No Simple Death (2019 Edition)

by Valerie Keogh

  An hour later, after a visit to a food store, she was ready to leave the centre, several bags dangling from her hands. She had bought, along with the lingerie, two pairs of jeans, T-shirts in white and her favourite baby-blue, and, an irresistible blouse in a gossamer fabric she would probably never wear but just had to have. Shopping, the eternal panacea.

  Pausing at the exit, she turned the collar of her jacket up, kept her head low and looked quickly up and down the street, prepared to retreat or run if she saw him; prepared to drop all her purchases and run like the wind. The short-lived peace she had felt while shopping vanished and she felt sick, her heart racing, head thumping.

  With her eyes constantly flicking from side to side, she walked as fast as she could back to the hotel, almost running the last few feet and pushing through the front door on a gasp. Panic bubbled as she looked around in dismay. The foyer was busier, full of people standing too closely together. What if John was hiding among them? She had to get to her room. With her head down, she pushed through with murmurs of apology, keeping to the centre of the crowd rather than the edges where he might be lurking. Why had she left the hotel? What an idiot she had been.

  She took the stairs to the fifth floor, glancing up and down the corridor before exiting the stairwell and hurrying to her door. She slid her key card down the lock and pushed the door open with a gasp of relief. Stumbling across to the bed, she collapsed onto it, her bags dropping willy-nilly on the floor around her.

  She lay there, unmoving, her mind a blank; all pain and memories, all details held at bay while her mind did a quick system check to prevent overload. Her clenched hands relaxed after a while and her ragged breathing eased. Tightly-closed eyes relaxed and opened, blinked twice and closed again. Moments later, she was asleep.

  It didn’t last long but it was sufficient for her mind to effect minimal repairs; she wouldn’t break down, not yet.

  She continued to lie there, happy just to be safe and wondering how long she could stay hiding away like this. Money wasn’t a problem; Simon had insisted she kept a large amount of cash on her credit card. She had three or four thousand on it, enough to pay for the hotel for a while but it wouldn’t last indefinitely, not staying in executive rooms in posh hotels anyway. She’d have to move somewhere much cheaper.

  Was he looking for her? Cork wasn’t a big city. If he tried every hotel, wouldn’t he find her? She closed her eyes, realising her mistake. When she’d booked in, she should have paid in cash, and used a fake name. Her mouth twisted bitterly. Simon should have given her lessons. It was too late now. Or was it?

  Sitting up, she rang reception. ‘Hello, my name is Edel Johnson, in room 556. I’m here for a rest after a very busy time, and don’t want to be disturbed, nor do I wish my family or colleagues to know where I am staying. Can you ensure that my details are not given out, to anyone?’

  Her request was met by the cool professionalism her expensive executive room paid for.

  ‘Ms Johnson, it is hotel policy not to give out resident’s details.’

  ‘Yes,’ she interrupted. ‘But if someone rings looking for me?’

  ‘I will put an alert next to your name and room number, Ms Johnson. If any person rings asking about you, they will be told we have no resident by that name. If you wish this situation to change, please let us know. Is there anything else I can do for you?’

  ‘No, thank you.’ She lay back with a sigh. Now she was safe.

  She stayed unmoving for a few moments more and then sat, picked the bags up from where she had dropped them and emptied the contents onto the bed beside her. Pulling off the sales tags, she hung the jeans and T-shirts in the wardrobe and folded the lingerie and put it on a shelf, caressing the soft fabric absentmindedly.

  Sergeant West came into her head; she considered contacting him again, and again discounted the idea. ‘I’ve left Dublin, when he asked me not to,’ she said aloud, the hint of despair that was never far away creeping back into her voice. ‘There is no way he is going to believe anything I say. He might insist I go home. And if I go back home…’ The memory of the ordeal at the train station rolled over her, followed by nausea, wave upon wave until she was, once again, retching into the toilet.

  She knelt there for several moments on the cool tiled floor, exhausted, until the nausea subsided and then she stood shakily. Taking a flannel from the shelf, she rinsed it in cold water and wiped her face, catching her reflection in the mirror again as she did so. She looked so weary. Holding her hair back, she looked at her damaged neck. The bruising was more marked now but the slight indents from his teeth were almost gone. With a sad sigh, she let her hair drop.

  Perhaps, she’d feel better after a bath.

  Peeling off her clothes, she put them into the laundry bag provided, and, following instructions, placed the bag on a hook inside a compartment in her bedroom door, from where, according to the instructions on the back of the door, the hotel staff would take it, clean it and return it. She hung the bag on the hook and closed and locked the compartment door. There was no point in being stupid; she might need the clothes again. And anyway, she couldn’t keep throwing away clothes when something bad happened to her because that seemed to be the way her life was going and she would have no clothes left.

  She poured scented bath foam into the bath, turned the taps on, and left it to fill while she returned to the bedroom for the bottle of chilled white wine she’d bought. Choosing a large glass from the selection provided, she poured, filling it almost to the brim, and brought it back to where the warm, scented water was bubbling and rising in a fragrant cloud. When it was ready, she placed the glass carefully on the broad rim of the bath and stepped in with a satisfied sigh, sinking down to allow the foamy water to envelop her. Blowing foam from one hand, she reached for the glass and took a long, cool, mouthful of wine.

  When the glass was half empty, she was able to think about her meeting with John more objectively. Simon must have stolen that money around the time she met him; stole it and used it to buy their house. Lies, from the very beginning to the very end. Not for the first time, she wondered if she ever knew the man she married. Was it all just a game to him?

  Thinking dispassionately, she thought perhaps, that he had loved her. She remembered things he had done, things he had said. Nobody was that good a liar, were they?

  She had loved him… but now? Knowing all the lies, the pretence. Truth was, she admitted, finishing the glass, the man she had loved, the man she had married, well, he had never existed. He had listened to her, to her likes and dislikes, to her dreams and fantasies, inventing himself as Simon Johnson to fit her template of the ideal man. Hadn’t she listed honesty and truthfulness among the traits she admired? Maybe not, she couldn’t remember.

  What a fool she had been. Desolation, the emptiness of her world crashed around her. Putting the slippery, empty glass back on the edge of the bath, it slid on its foamy base and fell to the tiled floor with a crash, scattering shards across the bathroom floor. Edel started to laugh and then to cry, a hysteria that increased as the water cooled around her.

  ‘Great,’ she yelled, looking up to the ceiling, to whatever gods continued to play such nasty tricks on her. ‘Just what I needed. Thanks! I’ll probably cut my blasted foot and bleed to death.’

  She pulled the plug and sat as the now cold water emptied, watching the foam settle around her curves like snowdrifts and she slowly grew calm. Standing, she grabbed a towel from the rack and rubbed herself dry, looking at the glass shards on the floor in annoyance, and then gave a quick chuckle of genuine amusement. ‘Just when I think nothing else can go wrong,’ she said, turning to address her reflection in the steamed mirror. Wrapping the towel tightly around herself she gingerly stepped out onto a glass-free area. She unrolled a handful of toilet paper, bent down and swept the broken shards safely into a corner. Unrolling some more paper, she wet it and wiped the floor again. She didn’t really want to get glass embedded in her foot. She’d had enough pai
n for one day.

  Happy the floor was now safe, she unwrapped the towel and used the body cream provided to massage moisture back into her skin. The scent was pleasant and she used it liberally, wincing as she touched painful areas where he had pinched and squeezed. She had always bruised easily, and they were coming up, not just on her neck, but on her arms, breasts and stomach. Tomorrow they would be multicoloured.

  Walking naked into the bedroom, she took the hairdryer from a drawer and roughly dried her hair in front of the full-length mirror. It reflected back a too thin, but shapely woman, auburn hair just touching her shoulders. Full lips above a firm chin; eyes, usually bright and clear, tired and defeated between tear-swollen lids.

  For a brief moment the defeat in her eyes shocked her. This wasn’t who she was. The memory of her degradation at John’s hands came back and she batted it away viciously. ‘You will not defeat me, you bastard,’ she said aloud. Putting the hairdryer down, she faced her reflection. ‘You have a choice,’ she spoke firmly to the cowering creature in front of her. ‘You can hide away and wait to see what further humiliation they dump on you or you can be proactive and do something.’

  Her reflection sneered back, unimpressed.

  Turning away, she took out the silk camisole and French knickers she had purchased earlier, slipped them on and instantly felt better. Or, at least, better than before.

  Taking another wine glass, she filled it and sat in the comfortable armchair by the window, her legs stretched out before her. From here, she could see the lights of Cork. She imagined cosy restaurants, intimate bars and romantic couples. She had stayed nearby once with Simon, somewhere near the river. One of those intimate, discreetly-luxurious hotels they both loved. Or did they? she wondered bitterly. She had told him all her likes and dreams and he’d built their life around them. Every moment of their life together was a series of lies. She sighed heavily.

  Her thoughts drifted to Sergeant West. Would he believe that she had taken out almost three hundred thousand euro to give to a stranger? She stood impatiently, moving closer to the window where, as darkness had fallen, she could see her reflection. Lifting her glass in a toast, she clinked it gently against its mirrored image. ‘I said I’d be proactive and do something, didn’t I?’ she murmured. ‘And, I will.’

  She moved to the desk, picked up the hotel phone and dialled a number.

  23

  West and Andrews were still collating information at six that evening. They had ascertained that Edel had taken a taxi to Heuston station that morning. The ticket office hadn’t recognised her photograph but told a frustrated Andrews that she could have bought her ticket on the train anyway. They were able to give him the timetable for that morning but, since there were several trains in either direction within twenty minutes of her arriving at the station, it was impossible to pinpoint which train she took. The stationmaster, unhelpfully, also commented that each train stopped at several places en route to their final destination, so, even if they knew which train, they wouldn’t know where she got off.

  Back at the station, he faced an irate sergeant who was loudly and roundly condemning the duplicity of females.

  ‘This bloody woman has made a fool of me for the last time,’ West snarled in unaccustomed temper as he paced his office. ‘I’ve had the inspector on the phone and, believe me, incompetent was the kinder of the words he used.’

  He sat heavily and frowned at the placid Andrews, daring him to comment. But wisely, he refused to give the sergeant more ammunition for his ire and West relaxed slightly, his anger always short-lived. Finally, with a self-deprecatory smile, he said, ‘Okay, Peter, temper tantrum over. Let’s get back to what we are good at and get this case solved and shelved. We need to find out why Edel Johnson has run this time, and where to.’ He frowned at the information in front of him. ‘Our best bet, looking at this timetable, is Cork. It keeps popping up in this case, doesn’t it? Can’t be a coincidence. Fax her photo to the local station in Cork; see if anyone recognises her at the station or at the taxi rank. Ask them to check on Amanda Pratt too, in case that’s her destination. And get a warrant for her bank accounts and track her credit card use.’ He checked his watch. ‘If you go now, you’ll catch a judge for the warrant and we can get her bank records first thing tomorrow.’

  The phone rang, interrupting his train of thought and he answered curtly. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is that Sergeant West?’ came a voice he recognised immediately. He held his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘It’s her, put a trace on the call.’ He waited a moment as Andrews sped away, before replying in calm, measured tones. ‘Yes, can I help you?’

  There was a slight pause. ‘It’s Edel Johnson, I wanted to let you know, I’ve… I’ve had to go away.’

  ‘Ms Johnson,’ he replied, remaining calm with extreme effort. ‘I did request, if you remember, that you remain at home, available, should we need to speak to you.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ she said quietly, ‘but… I can’t explain… I just wanted you to know that I had to go. I didn’t have a choice. I’m sorry.’

  He heard the catch in her voice and rushed into speech to preclude her cutting the connection. ‘Why can’t you explain? It can’t be that complicated.’

  ‘It would take too long, and I’m not giving you the opportunity to trace this call. I just wanted you to–’

  He interrupted her. ‘This is Foxrock, Ms Johnson, not New York. We don’t have the technology to trace phone calls here. ‘Why don’t you tell me what happened this morning?’

  ‘I can’t, he said he would…’

  He heard a distinct gulp down the line. ‘Who?’

  ‘His name is John. That’s all I know.’ Her voice trembled as she added, ‘And he is a very bad person, believe me. I’m sorry, this wasn’t a good idea.’ She finished and hung up.

  Swearing roundly, West rushed out into the general office where Andrews was putting down a receiver. ‘Well?’ he asked impatiently

  Andrews smiled. ‘Cork International Hotel.’

  ‘Excellent!’ West checked his watch. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Let’s call it quits for the day. She’s not going anywhere. Go home; introduce yourself to your wife and son. I’ll pick you up at six and we can meet our lovely Ms Johnson for breakfast in Cork.’

  ‘Right,’ he replied. ‘Do you still want me to chase that warrant before I go?’

  West chewed his lip. ‘No, leave it. Let’s see what she has to say tomorrow. We can proceed afterwards, if it’s still necessary.’

  Andrews headed off, West staying to finish some outstanding paperwork and to run through their data again. Perhaps Edel would have the answer to the mystery five hundred thousand euro, and maybe she knows who killed Cyril Pratt. They’d know tomorrow. Yawning, he grabbed his jacket and keys and headed for home.

  24

  Six in the morning, West was opening the garden gate of the Andrews’ house in Crocosmia Close, a small crescent of semi-detached bungalows nestling among a bouquet of roads in Bray all bearing the name of a garden flower. The gate squeaked open into an immaculately-kept garden just starting to show early summer colour. The house was as well maintained as the garden and, as West knew from his frequent visits, it was just as pretty inside. The front door opened as he approached it and Andrews appeared with his pretty, petite wife close behind.

  ‘Hi Michael,’ she called in greeting, before reaching up to give Andrews a kiss on the lips and a soft pat on his cheek. West, thinking how strange it was that only his mother and Andrews’ wife called him Michael, gave a wave and a smile before turning and heading back to the car with Andrews on his heels.

  Conversation was desultory, neither man big on small talk this early in the day, both focused on the job ahead. Traffic was heavy as they approached Cork, but they arrived outside the International in good time and pulled into the generous hotel car park just as the car clock showed nine.

  ‘I hope you were serious about breakfast,’ Andrews said as they climbed out and wa
lked toward the entrance.

  West put a hand on his shoulder. ‘I promise, before we leave, I’ll treat you to the best breakfast the hotel can offer, okay? Let’s hope we can call it a celebration breakfast.’

  The receptionist, despite their identification, refused to disclose the information they requested and insisted on calling the duty manager. He arrived moments later, a tall, suited, bespectacled man with a worried expression that increased when he saw the two men. With a brief look around the foyer, as if to judge the extent of the damage a visit by the gardaí had made, he beckoned them towards a door behind the reception desk.

  Inside the small room, he sat behind a cluttered desk and waved them into seats. ‘It’s early for a visit,’ he said.

  ‘Necessary, I’m afraid.’ West gave him a brief precis of their situation, enough to convince the manager of the need to cooperate.

  After eliciting a promise that trouble wouldn’t spoil the calm, relaxed ambience of the hotel, the manager, his face creased in worry, gave them Edel’s room number and a master key card. ‘She had asked for her stay here to be kept confidential.’

  ‘I’ll explain that we insisted,’ West said reassuringly.

  The worried look didn’t fade as the manager offered, half-heartedly, to go with them. ‘Or I could send a security team with you?’

  West thanked him and declined assistance. ‘We don’t envisage any problem, thank you.’ He shook his hand and thanked him for his cooperation, deciding as they left that worried was the man’s default expression.