yesterday and it appears that this is where he had business on the Monday before leaving for Dublin. This is where he learns that only three month’s rent had been deposited into his account. He then went to his apartment looking for answers from Adam Fletcher where he met instead the current tenant, Alberto Castelione who told him he was renting his apartment from a Simon Johnson, and denied any knowledge of Fletcher. Mr Castelione was able to show him direct debit arrangements and even, believe it or not, a signed rental agreement. Mr Castelione describes Simon as being shocked and upset. He invited him in but Johnson refused and left immediately.’
West looked around, taking in the animated faces of his team. ‘Mr Castelione estimates the time Johnson left the apartment to be about 6pm.’ He turned and pointed at the photo of a handsome, vibrant Simon. ‘Approximately thirty hours later, someone drove a very large, sharp knife deep into his stomach and left him to bleed to death on our doorstep. Was it this man?’ He turned to point at the photo of Cyril Pratt. ‘Our missing husband, con artist and bigamist? If so, how did Simon Johnson contact him?’ Something occurred to him. ‘Who spoke to Adam Fletcher?’ He looked around for a response, nodding at Garda Jarvis as he stood. ‘Get back on to him. See if he has had any strange phone calls over the last few days.’ Jarvis moved immediately to a corner of the room and opening his notebook, dialled and was soon deep in conversation.
‘What about Pratt’s claim he had won the lottery?’ West continued. Garda Allen answered swiftly. ‘They say no one by the name of Pratt or Johnson won it over that period. I spoke to the bank the Johnsons use here in Foxrock. They say the money to buy the house was lodged in cash. According to their files, it is the proceeds of a house sale in Drumcondra. They maintain that Simon Johnson submitted all the correct paperwork.’
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