That One May Smile

by Valerie Keogh

  ‘Good, thanks Jarvis.’ He nodded at the younger man. ‘We know now,’ he continued, ‘that Cyril Pratt was hiding out in Come-to-Good, in Cornwall. So it wasn’t Pratt that Johnson had arranged to meet.’ He ran his hands over his face in an attempt to brush away the tiredness that clung like a cobweb.

  He faced the case board again. ‘Dammit!’ he said as much to himself as to the room. He turned to face them again. ‘Perhaps it was our friend here,’ he pointed to the sketch of John that they had recently hung on the board.

  He stood silently a moment, thoughts running chaotically. ‘What’s the link between Simon Johnson and John?’ he asked eventually. No-one answered. He moved the sketch to sit under the photo of Johnson. ‘Both were victims of a scam orchestrated by Cyril Pratt,’ he asserted, knowing the connection was tenuous. ‘Kelly Johnson says Pratt had money when they met so we can assume that he stole the money at least a year ago.’

  He looked around at the faces of his team, seeing expectation in every eye. ‘Why didn’t John try to get the money back before now?’

  ‘He couldn’t find him?’ suggested Garda Allen.

  ‘He couldn’t find him,’ agreed Sergeant West, ‘But Simon Johnson did. Maybe there’s a stronger connection between Johnson and John than we know about.’ He ran his hand over his head in a gesture of frustration. ‘Without knowing who John is, it’s impossible to find out.’ He turned to Andrews, ‘get a local officer to call to Johnson’s sister and Amanda Pratt with the sketch, she if either recognises him.’

  Andrews nodded and made a note.

  West rubbed his hand through his hair again. It was there, he could feel it, but where. Something struck him suddenly. Why hadn’t he thought of that before? He turned to look at the team, a glint lighting his eyes.

  ‘You come home unexpectedly, after a year away, and find that your tenant hasn’t, after all, been paying his rent. What do you do?’ He paced in front of the team, unravelling the scenario in his mind. ‘Do you immediately travel to the apartment through the horror that is Cork traffic, to demand an explanation? Or,’ he paused, looking around at the suddenly eager faces. ‘Or do you phone the tenant at his place of work?’

  ‘Bareton Industries!’ Andrews offered.

  ‘Bareton Industries,’ West agreed. ‘Where Johnson had advertised his apartment and where, as far as he knew, his tenant still worked.’ He hesitated a moment an amorphous idea beginning to take shape. ‘How much do we know about this Adam Fletcher?’ He looked around the room and nodded as Garda Allen lifted a hand.

  ‘He’s a chemical engineer, works on a contract basis doing mostly quality assurance work for Bareton Industries. He says he has never met or spoken to Simon Johnson. When I queried that, since they work in the same building, he clarified that he knew of him but they worked in different areas and at different times. He had never heard of anyone called Cyril Pratt and has never been to Foxrock.’

  ‘This was over the phone, I assume Allen?’

  Allen looked puzzled for a moment before nodding an affirmative.

  West looked at Andrews. ‘You didn’t get to meet him either, did you Peter?’

  Andrews shook his head, ‘Can’t add anything to what Allen said either. Not a pleasant man to talk to would be my opinion.’

  ‘So we don’t know what this Adam Fletcher looks like, do we?’ West exchanged a glance with Andrews who nodded and moved to a desk where, after a quick glance at his notes, he contacted Bareton Industries.

  The receptionist was cooperative and ten minutes later a scanned photo of Adam Fletcher came through to their computer. Andrews, standing nearby, was the first to see it and he called across to the sergeant who was in conversation with Garda Jarvis, ‘You’d better take a look, Sergeant West.’

  West, followed by the rest of the team gathered around the screen, alerted by Andrews’ grim tone.

  The personnel file photograph was grainy and obviously blown up from passport photo size, but it was clearly their mystery man, John. Andrews quickly printed a copy and, pinning it up beside the sketch, they were able to see how accurately Kelly had depicted her assailant.

  ‘To quote fictional detectives,’ West grinned around at the men. ‘Well, well, well!’

  An air of excitement washed through the room replacing the frustration and exhaustion of earlier. West had to shout to make himself heard above the chattering. ‘Listen up, everyone.

  ‘Ok. We know now who our mystery friend is but that is not going to get an arrest. We need, as I said earlier, proof. I want to know all about this Adam Fletcher; I particularly want to know where he got five hundred thousand cash and how it came into the hands of Cyril Pratt.’

  West nodded at Andrews. ‘You and I will head down to Bareton Industries and see what we can find out there. I want a warrant for Fletcher’s office and for any files pertaining to him in Bareton Industries and another warrant for his house. We have the sketch and Kelly’s testimony– it’s not enough to arrest him for murder but it will get us the warrants. We’ll go from the Bareton Industries straight to his house.’

  He headed to his office to inform the inspector of the latest turn of events and happily accepted his offer to liaise with the other departments and divisions that they would have to cross. Politics bored him and the concept of everyone having their own patch frustrated him but his frequent argument that criminals didn’t adhere to this our patch mentality fell on deaf ears.

  Grabbing his jacket and keys he joined Andrews in the main office where he was having an acrimonious conversation with, West guessed from the conversation, the forensic department. Hanging up with a frown, the sergeant related the gist of the conversation.

  ‘The scenes of crimes lads delivered all the junk they found in the graveyard to forensics but, would you believe, they ‘haven’t got around to it yet’ to quote that twerp on the phone.’ He shrugged. ‘Probably my fault, Mike,’ he admitted, ‘I haven’t been ringing them every ten minutes demanding results so they didn’t think we were in a hurry. I have relieved them of that idea and told them, in no uncertain terms, to get their finger out and get us the proof we need.’

  West smiled at the mild-mannered man. He was well aware that Andrews’ no uncertain terms probably consisted of a politely worded request. For someone who rarely raised his voice and rarely if ever swore, he commanded a respect that made people do what he wanted, when he wanted.

  Light traffic allowed them to make good time to Cork and they were soon showing their identification to the receptionist who had been so helpful to them earlier. She looked around anxiously before addressing them, ‘I won’t get into trouble for sending that photo, will I?’

  Reassured, she rang through to the managing director and informed him the gardai were asking to see him.

  A tall, bespectacled man arrived within minutes and, introducing himself, ushered them through to his office not far from the reception area. Sitting behind an overlarge desk he viewed them with curiosity. ‘Can I assume this is to do with Simon Johnson?’ he asked.

  West reached into his inside pocket and withdrew the warrant for Adam Fletcher’s office and files. He held it a moment before saying. ‘In a way, Mr Tolard. Mr Johnson’s death is part of a bigger case and it is for that reason we are here today. What can you tell us about Adam Fletcher?’

  Stuart Tolard sat back in surprise. ‘Adam?’ he asked. ‘Why are you asking about Adam? He’s not here today. We don’t expect him until the end of the month.’

  A flicker of annoyance crossed the sergeant’s face at this news but he continued, ‘As I said, it’s part of a bigger case. Mr Fletcher’s name has come up in connection with some aspects of that case.’

  The managing director, weighing up the men before him, shrugged. ‘Ok, what do you want to know? Not that I know a lot about him,’ he added cautiously, prepared to deny any knowledge that might endanger Bareton Industries.

  ‘Firstly, what exactly does he do?’

  Tolard sighed. ‘I’m not an en
gineer, gentlemen, I’m a pencil pusher. I can give you his job specification but as to what he actually does...well, you’d have to talk to the pharmaceutical manager, Alan James.’

  ‘We’ll speak to him next. So what Fletcher’s job specification?’

  With another, more irritated sigh, Tolard explained. ‘He’s employed on a regular contract basis to carry out quality assurance on some of our pharmaceutical products. As to which products...well again, you will have to ask Alan.’

  West interrupted. ‘I thought Bareton Industries manufactured monitoring systems?’

  ‘Our main product is a monitoring system for neonatal units, yes, but we have a small pharmaceutical division too that is very lucrative. In fact,’ he began to warm to his subject, now that they were in what he regarded as his territory, ‘we increased our profit in the pharmaceutical division by thirty five percent last year and we hope to double that this year with the launch of a new product. It is a very exciting time for Bareton Industries, gentlemen.’

  ‘So Adam Fletcher does what? Test the products to make sure they are ok?’ Andrews asked.

  ‘That’s simplifying rather too much,’ Tolard laughed condescendingly, ‘We have stringent checks and counter checks to ensure our product is of the highest quality and to ensure all necessary documentation is completed. The quality assurance performed by Mr Fletcher is the last step before the product is packaged and released for distribution.’

  The two policemen’s interest had gone into overdrive once the word pharmaceutical had entered the conversation. They were beginning to get an idea as to where the five hundred thousand pounds may have come from.

  ‘How often are his services required?’ West asked now.

  ‘As I said Sergeant, he is on a regular contract.’

  The two officers sat calmly, until with a loud sigh, Tolard entered information on his keyboard and sat back as the data he requested appeared.

  ‘His contract is twenty four hours a month, gentlemen.’

  ‘Not many hours, Mr Tolard. How are they spread out?’ West asked.

  ‘When Mr Fletcher came to work for us he was keen that his hours be flexible. Initially he worked standard hours but then we had to make some cutbacks, for financial reasons, and his hours were changed. We came to a mutually beneficial arrangement wherein he works whenever suits him, within a specific time frame of course, and he charges us less than his usual hourly rate. It saves us a considerable amount of money per annum, as you can imagine.’

  West and Andrews exchanged looks before the sergeant continued. ‘What hours normally do suit him, Mr Tolard?’

  Tolard shrugged, ‘He generally works late into the evening. He says he finds it easier to get the work done when there is a minimum of distractions. We have twenty-four hour security so there’s never any problem if he stays late. We haven’t had any problem in the two years he has worked this way.’ His eyes narrowed speculatively. ‘There is no legal reason why he shouldn’t work this way, I assure you, I have checked with our legal team.’

  ‘Do you have a record of the dates and times he has worked over the last year?’

  ‘Yes, of course, sergeant. Just one moment and I’ll run you off a copy.’ He quickly brought up the correct file on his desktop and within minutes was handing West a handful of warm, crisp pages with the data he required.

  West glanced at it casually then put it into his briefcase to be analysed at a later date. ‘Just one final thing,’ he said handing over the warrant. ‘This allows us to take any relevant documentation, should we need to. We’ll give you a receipt for anything we do take and it will be returned after our investigation has concluded.’

  Stuart Tolard looked annoyed but resigned. ‘Please remember, sergeant, most of our work is highly confidential.’

  Reassuring the managing director of their utmost reliability, West requested to speak to the pharmaceutical manager. Tolard made a brief call and then escorted them down a number of corridors and levels to a locked door, behind which lay the pharmaceutical division.

  ‘If you need anything else, please let me know,’ Tolard said as they waited for the door to be opened.

  A clink of keys heralded the appearance of a large, shaggy haired man wearing an ill fitting, spotless white coat. He greeted the three men and then, with a contemptuous wave of dismissal at the managing director, he ushered the two detectives into his stronghold. He closed and locked the door behind them and indicated a door further along with a nod. ‘Take a seat in there, gentlemen.’

  He followed them in and sat with a weary groan, and then covered his mouth with a big, incredibly hairy, hand as he yawned loudly. ‘You’ll have to excuse me, we’re launching a new product and I’ve been trying to get everything tied up. It’s been hectic!’

  ‘We’re sorry to have to add to your workload, Mr James,’ Sergeant West apologised, ‘as I explained to Mr Tolard, we are making some inquiries into a Mr Adam Fletcher who does some contract work for you.’

  ‘Adam? Is there some problem? He isn’t hurt...or dead?’ the pharmaceutical manager looked at them aghast.

  West smiled and quickly reassured the man.

  James looked puzzled. ‘Then what is it?’

  ‘We believe Mr Fletcher does his work mostly in the evenings. Can you show us where he works?’ West said, ignoring his question.

  James’s puzzlement gave way to suspicion. ‘You suspect him of some nefarious action, sergeant? He was fully vetted before he joined my team, you know. I don’t,’ he added, ‘have much regard for our managing director but he does his work with efficiency. He’s a cold blooded bastard, but an efficient cold blooded bastard.’

  ‘Mr Fletcher works unusual hours,’ West commented.

  James thought a moment. ‘When he came first, a little over two years ago, he worked the standard nine to five, usually over three days at the end of a month. Then, almost two years ago now, the company had some financial difficulties...very short term I hasten to add. At a staff meeting, Stuart asked everyone to cut costs, saying that if we cut incidental costs then the company could ride out the storm and it would be plain sailing from then on.’ Jackson smiled humorously, ‘he always talks like that, you know, one cliché after the other. We have bets occasionally as to how many he’ll use in one meeting. I have won a number of times,’ he smiled at the memory. He shook his head, ‘but you were asking about Fletcher, not Stuart’s management style, Sergeant West. Fletcher approached Stuart shortly after that meeting and offered to take a reduction in his hourly rate, in return for more flexible working hours. Stuart, mindful of the pennies, agreed.’

  ‘You didn’t approve, Mr James,’ West guessed.

  ‘I would have preferred to have discussed the change with Adam first; would have preferred to weigh up the implications. I am a cautious man, sergeant, and a suspicious one. It strikes me that when people seem to be doing something they consider altruistic it is very often with a personal, and usually very selfish, agenda. As it was, I was presented with a fait accompli.’ He shrugged eloquently and continued, ‘As it happens, it appeared to work well and I have had no problems. He does his work, the paperwork is competently finished and he gets the work done on time.’

  West eyed him curiously. ‘You don’t like Adam Fletcher very much, do you?’

  James guffawed. ‘I don’t like most people, sergeant. In fact, I find them increasingly irritating, although my wife tells me it is I who have become irascible.

  ‘Fletcher did his job. He always left the laboratory as he found it, so I had no cause for complaint. Because of his hours, to be honest, I rarely saw him. I never attend work related social gatherings but, I believe, neither did he. But, no, you’re right, I don’t like him very much.’ He considered a moment. ‘He has cold, calculating eyes. Cruel. I could see him being cruel and I have no idea where that idea comes from. I have never seen him being cruel to anyone...it’s just something about him. A feeling I get from him, an impression, call it what you will. Am I making sens
e, at all?’

  ‘In our job, impressions and feelings are important, Mr James. We tend to call it intuition.’ West smiled. ‘May we see where he worked?’

  ‘If you wish, although I don’t know what you are expecting to find.’ Alan James rose with another groan and stretched uncomfortably. ‘I need at least twelve hours sleep,’ he grumbled.

  He led them to the laboratory, stopping on the way to furnish each man with the obligatory white coat. ‘This is it.’

  It was a traditional laboratory; counter space along each wall with extra counter space down the centre of the room. It was well lit with high, wide windows but much of the counter space also had powerful lamps in use. There were three people at work, each too engrossed to notice strangers in their midst. Mr James showed the two detectives around, naming various pieces of equipment, various machines. He brought them to a corner section of the room that was particularly tidy.

  ‘This is Adam Fletcher’s area of work. It is easier for us to have designated areas; if we leave a test in progress it is not disturbed. Products that require their final quality assurance tests are left in this section; Fletcher does the test, attaches the correct paperwork and puts the item into these bags,’ he indicated a role of clear plastic. ‘The bags are then put into a special designated store where they are kept for insurance purposes.’

  The two detectives looked around. All the equipment required to make high class illegal drugs was before them. All that was needed was a supply of ingredients,

  ‘Where do you store the ingredients for your products, Mr James?’ West inquired.

  ‘Ingredients, Sergeant? We’re not baking cakes, you know,’ Alan James raised an eyebrow disdainfully. ‘The key components of our products are kept in a locked store in the corridor.’

  ‘May we see it, please,’ West asked with a smile.

  With a flourish James led the way out of the laboratory back down the corridor they had used previously and stopped before a hitherto unnoticed door.