No Simple Death (2019 Edition)

by Valerie Keogh

  Satisfied he had the complete undivided attention of the two men, he continued. ‘Not commonly known to most people, and obviously not known to our bad guy, we can lift fingerprints from the inside of latex gloves. It’s not difficult,’ he said, with an attempt at humility that failed completely since it was accompanied by a self-satisfied grin.

  ‘We can pull Fletcher in for questioning, we’ll have his fingerprints for you within a couple of hours.’ West stood, anxious now to get on with it, and was waved back down by the increasingly excited scientist.

  ‘There’s more, wait. Remember the fingerprint we lifted off the wallet?’ He waited, knowing the response he would get. He wasn’t disappointed.

  ‘They match?’ West said disbelievingly, this was a stroke of luck they hadn’t anticipated.

  ‘They match,’ Doyle agreed. ‘Whoever killed Simon Johnson had his sticky mitts in Cyril Pratt’s wallet. And to top it all, we made another discovery. Have a look at the last section in your file.’

  The two men did as he requested. Perfect.

  West felt his fingers tighten on the folder as he realised the final play was about to commence. Ahead of them now, was the poker game that would, hopefully, end up with the successful prosecution of Adam Fletcher.

  30

  Four hours later, Adam Fletcher was in custody and the forensic team were processing his fingerprints.

  West and Andrews entered the interview room shortly after six, the automatic recorder switched on, and they stated their names and rank as they sat and faced Fletcher and his solicitor across a scarred table.

  They took their time; opened folders, uncapped pens, poured water, cleared their throats and, finally, West began. ‘Mr Fletcher, tell us about your relationship with Simon Johnson?’

  Fletcher sighed impatiently. ‘I have already told you. I do not know Simon Johnson. I know of him because we worked for the same company, but we worked in different departments, at different times and, as far as I am aware, we have never met.’ He spoke calmly and quietly, telling them what he had told them the previous day.

  West slowly opened the folder in front of him, and withdrew a photo. He looked at it, then placed it on the desk in front of Fletcher and his solicitor. ‘These latex gloves were found in the graveyard where Simon Johnson’s body was discovered. They have his blood on them, the same blood we found on this knife.’ He took out the photograph of the bloodstained blade, and put it beside the other. ‘It was found nearby and our forensic team have identified it as the murder weapon.’ He placed a photograph of the dead man beside the other two photographs, forming a bloody triptych.

  West sat silently, watching the solicitor examine the photographs with distaste while Fletcher remained impassive. He didn’t think the impassivity would last. ‘There’s a strange thing about latex gloves, Mr Fletcher, do you know what that is?’ he eventually asked, his eyes never leaving his face.

  Fletcher looked annoyed rather than curious and refused to answer.

  ‘Criminals think they’re safe as long as they wear gloves. You were certain you didn’t leave any prints on the murder weapon, so you casually discarded it.’ He leaned forward and tapped the photograph of the bloodstained knife. ‘A clever enough move, it was a common or garden knife.’ His hand moved to tap the photograph of the gloves. ‘But then you did something really, really stupid, you dumped your gloves.’ He tapped the photograph again. ‘These gloves were found in a rubbish bin in the car park, stuffed down amongst those little pooper scooper bags.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Dumping them was a very stupid thing to do, Mr Fletcher. Do you know why?’

  Fletcher raised a quizzical eyebrow at his solicitor who broke in hurriedly. ‘Is my client here for a twenty questions game, Sergeant West?’

  ‘My apologies, Mr Cosgrave,’ he replied. ‘I just wondered if your client was aware that fingerprints could be lifted from the inside of latex gloves. Quite successfully, in fact.’ He tapped the photo on the table again, a quick, continuous tap like a drum-roll before the magician pulls the rabbit out of the hat. ‘Our forensic team lifted a nice set from these.’

  He sat back and waited, happy to let silence do its job. He watched Fletcher closely, almost able to see him reaching desperately for a way out. Time to go in for the kill. Reaching into the folder for the last piece of the evidence that Dr Doyle had given them, he removed a report and put it on top of the photo of the latex gloves.

  ‘This is a copy of the forensic analysis of a substance found in your car, Mr Fletcher. It’s blood. Simon Johnson’s blood to be exact.’

  Fletcher jumped in, a smirk on his face, positive now of an error. ‘That man has never been in my car, I don’t care what that says.’ He picked up the report and crushed it dismissively, tossing it across the table. ‘You’re trying to fit me up,’ he snarled, and looked at his solicitor for his support.

  West removed another photo from his folder and passed it over, forcing Fletcher to take it in his hand. It was a graphic photo of the crime scene in all its gory reality, the photographer having, deliberately or not, emphasised the appalling loss of blood by capturing a long, clotted string of gore falling from the edge of the box grave. Fletcher dropped it with a so-what shrug and stared balefully at West.

  ‘You see, when you stabbed Simon Johnson you pierced the aorta. You really should have left the blade there, but no, you stupidly pulled it out and got showered with his blood as a result. Mr Johnson wasn’t in your car, no, but when you got back into your car after murdering him, some blood transferred from you or your clothes onto the upholstery. Not much blood, Mr Fletcher, you probably didn’t even notice it. Not much, but enough to positively identify it as Simon Johnson’s.’ With a deep sense of satisfaction, he saw Fletcher slump in his seat.

  Mr Cosgrave glanced, nervously now, at his client. ‘In light of this evidence,’ he said, trying for professional calmness, ‘may I have a word in private with my client?’

  ‘Of course, Mr Cosgrave, as you wish, but perhaps we should finish laying out our evidence. Then you will have all the information to correctly advise your client.’ He waited expectantly and at a reluctant nod from the solicitor, he continued. ‘Our forensic team also found this, Mr Fletcher.’ He handed him a photo. ‘Hidden in the chassis of your car. Two hundred and ninety-one thousand euro. Cash. Strangely enough, the exact amount that was extorted from Edel Johnson. Her bank confirms that the serial numbers also match. Ms Johnson will testify that you demanded this money, to repay the five hundred thousand Cyril Pratt took from you. She will also testify that you told her you had murdered him.’

  ‘That is her word against my client’s,’ Fletcher’s solicitor interjected, glad to be able to make a solid objection at last.

  ‘Perhaps.’ West smiled deliberately. ‘Perhaps, Mr Cosgrave. But the fingerprint we lifted from the glove, the fingerprint that proves Mr Fletcher murdered Simon Johnson, matches the fingerprint we found at the crime scene where Pratt was killed. The rope used to strangle Cyril Pratt, a common or garden variety of rope, was found discarded carelessly nearby – much in the same way the knife was – a classic modus operandi, Mr Cosgrave. Putting all our evidence together, we have enough to charge your client with the murders of Cyril Pratt and Simon Johnson.’

  ‘Gentlemen,’ Mr Cosgrave interrupted urgently. ‘I must insist on a private word with my client.’ West, smiling enigmatically, left the bloody, accusing photographs on the table in front of the deflated figure of Fletcher, and he and Andrews left the room.

  They sat over coffee and discussed their progress. ‘You think our case for Cyril Pratt is strong enough?’ Andrews said. ‘We’ve not much solid evidence, one fingerprint.’

  ‘I think you underestimate juries, Peter. Okay, it’s one fingerprint but I think a good barrister would be able to persuade the jury that there is no way Fletcher’s fingerprint would accidently get into Pratt’s wallet. Plus, our interpretation of his arrogant discarding of the murder weapon in both cases as a classic modus o
perandi is a valid one.’ West took a mouthful of his strong coffee and continued, ‘I think we have enough, but let’s see if he’ll hang himself for Pratt’s murder without any help from us.’ He looked at his partner. ‘Time for our best poker faces, let’s go.’

  They met the rather shaken-looking solicitor in the corridor outside the interview room. Seeing them approach, he launched into speech without preamble. ‘I’m sorry, gentlemen, I have told Mr Fletcher I cannot represent him. I have no experience of criminal law. That is not my remit as I have tried to explain to Mr Fletcher. I have recommended a colleague but he has refused my recommendation, therefore, I have no option but to leave him to you.’

  With that, without further comment, he turned on his highly-polished shoes and left, leaving the two detectives looking at each other with raised eyebrows.

  They entered the interview room, again announcing their arrival to the ongoing recording which wouldn’t cease until Adam Fletcher left the room.

  He was still slumped over the table seemingly unmoved since they had left. They sat across the table from him, silently watching, waiting for him to acknowledge their presence. Five minutes passed, counted out in the tick-tock of the interview room clock. Finally, Fletcher lifted his head and, with reptilian eyes, regarded the two men sitting opposite. ‘Smart bastards, aren’t you?’ he grunted roughly in acknowledgement and sat back in his chair, resting his two large hands flat on the table in front of him.

  ‘Mr Fletcher, I must ask you if you wish us to provide legal counsel,’ West said, ignoring his comment.

  His fingers curled, nails biting into the soft, worn wood of the table. ‘The wonderful Mr Cosgrave was kind enough to inform me, before I told him to fuck off, that the case you have against me is too strong to refute, so I don’t see the point, do you? I’ve paid that damn company thousands in the last few years and the first time I really need them, what do they do, eh?

  ‘Anyway,’ he said impatiently, sitting back and crossing his arms, reasserting an element of control. ‘Let’s get on with it, shall we? I want to cut a deal. That’s the way it goes, isn’t it? I offer you something, and you help me out. That’s it, isn’t it?’ A hint of desperation had crept into his voice, faintly audible even to him, making him stop with a snort. ‘Listen,’ he growled, trying to infuse strength into his voice. ‘I have information about illegal drugs; I’m willing to name names. Big drug dealers. I have records, dates, times, you name it. They are yours. We can make a deal.’

  Back in territory he knew, Fletcher uncrossed his arms, squared his shoulders and tucked his hands into his trouser pockets, elbows akimbo. It was a classic psychological male dominant position; look at me, how big and powerful I am. West had seen Tyler do much the same thing when faced with a neighbour’s Alsatian. He didn’t think, somehow, that Fletcher would appreciate the comparison but was unable to forgo a small smile.

  Seeing the smile and misinterpreting it, Fletcher’s confidence in his ability to do a deal increased. In his narrow world, everything was for sale, everything had a price and there was always a deal to be made. He looked at the gardaí in anticipation of their agreement, eyes shining in expectation of cutting a deal in his favour, already planning what he could give, what he could get, how much he could get away with.

  West looked at him grimly, his face hardening as he took in the man’s arrogant posture. ‘We are aware of your drug activities, Mr Fletcher, and of your manufacturing scam in Bareton Industries. The Drug Squad have already investigated and intend to press charges related to their findings. Should you be able to provide them with knowledge regarding dealers they may, and I repeat may, take that into account.

  ‘We are also aware of your money dealings with Cyril Pratt.’ West kept his language ambiguous. They still didn’t know how Fletcher and Pratt were linked. He continued, ‘And, of course, your subsequent dealings with his wife.’

  Fletcher had wilted slightly at the knowledge that they knew about his drug dealings but interrupted angrily at the mention of Cyril Pratt. ‘That man. I never had any dealings with that bloody man. Okay, yes, you obviously know about my set-up in Bareton. I had a nice little business going there. I provided upmarket designer drugs to a dealer who distributed it down his own network. I’d give him a ring when they were ready, let him know where I was leaving them; he would pick them up from the designated spot and a week later, I’d get a phone call and he’d tell me where he was leaving the money and I would go and pick it up.’ His voice was laced with self-congratulatory smugness and a mean smile tilted the narrow slash of his mouth. ‘A simple plan that had worked perfectly for nearly two years,’ he finished. ‘Perfectly, without a hitch.’

  The smile turned even meaner and he frowned angrily. ‘I used the phone at my workstation. It reassured my distributer that I was legit. But about a year ago, I was delayed getting to work and must have missed the call from him because when I called him a couple of days later demanding my money, he said he’d phoned, and had given me the pick-up point. He had watched as usual and was slightly surprised that I’d sent someone to pick up the money, but had no reason to be suspicious. Since he already had the goods, I was the one who lost out.

  ‘I didn’t know who had answered my phone, or who had picked up the money, and I could hardly ask, could I?’ Fletcher said acidly. ‘Then last week I learned from Simon Johnson that someone had used my name to rent the apartment from him, and then scammed him by taking his identity and sub-letting the apartment to some Italian guy. It wasn’t hard to put two and two together, of course, and I guessed who had taken my money, but I had no way of contacting him.

  ‘I told that fool Johnson how upset I was to have had my identity stolen, and to have been used in that way. He was very understanding, and promised to let me know if he found out who it was. Later the same day, he rang me and said he had got the number from the tenant, and had spoken to a man called Cyril Pratt for a long time.’ Fletcher raised angry eyes to the two men and thumped the table with the flat of his hand. ‘That idiot Johnson was sympathetic. Would you believe it? Pratt, he told me, was very upset, had promised to repay him all the money he owed, if he was just given time. He told him he had done it to make enough money to impress his new wife, and to enable them to live in the house she loved, a bloody great posh house in Foxrock. Johnson told me that it was probably the wife’s fault, that he seemed like a really nice guy.’

  Fletcher stopped to draw breath after his tirade and sipped at a glass of water. ‘Could I get some coffee, do you think?’ he asked after a moment. ‘If I’m going to tell you everything, I’ll need some caffeine to keep alert.’

  A phone call quickly brought coffee, neither detective wishing to give Fletcher time to change his mind, and within minutes, a steaming mug in front of him, he continued.

  ‘I persuaded Johnson to meet me, to show him in what style the Pratt’s were living. He didn’t know Foxrock, so I told him to meet me at All Saint’s Church, which is easy to find. When he arrived, I took him through the graveyard and pointed out Pratt’s house. I argued so strongly that he shouldn’t get away with it, that I succeeded in changing his mind but…’ He held his mug tightly between his hands and sipped. ‘… I hadn’t anticipated that he’d want to go to the gardaí. I was arguing for revenge, thinking he’d want the same, but what did he decide he wanted? Justice… can you believe it? Justice.’ He regarded the two men with disgust, sneering at the memory. ‘You can understand, of course, that I couldn’t let the gardaí get involved, it would have ruined everything. So, I had to try and persuade the bloody fool to back down, that his plan was the right one after all. But now the obstinate fool was convinced that Pratt should face up to his wrong doings; that allowing him to go scot-free would be bad for his persona.’ Fletcher’s face took on an ugly cast. ‘He actually said that, can you believe it, “bad for his persona.”’

  There was silence for a few minutes as they all sipped their coffee and thought, in their various ways, about Simon Johnson.
>
  Fletcher took up his story again, a sneer still curling his thin lips. ‘I didn’t have a choice. I left the fool sitting on one of those grave things admiring the architecture of the church while I went, as I told him, to phone the police. “No point in putting it off,” I said to him and he agreed. I had the knife in the car, it had fallen out of a set the wife had bought the previous week and I had never remembered to bring it in to the house. I always carry latex gloves, in case I have a puncture, so it was a quick thing to slip a pair on and head back with the knife concealed up my sleeve.’ He stopped an instant, remembering. ‘He was just sitting there, like a great big fool, looking up at the church spire, which you could barely see in the dark, and I walked up to him and… well, you know the rest.’

  Yes, they knew the rest. West closed his eyes momentarily; afraid Fletcher would see how much he despised him. They needed to hear it all, no point in alienating him just yet.

  ‘And Cyril Pratt?’

  Fletcher looked at him from narrowed eyes. ‘What about him? He got what he deserved, no more, no less.’

  West said nothing and Fletcher shrugged. ‘You want the details?’

  He continued his silence, hoping the man would keep talking. There was a smug look on his face; arrogantly sure of his ability to twist the system for his own ends, he still thought he was going to be able to cut a deal and was happy to tell them how clever he had been. ‘I took Johnson’s phone. It had Pratt’s number in it. I tried to contact him but he didn’t answer. I debated knocking on his door but in view of the mess I had left, virtually on his doorstep, it wouldn’t have been the wisest step. So, it wasn’t until the next day that I finally contacted him, then I discovered that that fool, Johnson, forgot to tell me that Pratt wasn’t in Foxrock, he was in some God-forsaken spot in Cornwall.

  ‘I pretended to be Johnson, when I rang, and said I wanted to meet him, to organise a mutually convenient repayment package.’ He smiled humourlessly. ‘It was the kind of thing Johnson might say. He was pathetically grateful; I think he might have cried.’ He looked puzzled at the idea and shook his head.