No Simple Death
Page 28
He took her hand and shook it, noticing with a sharp pang that she took hers back swiftly this time.
‘One last question,’ she said, as they walked through the hotel lobby. West raised his eyebrow and she continued. ‘If Adam Fletcher didn’t know who had taken his money until Simon Johnson came home, why did Cyril disappear three months ago?’
West hesitated. He’d given it some thought; he couldn’t prove it but he had a fairly good idea what might have happened. ‘There was a Dublin to Belfast train timetable on the noticeboard at Fletcher’s workstation,’ he said. ‘So, I checked. It seems he did the occasional contract job in Belfast. According to his diary, he was coming back from Belfast, the day you were there, and took the same train to Dublin that you did, to catch his connection to Cork. Fletcher was unlikely to have recognised Cyril although he would have seen him around Bareton Industries from time to time but seeing Fletcher would have startled, if not terrified, Cyril.’ He saw a flicker of guilt cross Edel’s face. It had been her idea to go to Belfast.
‘There’s something else,’ he added. ‘You said he’d bought some newspapers to read on the train, do you know which ones?’
Puzzled, she shook her head. ‘He bought a few and was flicking through them as we waited for the train.’ Her eyes widened. ‘I remember thinking I must have worn him out with all the shopping, because he’d gone awfully quiet. Just as the train pulled up, he took out a pen and scrap of paper and was writing something. In the hustle of getting on, I never asked him what it was. But I suppose, I know now, that’s when he must have written the note with come to good. He probably slipped it into my pocket as we were getting on the train. He took the newspapers with him when he went for coffee.’
‘When Andrews went to visit Cyril Pratt’s wife,’ West explained, ‘he saw a framed newspaper cutting of Cyril with his son. It was taken at a festival. I checked the newspaper, the Cork Echo, the date of publication was the day of your visit to Belfast. And it is sold in the train station.’
Edel shut her eyes for a second. ‘It was one of the papers he liked. When he finished reading, I always flicked through them. He used to laugh and tease me, saying that I only looked at the photos.’ She met West’s gaze. ‘I said I looked at them for inspiration for my next novel.’
West reached out a hand and laid it on her arm. ‘I think he was being forced to face reality and it scared him. He knew he couldn’t keep up the scam forever and he did what a lot of people would have done, he panicked and ran.’
‘To a place we’d both been happy,’ she said sadly.
He did what he had wanted to do for hours; he raised his hand slowly and touched her bruised neck, softly running his fingers over the discoloured area. ‘Does it hurt?’ he asked gently.
‘It’s just a bruise,’ she answered, drawing away from his hand. ‘It will heal, fade away and be forgotten like a rainy day.’ She didn’t have to tell him that the pain and devastation would remain. Grey eyes met blue and they both knew.
There was nothing else to say and, with a slight tilt of her head, Edel turned and walked to the lift. It opened at the push of a button and she stepped inside with a final wave and, too suddenly, she disappeared.
West waited, watching as the doors swished shut, and stood a while longer, wanting them to open again, knowing that when they did, she would not be there.
He was right.
THE END
Acknowledgements
A huge thank you to Bloodhound Books for publishing No Simple Death, which was originally self-published under the title That One May Smile. Readers who have been asking for paperbacks for years will now be happy.
Grateful thanks to all the readers, reviewers and bloggers who spread the word and whose messages and reviews are so encouraging.
A big thank you to retired Garda Gerry Doyle who answered my questions – I hope he isn’t upset that I sometimes took artistic licence.
An apology to readers who want to take a FlySouth flight from Dublin to Plymouth, unfortunately no such airline exists. When I originally wrote this story, Air Southwest flew from Dublin to Plymouth, but they’re no longer in operation forcing me to use my imagination.
The writing community in general is very supportive, but I have been lucky to have made two good friends who offer unending support and encouragement, so a humongous thank you to the writers, Leslie Bratspis and Jenny O’Brien.
When I originally wrote this story, the main female character’s name was Kelly. I changed her name, in fond memory of my dear friend, Edel, who was always too good for this world.
Thanks, as always, to my family and friends.
A note from the publisher
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