That One May Smile

by Valerie Keogh

  Tyler growled softly, a dog dream of who-knows-what. West ran a hand over the little Chihuahua’s head and smiled.

  He had told Kelly the truth; it took a while but he regained his pleasure in things; his house, his garden, friends and family. He tried to build up a store of things that brought pleasure, things he could dip into when the sadness came sweeping over him, as it still did now and then. Kelly Johnson’s smile came to mind bringing a smile into his eyes and on that thought, he emptied his glass. He picked Tyler up without waking him and put him on the sofa beside him, then got up himself, stretched his long body and took himself to bed.

  SIXTEEN

  For a short, sweet moment when Kelly woke early the next morning she forgot her problems and stretched with the warm contentment of a good night’s sleep. Before the stretch was over reality had forced its sticky fingers between her closed eyes and it all came rushing back. Eyes wide, she considered her predicament and blinked tears away with a shake. She sat up abruptly. She needed to be doing something, she just didn’t know what. She didn’t want to think about the future; it would mean thinking of a future without Simon and she had already practised that the last three months and she knew she didn’t like it. Apathy drifted over her like a blanket and she sank back against the pillows.

  ‘My husband has been murdered, I am a suspect, my marriage wasn’t legal and this house may not be my home.’ Hearing it aloud didn’t make it any less preposterous nor did it offer any solutions. Kelly curled up under the duvet pulling it over her head, as if it would protect her against the reality she had to face. She lay unmoving, trying to force her unwilling body to go back to sleep. She thought she did dose for a little while, but when she looked at the clock again it was still only six o’clock. There was no getting away from it this time, the cold hard reality of her situation, was poking her in the eye.

  She lay there wondering about everything that had happened, over and over again until her head spun. Nothing made any sense, she thought, then got up in one sudden movement, refusing to lie there another moment. She sat on the edge of her bed looking down with a frown at the dirty wrinkled jeans and the even dirtier, creased shirt. Raising her eyes she looked around the room. Articles of discarded clothing lay everywhere testifying to her inability to cope, to how she had completely fallen apart in the last few months since Simon had gone missing.

  So what now? Simon was dead. Simon, who never really existed, was dead. So how much farther could she fall apart? How much more could he take from her in death?

  A tear ran slowly down one cheek and then the other. Silent, sad tears for herself. She stood, wrapping her arms around herself, the comforting embrace she needed, self-applied but comforting nevertheless. As she stood, arms tight, something stirred inside, a small frisson of determination to survive. It wouldn’t be easy. She had been looked at suspiciously when Simon had disappeared. When the truth came out what would people say? That she must have known, how could she not?

  How could she not? Kelly winced. How could she have been so trusting, so gullible? The little voice that answered because you loved him was ignored. She was going to ignore that voice for a long time to come.

  Anger, a healthier emotion than self-pity, rose to the surface and she bent and gathered up clothes from the floor. It took three trips to bring them all down to the utility room where she loaded the washing machine with some, piling the rest on a counter-top to be done later. Bringing a black rubbish bag up with her she stripped the grubby sheets from the bed, rolled them up and pushed them into it, refusing to think, trying not to breathe the last scent of Simon. Tears fell noisily on the plastic as she tied the bag tightly.

  She left the bag by the front door to bring out later and took the vacuum cleaner back up with her and vacuumed up the dust and debris of months. The restoration of order to at least a small part of her world gave her immeasurable pleasure.

  Taking fresh linen from the hot-press, she remade the bed, and with sad determination piled the pillows one on top of the other instead of side by side.

  She turned away abruptly from the sight. God, I need some coffee, she decided, and headed downstairs.

  Waiting for the kettle to boil forced her to consider the state of the kitchen. Her nose wrinkled in disgust as the smell of sour milk and stale food wafted toward her. She felt the stickiness beneath her bare feet and cringed. My God, this is disgusting!

  Ignoring the steaming kettle and her need for coffee, she pulled another rubbish bag from the roll and started removing the flotsam and jetsam and of months. She put any letters to one side and discarded months of circulars and free newspapers. Crumbs, stale bread, withered fruit, old tea-bags, unknown fungus covered items that were, possibly, once edible; all were swept into the bag. Mugs were emptied of their gloop and put steeping in hot soapy water. Counter-tops were washed. The floor was swept and washed. Kelly had to go on hands and knees to scrub some of the more noisome and resistant stains but she did so with a re-emergence of pride in herself and her surroundings.

  Then she laughed as she surveyed her jeans and shirt. Jesus, she was filthy! She needed a long shower but first she’d have that coffee she’d come down for. Over an hour ago, she realised looking at her watch. Eight o’clock. She’d done a lot since her early awakening but now the day stretched ahead, frighteningly empty.

  The wave of desolation came crashing over her, unexpected and fierce. She felt it batter, felt herself sway with its power but stood up to it and felt it ebb slowly away, receding and leaving her weak in its wake. Turning she leaned on the counter and gazed out the window, feeling the weakness dissipate in turn, knowing this would be the way it was for weeks and months. What was it Sergeant West had said...if she could get through the days and then the weeks and then the months, she’d survive. Banal and clichéd, maybe, but she saw he was right.

  She heard the kettle boil and turned to spoon coffee into the freshly washed mug. She walked sipping it to her bedroom where she stripped off the filthy clothes she had worn since...no, she wasn’t going to think of that. She threw the clothes into yet another rubbish bag tied a knot in the bag and threw it down the stairs, watching it land with a fat splat, thankful it didn’t burst on its way.

  She was still standing looking down, naked and lost in thought, when the phone rang.

  SEVENTEEN

  To his surprise Sergeant West had slept well; usually, thinking of Glasnevin led to a sleepless night, but he had fallen asleep with the memory of Kelly’s smile on his mind and had slept soundly and peacefully all night. He’d have to keep that smile as a talisman, he grinned to himself as he arrived at the station for another day.

  Events in Glasnevin hadn’t altered his habit of being early to work and he was there pouring over data when the rest of the team trickled in. Noisy sounds of morning greetings soon subsided into the working day’s business. Information was sourced, acquired, collated from a variety of sources with the tempo of a foxtrot – quick, slow, quick-quick frustratingly slow.

  Forensics in Cornwall contacted them mid-morning. ‘We’ve been asked by Inspector Pengelly to give you our findings directly, Sergeant West,’ a forensic officer by the name of Cubert Baragwanath said slowly, with a Cornish burr so soft and low that West had to press the phone tightly to his hear to hear. ‘We have finished our examination of the car found in Falmouth but we haven’t much to give you I’m afraid,’ the man continued, ‘all fingerprints we collected proved to be from Cyril Pratt’s and one other person. We don’t, unfortunately have fingerprints from the car’s owner, a Mrs Kelly Johnson but from the ubiquity of the second prints we assume they belong to her. We would appreciate if you could obtain her fingerprints for us so we could clarify that point.’

  ‘Ok,’ West agreed. ‘We can get them done and have them e-mailed directly to you.’

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant.’ Cubert Baragwanath replied and continued his report, ‘The rope that was found on the pathway outside the car was definitely the murder weapon. There we
re traces of Cyril Pratt’s DNA on it, unfortunately that was all and, unfortunately Sergeant, it is a common variety of rope, you could buy it anywhere.

  ‘We also collected a number of hairs and fibres from a variety of fabrics. We might, just might be able to match them if you have a suspect,’ he said, but West heard the doubt in his voice and knew it was a remote possibility. ‘Otherwise...’ the Cornish officer concluded.

  ‘I understand, thank you for keeping us informed,’ West said, and ended the call. Great, he thought, another dead end.

  Mid morning, Inspector Pengelly rang West to pass on the results of the autopsy. ‘Did Baragwanath ring you Mike?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, he did, thanks Joe. Not that he had anything to tell us as you know but still...’

  ‘Thanks for nothing, eh?’ Pengelly grinned. ‘I’m afraid the autopsy report isn’t going to set any bells ringing either, Mike. It didn’t tell us anything we didn’t know. He was strangled; they’ve matched the marks on his neck to the rope that was found, so that’s conclusive. Skin under the victim’s nails is his own; he’d tried to prise the rope away evidently, there are deep scratches on his throat, above and below the rope mark. They also found some fibres under his nails,’ West heard loud slurping on the line before the Cornish detective continued, ‘leather, probably from gloves the assailant was wearing.’

  There was a loud crackling of paper, the clunk as a mug was placed carelessly on a wooden surface and a soft curse as the Cornish detective searched for the next page in the notes.

  ‘Don’t know why they can’t ever put these damn reports in the right order, Mike’ he complained, and then, with a sigh of relief, ‘Right, here it is. The pathologist reckons the murderer was right handed. He states also that the rope was wrapped around his neck in such a way that the effort needed to strangle him was minimal; in other words it could have been done by a man or woman. They just had to twist it and hold on, Mike.’ There was a long pause, then Pengelly concluded, ‘there’re some other details but nothing pertinent. I’ll have the lot faxed to you, ok?’

  ‘Thanks, Joe, that’d be great.’ West replied, knowing the information hadn’t added much. ‘We’ve nothing further to add from our end yet but I’ll keep you informed. We’ve promised your forensic office Kelly Johnson’s fingerprints to confirm her’s are the second set they found in the car. We’ll get them to them as soon as we can organise it.’

  ‘Ah, your lovely lady-friend, nothing new on her then,’ Pengelly asked, the smirk in his voice obvious.

  Irritated, West answered sharply. ‘Ms Johnson, is not my lady-friend, Joe, she is a suspect in a murder case, and, no, we have no further information on any aspect of the case.’ He took a deep breath. He knew Joe Pengelly was only getting a rise out of him. And he had succeeded so well. ‘You’re having one of your men check the car outside the cottage, aren’t you,’ he continued in a calmer tone, refusing to give Pengelly any further ammunition.

  ‘Yes, they should be there now. I’ll let you know as soon as. Don’t fret, we’ll get your la... I mean Ms Johnson, in the clear.’ He, wisely, didn’t wait for a reply and hung up, leaving West no outlet for his annoyance except to bang down the handset which he did, knocking it, and the pile of papers it balanced on, onto the floor. He gave an exasperated grimace and left them where they fell.

  Restless, he stepped over the mess and headed to the general office. A mug of coffee in hand he stood in front of the case board and ran his eyes over the data. The photos of the two victims headed the board, copies of relevant information pinned under each for the team’s convenience. It allowed quick identification of connections, efficient correlation of facts, a focus for thinking, a spur for ideas. West perused dates and forensic results going over all the information they had collated. Some pieces of information were new to him. He noted that Simon Johnson had driven to Foxrock in a car hired at Dublin airport, and that he had flown to Dublin from Cork. Recognizing the writing he turned to look for its owner and spotted him deep in conversation, the phone tucked under his chin as he scribbled furiously. He wandered over waiting while the young man finished the call and hung up with obvious pleasure.

  West knew the signs. ‘Something interesting?’

  Garda Jarvis struggled to cover his excitement at having uncovered an important piece in the puzzle that was their case. ‘I was thinking last night about that Italian bloke, Castelione,’ he began, ‘you know? The guy who rented the apartment from Cyril Pratt.’

  At West’s nod he continued. ‘Well, I just wondered if there was something else he could tell us.’ Excitement came to the fore and he continued, waving his hands as he spoke, ‘I asked him to go over what happened again and he said exactly the same as the last time, and I was just about to hang up when I thought of something.’ He looked expectantly at the sergeant.

  Deciding to humour his infectious excitement, West played along. ‘And what was that?’ he asked, hiding a smile.

  ‘Well, sir,’ Jarvis continued standing up, ‘I rent a flat and I have the landlord’s mobile number in case there is any problem. So I asked Mr Castelione if he had the same facility and, of course, he admitted he did. So I asked him if perhaps he had given this number to Simon Johnson and...’ Jarvis hesitated for effect before finishing, relishing his moment in the spotlight of his sergeant’s gaze, ‘he had, he just hadn’t thought to tell us!’

  West raised his eyes in exasperation. ‘He didn’t think it was an important piece of information! Good work, Paul. So now we know, at least, how Johnson managed to contact Pratt when we couldn’t find the bloke.’

  Jarvis nodded. ‘Castelione said Pratt didn’t give him the mobile number immediately. When he moved into the apartment he asked for one, but Pratt told him he was changing his phone provider and would get back to him. Sounds like he went and bought a phone especially for that use.’

  ‘I agree,’ West said, ‘they had no luck tracing the mobile number Kelly Johnson had for him. He must have tossed that one.’ He indicated the case board and continued, ‘Simon Johnson must have contacted Pratt on his mobile, got the name of the village in Cornwall from him.’

  ‘That explains the scrap of paper we found in his pocket.’ Jarvis said.

  ‘Yes, but not why he came to Foxrock though. If he planned to go to Come-to-Good what made him change his mind and end up here?’ West turned to Jarvis with a smile. ‘We’ll get there bit by bit. You did well, Paul, that was good thinking, an important piece of the jigsaw to find.’

  Jarvis, obviously preening, returned to his desk.

  West was still standing reviewing various other pieces of information when Andrews appeared at his side with a mug of steaming coffee in each hand. With a smile West put his cold coffee down on a nearby table and, indicating his office with a nod, took the fresh mug of coffee, went through and slumped behind his desk with a sigh. Andrews, raising an eyebrow at the mess on the floor, picked up the phone and placed it on a corner of the desk before sitting opposite. He put his coffee on the floor and sat back, an expectant look on his face.

  ‘Jarvis found the link between Johnson and Pratt.’ West began. ‘Mr Castelione neglected to tell us, that he’d given Johnson, Pratt’s mobile number.’

  ‘So Johnson rang him, probably looking for an explanation, arranged to meet him, came down and got himself killed.’ Andrews summarised succinctly to West’s amusement.

  ‘You have a wonderful way of simplifying a case, Peter. And that would be fine if we were going with our original premise that Pratt killed Johnson. But now we are looking for a third person – makes it a bit more complicated. And why would Pratt have arranged to meet him here in Foxrock, why not in Cornwall especially as he had obviously told him where he was staying. The scrap of paper we found in his pocket. Remember?’

  Andrews held his hands up in surrender. ‘Ok, so maybe it is a bit more complicated than I made out. Anyway Kelly Johnson is still in the picture, isn’t she? I know you don’t like her for the murders, Mike, but we h
ave to consider her as a suspect. Plus we still haven’t traced the money.’

  West yawned, linking his hands behind his head and stretching. ‘I haven’t ruled her out, Peter,’ he said firmly, ‘Yes, the money. Cherchez la Dosh as Joe Pengelly put it! Oh blast,’ he muttered annoyed, ‘the briefcase, I’ve forgotten the blasted briefcase.’ He got up waving Andrews to stay seated, ‘I have Cyril Pratt’s briefcase in my car, his wife...Kelly Johnson...gave it to me yesterday. She found it in the cottage. I’ll go fetch it and we can go through it while you fill me in on your interview with Amanda Pratt.’

  EIGHTEEN

  Amanda Pratt, Peter Andrew muttered to himself as West left the office. Now there was a hard-faced cow!

  He had left home at five, making the most of the traffic free roads and arrived in Cork at seven. Amanda Pratt lived in a huge council estate on the north side of the city, an estate made up of innumerable cul-de-sacs and winding roads. Andrews groaned as he came to another dead end, he really should get one of those thingamajigs that told you where to go, he thought annoyed with himself, but he didn’t think he could bear it. He liked peace and quiet when he drove, it gave him time to think. He wasn’t a quick thinker like Mike West, he needed to go over things in his head...the aspects of a case that puzzled him and the various characters and personalities involved. There were so many unknowns in this case it was like trying to do a jigsaw without having the edge pieces, he decided, having worried various aspects to death on the drive down.

  Finally, just as he was going to give up and make the supreme sacrifice by asking a passer-by where Delaney Crescent was, he spotted the road sign.

  Delaney Crescent was similar to other roads he had driven along on the estate and probably similar to myriad council estate roads throughout the country. The houses were semi-detached and solid, lacking any decorative features or architectural furbelows. To counter the sameness many of the residents had concentrated on the front gardens and here decorative features abounded with evidence that a local garden centre was making a killing selling garden gnomes.