That One May Smile Read online

  He reran the morning’s conversation for the umpteenth time, analysing, critiquing, looking for whatever it was that he had missed at the time. He was still mulling over it when he poured his third whiskey.

  He should have stopped at the second, he thought now, his head aching.

  With a long suffering sigh he decided to get the worst part of the day over with and call in to see Inspector Duffy. His whiskey driven headache simmered in the background as he admitted he had fallen for one of the oldest tricks in the book. Inspector Duffy who had had a call from the Superintendent of Devon and Cornwall police first thing, apologising for his less that cordial response the previous day, was in the mood to be forgiving. He was even finding the whole episode amusing and was happy to let West see he did. The high and mighty, university educated, detective sergeant brought down by womanly wiles, the story would go, West had no doubt. He knew the story would grow legs, too, and become more and more ridiculous as the weeks went on. West didn’t consider himself high and mighty but being the butt of derisive stories wasn’t a pleasing thought. He restrained himself from slamming the door behind him with difficulty.

  He headed out to the general office and, grabbing a mug of coffee, made his way to where Andrews sat cradling a phone, scribbling rapidly. He perched on the side of the desk sipping the too hot, bitter coffee and listened to one side of the conversation.

  Andrews hung up and sat back with a groan. ‘It’s like a skein of wool this. Every time I think I’ve got it unravelled I get another knot to untie! It’s your fault, you know Mike, you wanted a nice complicated case!’

  West pulled up a chair and sat. ‘Fill me in Pete, you have to have had a better day yesterday than I did.’

  Andrews had the good sense not to laugh. He took a closer look at West, noting the dark shadows under his eyes and the weary tilt of his head. He’d seen him like this before but not until much further into a case, after weeks of sleepless nights. Something about this case is getting to him, he surmised, and it has to be that bloody woman.

  He sighed, drawing an interrogative glance from Sergeant West, and opened a folder lying on the desk in front of him. ‘Our friend Cyril Pratt is a five star con-artist,’ he summarised bluntly closing and handing over the folder. West put down his half empty mug and opened it, raising his eyebrows in disbelief as he read. Andrews interrupted his perusing, ‘I’ve arranged a briefing at nine. Some of the lads are out tying up a few loose strings.’

  West glanced at his watch. It was ten to nine. He finished reading the collated information just as the rest of the team assembled.

  ‘Ok, listen up everyone,’ he started without ceremony, ‘we’ve done well. I’ll let Garda Andrews bring you all up to speed.’ He waved the folder at Andrews indicating that he take over and sat down picking up his coffee and sipping it as he listened.

  Andrews pointed to the photo of the missing man. ‘Simon Johnson, our missing man. Also known as Cyril Pratt, also known as Paul Stokes, John Fisher, and so on. Altogether we have six aliases listed for him. That we know of! According to our various sources, our Cyril as I’ll call him for the moment, worked for a cleaning company, called, with a distinct lack of imagination, Industry Cleaning Company. It appears that it is cheaper, for big companies and industries, to hire a team to go in and clean on a regular basis than it is for them to hire their own cleaners. They have a headquarters in Cork and send teams of cleaners to various parts of the country where they stay, sometimes for a number of days and do several premises before moving on to the next area. One of the premises they clean, on a regular basis, is Bareton Industries in Cork, where our victim, Simon Johnson, worked on a contract basis, one or two days a month, until last year.’

  Andrews checked his notes and continued. ‘According to his sister, Jennifer, Mr Johnson had signed a two year contract to work in the Middle East and had decided to rent out his Cork apartment.’ He looked up from his notes. Some of the younger officers were eagerly taking notes while the more experienced just listened, mentally filing information away. He knew they would recall information instantly while the youngsters were still trying to find their notebooks. They’d learn, he hoped and continued. ‘Jennifer describes Simon Johnson as being, quote ‘too trusting for his own good’ unquote. Rather than give his apartment to an agency, which would have been the sensible thing to do, he stuck an advert up on a noticeboard in the office in Bareton Industries. According to the receptionist the advert listed address, contact phone number and also mentioned that he would be out of the country for two years.’

  A collective groan filled the room with much head shaking and frowns of disbelief at the continuing stupidity of relatively intelligent people.

  ‘Yea, yea, yea,’ Andrews nodded his head in agreement. ‘We all know how clueless these highly educated, university-softened people can be,’ he continued, a sideways glance at Sergeant West drawing a guffaw from the room. Most, at this stage had heard about Come-to-Good and the disappearance of Kelly Johnson. West gave an obligatory grin and a half bow to his appreciative team before nodding a ‘get on with it’ to Andrews.

  ‘The receptionist remembers the advert and thinks it was only there a day or two. Unfortunately, she can’t remember what days or if the cleaning team visited while it was there but we are drawing our own conclusions based on what follows.’ He pulled out an A4 size photo and stuck it to the board between the photos of the victim, Simon Johnson and the missing man, now renamed Cyril Pratt. Most of the team leaned closer to see this new addition, unconsciously noting facial features for future reference.

  ‘This is Adam Fletcher,’ Andrews said pointing at the photo. ‘He works, again on a contract basis, for Bareton Industries. According to Jennifer Johnson, Simon was contacted by Mr Fletcher about the apartment; he subsequently met him for lunch and, found him…’ he checked his notes briefly, ‘to be, quote ‘utterly charming’ unquote.’ He looked around the room noting the nodding heads and sighs of expectation. ‘So charming did he find this Mr Fletcher that when a crisis arose in the Middle East and he had to leave two weeks early, he didn’t hesitate. On the basis of their lunch meeting and a reference from Bareton Industries, he gave him the keys of the apartment. According to Jennifer, Mr Fletcher agreed to pack all Simon’s belonging and put them into storage for him. Simon had asked Jennifer to check that this was done and also to check with his bank that the agreed rent was paid. She checked for a couple of months, there appeared to be no problems and that was that. She guiltily admitted she didn’t check again.’ Andrews stopped and, shifting his seat on the desk, took a mouthful of, what West assumed was, cold, sweet coffee.

  West liked to listen to Andrews giving the up-date. It helped clear things in his head and frequently brought up questions that he hadn’t thought about before.

  Andrews cleared his throat noisily bringing the murmurs to a close as he again opened his notes. ‘For those of you who haven’t already guessed, the real Adam Fletcher has never rented an apartment from Simon Johnson or Cyril Pratt and lives, happily, with his wife and two children in Cork. Mr Fletcher says he knew of Simon Johnson but as they worked different contractual hours they had never met.’ He closed his notes, sat more comfortably on his desk and turned his gaze on Sergeant West. We’re like an old married couple, West thought wryly, as he stepped up to the board.

  ‘Ok,’ he started, looking up at the photos of the three men, ‘So this is what we know.’ He pointed at the first photo. ‘Our victim, Simon Johnson rents his apartment to a man claiming to be Adam Fletcher and goes abroad for two years. We checked the deposits that were made to his account – three in all – they were cash lodgements, lodged according to the bank by a Cyril Pratt. So we can probably surmise that Cyril Pratt doesn’t have banking or other identification in Adam Fletcher’s name. It’s not one of the aliases he has used before according to our files. It is likely that he acquired it while he worked as a cleaner in Bareton Industries and used it for the sole purpose of fooling Simon Johnson
.

  ‘In Simon Johnson’s apartment, however, our Cyril had access to sufficient personal data to allow him to creates a complete identity including banking facilities. Alberto Castelione, who rented the apartment two months later from Simon Johnson, identifies this man,’ he pointed to the photo of Cyril Pratt, ‘as being Simon.’

  He paced back and forward, thinking and working things out as he spoke. He turned to the room and continued. ‘Garda Andrews spoke to Simon Johnson’s bank in Cork yesterday and it appears this is where he had business on the Monday before leaving for Dublin. This is where he learned that only three month’s rent had been deposited into his account. He then went to his apartment looking for answers from Adam Fletcher where he met instead the current tenant, Alberto Castelione. Mr Castelione, of course, told him he was renting his apartment from a Simon Johnson and denied any knowledge of Adam Fletcher. Mr Castelione was able to show him direct debit arrangements and even, believe it or not, a rental agreement signed by Simon Johnson. Mr Castelione describes the man as being shocked and upset. He invited him in but Simon Johnson refused and left immediately.’

  West looked around, taking in the animated faces of his team. ‘Mr Castelione estimates the time Simon Johnson left the apartment to be about six pm.’ He turned and pointed at the photo of a handsome, vibrant Simon. ‘Approximately thirty hours later someone drove a very large, sharp knife deep into his stomach and left him to bleed to death on our doorstep. Was it this man? He turned to point at the photo of Cyril Pratt. ‘Our missing husband, con-artist and bigamist! If so, how did Simon Johnson contact him?’ A thought occurred to him, ‘Who spoke to Adam Fletcher?’ He looked around for a response, nodding at Garda Jarvis as he stood. ‘Get back on to him. See if he has had any strange phone calls over the last few days.’ Jarvis moved immediately to a corner of the room and opening his notebook, dialled and was soon deep in conversation.

  ‘What about Pratt’s claim he had won the lotto?’ West continued. Garda Allen answered swiftly. ‘Lotto says no one by the name of Pratt or Johnson won the lotto over that period. I spoke to the Johnson’s bank here in Foxrock. They say the money to buy the house was lodged in cash. According to their files it is the proceeds of a house sale in Drumcondra.’

  Jarvis hung up and rejoined the group. ‘Well?’ West inquired, raising an eyebrow and perching on the side of a desk.

  Jarvis read from his notes, ‘Mr Fletcher and his wife were away for a few days in the Achill Islands and only arrived back late last night. His children were staying with his mother so the house was empty. He said there was the usual assortment of hang-ups on his answer phone but nothing out of the ordinary.’

  ‘Ok, so we don’t know if Johnson tried to contact him or not. We still have any number of questions we need answered. If our victim was murdered by Pratt, how did he meet him?’ West asked and expecting no response continued, ‘Kelly Johnson states that the money from her house sale is still in her account. Find out if she is telling us the truth.’

  ‘And what has the village of Come-to-Good got to do with anything and why did Kelly Johnson do a runner?’ Andrews added to the mix and continued, ‘Let’s find some answers. Allen you and Jarvis hit the phones. I want to know if Simon Johnson hired a car. He had to have come to Foxrock in some form of transport. If you have no luck there, show his photo at the local Dart and Luas stations, you might get lucky.’

  Both men moved to the far desk and got down to work.

  Andrews watched them go, then continued, ‘Baxter, you and Edwards head over to the Johnson’s house. I’m picking up a warrant and I’ll meet you there in fifteen minutes.’ Watching them go he turned to West who was staring at the photos of the three men. ‘Crafty bugger, isn’t he?’ he nodded at the photo of Cyril Pratt.

  West stood a moment longer. Almost reluctantly he took his eyes off the photos and turned to Andrews. ‘I’m just wondering did he bite off more than he could chew, somewhere…that cash…did he try to pull a fast one on the wrong person? Is that why he had to run?’

  Andrews sighed. ‘I’m heading off with Edwards and Baxter to do a search of the Johnson house. When I get back I’ll have a word with the Drumcondra lads, see if they can come up with anything. Maybe our friend Cyril left a trail there. It’s worth a shot.’ He stretched. It was going to be a long day he thought. ‘You’re sure you fancy another long drive. I could go to Cork,’ he asked watching as West put both his hands momentarily over his face and rub his eyes.

  West brought his hands to rest for a second over his mouth, then yawning replied, ‘No…no, you do the Johnson house. I’ll meet with Jennifer Johnson and go through her brother’s belongings.’ He checked the time. ‘It’s ten; I should be back here by four at the latest. I’ll talk to Falmouth on the way and see if they have had any sightings of Kelly Johnson. Keep me informed if anything shows up in the house.’

  Andrews left as West lingered a minute more. He reached up and removed the photo of Adam Fletcher and resolutely replaced it with an A4 size photo of Kelly Johnson he had taken from Clarke’s old file. He remembered she had compared her life to an Agatha Christie novel. He should have remembered, then, that there were a lot of conniving women in those novels.

  ‘You should remember though, Kelly Johnson’, he murmured softly, ‘the murderer and his accomplice always get caught.’

  EIGHT

  The journey to Cork, where Simon Johnson had rented storage facilities in an industrial area just outside the city, was uneventful. Jennifer Johnson, a blonde attractive woman in her early fifties, was waiting when he arrived. She accepted his condolences graciously and handed him the key to the storage shed.

  Opening the door, West contained a sigh of relief. There were a number of boxes neatly piled at the entrance but the remainder appeared to be various items of furniture. A mountain bike and a road bike balanced themselves against one wall.

  Jennifer smiled pointing to them. ‘They were the real reason he rented the storage facility in the first place,’ she explained. ‘He loved to cycle. When he decided to rent the apartment out it seemed like a good idea to store extra furniture and stuff here. There isn’t much, as you can see Sergeant. Simon wasn’t a hoarder. ’ She indicated the boxes. ‘All personal papers he left behind are in those boxes. You are welcome to take them with you, if you so wish. I trust you to return them to me when you can.’

  West smiled at her gratefully. ‘That would make it a lot easier, thank you. I’ll have the contents inventoried and returned to you as soon as possible.’ He quickly transferred the four boxes to the boot of his car and relocking the storage door he handed her back the key.

  ‘There was something Simon said that puzzled me, Sergeant,’ she said as she pocketed the key. ‘He hoped all his clothes wouldn’t get damp here. When I said there weren’t any clothes, he laughed and said maybe Adam Fletcher thought his Armani suits were too valuable for a lock-up. He said, he would ask him where they were, when he spoke to him.’

  ‘Do you know if he did?’

  ‘Not when he was here. He never mentioned it again and I forgot about it until now. Simon had very expensive taste, Sergeant, and the money to indulge it. He only wore Armani suits, he swore nobody made suits so well. He wore dark suits in London and lighter suits in the Middle East. All his dark suits, several of them, would have been in his apartment and, of course, all the shirts and shoes to match.’ She smiled suddenly. ‘Simon loved his shoes, sergeant, had them handmade in Italy.

  ‘Maybe that was the business he had to attend to on Sunday, contacting Adam Fletcher?’ West queried.

  ‘It is a possibility, I suppose. He only mentioned having business. I’m afraid I didn’t inquire. Simon was a very kind, indulgent brother but he kept his business to himself, as I do.’

  ‘Just one last question, Ms Johnson, before I go. How long was the man you knew as Adam Fletcher in possession of these boxes?’

  A chill breeze blew Jennifer’s expensively streaked blond hair across her face where i
t caught tears she had been trying hard to contain. ‘You think it was him, don’t you?’ she asked in reply. ‘Simon hadn’t a bad bone in him,’ she struggled a moment before continuing, her voice thick with unshed tears, ‘he thought people were invariably good and kind because he himself was. He trusted that man without knowing him at all. Did he trust a monster, Sergeant West?’

  West reached out and took her hand, holding it a moment. ‘I don’t know Ms Johnson. Not yet anyway. But we’ll catch whoever killed Simon, believe me,’ he said, instilling his voice with a confidence he didn’t feel, giving her the answer he knew she needed to hear.

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant, I know you’ll do your best.’ She turned to move away then turning her head she answered his question. ‘Those boxes… they were in the apartment about a week before they were moved here.’

  He waved his thanks but she had already moved away to where her car was parked tidily on the far side of the road. Climbing into his own, untidily parked car, he once again headed for the long drive to Foxrock.

  He made better time on the return trip and it was just after three when he parked in his designated parking spot outside the station. Climbing out, he stretched his tired muscles feeling every one of his forty years groan as they adapted to a standing position after too many hours, over too few days, on the road. His stomach joined the chorus of protest, gurgling loudly enough to remind him he had missed not only lunch, but breakfast. He grabbed a young police constable he recognised and instructed him to have the boxes brought to his office.