Detective Inspector Pengelly was waiting outside, holding two coffees, one of which he held out. ‘Milk, no sugar, I remembered,’ he said, and then indicated down the corridor with a jerk of his head. ‘We can use an office here. No point in dragging you down to the station.’
The office West was taken to was a large, neat one. Pengelly lowered his big frame into the comfortably-worn chair behind the desk and took a noisy slurp of his coffee before opening the slim folder in front of him.
West hesitated, wondering whose office they had invaded. Pengelly looked up and saw his anxious expression. ‘Sit down, Mike. Stop worrying, you haven’t changed a bit.’
‘Neither have you, Joe, and that’s what I’m afraid of,’ he returned, remembering practical jokes the big detective had played on him and other attendees at the conference back in London.
‘Relax, seriously. This office belongs to the Mortuary Director. Her name is Sara Pengelly.’
West’s face lit up with pleasure. ‘Sara? Sara Baker? You persuaded that beautiful, gorgeous woman to marry you? I don’t believe it.’
Pengelly reached out, picked up a photograph frame and turned it around. ‘Just over a year ago. There she is, and that’s our boy, JJ.’
West took the frame in his hand to look closer. ‘She’s still stunning and, luckily, your son takes after her and not you. I don’t know how I missed that news.’ Then of course, he did know. Just over a year ago. ‘I suppose I had a bit on my mind back then,’ he said.
‘Just a bit,’ Pengelly agreed. ‘Enough to contend with, without knowing that I had married the most beautiful girl in the world.’
The shadow that had descended on West when he remembered those days, dispersed. ‘Yes, that would have made my situation absolutely unbearable, Joe. Thank you for sparing me.’
‘We moved down here round the same time you moved to Foxrock. Suits both of us. Sara is away on a course today. She’ll be sorry to have missed you,’ he said, and then, switching from personal to professional, he opened the folder in front of him.
‘We have nothing yet,’ he admitted, closing the folder and tossing it across the desk to him. ‘Forensics has the car. The murderer is a casual bugger, he tossed the rope he used on the ground as he walked away. Forensics are working on it but I wouldn’t hold out much hope, looked like common buy-anywhere fishing rope to me.’ He took another slurp of coffee. ‘There’s no money in the wallet but the wallet was there, so I don’t see this as a robbery.’
‘No,’ West agreed, knowing a thief would have taken the wallet, not wasted time looking through it. The file was given a cursory glance before he threw it back on the desk and gave Pengelly a rundown on his case to date. ‘Our victim, Simon Johnson, went to a meeting with an unknown person and was stabbed to death, the murder weapon casually dropped not far from his body. Cyril Pratt went to a meeting with an unknown and was strangled, the murder weapon thrown away nearby.’ He sat back with a groan. It was blindingly obvious; they didn’t need forensics to tell them what was poking them in the face.
‘They were killed by the same person. We had been looking at Pratt for Johnson’s murder.’ He stood and stretched tiredly. ‘It looks like we were on the wrong track, doesn’t it? There’s something we’re missing. Some connection between the two men that we haven’t found yet.’
Pengelly sat back, sipping his coffee. ‘Our dead man conned your dead man out of two grand a month, then meets and marries this Edel what’s ‘er name, without bothering to divorce his wife.’ He looked across the desk at West. ‘It’s hard keeping one wife happy and this bugger wants two.’ He frowned. ‘She’s on her way in, by the way.’
West looked puzzled. ‘Who?’
Pengelly looked slightly embarrassed. ‘We identified Pratt from his fingerprints and obtained his next of kin details. His wife, the other one I mean, was contacted first thing and is on her way. There was a slight mix-up in the communication; Edel Johnson wasn’t really required for identification. She isn’t legally married to him after all, as you know.’
West looked suitably annoyed. ‘So, Edel didn’t have to go through that?’
‘What would you have had me do?’ Pengelly said with a shrug of muscular shoulders. ‘Tell her she wasn’t any use to us because her marriage was bigamous? It seemed to me, to be better to let her identify him. She probably wanted to see him anyway. It is supposed to be healthier. Closure and all that crap.’
Edel had said something similar, West remembered, frowning.
‘Getting back to your case, you were running with the theory that Simon Johnson had gone to Foxrock to confront Pratt, and Pratt had killed him?’
‘Yes,’ West said, rubbing a hand over his face. ‘We’ve been trying to join the dots with the admittedly sparse information we’ve managed to acquire. We know Johnson found out about the scam but we don’t know, yet, how or even if, he found out it was Pratt. The scrap of paper we found in Johnson’s pocket had Come-to-Good written on it and, we know now, Pratt had been living there for the last three months, so he must have had the name from him. But how did he contact him? Johnson was found in the graveyard beside Pratt’s house, so it looks like he was able to trace where he lived, too. How? He’d been missing for three months. We had a trace on his bank accounts and nothing turned up and yet this guy arrives home and within days has found him. It’s a bit galling for the team.’
‘And if Johnson knew Pratt was in Come-to-Good, why did he go to Foxrock?’ Inspector Pengelly finished.
‘Exactly.’ West sat back restlessly. ‘All we have are questions. And then, apart from the dead bodies piling up, there’s the money. Somewhere, Pratt got his mitts on five hundred thousand euro and we have no idea where from. But nowhere legal, I’m sure. Maybe our unknown is connected to the money but then what’s his connection to Johnson? From all accounts, Johnson was a law-abiding, upright, model citizen.’ He ran a tired hand over his face. ‘We just need a bit of luck on our side.’
The Cornish detective smiled. Luck had a big part in their work, asking the right questions; being in the right place; talking to the right person. Sometimes, both men knew, luck was on the other side.
‘The wife wasn’t involved, was she?’ he asked.
‘Which one?’ West replied grimly.
Pengelly looked momentarily flummoxed. ‘First? The legal one… the one in Cork.’
‘Third to be exact, if you mean the current Mrs Pratt. No. We’ve had her checked out. As far as she was aware, he was working away. He sent her money every week or so. They’ve been married six years. Two kids. We got the impression she didn’t particularly care if he came back or not, as long as he sent the money. The officer who went to interview her described her as a bottle-blonde battleaxe.’
‘A different sort to Edel Johnson then, eh? Wonder why he didn’t just divorce her?’
West stared into his coffee. What had made Cyril Pratt marry Edel and live a lie? He had an idea but didn’t know if he was indulging in psycho-babble or whether the idea had real merit. He tried to put his idea into words now, tried it out on the big, gruff, plain-talking detective sitting opposite.
‘I think it might have started out as a scam. He had lived in Simon Johnson’s apartment, was wearing his Armani suits and living his expensive lifestyle for about a week before he bumped, accidentally into a beautiful woman. He followed her and manipulated another accidental meeting. She laughed at the coincidence, he invited her for coffee, they had dinner and she told him all about herself.
‘He may have planned a scam but instead he finds himself with the perfect woman to match his newly-acquired lifestyle. A glamorous, attractive, successful woman who finds him, Simon Johnson, successful engineer, attractive. A woman who probably wouldn’t have looked twice at Cyril Pratt, ex-con.
‘Edel said he was very easy to talk to, she told him things she had never told anyone. He used the information to become the man of her dreams, and he got deeper and deeper into his dream lifestyle, far too deep to tu
rn around and admit the truth. The pinnacle of his dream, of course, was when she agreed to marry him. There was no choice but to continue the deception, he was so immersed in his dream that he didn’t see it was doomed.’
‘It only fell apart when Simon Johnson came home?’ Joe Pengelly asked.
West shrugged. ‘He was supposed to be away for two years, but an aunt, who was a favourite of his, died suddenly and he came home for the funeral. At that stage, Pratt had already gone missing, so something must have happened earlier, something we don’t know about.’
‘But Pratt must have known he couldn’t keep it going indefinitely, anyway.’
‘He was a con man, a scam artist, Joe. I suppose he hoped something would turn up to save the day. You know the way they work, living from scam to scam.’
Pengelly nodded, making his chair creak, then leaned forward over his desk. ‘You are sure wife number three isn’t in the picture. She might have found out about his other life and resented it.’
West sat back in his chair with a groan. ‘I’m tired. No, the local officers say she had a cast-iron alibi, brings the kids to school every day, picks ‘em up. School confirms it.’
‘Just leaves us one candidate for his murder then, doesn’t it?’ Pengelly concluded, draining the last of his coffee. ‘Wife number four. She finds out her beloved husband is a con-artist, and that her marriage is as legal as a nine-pound note.’
West stood and moved to the window. He watched as a large seagull banked and shimmied, using the breeze to lift itself above the harbour below. He had stayed in Falmouth once, years before, and the noise of the seagulls had woken him at some ungodly hour and he had cursed them roundly. Now he watched in admiration as the bird soared and vanished from view.
He turned reluctantly. ‘Time of death would leave her without an alibi for Pratt’s death, certainly. She could have driven to Falmouth and back to the cottage. She says his car had broken down, I suppose she could have sabotaged it after she returned from Falmouth and called me to establish an alibi of sorts. She certainly has a motive, Joe, but I don’t see her as a murderer.’
Pengelly sat back in his chair and looked grim. ‘She had motive, opportunity and no alibi. She looks pretty good for it to me. Pratt was strangled by someone who got into the car in the seat behind. Her car, Mike. Pratt wasn’t an innocent; it had to have been someone who didn’t make him suspicious, someone he knew.
‘The pathologist said it could have been a woman; insists it would have taken dexterity rather than strength. And your murder victim, Simon Johnson, he didn’t expect trouble, she could have done that too. She certainly had the motive. He knew her husband was a con-artist and was going to expose her lifestyle for what it was.’
West stood restlessly. Was he wrong? Was Edel guilty of two murders? He sensed the hidden warning behind Pengelly’s words, knew what he was thinking, why he was being circumspect in what he said. They’d both heard of officers getting involved with suspects, it happened, a bit like actors falling for their leading ladies. But falling for a suspect could be dangerous, it could cloud your judgement, make you lose track of the case and could lose you your job.
He needed to address and dispense with the issue. ‘You’re wrong, Joe,’ he said bluntly, continuing in the face of the other officer’s innocent expression. ‘I’m not blind to her attractions but they haven’t blinded me. I just don’t think she did it. We haven’t found the source of the money; I think that’s where we’ll find our answer.’
Pengelly considered a moment and then stood, holding out his hand. ‘Cherchez la dosh, eh? I hope you’re right, Mike. You always did have good instincts, I’ll admit, and by all accounts you’ve never gone wrong following them before. But,’ he continued as they shook hands, ‘you be careful.’
‘Always,’ West said with a smile.
‘And come back and stay with us next time. Bring a friend,’ Pengelly said, always liking to have the last word.
14
West stood a moment looking through the window of the visitors’ room door, watching Edel as she sat and stared without moving. Death and its consequences were an accepted part of his job, but that didn’t make it any easier. He checked his watch. Three, he saw with annoyance. He opened the door quietly, giving her time to come back from wherever it was she had gone. She rose when she saw him and came to the door.
‘We can head back now,’ he said, reaching out to take her arm.
Outside the building, she hesitated. ‘My car,’ she began with an interrogative glance in his direction, ‘am I allowed take it?’
‘I’m afraid not for the moment,’ he apologised. ‘I’ll arrange to get it sent back to Dublin when they’ve finished with it but that won’t be for some time. Maybe you should get a hire car for the time being.’
‘Maybe,’ she replied vaguely. She sat into his car without further comment and buckling up, she leaned her head back against the headrest, sighed and closed her eyes.
The drive to the airport was fast and uneventful and she kept her eyes closed throughout the journey. Whether to prevent conversation or because she was tired, West didn’t know, but he maintained the silence she seemed to prefer. He was honest enough to admit it suited him too, gave him time to think. He was running through the day’s events when he remembered the briefcase and groaned, he should have turned it over to Pengelly. They were almost at the airport but if he insisted, he’d have to go back. He saw a lay-by sign ahead and, indicating, he pulled in. Dialling Falmouth station, he tapped on the steering wheel as he waited to be put through.
‘I can go back with it,’ he said, after giving a quick explanation.
‘No, that’s okay,’ Pengelly said. ‘A briefcase full of papers, eh? Sounds like I had a lucky escape. If you find anything of interest, copy it and send it to me, okay?’
Swallowing a sigh of relief, West assured him that he would, and cut the connection. Back on the road, he glanced in Edel’s direction to find her staring intently at him. Slightly unnerved, he concentrated on the road ahead. A brief glance, moments later, found her still staring and he felt irritation beginning to prickle.
It turned to surprise when she finally spoke. ‘Are you a good detective?’ she asked.
Taken aback, he gave the question some consideration before answering. He’d been a good solicitor, was he a good detective? He didn’t like the paperwork or the politics and struggled sometimes to remain objective, but he loved the puzzle of it all, the search for the end of the string in an attempt to find the right one to pull to untangle the knot. He railed at the revolving door of crime, seeing criminals he’d put away last year, back to their tricks the next. But he never grew tired, he never became bored and, in every case, he was doggedly determined to get the answers he needed. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I am.’
‘Do you think my Simon killed your Simon Johnson?’
He sighed and decided he had nothing to lose by telling her. ‘Cyril Pratt had a record; he had the means, motive and opportunity. He certainly was a suspect in the murder of Simon Johnson but now, well, now we’re not so sure.’
‘Because he was murdered too.’ It was a statement, not a question and he didn’t comment. ‘Means, motive and opportunity,’ she repeated.
He gave her a quizzical glance before concentrating on the road ahead.
In the airport, FlySouth were very accommodating. They changed West’s flight without extra charge and happily sold the adjacent seat to Edel. Flying at thirty thousand feet, his head resting against the headrest, gritty eyes closing, he was, once again, aware of her eyes on him. He tried to ignore the feeling. Dammit, he was tired; he just wanted an hour’s rest. Impossible, he could feel her eyes boring into him. In exasperation he threw her a look. ‘What?’ he asked gruffly.
‘Two men are dead. If, as you say, Simon… or as I suppose I must get used to calling him, Cyril Pratt… had means, motive and opportunity to murder Simon Johnson, but didn’t, then who did?’ She continued to stare at him intently for
a long moment then laughed shortly. ‘You think Cyril and Simon were killed by the same person.’ Again, this appeared to be a statement rather than a question and West said nothing.
‘Means, motive and opportunity,’ she repeated quietly. ‘If it were just Cyril, you might have suspected me of having killed him.’
He looked at her, seeing the expectant look as she waited for him to remonstrate, to reassure her. It was tempting, but could he be one hundred per cent sure she wasn’t involved? Instead, his eyes fixed on hers. He asked, ‘Did you?’ He watched her jaw drop open in shock. ‘It is very unlikely that Cyril’s death is unconnected to that of Simon Johnson’s. Let’s just say there are certain elements in common,’ he continued, ignoring her shocked silence. ‘You did have means, and opportunity and, you certainly had motive. I think you were probably genuinely unaware of your husband’s deceit and were shocked by it, but you were probably more horrified by his bigamy. That’s a much more intimate crime, destroys your belief in what you had, what you were. Made you question yourself.’ He hesitated. ‘I think when you found that photo it was the last straw.’
She pressed trembling lips together and stared at him with wide eyes. ‘You think I drove into Falmouth, murdered him, drove back, sabotaged the car and then phoned you to provide myself with an alibi?’
Since this was exactly the scenario purported by Inspector Pengelly, he refused to answer, resting his head back again, wishing he could get her shocked face out of his mind. Did he really think she was involved? He had to admit that he was attracted to her and struggled to remain objective. He was venturing into very dangerous territory and he knew it. It was a classic scenario to fall for a suspect, one most good detectives steered well clear of. He had been a smug bastard to think he was immune to such stupidity, so above making an idiot of himself.
No Simple Death (2019 Edition) Page 14
