He was right. After a frustrating hour, changing noses and hairlines, mouth and eyes, he came up with an eerily close sketch of John and held it up to her. ‘What do you think?’
She stared at it, picturing so easily in her mind the face of a man she hadn’t known existed twenty-four hours before. ‘His eyes,’ she murmured, ‘the eyelids are heavier.’
With a couple of deft pencil strokes, Robert changed the sketch’s eyelids and suddenly it was John. She gasped and held a hand to her mouth, shocked by the accuracy of the likeness. ‘That’s him!’ She held the sketch up with trembling fingers and then carefully put it on the table in front of her, wiping her fingers on her jeans as if they had been contaminated.
‘There’s nothing else you want to change?’ Robert asked.
She stared at it with loathing. ‘No, that’s him,’ she repeated.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘I’ll go and let Sergeant West know.’
She was beginning to get restless before, muttering an apology for his delay, West arrived and sat in the vacant chair beside her. He picked up the sketch, examined it and put it down.
‘You’re sure this is a good likeness?’ he asked, glancing at her.
She tapped a finger on it, a look of distaste on her face. ‘It could be a photograph of him, it’s that good.’
‘Good,’ he said, putting the sketch into a folder. ‘I’ll just be a few minutes.’
Edel glanced at her watch and was surprised to see it was almost four. She gave a weary sigh just as the door opened again and West returned and sat opposite her.
‘Thank you for your help, Edel. We’ve put that sketch in the system. We should be able to find out who this guy is, and once we do… well, you’ll be able to–’
‘What?’ she interrupted him, ‘Get back to normal?’ She wiped a hand over her face, avoiding his eyes. ‘Yes, I can get back to my normal life, where my husband, who wasn’t actually my husband at all, bought a house, with money that wasn’t his. So, I’ve no husband, probably no home, and definitely no money. It should be easy.’ Her voice was rich with sarcasm.
Embarrassed, he stood. ‘I’m sorry, I should know better than to resort to cliché.’
Now, it was her turn to be embarrassed and her pale skin flushed pink. ‘No, I’m sorry, that was very rude of me. You were trying to be kind. I’m just tired. Doing that sketch was pretty exhausting, having to concentrate on all the details, having to remember. If I could just go back to the hotel now, I’d appreciate it. I could do with a long, hot bath. Thinking of him makes me feel dirty.’
She stood and, the room being small, standing brought her closer to him. She’d always considered herself to be tall, but her five foot six only brought her to his shoulder and she had to raise her eyes to meet his. His were grey and long lashed and they held hers unwaveringly. For a second, she felt a frisson of unexpected attraction.
The door opened behind them, startling them both into movement, Edel bending hurriedly to pick up her bag and West, stepping back guiltily.
It was Andrews. She saw him glance from one to the other with a knowing look on his face that brought further colour to her cheeks. ‘There is an unmarked car outside waiting to take you back to Cork, Mrs Johnson,’ he said. ‘The plainclothes officer will escort you to your room and check it out for you.’
She smiled at him gratefully and, tucking her bag under her arm, turned to say goodbye to West, holding out her hand. ‘I look forward to hearing that you’ve caught our friend.’ She lifted an eyebrow and her smile widened a little. ‘Then I can start the returning to normal business.’
He held her hand firmly in his and once again she met his eyes and saw a reassurance in them that gave her strength. ‘Stay in your room,’ he said. ‘If you’ve any problems, any strange phone calls, anything, ring us, okay? We have informed the local station; they’ll be monitoring the situation and can be with you within minutes.’
A dry cough from the doorway made her pull her hand away, and with a grateful smile, she turned to follow Andrews.
‘There’s just one thing you should know before you go,’ West said quickly, bringing her around to face him again. ‘The house.’
She looked at him quizzically and waited.
‘It’s in your name only.’
26
Contrary to their hopes, the next day brought them no nearer to identifying the mysterious John. They had sent the sketch to other divisions and departments, national and international without even a glimmer of interest.
Frustration mounted, and tempers started to fray with more than one phone being banged down in annoyance. They had pinned their hopes on identifying John to give the case the boost it needed. Looking around now, West knew he had to refocus the team and he called for a general update.
‘Listen up,’ he called when they had gathered round. ‘All right, we still don’t know who this guy John is, but let’s focus on what we do know. Because…’ He stopped as the men started muttering. ‘Because,’ he said louder, ‘even when we do identify this guy, we have no proof he murdered either man.’
The muttering stopped as the men realised the truth of this.
Jarvis raised his hand. ‘Don’t we have a fingerprint, sir?’ he asked.
‘We have one fingerprint found on the inside of the victim’s wallet. Even a mediocre solicitor would call that circumstantial evidence; a good solicitor would laugh and dismiss it outright.’
The men, remembering that the sergeant had been a solicitor in a former life, looked crestfallen.
‘So, we work with what we do have.’ He looked around the room and then back at the case board. ‘We work with what we have,’ he repeated firmly. ‘So, what do we know?’
‘Victim number one. The real Simon Johnson.’ He tapped the photo on the board. ‘Advertises his prestigious Cork apartment for rent on a noticeboard in Bareton Industries. Rents it to a man by the name of Adam Fletcher, who he believed also worked in Bareton Industries but who we know was Cyril Pratt. Johnson plans to be away for two years and to come back to a healthy bank balance. He has to come home early for a funeral, checks his bank and discovers he has nothing. So, what does he do?’ He paced in front of the men, tossing a pencil from hand to hand.
‘He goes to his apartment to face Adam Fletcher; finds the tenant is one Alberto Castelione who insists he is paying rent to a Simon Johnson…’ He turned and tapped the photo of Cyril Pratt with the pencil. ‘Alberto identified this man.’
He nodded at Jarvis, who took up the tale. ‘Mr Castelione gave Simon Johnson, Cyril Pratt’s phone number so we assume he rang him. The next day Johnson took a flight to Dublin and hired a car. The car was found abandoned not far from the graveyard where he was murdered. The mileage on the rental indicated a journey of twenty-five miles which is roughly the distance from Dublin Airport to Foxrock.’
‘Good, thanks Jarvis. We know now,’ West continued, ‘that Cyril Pratt was hiding out in Come-to-Good, in Cornwall. So, Johnson hadn’t arranged to meet him here in Foxrock.’ 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. ‘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. ‘Edel Johnson says Pratt had money when they met, so we can assume that he acquired the money from John 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 West. ‘But Simon Joh
nson 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, see if either recognises him.’
Andrews scribbled 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, stopping 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 has 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?’
Andrews narrowed his eyes. ‘No, I didn’t, he wouldn’t agree to a meeting.’
‘So, we don’t know what this Adam Fletcher looks like, do we?’ West exchanged a glance with Andrews who immediately 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 his computer. Andrews, waiting patiently, looked at it, and called across to West. ‘You’d better take a look at this.’
The rest of the team, alerted by something in his voice, followed behind and strained to see over West and Andrews as they stared at the screen. The personnel file photograph was grainy and had obviously been blown up from passport photo size, but it was clearly their mystery man, John. Andrews printed a copy and, pinning it up beside the sketch, they were able to see how accurately Edel had depicted her assailant.
‘To quote fictional detectives…’ West looked 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. 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 or workspace and for any files pertaining to him in Bareton Industries and another warrant for his house. We have the sketch and Edel’s testimony – it’s not enough to arrest him for murder but it will get us the warrants. We’ll go from 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.
Grabbing his jacket and keys, he joined Andrews in the main office where he was having an acrimonious conversation with, West guessed from what he could hear, the forensic department. Hanging up with a frown, Andrews related the gist of the discussion. ‘All the junk that was found in the graveyard has gone to forensics but, would you believe, they “haven’t got around to looking at it yet” to quote that twerp on the phone.’ He shrugged. ‘Probably my fault,’ 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, a little over three hours later, they were 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 gardaí were asking to see him.
A short, rotund man arrived within minutes and, introducing himself, ushered them through to his office not far from the reception area. Sitting behind his desk, he viewed them with curiosity. ‘Can I assume this is to do with Simon Johnson?’
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 him? 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. ‘Okay, 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 engineer, 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 is 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 frowned and caught Andrews’ eye. Pharmaceutical products. ‘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 per cent 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 okay?’ 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.’<
br />
West’s interest had gone into overdrive once the word “pharmaceutical” had entered the conversation. He was beginning to get an idea as to where the five hundred thousand euro may have come from. ‘So how often does he work here?’ he asked.
‘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 a standard nine-to-five 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 grim, knowing looks before the sergeant continued. ‘What hours normally do suit him?’
Tolard, relaxing back in his chair, tapped his fingers together. ‘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. There have been no issues in the two years he has worked this way.’ His eyes narrowed speculatively. ‘There is no 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 leaned forward, 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 folded it to be analysed later. ‘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.’
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