No Simple Death (2019 Edition)

by Valerie Keogh

  16

  For a short, sweet moment when Edel woke early the next morning, she forgot her problems and stretched with the warm contentment of a good night’s sleep. Before the stretch was over, reality had forced its sticky fingers between her closed eyes and it all came rushing back. Eyes wide, she considered her predicament.

  ‘My husband has been murdered, I am a suspect, my marriage wasn’t legal and this house may not be my home.’ Hearing it aloud didn’t make it any less preposterous nor did it offer any solutions. She curled up under the duvet, pulling it over her head as if it would protect her against the reality she had to face, and tried to force her unwilling body to go back to sleep. If she did doze, it wasn’t for long and when she looked at the clock it was still only six. There was no getting away from it, the cold hard reality of her situation had to be faced.

  Nothing made any sense. Refusing to lie there another moment, she threw back the duvet and swung her feet to the floor. She sat on the edge of her bed looking down with a frown at the dirty, wrinkled jeans and the even dirtier creased shirt she’d been too weary to remove the night before. Raising her eyes, she looked around the room. Articles of discarded clothing lay everywhere, testifying to her inability to cope, to how she had completely fallen apart in the last few months.

  So, what now? Simon was dead. Simon, who never really existed, was dead. How much farther could she fall apart? How much more could he take from her in death?

  A tear ran slowly down one cheek and then the other. Silent, sad tears of self-pity. She stood, wrapping her arms around herself, the comforting embrace she needed, self-applied but comforting nevertheless. As she stood, arms tight, something stirred inside, a small frisson of determination to get through this. It wouldn’t be easy. She had been looked at suspiciously when Simon had disappeared. When the truth came out, what would people say? That she must have known, how could she not?

  How could she not? She winced. How could she have been so trusting, so gullible? The little voice that answered because you loved him was ignored. She was going to ignore that voice for a long time to come.

  Anger, a healthier emotion than self-pity, rose to the surface and she bent and gathered up clothes from the floor. It took three trips to bring them all down to the utility room where she loaded the washing machine with some, piling the rest on a worktop to be done later. Bringing a black rubbish bag up with her, she stripped the grubby sheets from the bed, rolled them up and pushed them into it, refusing to think, trying not to breathe the last scent of Simon.

  She tied the bag tightly and left it by the front door before pulling out the vacuum cleaner and bringing it up with her to suck up the dust and debris of months. The restoration of order to at least a small part of her world gave her immeasurable pleasure.

  Taking fresh linen from the airing cupboard, she remade the bed, and with sad determination piled the pillows one on top of the other instead of side by side. She turned away abruptly from the sight.

  Coffee was in order, she decided, and headed downstairs. Waiting for the kettle to boil forced her to consider the state of the kitchen. Her nose wrinkled in disgust as the smell of sour milk and stale food wafted toward her. She felt the stickiness beneath her bare feet and cringed. My God, the place is disgusting.

  Instead of making coffee, she pulled another rubbish bag from the roll and started tidying up. She put any letters to one side and discarded months of circulars and free newspapers. Crumbs, stale bread, withered fruit, old tea bags. Mugs were emptied of their gloop and put steeping in hot soapy water. Worktops were wiped. The floor was swept and washed. Edel had to go on hands and knees to scrub some of the more noisome and resistant stains but, she did so with a re-emergence of pride in herself and her surroundings.

  Then she laughed as she surveyed her jeans and shirt. She was filthy and needed a long shower but first she’d have that coffee. The kettle boiled again and she spooned coffee into the freshly-washed mug. She walked, sipping it, to her bedroom where she stripped off the filthy clothes she had worn since… no, she wasn’t going to think of that. Throwing the clothes into yet another rubbish bag, she tied a knot in it and threw it down the stairs, watching as it bounced and landed with a fat splat.

  She was still standing looking down, naked and lost in thought, when the phone rang.

  17

  To his surprise, West slept well; usually, thinking of Glasnevin led to a sleepless night, but with the memory of Edel’s smile on his mind, he’d slept soundly and peacefully. Maybe her smile could be his talisman.

  Events in Glasnevin hadn’t altered his habit of being early to work and he was there pouring over data when the rest of the team trickled in. Noisy sounds of morning greetings soon subsided into the working day’s business. Information was sourced, acquired, collated from a variety of sources with the tempo of a tango – slow-slow, quick-quick frustratingly slow.

  Forensics in Cornwall contacted them mid-morning. ‘We’ve been asked by DI Pengelly to give you our findings directly, Sergeant West,’ a forensic officer by the name of Cubert Baragwanath said slowly, with a Cornish burr so soft and low that West had to press the phone tightly to his ear to catch. ‘We have finished our examination of the car found in Falmouth, but we haven’t much to give you I’m afraid,’ the man continued, ‘all fingerprints we collected proved to be from Cyril Pratt’s and one other person. We don’t, unfortunately, have fingerprints from the car’s owner, a Mrs Edel Johnson, but from the ubiquity of the second prints we assume they belong to her. We would appreciate if you could obtain her fingerprints so we could clarify that point.’

  ‘Okay,’ West agreed. ‘We can get them done and have them sent directly to you.’

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ Baragwanath replied and continued his report. ‘The rope that was found on the pathway outside the car was definitely the murder weapon. There were traces of Cyril Pratt’s DNA on it, unfortunately that was all and, also unfortunately Sergeant, it is a common variety of rope, you can buy it anywhere.

  ‘We also collected a number of hairs and fibres from a variety of fabrics. We might, just might be able to match them if you have a suspect,’ he said, but West heard the doubt in his voice and knew it was a remote possibility. ‘Otherwise…’ he concluded.

  ‘I understand, thank you for keeping us informed.’ Great, another dead end.

  Mid-morning, Pengelly rang to pass on the results of the autopsy. ‘Did Baragwanath ring you, Mike?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, he did, thanks. Not that he had anything to tell us, as you know.’

  ‘Thanks for nothing, eh? I’m afraid the autopsy report isn’t going to set any bells ringing either. It didn’t tell us anything we didn’t already know. He was strangled; they’ve matched the marks on his neck to the rope that was found, so that’s conclusive. Skin under the victim’s nails is his own; he’d tried to prise the rope away evidently, there are deep scratches on his throat, above and below the rope mark. They also found some fibres under his nails.’ West heard loud slurping on the line before Pengelly continued. ‘Leather, probably from gloves the assailant was wearing.’

  There was a loud crackling of paper, the clunk as a mug was placed carelessly on a wooden surface and a soft curse as the Cornish detective searched for the next page in the notes.

  ‘Don’t know why they can’t ever put these damn reports in the right order,’ he complained, and then, with a sigh of relief. ‘Right, here it is. The pathologist reckons the murderer was right-handed and from the rope marks on Pratt’s neck, he extrapolated that it would have taken minimal effort to strangle him; in other words, it could have been done by a man or woman. They just had to twist it, and hold on.’ There was a long pause before Pengelly concluded with, ‘There’re some other details but nothing pertinent. I’ll have the lot faxed to you.’

  ‘Thanks, Joe, that’d be great,’ West replied, knowing the information hadn’t added much. ‘We’ve nothing further to add from our end yet but, I’ll keep you informed. We’ve
promised your forensic office Edel Johnson’s fingerprints, to confirm hers are the second set they found in the car. We’ll get the prints to them as soon as we can organise it.’

  ‘Ah, your lovely lady friend, nothing new on her?’ Pengelly asked, the smirk in his voice obvious.

  Irritated, West answered sharply. ‘Ms Johnson is not my lady friend, she is a suspect in a murder case, and, no, we have no further information on any aspect of the case.’ He took a deep breath. Pengelly was only trying to get a rise out of him. And he had succeeded so well. ‘You’re having one of your men check the car outside the cottage, aren’t you?’ he continued in a calmer tone, refusing to give him any further ammunition.

  ‘Yes, they should be there now. I’ll let you know as soon as. Don’t fret, we’ll get your la… I mean Ms Johnson, in the clear.’ He wisely didn’t wait for a reply and hung up, leaving West no outlet for his annoyance except to bang down the handset, which he did, knocking it and the pile of papers it balanced on, onto the floor. He gave an exasperated grimace and left them where they fell.

  Restless, he stepped over the mess and headed to the general office. A mug of coffee in hand, he stood in front of the case board and ran his eyes over the data. The photos of the two victims headed the board, copies of relevant information pinned under each for the team’s convenience. It allowed quick identification of connections, efficient correlation of facts, a focus for thinking, a spur for ideas. West perused dates and forensic results, going over all the details they had collated. Some pieces were new to him. One in particular caught his attention, as he recognised the logo of the Property Registration Authority of Ireland. Edel’s house, it appeared, was in her name alone.

  Filing that information away in his head, he moved on, noting that Simon Johnson had flown from Cork to Dublin, and had hired a car at Dublin airport for the drive to Foxrock. Recognising the writing, he turned to look for its owner, spotting him deep in conversation, the phone tucked under his chin as he scribbled furiously. He wandered over, waiting while he finished the call and hung up with a grin of satisfaction.

  West knew the signs. ‘Something interesting?’

  Garda Jarvis struggled to cover his excitement at having uncovered an important piece in the puzzle that was their case. ‘I was thinking last night about that Italian bloke, Castelione,’ he began, ‘you know? The guy who rented the apartment from Cyril Pratt.’

  At West’s nod he continued. ‘Well, I just wondered if there was something else he could tell us.’ Excitement came to the fore and he continued, waving his hands as he spoke. ‘I asked him to go over what happened again and he said exactly the same as the last time, and I was just about to hang up when I remembered something.’ He looked expectantly at the sergeant.

  Deciding to humour his infectious excitement, West played along. ‘And what was that?’ he asked, hiding a smile.

  ‘Well, sir,’ Jarvis continued, standing up. ‘I rent a flat and I have the landlord’s mobile number, in case there is any problem. So, I asked Mr Castelione if he had the same facility and, of course, he admitted he did. I asked him if perhaps he had given this number to Simon Johnson and…’ Jarvis hesitated for effect before finishing, relishing his moment in the spotlight of his sergeant’s gaze. ‘He had, he just hadn’t thought to tell us.’

  West raised his eyes in exasperation. ‘He didn’t think it was an important piece of information? Good work, Sam. So, now we know, at least how Johnson managed to contact Pratt when we couldn’t find the bloke.’

  ‘Castelione said Pratt didn’t give him the mobile number immediately. When he moved into the apartment, he asked for one, but Pratt told him he was changing his phone provider and would get back to him. Sounds like he went and bought a phone especially for that use.’

  ‘I agree,’ West said, ‘they had no luck tracing the mobile number Edel Johnson had for him. He must have tossed that one.’ He indicated the case board and continued. ‘Simon Johnson must have contacted Pratt on his mobile and got the name of the village in Cornwall from him.’

  ‘That explains the scrap of paper we found in his pocket,’ Jarvis said.

  ‘Yes, but not why he came to Foxrock. If he planned to go to Come-to-Good what made him change his mind and end up here?’ West turned to Jarvis. ‘We’ll get there, bit by bit. You did well, Sam, that was good thinking, an important piece of the jigsaw to find.’

  Jarvis, obviously preening, returned to his desk.

  West was still standing reviewing various other pieces of information when Andrews appeared at his side with a mug of steaming coffee in each hand. With a smile, he put his cold one down on a nearby table and, indicating his office with a tilt of his head, took the fresh mug of coffee, went through and slumped behind his desk. Andrews, raising an eyebrow at the mess on the floor, picked up the phone and placed it on a corner of the desk before sitting opposite. He put his coffee on the floor and sat back, an expectant look on his face.

  ‘Jarvis found the link between Johnson and Pratt,’ West began. ‘Mr Castelione neglected to tell us that he’d given Pratt’s mobile number to Johnson.’

  ‘Well done, Jarvis,’ Andrews said, impressed. ‘So, Johnson rang Pratt, probably looking for an explanation, only to discover he was in Cornwall. Since he’d scribbled down the name of the town, maybe he’d planned to go there?’

  ‘Maybe he did. So, what on earth took him to Foxrock? Who was he meeting here?’ West ran fingers through his hair.

  ‘Edel Johnson is still in the picture, isn’t she? I know you don’t like her for the murders, Mike, but we have to consider her as a suspect. Plus, we still haven’t traced the source of the money.’

  Yawning, West linked his hands behind his head and stretched. ‘I haven’t ruled her out,’ he said firmly. ‘Yes, the money. Cherchez la Dosh, as Joe Pengelly put it. Oh blast,’ he muttered, annoyed. ‘The briefcase, I’d forgotten the briefcase.’ He got up, waving Andrews to stay seated. ‘I have Cyril Pratt’s briefcase in my car; Edel gave it to me yesterday. She found it in the cottage. I’ll go fetch it and we can go through it while you fill me in on your interview with Amanda Pratt.’

  18

  ‘Amanda Pratt,’ Andrews muttered to himself as West left the office. Now there was a hard-faced cow.

  He had left home at five am the previous day to make the most of the traffic-free roads and arrived in Cork shortly after eight. Amanda Pratt lived in a huge estate on the north side of the city, one that appeared to be made up of innumerable cul-de-sacs and winding roads. He’d groaned when he’d driven into dead end after dead end. He really should get a satellite navigation system for the car to save this messing about. Joyce had wanted to buy him one for Christmas but he’d said no; he didn’t want someone talking to him while he drove, he liked peace and quiet, it gave him time to think. He wasn’t a quick thinker like Mike West, he needed to go over things in his head, the aspects of a case that puzzled him and the various characters and personalities involved. There were so many unknowns in this case, it was like trying to do a jigsaw without having the edge pieces and he had worried various aspects of it to death on the drive down.

  Finally, after a number of wrong turns, he’d spotted the road sign for Delaney Crescent.

  It was similar to other roads he had driven along on the estate and probably similar to hundreds of housing-estate roads throughout the country. The houses were semi-detached and solid, lacking any decorative features or architectural merit. To counter the sameness, many of the residents had concentrated on the front gardens, and here decorative features abounded, with evidence that a local garden centre was making a killing selling gnomes.

  Number seven lacked even this attempt at diversity. Its front garden, a small square that had probably been grass at some time in its dim and distant past, was filled with weeds. Curtains were still pulled across the windows but they hung from poles that dipped badly in the middle so that a crescent of light showed above.

  Andrews had checked his notes again. Thi
s was it. He’d climbed out, locked his car and walked slowly up the path to the house, listening for signs of life as he reached the door. If they were awake, they were very quiet. He checked his watch. Ten minutes past eight. The kids were of school age; surely they would be up having breakfast at this stage. His son, Petey, would be sitting at the table with his cereal by this time. He hated missing breakfast with his family but that was the job.

  If the Pratt family weren’t awake, they soon would be. There was a doorbell on the wall to the right of the glass-panelled uPVC door. He’d pressed his finger to it, and waited. Unable to hear it ring, he waited patiently for a few minutes before ringing again. This time he pressed his ear to the door as he pushed it; he couldn’t hear a thing. He’d bet it wasn’t working. The letterbox had an integrated knocker, he lifted it and rapped it sharply, hearing the noise reverberate in the quiet house. After a few more minutes, he rapped it again, this time with more vigour.

  He was just about to look around the house for a back door when a light appeared at the top of the stairs. Peering through the glass, he saw a figure silhouetted against it. It disappeared for a few seconds only to reappear and come quickly down the stairs.

  There was the grating sound of a key being turned in the lock and then the door opened, a safety chain still firmly in place. A dishevelled woman had peered through the gap and glared at him. ‘What the fuck do you want at this hour of the morning?’

  The gratingly aggressive greeting wasn’t what he’d expected. Keeping his voice even, he’d shown his identification and said, ‘I’m sorry to bother you, Mrs Pratt. I wanted to ask you some questions about your husband.’