That One May Smile

by Valerie Keogh

  West, who prided himself on his honesty refused to be honest with himself. ‘It’s my job, Ms Johnson,’ he said and hung up.

  He sat there finishing his beer, criticising the stupidity of a police officer who falls for a suspect, never mind that he was sure she wasn’t involved. No excuse, he said, castigating his behaviour as he drained the last drop and contemplated a third beer and then contemplated a whiskey. Instead of either, he sat there thinking about the case and her, and her and the case, and her and her, and fell asleep where he sat, waking at four with a creak in his neck to slowly lumber up the stairs and fall, as he was, onto the bed where he slept, without moving, till the clock interrupted his slumber at seven.

  TWENTY-NINE

  It was the final hurdle, the last lap where great effort gives the greatest reward. The general office hummed with purpose. Officers went to and fro answering calls, adding to the case board as information was received, making calls to tie down facts. The nitty gritty was important, they all knew that.

  They were holding their breath for the forensic team to finish their work, hoping for enough to proceed. West had to pull his hand back several times throughout the morning to stop a phone call he knew they didn’t need; they’d get back to him when they had something and phoning them to make them tell him that was just delaying them. The same reasoning didn’t stop his own superior from ringing him and he had had to field three calls already that morning from the inspector demanding updates.

  Early afternoon brought good news from Bob Phelan and his team who had spent the morning in Bareton Industries going through their computers and doing an inventory of stock.

  ‘He is a clever man, our Adam Fletcher, Mike, it looks like he never took too much any month so they never ran short and, since they didn’t, nobody noticed.’ West listened as Bob enumerated what had been taken, some was familiar to him, some not. ‘Rather than making a straightforward illegal which would have required a larger amount of one particular component,’ Bob continued, ‘he used small amounts of more ingredients to make a new designer drug, an experiment that has proved very successful and very lucrative. You know about the problem we’ve been having with this new designer drug, Nirvana? Well, we’re sure this is the source; we’re just waiting for some tests to be completed to be a hundred percent sure.’

  ‘Can you prove he was the one taking the components, though, Bob? It seemed to me that everyone had access and therefore anyone could have taken the stuff.’ West queried.

  ‘Fortunately for us, Mike, our Fletcher is the only one who had opportunity.’

  ‘Of course,’ West exclaimed. ‘Because he was the only one there on his own.’

  ‘That’s it. Everyone else works standard nine-to-five and therefore wouldn’t have had the opportunity. When our tests come back, if it is Nirvana, Mr Fletcher will be charged with five counts of manslaughter as well as the manufacturing and supplying of illegal drugs.’

  ‘How lucrative a deal was it, Bob?’ West asked.

  Phelan sighed. ‘Best guess, and it’s only a guess so far, Mike, until we do all the figures. Best guess based on the difference between what they ordered, what they officially used and what remains in the lab is, over the two years assuming...

  West interrupted impatiently. ‘Rough estimate then, Bob, what would he have made?’

  ‘Nirvana was a very upmarket drug, Mike. About ten million. Roughly.’

  ‘Phew,’ West exhaled loudly. ‘Bloody hell, Bob.’

  ‘Shutting him down will be a big coup for us, Mike. These new, so called, designer drugs attract the big money but the old reliables don’t go away. They just become cheaper so the dealers have to tap more markets to make up their income. They’ve been hitting schools, clubs, even cinemas targeting a younger and younger age group.’

  ‘And you are sure you can prove Fletcher was responsible?’ West asked again, ‘The opportunity angle seems a bit tenuous. We need to have this tied down solid, Bob. I don’t want this bastard slipping away on a technicality.’

  He could hear Bob’s weary sigh and quickly apologised, ‘Bob, I’m sorry. I’m playing devil’s advocate here, just thinking of all the arguments his legal team are going to pull out of the bag.’

  ‘I appreciate that, Mike. We want this bugger off the streets, believe me. We’ll have it tight, don’t worry. We’re running a background check on everyone who had access to the components. So far they appear to come up clean. All have good incomes with concomitant lifestyles, cars, homes etc. Fletcher on the other hand is declaring an income of two hundred thousand but lives in a two million pound house he purchased...wait for it...four years ago. He has a fancy villa in France according to one of his former colleagues who also envies him his series six BMW.’

  ‘Four years ago...you think he was doing this before, somewhere else?’ West inquired.

  ‘You can bet on it. We have a team asking questions of a former employer, as we speak. If we can find matching discrepancies there we’ll be able to tie the two together. I don’t know where you are with your murder case but, I guarantee we’ll have enough to charge Fletcher with the manufacturing and dealing of illegal drugs before the day is out. Class A drugs, Mike, that’s twenty years. When he is convicted, they’ll levy the charges for manslaughter for the five victims of Nirvana...five that we know of Mike.’

  ‘I think we’ll have our murder case in the bag before that, Bob, they’ll have to stand in line.’ West said with far more assurance than he felt as he rang off.

  Moving into the general office he headed to the case board and read the new information posted there, going over it all again. Hearing hear his office phone ring he headed to answer, frowning in annoyance as it stopped when he reached it. Almost immediately a phone rang in the general office and a nearby garda answered. He immediately looked around for the sergeant and, with almost reverent tones, said, ‘it’s forensics, Sarge.’

  A hush fell over the room as everyone listened to the sergeant’s side of the call trying to interpret whether it was good or bad news from the little he said.

  ‘We’ll be there in thirty minutes, Steve. Thanks.’ Sergeant West finished the call, placed the receiver back on the stand and looked around the room. He caught Andrews’ eye and suddenly grinned, his eyes lighting in relief and excitement.

  ‘We’ve got the bastard!’ he said softly and then as a wave of yells crossed the room, he shouted in relief. ‘We’ve got him!’

  West let cheers and back-slapping continue for a few minutes. They had worked bloody hard, they deserved it.

  ‘Ok,’ he said finally, waiting as they quietened. ‘Ok, we’re nearly there but not done yet. Forensics wants to go over the results with us, in person, so Andrews and I are heading over there now. Keep chipping away at the details. If things go to plan we should be wrapping this case up soon.’

  With a nod to Andrews they left, stopping by the inspector’s office on the way to tell him their good news, knowing they could leave the nitty-gritty of arrest warrants in his capable, red-tape loving hands.

  They took West’s car for the thirty minute drive to the Phoenix Park where the Forensic Laboratory was situated, West filling Andrews in on the call from the Drug Squad as he drove.

  ‘Ten million,’ Andrews exclaimed in tones of awe. ‘Bloody hell, no wonder he can afford that house.’

  ‘And the rest,’ West informed him. ‘A villa in France and a top of the range BMW and lord knows what else. Nothing too conspicuous, I’d guess, but the watch he was wearing was a Patek, Peter. They retail for about fifty k.’

  Andrews’ eyes grew wide, ‘For a watch?’

  West grinned. ‘Ah, but a Patek watch doesn’t belong to you, Peter, you’re looking after it for the next generation.’

  ‘What?’ Peter Andrews looked genuinely puzzled.

  West laughed out loud. ‘It’s their marketing ploy, Peter. Very expensively set adverts, usually with an older man and younger boy and that’s their line. The father buys the watch and e
ventually the son will inherit it.’

  There was silence as Andrews digested this, then, ‘What happens if he has two sons; does one get the watch and the other the strap?’

  They considered this as the car wound its way through the Phoenix Park to the Forensic Laboratory.

  They were expected so didn’t have to hang around in the lobby for too long, just long enough to exclaim at the artwork on display; photographs of tiny particles and hairs, magnified so they filled a canvas. West was fascinated; Andrews quickly bored.

  A white-coated woman appeared at the reception desk and at a nod from the receptionist she approached them, hand held out.

  ‘Hi, I’m Ashling,’ she smiled in greeting. ‘Dr Doyle asked me to come and get you; he’s just finishing off something.’

  They followed her through reception where she took white coats from a peg and asked them to put them on. ‘Rules,’ she said with a shrug.

  White-coat clad they followed her down corridors and through double doors to a room full of light and esoteric equipment. Ashling, her job done, left them with a casual wave and they looked around with interest. There were several people in the room, all focused and engrossed in their work, eyes down, faces hidden. All wore the mandatory white coats and in addition they all wore paper mop-caps; with their faces buried in their work, it made it hard to distinguish one person from the other.

  A hand rose and waved at them from the far side of the room and a face looked their way, bringing recognition to both men at the same time. Forensic scientist, Dr Stephen Doyle, waved again and indicated that they join him. It was like an obstacle race; they made their way carefully around equipment, and people bending over equipment, and parts of equipment that extended unexpectedly into space to where Stephen Doyle sat peering through the lens of a piece of equipment neither man could identify.

  ‘Hi Mike, Pete,’ he said in his gravelly voice, without lifting his head ‘Did I make your day, or what?’ He lifted his head as he finished and looked at them.

  Both men wore identical grins and he smiled back at them, ‘Jesus, you’re like Cheshire cats, the pair of you!’ He scribbled a note on the pad in front of him and then switching off the equipment, he indicated the room behind them with a wave of a half discarded latex glove. ‘We’ll go in there, I have it all laid out for you.’

  Tossing his gloves into a nearby bin he led the way. ‘Sit,’ he said, ‘It’ll take a while to go through it.’

  Three folders sat side by side on the table in front of them. Stephen handed one to each of them. ‘These are copies of our findings. Everything we found, everything we tested, all the results we have obtained, so far. There are a number of results outstanding but, on the basis of what we have found, I decided to give you the report now rather than waiting.’ He shrugged eloquently, ‘The outstanding results aren’t going to change things.’ Both detectives opened their folders and followed as Dr Doyle explained his findings.

  ‘First, as you know, we tested the knife that was discarded nearby. A four inch long, common-or-garden kitchen knife, which matched the wound on Simon Johnson’s body and which was stained with blood which we have proven to be from the victim. Thus, without a doubt, it is the murder weapon. There were, however, no fingerprints on the knife.’

  The door to the office opened quietly and a tall willowy man stepped in, squinting myopically at the two detectives. ‘Sorry to intrude, Dr Doyle, I need your signature, please.’ The form he proffered was taken and without a glance or hesitation Stephen Doyle signed it and handed it back. The willowy man murmured a thank you and withdrew as quietly as he had entered.

  Seeing West’s quizzical look Stephen explained. ‘Eric Kavanagh, he’s our supplies officer. He needs my signature to order certain controlled items.’

  Dr Doyle turned his attention back to the file in front of him missing the look that passed between the two men. How many laboratories throughout the country had such lax controls? How many people were taking advantage, how much money was being made and how many lives ruined? With a quiet sigh Sergeant West hoped he would never have to investigate the willowy Eric. When this case was sorted, he promised himself, he’d make sure that Stephen heard about the mess in the Bareton laboratory, encourage him to tighten up controls; emphasise the need to read what he signed anyway.

  He tuned back into what the scientist was saying. In their search of the graveyard, Dr Doyle was explaining, they had found a variety of body fluids, blood, semen, mucous, faeces some animal, some human. ‘Most of the secretions around the victim belonged to him, certainly all the blood, urine and faeces were. We collected saliva around some of the wounds...’

  A gasp of horror from Andrews stopped him and he looked at him quizzically.

  ‘Saliva?’ Andrews asked, wishing the bite mark on Kelly’s neck hadn’t jumped into his head.

  Dr Doyle checked his notes. ‘Yes, from a rat and a mouse. Possibly more than one mouse, we haven’t looked at that in detail.’ He looked at Andrews. ‘We can if you feel it is important.’

  Andrews shook his head and muttered, ‘No, no that’s fine.’

  Dr Doyle looked at West, perturbed.

  West sighed. ‘The man we are looking at for this, he bit one of our other suspects...well, witness as she is now. When you mentioned saliva, we both thought of that.’

  ‘He bit a woman?’ Doyle asked aghast, not immune to the horrors of the living world immersed as he was in the horrors of the dead.

  West nodded silently, remembering the mark on Kelly’s pale skin.

  Dr Doyle shook his head at the thought and then, bringing his attention back to his notes, continued, ‘Graveyards are the most troublesome crime scenes, gentlemen,’ he complained. ‘We trawled through all the rubbish that has been dumped, tossed, blown or in some way discarded in the graveyard and, boy, was there a lot of it! Most of it was just that, rubbish, but as we all know, even the smartest criminal will, now and then, overestimate his own cleverness and...’ he grinned wickedly, ‘underestimate the capabilities of the World’s best forensic team.’

  West, knowing all the rubbish that the team had had to sift through, gave the man his moment to shine without begrudging. Andrews, too, smiled serenely and awaited the outcome.

  ‘Deeply buried among badly tied bags of doggie doo, Dr Doyle said, ‘we found a pair of latex gloves. As you can see in the photo,’ he said, indicating the next photo in the folder, ‘they were rolled up tightly and pushed down among the plastic bags and we almost missed them.’ He grinned again. ‘But we is good and we got ‘em.’

  ‘So they have Simon Johnson’s blood on them?’ West asked, eagerness overcoming his initial reluctance to hurry the other man.

  ‘Not just blood, sergeant, that wouldn’t be of much use to you really, it would just tell you they had been used by the murderer. We got something much better. We got fingerprints.’

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

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

  ‘They match,’ Stephen 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 requested and grinned. 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.

  THIRTY

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

  West and Andrews entered the interview room shortly after four, the automatic recorder switched on and they stated their names and rank as they sat and faced Adam Fletcher and his solicitor, across a well 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?’

  Adam Fletcher sighed impatiently. ‘I have already told you, Sergeant West, 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 and smiled, then turned it and placed it in 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 Adam 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 quietly, his eyes never leaving Fletcher’s face.