No Simple Death (2019 Edition)

by Valerie Keogh

  She had been leaning over the banister staring stupidly at the black, rubbish-bag she had thrown down the stairs, when she’d heard the sound of the bedroom phone ringing. Her first reaction was surprise; the phone hadn’t rung in such a long time. She stood, naked, suddenly unsure of what to do. It continued to ring, the noise jarring, and then it stopped and the silence that followed was, for some reason, equally grating. She returned to the bedroom and stood looking at the phone, wondering who it had been, and then jumped and swore when it rang again.

  This time she picked it up and looked at it for a second before lifting it to her ear and saying a very hesitant, and barely audible, ‘Hello.’

  ‘Is that Edel Johnson?’ a male voice asked, the voice gruff.

  She nodded and then, shaking her head at her own stupidity, said quietly, ‘Yes, yes this is she.’

  ‘The widow of Cyril Pratt,’ the voice continued.

  Her eyes flew wide open, startled. ‘Who is this?’ she asked, trying to keep the shiver that had run up her spine from translating to a tremble in her voice. Her hand gripping the phone was white-knuckled.

  ‘I suppose, in a way, you could say I was a business acquaintance of Cyril’s.’ The voice went on calmly. ‘He… how shall I put it… let’s say borrowed, yes, he borrowed some money from me. He used it, he said, to buy a house. The house you are living so comfortably in, Mrs Pratt. Cyril seemed to think he could negotiate the return of my money, such strange ideas he had; he actually believed he could keep living in comfort and pay me back in instalments.’ The voice turned hard. ‘I was amused,’ he said, although she could hear no amusement in the voice. ‘Well, for a few seconds anyway.’

  Edel shivered and began to pace the floor. ‘You spoke to him?’ She stopped pacing as an idea hit her. ‘You were the man he was going to meet? In Cornwall?’

  ‘I wasn’t happy having to go all the way there, not happy at all. But we had a very interesting meeting. Indeed, we did. Unfortunately, it ended badly for poor Cyril. He really was a very foolish man, Mrs Pratt.’

  His cold voice, like a slap, stopped her in her tracks. ‘You killed him,’ she gasped in horror. Feeling her legs weaken she sat hastily on the bed, now was not a good time to faint.

  ‘I’d say exterminate is a much more appropriate word,’ the voice continued evenly, and Edel, the phone pressed tightly to her ear, thought she had never heard a voice so completely devoid of emotion. ‘He was vermin, after all. You are so much better off without him, my dear. Now, before he… shall we say left us… Cyril did mention you had certain funds in your bank account, Mrs Pratt, or should I say Johnson. Whatever. I need you to withdraw those funds and bring them to me.’ His voice remained quiet and detached as he added, ‘Otherwise… I really don’t like to threaten so I’ll make a promise instead… otherwise, you’ll be very sorry. Understood?’

  She understood completely, her fingers hurting as she gripped the phone even harder in an effort to stop trembling, fear rising from her body in waves. Attempting to speak, all she could manage was a pathetic, mangled squawk. Drawing all her remaining resources, and there were few left, she cleared her throat and tried again.

  ‘How much?’ Her voice came out in a feeble whisper. But it came out. She wiped her forehead with a corner of the sheet and waited for a response.

  A sigh of satisfaction came down the phone. ‘You’re a much more sensible woman than your late husband,’ he informed her. ‘Cyril relieved me of five hundred thousand euro.’ Her gasp interrupted him. ‘Yes, quite an amount, isn’t it? You can, perhaps, understand now why I’d like it back. According to your late, unlamented husband, you have about three hundred thousand in your personal account. It means I am at the loss of two hundred thousand, but I’m not a greedy or stupid man. I’ll settle for what I can get now. Here’s what I want you to do.’

  She listened to the list of instructions.

  He insisted she repeat them a number of times to ensure she had them correct. ‘And Mrs Pratt,’ he said, ‘you might think that you can hang up and ring the police but, please don’t. I know who you are and where you live. I could make life very, very unpleasant for you and believe me, the police wouldn’t be able to stop me. Just give me the money, and you won’t hear from me again; you have my word.’

  His words, the chilling coldness of them, made her shiver and when he asked for her mobile number, she stumbled over the digits, needing to repeat and correct herself.

  ‘Fine,’ he said, ‘remember, just do as I say and everything will be okay.’

  Hanging up, she used the bedsheet to wipe the perspiration from her hand and took a deep, shuddering breath. Of course, she was going to ring the gardaí. She emptied the contents of her bag onto the bed, and scrabbled through them, looking for the two pieces of West’s card. He’d know what to do.

  Dialling the number, she got to the last digit and stopped. They hadn’t been able to find Simon in the three months he’d been missing; they didn’t know who this man was, how were they going to be able to find him? And what if they never did? He’d killed Simon, so she wasn’t imagining the menace in his voice. He’d do exactly as he’d promised, and make her life very, very unpleasant. She shivered again. If she told the gardaí, she’d spend the next weeks and months looking over her shoulder, staring anxiously at every new face she saw, afraid to walk down the street.

  He’d promised that if she gave him the money, he would leave her alone. It was only money. What price peace of mind? She put the phone down. No, she wouldn’t contact the gardaí. She’d do exactly as he wanted.

  A glance at the clock told her it was too early. Only eight o’clock, the bank wouldn’t be open for another couple of hours. She sniffed her naked body in disgust, catching the cloying smell of fear, and headed for the shower.

  She stayed there a long time but, finally, she faced reality, turned the shower off and stepped out into the steam-filled room. Towel-drying her hair, she brushed it back and caught it in the nape of her neck with a scarf. She smoothed moisturiser onto her face. The bathroom mirror was fogged up and she was relieved not to be able to see the fear that she was sure would still be lingering in her eyes. She was trying, desperately, not to think about things, to remain outside the events, like watching a disaster unfold on a television screen. A heavy fog of despair settled around her, enveloping her, clouding her mind. From its depths, she couldn’t see an exit, no emergency light showing the way. She squeezed her eyes tight, rubbing her hands roughly over her face. She didn’t have time for this. There would, as the saying went, be time for a breakdown later. Now, well, now she had to do whatever the man who had murdered Simon wanted.

  Looking around her, she remembered she’d brought all the clothes that had littered the room down to be washed and opened the wardrobe door with a hiss of annoyance to search for something to wear. She found jeans she hadn’t worn for months and pulled them on, the sagging waistband attesting to her weight loss since Simon had vanished. A hasty search located a leather belt and she threaded it through the belt loops and drew it tight. Pulling a white T-shirt from a hanger, she pulled it on and finally took out a navy jacket. She was going to the bank; she had to look somewhat respectable.

  She had coffee and some dry, stale biscuits as she watched the hand of the clock creeping toward nine. Convinced at one point the clock had stopped, she rummaged frantically in her bag for her mobile phone, and breathed a sigh of relief to see that time was moving as it should. Finally, it was nine and she picked up the phone and dialled, growling in frustration when she got a recorded message telling her the opening hours of the bank. It seemed to go on forever and then, instead of being transferred to an operator, she heard another message telling her the lines weren’t open until nine.

  ‘It is nine,’ she screamed down the line in fury before slamming the phone down. She waited another minute then tried again. She listened impatiently while the recorded message gave her all the opening times again and then, to her relief, she heard the voice
say she would be transferred to an operator.

  Finally, she was speaking to a real, live person. ‘I need to make a large withdrawal,’ she explained carefully. She had to get this right.

  ‘Just one moment, please,’ the bored voice informed her and she was put on hold. For ages. She was pacing the kitchen, up and down, backwards and forwards. ‘Oh, for goodness sake,’ she said. Another round of pacing and then, at last, another voice asking if they could help her. ‘I need to make a large withdrawal,’ she said again.

  ‘Customers may withdraw up to a maximum of five hundred euro a day. There is also a facility whereby you can withdraw up to five thousand euro, but that requires a week’s notice.’

  She took a deep breath. This wasn’t going to be easy, was it? ‘I need to withdraw three hundred thousand euro, in cash, today.’

  Her request was met with silence.

  ‘Hello?’ she asked. ‘Hello, can you hear me?’

  ‘Is this a joke?’ a sharp voice asked her.

  She could feel beads of perspiration building on her forehead. ‘No, it is not a joke. I have three hundred thousand euro lodged with you. I need to withdraw it today.’

  The sharp voice became more acidic. ‘Madam, our rules are strict, five hundred euro a day is the maximum you can withdraw without notice.’

  ‘If you can’t help me,’ she replied, her voice equally sharp. ‘Put me on to someone who can.’

  Minutes ticked slowly by. Her call was passed from person to person up the line, each voice more sombre but all saying variations of the same thing, sorry, but no can do. Each time she responded by demanding to speak to the person’s superior until, finally, she was at the top of the pile speaking to the bank manager.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Johnson,’ he began in deep, calm tones. ‘You wish, I believe, to make a cash withdrawal. A very large cash withdrawal.’

  She struggled to remain calm. ‘As I have explained to your assistant, and before that to someone else, and before that to someone else, I need to withdraw three hundred thousand euro in cash. Today.’ She heard her voice rising in agitation and took a deep, calming breath.

  ‘You must realise, Mrs Johnson,’ the bank manager continued in a conciliatory manner, ‘even if we could bend our rules, we don’t keep that amount of cash here on a daily basis. I can hear a measure of desperation in your voice, I realise your need is acute, so here is what I can do for you. I can let you have ten thousand euro today and perhaps, if you still require it, I could organise the rest over a number of days. Would that be suitable?’

  Despair threatened to sweep over her again and only the memory of the man’s menacing promise urged her to keep control. ‘Listen to me carefully,’ she whispered into the phone. ‘I need the money, in full, today. I don’t care if you have to collect it from every bank in the Republic, I have to have it.’

  The bank manager wasn’t a stupid or unimaginative man. He recognised the note of fear in her voice and smoothly pressed a button on his phone allowing him to record the conversation. ‘You need three hundred thousand euro in cash today,’ he stated, confirming her request and recording it.

  ‘Yes, this morning. I need it this morning, by eleven.’

  ‘Can you tell me why you need it, Mrs Johnson?’ He waited as the silence stretched.

  ‘It’s for personal reasons. I don’t need a reason to withdraw my money, do I?’

  He tried again. ‘Can you assure me you are not being held under duress?’

  ‘Of course not, as I have said, it is for immediate personal reasons.’ Her voice trembled; she didn’t know if she could keep going.

  ‘I’m just wondering, if I should ask the gardaí to call around. Just to check.’

  She bit her lip to stop herself screaming, a metallic taste of blood in her mouth as teeth pierced the soft tissue. Her voice, when she managed to speak, was eerily calm. ‘The only thing I want you to do is organise getting my money. By eleven.’

  There was silence for a long time. Her fingers tightened on the phone as she wondered if he were thinking of ringing the gardaí anyway. What was she supposed to do if he did? ‘Please,’ she whispered.

  The silence lasted for so long she thought they’d been cut off. ‘Please,’ she said again. ‘This is really important.’

  ‘Okaaay,’ he conceded, drawing out the word as if to highlight his reluctance. With a sigh, and a more clipped professional voice, he added, ‘We will, of course, have to levy a fee for withdrawing such an amount without notice.’

  ‘Yes, yes, whatever,’ she replied. ‘How soon can I have it?’

  ‘I’ll need to make some calls. I’ll get back to you within the hour.’

  She hung up and sat looking at the phone, unable to move for several minutes. For something to do, she made more coffee and drank it while she ate the remainder of the stale biscuits and then paced the floor, checking the time at every turn.

  Less than an hour later, the bank manager rang her back and gave her the good news.

  ‘It wasn’t easy, Mrs Johnson,’ he pointed out. ‘It has also cost a great deal of money because security vans have had to come to us from a variety of places and for this purpose only. But I have been able to organise the delivery, and we should have the full amount here by ten forty-five. I should warn you though we need to take an administrative levy of three per cent to cover our costs.’

  She sighed, a ragged sound of relief that she was sure he heard. ‘Thank you,’ she said with sincere gratitude and put down the phone, her hand shaking. This was only the first step and she was falling apart. She looked at the clock. It was ten-fifteen. She had less than half an hour to pull herself together and follow the rest of that man’s instructions.

  That man… his voice… She shivered. She didn’t imagine the menace; he sounded cold and mean and she didn’t want to have to meet him. But she didn’t have a choice. He meant every word he said. After all, he had killed Simon. He had killed Simon, and he had laughed about it. What kind of monster was he? Unfortunately, she was going to find out.

  At ten-forty, she made her way to the bank, arriving at ten forty-four on the dot, checking her watch several times as she walked the short distance from her house. She didn’t have time to spare; everything had to go to schedule.

  Inside the bank, she looked around, confused. She should have asked him where she was to go. The manager, however, had anticipated her dilemma and even as she looked around a young man approached and said her name quietly.

  Her breath came on a gasp of relief. ‘Yes, I’m Edel Johnson.’

  The young man indicated a door in the far corner of the bank and she walked swiftly across the tiled floor, conscious of the many curious eyes that followed her. She hesitated at the door and then grasped the handle and pushed it open.

  The manager rose as she entered and greeted her with a handshake and an assessing look. ‘You’re sure there isn’t anything I can do for you?’ he said quietly.

  She shook her head and pointed to the large sealed cardboard box on his desk. ‘Is that it?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘take a seat for a moment, there is some paperwork that I need to go through.’ Sitting, he opened the file in front of him, pulled out a number of sheets and handed them to her. ‘You’ll just need to sign these, please, Mrs Johnson.’

  She signed the forms, where he had indicated, without reading them.

  ‘You really should read them,’ he protested.

  ‘I trust you, Mister…’ She read his name badge. ‘Bridgeport. Thank you.’ As she stood and shook his hand, the clock on the wall behind his desk caught her eye. She had to get on, time was moving too fast. The fear must have been visible on her face. Bridgeport held her hand a moment, delaying her.

  ‘We can still call the gardaí, Mrs Johnson, you are safe in here, you know.’

  Edel held his gaze for a moment, seeing kindness and concern reflected there. She hesitated. Maybe if the gardaí came here and took her to a safe place, she would be okay. She remember
ed the man’s voice, heard again the coldness when he spoke about Simon. What if the gardaí told her to go home, told her they would keep an eye on the house. What then? How long would they keep an eye on the house before they gave up? And when they did… he could come and make her suffer.

  She pulled her hand away gently.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Bridgeport. It is better this way. You have been very kind, I won’t forget it,’ she said with feeling. ‘Thank you again.’

  She picked up her parcel, surprised by the weight, and left.

  The taxi she’d ordered to take her to the station was waiting when she got back to the house. Putting the parcel on the seat beside her, she stared out of the window as the driver negotiated busy Dublin traffic. He dropped her as close to the entrance of Heuston train station as he could and, holding the parcel close to her chest for balance, she bought a return ticket to Cork and waited.

  So far, her timing was going as planned and ten minutes later, she was on the train. It was a struggle to get the heavy parcel into the rack above her head but she managed and sat back with a sigh.

  The overweight man beside her began to snore and she gazed at her watch estimating how much longer she would be trapped by his girth; how long before she would get to meet the man who murdered her husband. She was trapped every way.

  She wondered if West was aware she had left home. He might think she’d gone back to Cornwall. She hoped, with a soft chuckle, he wouldn’t travel all that way again. Maybe, when she had delivered the money, when it was all over, she would be able to tell him. She had so much explaining to do to so many people.

  West seemed like a nice guy. He’d driven back to Cornwall when she had asked, and rescued her from that awful place. She hadn’t really thought about it at the time but she supposed he could have contacted the UK police and asked them to go to her and not travelled all that way himself. She had never thanked him or acknowledged his help. She had assumed he would help her, and he had. And he had been kind, she remembered; he had held her as she cried and had been gentle. An unexpected and unwanted frisson ran through her at the memory, jolting her, eyes meeting startled eyes in the window. Refusing to acknowledge the feeling, she hid it away, stuck it with all the other emotions she couldn’t cope with, the rollercoaster ride she kept avoiding.