West’s legal training kicked in. ‘He’s right to be worried. Unfortunately, it is far easier to get a poor credit rating than to have a poor one overturned. Obviously, Fletcher is aware of this. A more streetwise man than his colleague, Simon Johnson.’
‘Strange how they never met, isn’t it?’ Andrews commented.
‘Independent contractors working flexible hours, it’s not really all that surprising.’ He looked at the briefcase that sat on the desk between them. ‘Let’s get some coffee before we start into this blasted thing,’ he said, ‘maybe we’ll find some answers inside.’ He patted the worn leather hopefully.
Andrews eyed it with distaste. ‘It will be full of rubbish that will take us hours to go through, and with our current run of luck it’s more likely to give us more annoying questions than any answers.’ He stood and stretched. ‘I’ll go and get the coffee; you can start without me if you like.’
West flicked the catch, and looked inside with a groan that followed Andrews through the door. Reaching in, he lifted a handful of papers that were thrown in any which way and let them fall back in disgust. This was probably going to be a waste of time, but it had to be done. Making a space on his desk, he upturned the briefcase, allowing the contents to spill over the surface. Checking it was empty, he threw it into the corner of the room.
Andrews, returning with two mugs of coffee, eyed the empty case. ‘Finished already?’ he asked.
West raised his eyebrows. ‘I couldn’t start without you, it wouldn’t have seemed fair. Pull your chair closer, and dig in.’
They separated the paperwork into two piles, one for Cyril Pratt and one for his life as Simon Johnson. They quickly discovered the common denominator. He overspent in both lives.
‘Look at this,’ Andrews gasped and held out a restaurant receipt.
He took it, read it silently, and raised his eyes to meet Andrews’. Seeing the stunned expression on his face, he handed the receipt back. ‘They certainly lived the high life,’ he commented.
‘Two hundred and fifty euro for a bottle of champagne,’ Andrews condemned. ‘That’s ridiculous.’
‘Well…’ West temporised, ‘it was Louis Roederer Cristal. That’s about right, I’d say.’
Andrews looked at him as if he’d lost his marbles but said nothing.
He wasn’t handed any more receipts to look at but, now and then, he heard a muttered ‘Ridiculous.’
After an hour, they were finished going through it all and they sat back, regarding the various piles of paper in equal frustration.
‘He’s kept every bloody piece of paper about everything,’ West said in vexation, ‘but not one mention of where he got his mitts on five hundred thousand euro. Not one answer to any of our questions.’ Opening a drawer in his desk, he pulled out a handful of A4 envelopes and put each pile into a separate one, marking each with a name and description of the contents. It was unlikely, but not impossible, that they would need to check some receipt or credit card statement in the future, and he was damned if he was going to go through the whole lot again.
He’d sealed the last envelope when Andrews said, ‘All those debts.’
Putting the envelopes to one side, he looked quizzically at him. ‘What about them?’
‘Just an idea,’ he said, a frown between his eyes. ‘All those debts, yet when somehow, he got his hands on a lot of money, what does he do with it? He buys a house for Edel.’ He paused and shrugged. ‘He must have really loved her.’
West heaved a sigh. ‘She said they fell in love with the house when they saw it, but I’d guess she fell in love with it, and he just wanted to make her happy. She still loves it, but she may lose it despite her name being on the deeds because if we find out where the money came from, it’ll probably have to be sold to repay that.’
‘Does she know that only her name is on the deeds?’ Andrews said quietly. ‘It gives her a pretty good motive, if she loves it as much as you say.’
20
‘She doesn’t know, I’d swear,’ West said, seeing the sceptical look on Peter’s face. ‘She asked me what her situation was regarding the house when we were in Cornwall. I told her she should see a solicitor and find out. No way is she that good an actress.’ Irritation swept across his face as Andrews continued to look unconvinced.
The phone rang, startling both men. West answered, picking up the bulging envelopes with his other hand and passing them across the desk. Taking them, Andrews jerked a thumb in the direction of the general office, left and kicked the door shut after him.
‘Your lady friend appears to be definitely off the hook, my friend,’ a voice said without any preliminaries.
‘Detective Inspector Pengelly, I assume,’ West returned with ill-concealed annoyance, and then took a deep breath. ‘Apart from fantasies about my relationship with Ms Johnson, Joe,’ he said more calmly, ‘what do you have for me?’
‘My men checked out that car at the cottage. They describe it as an ancient clapped-out heap and would have thought it hadn’t been on the road in a long time. I told them it was on the road just recently and they laughed and said it wasn’t moving now. Some problem with a gasket or something, I believe, although car innards make absolutely no sense to me. Seems that’s why Pratt took her car. So, there is no way your… I mean Ms Johnson… could have made it to Falmouth.’
‘Could she have sabotaged it on her return?’ West asked, determined to put the suspicion to bed for good.
‘I asked that very question and they say, categorically, resoundingly, absolutely, no,’ Pengelly replied. ‘Just to be on the safe side, we checked all the taxi firms in the area, in case she may have taken a taxi to and from Falmouth. My lads showed her photo. If she had, she would have been remembered; the storm set the date fairly well in people’s heads. I had them check the car-hire companies too; again nada, zilch, nothing. She is off the hook. But, to keep everything right and tight, send us her fingerprints when you have them.’
He refused to explore the relief that he felt at the news. ‘Thanks Joe, you’ve covered every base. We’ll get those fingerprints to you as soon as we can organise it. You have removed our only suspect, you know,’ he added.
‘Yeah, like you wanted to lock your lady friend away for murder. You can’t pull the wool over my eyes. You never could.’
Ignoring the comment, he said, ‘We’re no closer to finding out who killed either man; we have absolutely no suspects.’ Frustration edged his voice. ‘The money angle is proving to be solid concrete. We’ll keep chipping away at it, but so far, as you’d say yourself, we’ve nada and a big fat zilch.’ He frowned, shook his head and finished the call. ‘We’ll let you know when we break through, thanks again.’
Hanging up, he went through to the general office and looked around for Andrews. There was an air of industry about the room he was glad to see, most of those present either on the phone or busily writing up their notes, but he would have been happier if the industry translated into results. It didn’t always, but this was where success lay, the long, hard and often frustrating slog and careful attention to every little detail in the hope that something might, just might, lead to a trail that, when followed, might lead to a murderer. It was tough, frustrating and usually thankless work but looking around the room, West knew he wouldn’t do anything else.
He spent some time chatting to various members of the team as they wandered in and out, following up this and that. Keeping up morale; he considered it an important part of his job. Finally, he stood looking at the case board, trying to see… anything. Andrews came hurriedly into the room, a piece of paper in his hand and a broad smile on his face, and joined him. He pinned the paper to the case board. ‘A bit of good news, at last. The Cornwall team have found one stray fingerprint.’
‘I’ve just spoken to Detective Inspector Pengelly,’ West said in surprise. ‘He never said anything about a stray fingerprint.’
‘That’s probably because he doesn’t know yet. I was on to a pal of m
ine down in Falmouth, who just happens to work in the office in the forensic lab and… well… between one thing and another he let the information slip.’ Andrews tried but failed to look embarrassed at this side-stepping of official channels.
West looked at him sharply. ‘They’re being very helpful, Peter, let’s not piss them off, eh?’
Andrews’ fake look of apology made him shake his head in genuine annoyance. He didn’t like irregularities, didn’t like short cuts. Dammit, he knew that. ‘You know how I feel about that kind of thing.’
There was a sigh of frustration and a reluctant nod. ‘Sorry, sorry, I was just getting fed up going nowhere.’
There was no point in blowing it out of proportion, they were all getting frustrated with this case. After all, a bit of useful information was what the team needed to keep them from getting despondent, might even give them somewhere to go. ‘Forget about it,’ he said. ‘What did you find out?’
Smiling, Andrews tapped the paper with his forefinger. ‘They found it in Pratt’s wallet. Forensics think the perp used gloves but couldn’t search the wallet pockets with them on. He was careful, wiped it clean but missed one on the inside of one of the pockets. The bad news, I’m afraid,’ he continued with a grimace, ‘is that it’s not on the system.’
West’s eyes narrowed in surprise. He had hoped that whoever had killed Cyril Pratt and Simon Johnson would be known to them in some capacity. After all, this was someone who had killed twice, both times up close and personal. And neither victim had had the opportunity to defend themselves.
Someone. He or she.
He quickly told Andrews about the call from Cornwall. ‘Pengelly’s men have ruled out any possibility that Edel organised transport to Falmouth. They seem to think she is off the hook, but they still want her prints to identify the second set they lifted in the car so get her in and ask her if she would consent to being fingerprinted. I don’t think she will have a problem with it. Have them sent directly to the forensic department in Cornwall. Once they have her prints, they’ll automatically check them against the one in the wallet.’
‘I’ll give her a ring and order her a taxi. She won’t have a car yet.’ He stood looking at the case board a moment longer. ‘What was he looking for in the wallet do you think?’
‘Something important enough that he took a risk to look for it,’ West considered thoughtfully. ‘This was a guy, clever enough to have set up a meeting with a career criminal like Pratt and come off best; someone canny enough to have left no evidence… or at least, he thought he had left none. What the hell was he looking for? And did he find it?’
‘So, what do you think? Are we dealing with a very lucky bad guy?’
West didn’t answer. He stood, shoulder to shoulder with Andrews and perused the information on the board, his eyes passing from detail to detail. The two men were a similar build as well as height; both wore their hair almost militarily short. Andrews’ suits were cheap, off the peg, and looked shabby next to West’s made-to-measure suits, but both men exuded a quiet confidence. ‘We still haven’t found the source of the money,’ he said, ‘we’re missing something. A link somewhere, we’re missing it.’
Andrews looked at him. ‘You’re thinking the missing link is the source of the money? A rich, lucky, bad guy then?’
Still scrutinising the board, both men nodded.
‘Give Edel a ring. Ask her to come in. We’ll get her fingerprinted and interview her again, maybe come up with something new. Maybe she knows something but doesn’t know she does, we’ll take her through the whole thing, see what comes out.’ He headed back to his office leaving Andrews to make the call.
He’d barely sat when he appeared in the doorway. ‘She’s not answering.’
West swore loudly. ‘I told her not to leave the house,’ he said in annoyance, running an impatient hand through his hair.
‘I suppose she could be in the garden,’ Andrews guessed. ‘Do you want me to wait and try again?’
‘No,’ he muttered. He had a bad feeling about this. ‘Go and pick her up.’
A short conversation with Inspector Duffy, about lack of progress in the case, put him in a grim mood. ‘We don’t seem to be any closer to making an arrest, Sergeant West. Or have I missed something?’ he asked coldly. ‘Of course, with your time spent flitting between here and Cornwall, it must make it difficult for you to focus. You don’t have any more jaunts planned, I hope.’
West bit his tongue and kept his temper in check. There was absolutely no point in giving Duffy more reason to be critical. ‘I don’t expect to have to go to Cornwall again, Inspector. And we are making progress,’ he lied confidently, ‘but it is a complicated case and needs to be handled carefully. We will get results, I assure you.’
Inspector Duffy looked at him with acute dislike. ‘Get on with it then,’ he said, dismissing him with a wave of his hand.
Back in his own office, West’s irritation was further exacerbated by another call from Pengelly.
‘Good news at last,’ he said, his voice cheerful, ‘the lads have found a fingerprint, just one, in one of the pockets of Pratt’s wallet. It doesn’t match either of the two sets of prints they found in the car. Assuming the prints in the car belong to Pratt and Edel Johnson, then there was a third person. He’d wiped the wallet but missed one in the inside. He must have been looking for something, Mike.’
‘That’s fantastic,’ West said, trying to sound surprised but even to his ears his voice sounded forced. He wasn’t a good liar, wasn’t sure he had pulled it off and was annoyed with himself, and with Andrews for putting him in the situation. It wasn’t even as if the information led them anywhere.
‘Unfortunately, the print isn’t on our system. Still, if we get a suspect, we can connect him to Pratt.’
Hanging up, West sat back, dispirited. The only piece of concrete information they’d got all day and it didn’t lead them any closer. Closer, he mocked himself, it didn’t lead them anywhere. You had to be somewhere to get closer to it and they were exactly nowhere.
He was busy criticising his handling of the case, busy thinking he had made a mistake, that he’d somehow missed something, when the phone rang. ‘West,’ he answered abruptly.
‘She’s not here,’ Andrews said without preliminaries. ‘I checked the garden. I was peering through her letterbox when a nosy neighbour came over to ask what I was doing. According to him, she went out on foot just before ten this morning. When she came back, not long afterwards, she was carrying a heavy box. There was a taxi waiting, she got into it, and she hasn’t been back since. It looks like she has scarpered…’ Just in time, Andrews decided that adding again mightn’t have been the best idea.
But both men knew the word hung there, tantalising them. Andrews rushed to fill the ominous silence. ‘It was an A-Z Taxi; I’ll call into their office; it’s just down the road in the village, and find out where they took her.’
‘Okay, do that,’ West said, his voice tight. ‘Then get back here.’
When West rang off, Andrews turned to find the nosy neighbour waiting to speak to him.
‘I always said there was something suspicious about her,’ he said, keeping his voice low. ‘Losing her husband like that. Doesn’t make sense. I’m still convinced she buried him in the back garden, you know. I told those young gardaí a couple of months ago, but did they arrest her, oh no.’
Andrews was taking steps backward in preparation for departure. The neighbour took a few steps forward, intent on keeping him a captive audience. Afraid he’d be there the rest of the day listening to him, he decided to do something he had seen in a movie, years before, or maybe he’d read in a novel, he couldn’t quite remember, just hoped he could pull it off.
‘You’ve been a great help,’ he said, interrupting the neighbour’s flow. ‘You’re obviously a very observant man, I wonder if we could ask you to do some surveillance work for us.’
The man’s eyes brightened with fervour and he took a step closer.
‘You want me to keep an eye on the house, and see if she comes back?’
Pleased that he had come to the correct conclusion, Andrews bobbed his head emphatically. ‘That would be fantastic.’ He took a card from his pocket and scribbled a phone number on the back.
‘That’s my card and my home number. If you see or hear anything give me a ring.’ The man took the card and read it fervently. Andrews couldn’t prevent himself gilding the lily; he put a hand on his shoulder, gazed into his eyes without a hint of a smile, and said in portentous tones, ‘We’re depending on you.’ He kept his hand on his shoulder a moment more, gave it a squeeze and, without further ado, turned and walked quickly away, smothering a laugh.
Brad Pitt, eat your heart out.
21
Many miles away, Edel Johnson had no reason to laugh. She was sitting, squeezed into a window seat on the Cork-bound train by an incredibly overweight man who had taken the seat beside her. As she struggled desperately to keep her grip on reality, she watched her reflection in the window, overlarge eyes in a thin face staring back. She didn’t look as if she were going mad, but she, more than most people, knew that appearances could be deceptive. The suspect in a murder case, not under arrest, no, but requested politely to stay in her house, to stay available, and here she was chugging across the countryside.
No Simple Death (2019 Edition) Page 18
