That One May Smile Read online

  Avoiding the desk sergeant’s eye to bypass the usual catalogue of moans, complaints and messages he was generally greeted with, he made his way to the station canteen. This was a badly lit, uncomfortable room that he generally tried to avoid but he was hungry and tired, a combination he knew could lead to frayed tempers at best and mistakes at worst. It was quiet at least and West took the canteen’s version of Shepherd’s Pie and sat with a sigh enjoying a seat that wasn’t moving at sixty miles an hour. He ate the pie without tasting, a trick he had learned long ago to cope with institutional food, and soon sat with an empty plate. He sat for a few minutes, relaxing in the warmth, enjoying the comfort of a full belly, listening to the murmurings of the canteen staff.

  Had he known the murmurings issued from the smitten lips of two of the younger canteen staff he wouldn’t have lingered so unconcernedly. He took his good looks for granted, had his hair cut at a local barber shop for eight pounds every six weeks, and, generally, wore clothes he got as presents from his mother, sisters and, occasionally, girlfriends. His smartly tailored suits were handmade however, a relic of his days in law and they hung well on his six foot frame. The gifts from his mother, sisters and girlfriends were invariably expensive so, despite himself, he always looked smartly dressed and stylish. His manners matched, effortlessly charming and generally agreeable. Women loved him, responding as much to his manners as to his looks, and he enjoyed them, while taking their love very much for granted and on his terms completely. So it was that he was still single at forty and currently unattached.

  Pushing himself away from the table he took his tray and left it on the rack, completely unaware of the admiring and flirtatious giggles of the two young women who watched him pass.

  Most of the rest of the afternoon passed in a flurry of mindless paperwork, done with an ill will because it had to be done. The powers that be, West often thought, delighted in adopting new and more ludicrous forms to complete for every aspect of his working day. He was scribbling his initials on the final piece of drivel when Andrews knocked and entered. He threw it in his out tray and, with an exaggerated sigh of relief, threw his pen on top and sat back in his chair.

  Andrews grinned patting the pile of forms. ‘Who told you being a detective was more exciting than law, eh?’

  West smiled and tilted his chair back on two legs. ‘All the criminals I locked away! Perhaps I shouldn’t have believed them! Sit down, Peter, tell me what you’ve got.’

  Peter Andrews moved a pile of folders from the only spare chair to the floor where they toppled immediately into another dustier pile. He sat and opening the folder in front of him proceeded to update West on the day’s work.

  At the end Mike West raised his eyebrows in exasperation. ‘Nothing,’ he muttered in annoyance.

  ‘Nothing,’ Andrews echoed calmly, ‘the lads have chased every lead so far and have come up with exactly that…nothing.’

  ‘What about Drumcondra?’

  ‘They have no current file on our Mr Pratt or any of his aliases. There is always the possibility, I suppose, that he used another temporary alias that we know nothing about. I put the five hundred grand into the mix but still nothing. No report of any swindle or scam. Mind you,’ he added, ‘not everyone is willing, or able, to come to the police if they have been ripped-off. And there is always the possibility, like you said, that he tried to rip off the wrong person.’

  ‘What about the house?’

  ‘Again, nothing. We found personal papers in the name of Simon Johnson but nothing in any other name. No further bank accounts apart from what we have. We found a couple of accounts in her name and it seems she was telling the truth there, there is a balance of three hundred thousand which is almost what she received for her house in Drumcondra.’

  ‘Did you talk to her bank?’

  ‘Got a court order this morning. If she uses her card we have her.’

  ‘I spoke to Falmouth earlier,’ West said tiredly, stretching his arms over his head and making the chair creak as it strained to balance on its two legs. ‘No sign of her or her car, as yet, but they’ll continue to be on the lookout. I still can’t believe she ran out on me,’ he muttered.

  Andrews’ eyes narrowed in a smile. He knew the effect his boss had on women, had seen the tough, battle scarred, emotionally stagnant turn pliable and malleable before his eyes. ‘We’ll get her,’ he said consolingly before West’s chair came down on all four feet with a crash, startling him. ‘Jesus, boss,’ he cried, his folder dropping to the floor, the contents scattering.

  ‘Sorry, Peter!’ West helped him pick up the contents, rescuing one gory shot of the victim from under his desk and returning it to him. He nodded then to the boxes piled beside the door. ‘Our victim’s. Want to give me a hand to go through them?’

  Andrews looked at his watch pointedly.

  ‘It’s only five,’ West complained. ‘Give me a hand and I’ll buy you a pint.’

  Andrews muttered imprecations against Guinness and opened the nearest box. Thirty minutes later they had found nothing of any consequence and he rang his wife to tell her he’d be home in half an hour.

  ‘No later,’ he promised looking pointedly at the sergeant, and hung up.

  In the last box they found a reference from Bareton Industries for one Adam Fletcher. West read it quickly. ‘It’s signed Tom Bareton. I’m sure it’ll prove to be a forgery but we’d better get it checked out tomorrow, just to be sure,’ he said handing it over to Andrews.

  Looking at it with little interest, Andrews frowned, ‘Might be easier to go in to them, Mike.’

  West frowned, ‘Dammit, I’m only back from Cork, Peter. A long journey just to find out something we already know, isn’t it?’

  ‘Well,’ Peter Andrews said slowly, ‘I was thinking about paying a visit to Amanda Pratt, anyway. I thought I might get a better feel for our Cyril if I saw where he came from. We know about his life as Simon Johnson, I’d like to see how it differed, why he lived the lie.’

  West nodded thoughtfully. Peter was right, it would help. He had been in Cork, why hadn’t he thought to go there. That bloody woman, she was filling his mind with distractions he didn’t need. ‘I should have thought of that, Peter,’ he conceded rubbing a weary hand over his face. ‘Ok, you go down. Check out Bareton Industries and Amanda. The lads can handle anything that turns up here.’

  Peter nodded, saw the worried frown on the sergeant’s face and knew he was castigating himself for not having seen Pratt’s wife himself. ‘I thought I’d leave around five a.m. I hate driving in Cork; the traffic is a nightmare and that one-way-system is dreadful. Every time I drive there I break the law, drive up one-way-streets the wrong way.’ He sighed heavily raising a smile on the other man’s face and continued, ‘At least if I’m early I can catch Amanda Pratt before she leaves to do whatever it is she does.’

  West face relaxed and he grinned. ‘She is going to love you arriving on her doorstep at seven, Peter.’

  Peter grinned back, ‘I’m expecting breakfast, Mike.’ He shrugged his shoulders, ‘Well maybe coffee anyway. I can go straight to Bareton Industries and get the reference cleared up, and have a word with...’ he glanced at the reference, ‘Tom Barton. I might have a word with this Adam Fletcher too; see if he has remembered anything of relevance.’

  There was certainly nothing else of relevance among Simon Johnson’s papers and they quickly returned the flotsam and jetsam of the victim’s life to four sad-looking cardboard boxes.

  ‘Doesn’t amount to much, does it?’West said as he taped up the last box.

  Andrews wasn’t in the mood to get philosophical, ‘You’re forgetting his Armani suits and his handmade Italian shoes, Sergeant, they’re still walking around enjoying life.’

  West grinned again. He could never stay miserable and introspective when Peter Andrews was around.

  They left together, walking in companionable silence to the car-park.

  ‘You want that pint, Peter,’ West asked, k
nowing as he did so the answer he would get, and thinking, not for the first time, what it must be like to have someone to rush home to.

  Andrews smiled and shook his head, ‘I’d better get home, Mike. Joyce will have dinner waiting.’ He hesitated. ‘You’re welcome to join us, she always makes too much.’

  West shook his head. ‘Thanks Peter. Another time maybe. And we’ll go for that pint another time too. I’m going to make it a personal mission to teach you to appreciate a good pint of Guinness!’

  Andrews opened his car and bent his tall frame into the seat. ‘Maybe I’ll convert you to a pint of Heineken instead, Mike,’ were his parting words as he sped off, exceeding the car park speed limit by one hundred per cent.

  West grimaced at the thought as he climbed into his own car. He decided to drive to the Stillorgan Orchard for a decent pint of Guinness knowing he was unlikely to meet any of his colleagues there and could enjoy his pint without the usual shop talk. He knew the story of the Come-to-Good fiasco would be doing the rounds and he definitely didn’t want to be the butt of jokes about that. In a few days maybe he could laugh about it, he thought closing his eyes briefly, but not tonight.

  He laid his head back against the headrest remembering her smile. Damn the woman, how many lies had she told him? What a fool she had made of him.

  He sighed and started his car hearing his mobile hum as he reached for the gearstick. Dammit, what now? Leaving the car in neutral, he fished in his jacket pocket and with a weary sigh of exasperation he answered it.

  NINE

  A couple of hundred miles away a storm battered the coast of Cornwall. The ground, sodden after an exceptionally wet winter, gave up in defeat and water flooded roads and fields. Flood warnings were issued. Police and rescue services advised people to stay indoors unless a journey was absolutely necessary.

  Worried householders hastily piled sandbags at vulnerable doorways remembering the last time when flood waters had swirled in and destroyed everything before it. Optimists thought they’d be fine; pessimists carried everything of value to the highest point in the building, securing against flood and, in the worst case scenario, against looting should they need to be evacuated.

  Two miles from Come-to-Good, the wind howled up a narrow, high-hedged, private laneway chasing rain before it in noisy glee and making the hedges sway drunkenly. Where the lane branched off the narrow road, a To Let sign stood, its paint peeled and fading, its wood rotting from long exposure to Cornish wind and rain. Tenacious fingers of ivy and bramble had reached out and, slowly but surely, were pulling it inexorably in. Soon it would vanish altogether, devoured by the multitude of woodlice and beetles that scuttled in and out of the rot.

  Dust to dust.

  The two-storied cottage, the sign referred to, lay at the end of the lane and was, itself, showing signs of decay. Six foot rhododendrons encircled it, planted by some well-meaning, but woefully ignorant, previous tenant or owner. Nothing grew under their dense foliage except the ubiquitous brambles and ivy that pushed damp, destructive fingers into the brickwork, the window frames and under the corrugated roof, claiming the cottage for their own.

  Sufficient space had been roughly hacked through the shrubbery to allow access to the weather beaten front door but already new growth was edging its way across the gap. The windows, small by design, were made smaller again by the encroaching greenery and let in very little light during the day and at night the cottage was in total darkness. Electricity had been cut off after the departure of the last official tenant over two years ago and now a few flickering candles ineffectually battled the darkness casting a dim haze of flickering light.

  Kelly Johnson sat at the one of the windows peering into the impenetrable darkness wondering what on earth she was going to do. Wondering if he would really come.

  All the coffee she had drunk yesterday morning had necessitated a visit to her room. She’d left the sergeant, expecting to be back with him within minutes. She hadn’t bothered locking her room and turning the handle she had opened the door with her mind elsewhere. Her knees had gone weak and she had had to grasp the door for support when she saw her husband Simon, sitting smiling on the bed. She had conjured him out of thin air so often she thought she had done so again. Then he moved and stood up and she realised he was real. It was Simon. All six foot two of him, whole and healthy, standing there, grinning at her. As if nothing had happened. As if she hadn’t spent the last three months in anguish, imagining every possible outcome.

  Her heart had reacted the way a heart in love will. She had hugged him and kissed him and… and…just looked at him, feeling her love for him bubbling over. He hadn’t changed a bit, she thought, maybe a little thinner, maybe a grey hair had sneaked in among the brown, but otherwise, just Simon. She held him close; smelling his scent, allowing herself the luxury of thinking it would all be ok now. Everything would be the way it used to be, she had thought holding him even closer, trying to absorb him into the heart of her, back where he belonged.

  They had both laughed at the same time; both began to talk at the same time.

  ‘You first,’ she laughed, sitting on the bed, the laugh fading into confusion as she looked at him, ‘Where have you been, what happened to you?’

  He sat down briefly then jumped up again. ‘Kelly,’ his lips curled in the smile she remembered so well, the smile she had searched for in every face the last three months. ‘God, I have missed you. I have so much to tell you, but not here. Pack your things and meet me in the car park. We have to get out of here.’

  ‘What?’ she cried, ‘What are you talking about?’ The bubble of relief and pleasure at seeing him burst with a loud bang leaving confusion and worry and stress fighting for control.

  ‘We have to get out of here, Kelly,’ he said again, his eyes flitting to the door, to the window.

  Kelly stood back looking at him. There was something different about him, a shiftiness that she had never seen before, an unwillingness to meet her eyes. ‘We have to get out of here? I don’t understand,’ she pleaded quietly, suddenly afraid, the ground wobbling precariously under her feet.

  He paced the room, running his hand impatiently through his hair. ‘Listen, I can’t explain now. It’s a long story and…well, to be honest, it’s not safe here.’

  She stood and faced him reaching out to hold his arm, almost relieved to feel the warm flesh. She wasn’t dreaming. ‘I don’t understand, Simon! Not safe, why?’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake, will you just do as I ask,’ he shouted angrily, brushing her hand away roughly, a frown creasing his forehead, ‘We have to get out of here.’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ she tried to reason with him. ‘There’s a garda sergeant downstairs, from Ireland. He is…well, interviewing me, I suppose you’d say…I found a dead man, you see, in the churchyard yesterday. He’s a garda, Simon; he’ll be able to help with whatever it is, whatever trouble you are in.’ She reached out, trying to instil some reassurance into her voice. ‘You’ll be safe now.’

  He interrupted angrily. ‘No, you fool, you just don’t understand,’ he said dismissively, ‘we can’t trust anyone, not the gardai, not anyone.’ He took a deep breath and continued in a calmer voice, ‘Listen love, we need to get out of here. When we are safe, I’ll tell you everything and then you’ll understand. Trust me. I love you, remember.’

  He reached out and took her into his arms, held her close to him and felt her relax.

  Wrapped in his arms Kelly felt safe. ‘I trust you, Simon,’ she whispered, ignoring myriad voices that screamed inside. She had to trust him, he was her husband. He was back, everything would be alright now. She just knew it.

  She quickly packed her overnight bag and was ready to go.

  Simon opened the bedroom door quietly and then closed it. ‘I have a car in the car park. It’s parked beside yours. Give me a minute and then follow quickly, ok?’

  She nodded and watched him go. She quickly calculated how much she owed for her stay and withd
rew sufficient cash from her purse holding it in one hand with her room key. Making her way down the stairs she cast an apprehensive glance at the lounge door then made her way to the bar where she was in luck, the landlady took her key and cash without question and she made a dash for the car park.

  Simon had his engine running already and his car started to move toward the exit when he saw her. Throwing her case onto the passenger seat and, putting the car into gear, she followed him.

  She followed him for what seemed to be miles, up and down narrow and narrower country roads and lanes, indicating when he indicated, turning when he turned. It was already getting dark, thanks to heavy storm clouds which had invaded Cornwall’s skies and she was getting tired. With a sigh she saw his indicator light flash again and his car turn down an even narrower lane lined with high hedges which brushed the sides of the car as she drove.

  Suddenly his car stopped and Kelly, pulling up beside him stopped, opened her car door slowly and got out. She looked in amazement as Simon seemed to disappear into a large shrub but he turned and beckoned to her and she realised there was a building lurking in the midst of it all. Reaching into the car she grabbed her bag and holdall, stopped a moment to control hot tears that threatened, then turned and hiding her reluctance followed him.

  He stood at the doorway holding a nasty-looking bramble back with one hand. Seeing her, he pushed it back behind the branch of a rhododendron, winding it around to stop it springing back. ‘Dreadful things, brambles,’ he commented calmly.

  Inside the cottage it was dark and damp. Simon immediately lit a number of candles that were scattered about and put a match to a fire that had been set. Kelly shivered. The candles and fire should have created a cosy atmosphere and it was obvious from Simon’s self-congratulatory smile that he thought they did, but the candles threw huge shadows on the grubby-white walls and illuminated large spider’s webs with their large, living occupants. All in all, the room resembled a scene from a scary movie.