‘I pretended to be Johnson, when I rang, and said I wanted to meet him, to organise a mutually convenient repayment package.’ He smiled humourlessly. ‘It was the kind of thing Johnson might say. He was pathetically grateful; I think he might have cried.’ He looked puzzled at the idea and shook his head.
West clenched his fist under the table and struggled to keep a neutral expression on his face.
‘I arranged to meet him in Falmouth,’ Fletcher said. ‘Of course, when he saw me, he knew I wasn’t Johnson, but by then it was too late. I had got into the back seat and it was just a moment’s work to get a rope around his neck. I didn’t kill him straight away, of course, I had to make sure he knew why I was doing it.’
West heard no trace of regret, no sense of wrongdoing. The man was a psychopath. They had been looking at Fletcher for two murders; how many more were there? Without a doubt, this man had killed before.
‘Even as I tightened the rope,’ Fletcher said, with a disbelieving shake of his head, ‘he was trying to make a deal, to repay the money over a period of time. Started telling me the wife had money; that she would probably help. Help? He was an idiot. I did the world a favour removing him.’
‘So, you strangled him?’ West asked. They needed him to say it on record, without qualification or misunderstanding.
Fletcher grinned cruelly. ‘I happily strangled the whimpering fool. Without compunction.’ Anger crossed his face in a wave. ‘Then I made that stupid mistake. I wanted to contact that bitch of a wife to get the money. I searched in his wallet hoping he was the kind who left contact details, in case it was lost. He had, of course, but it was stuck and I couldn’t get it out with my gloves on so I took them off, for one damn second.’ His mouth twisted in a snarl as if the fates had conspired against him.
West took a deep breath. They had it. The full confession. It was over. He stood, Andrews following suit. ‘We’ll have that printed up, Mr Fletcher, and if you would just check it to make sure all is in order you can sign it, please. Our colleagues on the Drug Squad will want to have a word with you, when that is complete. You can offer them any deal you think may be of benefit to you or them.’ He wanted to say more, wanted to castigate, condemn, judge. But he knew he had done his job; the rest was up to someone else. All he could do was to make sure all the i’s were dotted and the t’s crossed, to make sure this bastard didn’t wriggle out of it. He could do that.
They headed back to the main office where despite the late hour, the rest of the team had gathered, everyone finding an excuse to stay in the station. They were finishing paperwork, having coffee, muttering to one another, of other cases that had collapsed when they had been sure. They all looked up expectantly when West and Andrews walked in and, as one, held their breath, looking for the sign that all had gone well.
‘Shall we tell them, Peter?’ West asked, with no trace of emotion in his voice, and faces fell around the room, shoulders drooping with the weight of failure.
Andrews waited a beat before he replied, in sombre tones. ‘I suppose we’d better, Sergeant.’
‘I know you all worked hard,’ West spoke firmly, looking around at each member of the team. ‘You did the best you could, put in the hours and days without complaint.’ The room was silent, a depressed gloom settling around as his words started hitting home. ‘And all that hard work…’ West looked at each of them again before continuing, ‘… has paid off.’
It took an uncomfortable minute for this to sink in and whoops of excitement swept around the room. West and Andrews accepted congratulations from the men and offered praise in return.
Inspector Duffy came from his isolated office and offered his congratulations. The advent of the signed statement led to another cheer and sighs of relief from those who had seen retractions in the blink of an eye.
‘Okay, everybody.’ West called for a hush in the room. ‘Drinks in the pub are on me.’ He checked his watch. ‘I think we can fit in a couple before closing.’
The room emptied in minutes and a noisy trail led through the station to the exit with congratulations thrown at them from various people on the way. Their local was already busy with off-duty station staff and, before long, a full-blown party was in progress. West left money behind the bar with a bewildered but agreeable bar manager then, with a brief word to Andrews, he made a quiet exit.
31
When her phone wasn’t answered immediately, West gritted his teeth, hung up and then dialled again. This time, to his relief, there was a rattle as the hand set was lifted clumsily before he heard a breathy, ‘Hello?’
‘Ms Johnson? It’s Mike West. I’m down in the foyer, could I have a word, please?’ A sudden realisation struck him that he was asking for an invitation to her room, and he rushed into speech again. ‘Down here,’ he added awkwardly. There was no reply, nothing except the soft, faintest hiss of static. ‘I should have phoned earlier,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have just turned up without calling first.’ How pathetic he sounded. ‘Listen, it’s okay. I’ll ring you tomorrow from the station, and fill you in.’
‘You’ve come from Dublin?’ Edel asked, her voice sounding puzzled.
West had. He had stood in the pub listening to the happy chatter of his team and knew exactly where he wanted to be. He didn’t stop to think, with a quick goodbye to Andrews he had returned to his car, started the engine, and headed off.
Three hours later and here he was, making a fool of himself in the foyer of the Cork International Hotel.
‘I had some things to clear up here,’ he lied quickly, hoping she’d think that this was somehow normal. ‘I’m heading back to Dublin now and just thought I’d drop by and fill you in before I left.’
He heard her laugh, for the first time since they met, and he smiled in automatic response at its warm earthiness. He felt something inside him click and knew he was lost.
‘Sergeant West,’ she said, the laugh colouring her voice. ‘I would love to come down, just give me ten minutes. It will be so good to get out of this room, even for a little while.’
He waited in the foyer, just near enough to the lifts to see her when she arrived. People passed to and fro before him, ordinary people, doing ordinary things; eating, drinking, falling in love. He could do with some ordinary. As he lifted his wrist to check his watch again, the lift opened and she stepped out, smiling expectantly, seeing him immediately.
Holding out a hand in greeting, he stepped forward. She reached him, took his hand and they stood there, hand in hand, for longer than the requisite time, exchanging greetings as if they were old friends. Both rushed into speech at the same time, and laughed together when they both stopped abruptly.
He searched vainly for the right words and, failing miserably, settled for, ‘You look nice,’ immediately wondering why he couldn’t have found a word that was less banal. Nice, he mentally kicked himself. Nice! Her hair hung loose around her pale face and, as he looked at her, he had an almost irresistible urge to put his hand out, to brush it back and draw her close. He wondered what her reaction would be, imagined his fingers touching that soft, silky skin.
Then he remembered the bruises that Fletcher had left on her throat; they’d linger for days yet. Probably not the smartest move he could make. Instead, he returned her smile and indicated the hotel bar. ‘We can find a quiet seat. Can I get you a drink?’
‘Just a white wine, please,’ she replied, as they headed to a corner seat in the fairly quiet bar, lit more for ambience than clarity. He liked it; soft lighting, comfortable chairs, a beautiful woman beside him.
‘This is so normal,’ she said, relaxing back against the soft plush of the seat. ‘I’ve missed normal.’
Ordinary… normal… perhaps they were both looking for the same thing. Seeing the shadows that told of sleepless nights and restless days, he couldn’t take his eyes off her and when she opened her eyes and met his gaze he was mesmerised, captivated beyond the mere moment. He knew now, acknowledged what he had begun to r
ealise days before, he would be forever in thrall to this woman.
Interrupted by a waiter looking for an order which was quickly given and just as quickly delivered, West tucked the moment away, to take it out at a more auspicious time and examine it for relevance, content and reality. Now, he took a steadying mouthful of cold Guinness as she reached for her wine. They sat, almost companionably for a moment, the silence a pleasant, undemanding backdrop.
‘This is the most relaxed I have been in some time,’ Edel ventured at last with a smile that quickly dimmed. ‘You have come with some good news, haven’t you?’
With a sigh, West stepped, reluctantly but firmly, back into the box marked Garda Síochána. ‘I felt you should know the news immediately, although it’s not yet been released,’ he began, his voice more officially clipped than usual.
She sat forward, her posture suddenly tense, as if afraid of what she was about to hear.
‘We arrested Adam Fletcher this afternoon for the murder of Simon Johnson and Cyril Pratt.’ As she collapsed back with a cry, he continued, more gently. ‘He has signed a statement confessing to both so it’s pretty straightforward for us now.’
‘He confessed?’ she whispered in a strained voice laced with disbelief. ‘He actually confessed?’
West hunched his broad shoulders. ‘We had concrete forensic evidence for the murder in the graveyard, he had no way out. Our evidence for your husband’s murder was more circumstantial but, he didn’t know that.’ He hesitated. ‘He seemed to take an inordinate pleasure in recounting his deeds, it worked in our favour.’
‘I can still see the cruel look on his face and hear the way he spoke about Simon,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘He is a monster.’
West, remembering how Fletcher had boasted about stabbing the hapless Simon and strangling the foolish Cyril, silently agreed. ‘We had proof he had been manufacturing and supplying illegal drugs,’ he continued. ‘He was under the impression he could do a deal with us, give us names of his contacts in return for some kind of leniency in the murder charge.’ West grimaced. ‘I’m afraid he had so little regard for either of the two victims that he considered it to be an even trade. A few names for two lives. We let him dream on while he filled us in on his dealing with Simon and Cyril. We’ve no authority to offer a deal on murder. His solicitor would have known that so he walked out and Fletcher refused any replacement.’
He quickly and simply told her everything Fletcher had told them. ‘It seems as if Cyril got involved with Fletcher purely by accident.’
‘You don’t think he was involved in illegal drugs?’ she asked, her forehead creasing.
‘No…’ West hesitated, ‘…at least, not to our knowledge. He seems to have stumbled on the money, almost by mistake, answering a phone he shouldn’t have answered while he was cleaning in Bareton Industries. It wasn’t difficult. The money would have been in used notes. Cyril Pratt was involved in enough scams and cons to have had a pretty good idea that the money was the result of some illegal drug activity. He thought he was safe. Fletcher didn’t know who had taken it and could hardly report it missing.’
‘And Simon… Cyril… used it to buy our house?’
‘Yes,’ he said.
She sat silently and sipped her wine before putting it down, saying sadly, ‘He conned that poor man, Simon, out of his money, and got him killed, didn’t he?’
He shrugged and drained his glass. ‘For an intelligent, educated man, Simon Johnson was incredibly gullible and naive. He trusted the wrong person twice; it was the second time that got him killed.’ He tilted his glass at hers in silent invitation and she nodded. The waiter responded quickly to a raised finger.
‘Another white wine and an espresso, please,’ West ordered, knowing he would need the caffeine for the long drive home.
‘Can you tell me more about Cyril Pratt? I mean, about who he was before I met him? I’m finding it so hard to believe that he and the man I married were the same person. I really need to understand. Otherwise, I’m going to start believing in conspiracy theories.’
He looked at her curiously.
‘You know, like Elvis still being alive somewhere?’ she said with a smile.
He gave a short laugh, ‘So, what are you thinking? You think that your husband and Cyril Pratt were really two different people and we have some disreputable reason for saying otherwise?’
‘There are people who think Elvis is still alive.’
‘Do you?’
‘No,’ she admitted.
‘Do you think Cyril Pratt and your husband were really two different people?’
‘I’d really like to believe it,’ she said. ‘I’d like to believe that Simon, my Simon, is going to walk through that door any minute and tell me it was all a mistake, that it was all a misunderstanding; that none of this, not the murders, not the chasing around Cornwall, not this,’ she brushed her hair back from her neck exposing the livid bruises. ‘That none of it really happened. Then, I would like to get back to the life I had, happy, married, normal.’
The waiter arrived into the silence with their order.
‘If I knew more about Cyril Pratt, it might help me to understand,’ she continued, picking up the glass. ‘Can’t you tell me something, anything? He’s beginning to slip away from me, you see. My Simon. The last time we met, in that awful cottage in Cornwall, he was so unlike the man I married, almost a stranger. Then I found out that, in fact, he was a stranger. He was Cyril Pratt in Cornwall, you see, not the Simon Johnson I married.’ She looked at him pleadingly. ‘Do you understand?’
He did. So, quietly, he told her everything they had learned about the man she had married. She listened, asking the occasional question, nodding with silent encouragement when he hesitated.
‘He reinvented himself, didn’t he?’ she asked, raising teary eyes to him. ‘My fault. I went on and on, that first time we had coffee, about the things I liked, and what I wanted.’
‘It’s not your fault,’ he said. ‘His wife, Amanda, said he was addicted to celebrity magazines. To how the rich and famous lived. He was living in a small house with a battleaxe of a wife and two noisy children, working in a dead-end job. His various scams had netted him prison time, but little else. Then, out of the blue, he worked a scam that gave him money and access to a wardrobe of designer clothes, allowing him to dress like the celebrities he envied. And, to cap it all off, he got his hands on Adam Fletcher’s drug money. So, there he was, good-looking, Armani clad, money to spend and then… well, then he met you.’
His gaze slid over her, as Cyril Pratt’s probably had done a year before, taking in her quiet elegance, the confident poise despite all she had been through. ‘You were just what he wanted,’ he said softly, looking at her. ‘Just what he needed to complete his dream. A beautiful, intelligent and charming woman. The antithesis to what he had married. He listened to you talk of the things you liked, heard the things you wanted, the things you dreamt of and suddenly he wanted it too – you, your dreams, the house; the whole package.’
She gulped back a cry. ‘But did he love me? He was attentive, loving, caring but was it all an act? A part he was playing, in a movie he was directing, where only he knew the plot and the ending? In the last couple of days, I have relived our time together and, do you know, I cannot trust one of those memories. When he was telling me he loved me, was he really wondering how much more he could get away with? When we made love, was he remembering to sigh my name and not his wife’s?
‘His name, occupation, clothes, money, ideas, all stolen.’ She laughed bitterly. ‘At least, now I know why he never wanted to go abroad, that always puzzled me. The one thing he couldn’t steal was that poor man’s passport.’
They sat in silence a moment. The waiter, keen to end his shift, came and cleared the table, reminding them quietly that the bar was closed.
‘We’ll just be a moment,’ West murmured, dismissing him. ‘You know, Edel, I think this time Cyril Pratt’s scam was different.’
‘Different, why?’
‘Con artists are usually so aware of swindles that they are immune to them, but Cyril seems to have conned himself, as well, if not better than you. He became Simon Johnson; I think he forgot for a time that he wasn’t. I believe he fell in love with you, maybe because you represented all that he wanted, but that’s not unusual or wrong – to fall in love with someone because you love what they are or what they do. He fell in love with you and then, because he loved you, he was stuck living a lie, stuck in his own scam with no way out. Okay, he might have been able to repay Simon Johnson the money he had taken for the apartment, but the five hundred thousand he stole from Fletcher, that was a different ball game. Of course, whether or not he sorted it out was always a moot point, because he didn’t know how you would feel about the bigamous marriage you were embroiled in.’
She wiped away the tear that had escaped. ‘In the cottage, before he left, he said that marrying me was the best thing he had ever done, and he hoped that I would understand what it was he had to tell me.’ She looked at him over her wineglass. ‘I don’t think I would have understood. I don’t now. How can he have loved me, how can you say he loved me,’ she looked at him accusingly, ‘when it was all a lie from the very beginning, every aspect of it? There was nothing that was sacrosanct.’
A wave of bitterness emanated from her, twisting her mouth and hardening her eyes. West knew it could corrode and destroy not just her past but her future. ‘You’re wrong,’ he started, knowing he had to get it right. ‘It wasn’t a lie; it was a dream. Cyril Pratt wanted, his whole life, to be somebody else, and for a while, despite how he did it, he was the man he wanted to be, the man you wanted him to be.’
She looked at him and gave a long sad sigh, the bitter twist of her mouth relaxing. ‘Lies and dreams, perhaps there is a fine line between them and perhaps we both lived a dream for a while.’ Finishing her wine, she put the glass down and stood, holding out her hand. ‘Thank you, Sergeant West.’
No Simple Death Page 27