No Simple Death (2019 Edition)

by Valerie Keogh

  Checking the time, she was surprised to see it was eight o’clock and, suddenly hungry, she threw back the duvet and clambered out of bed, remembering that breakfast was only served until nine. Her wardrobe didn’t lend itself to much choice so, after a quick shower, she donned the same jeans as yesterday and the shirt she had hung in the wardrobe from which most, if not all, the creases had fallen. She headed down the stairs to where she could hear the tinkle of cups and, even more of a giveaway, smell the aroma of coffee. Hesitating at the door, she was propelled into the room by the landlord, who came from the kitchen region bearing a well-laden tray.

  ‘In you go, love,’ he addressed her warmly, ‘take a seat wherever you like, I’ll be with you as soon as I have served this gentleman.’ He bustled by her and, balancing the tray in one hand, he offloaded it with the other in front of a man, seated just out of her line of vision.

  She chose a seat in a window embrasure with a pretty view of the garden. For a moment, as she sat looking out at tulips and early clematis, she almost forgot why she was there. The tulips were at the blowzy stage, petals falling open, showing their secrets to the world in what she’d always considered a rampantly sexual way. She loved them and had planted numerous in the garden in Foxrock, many of which were still in bloom.

  She was called away from the view by a hearty, ‘What can I get you?’

  Quickly perusing the menu, she ordered a full breakfast with coffee. The coffee came quickly and was followed soon after by a lavish spread to which she proceeded to do justice. She was just polishing off the last mushroom when she saw movement in the far corner and, assuming the other diner was leaving, paid no more attention. So, it was with surprise that she saw the chair opposite being pulled out and it was with absolute shock that she recognised the man who sat down in it.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said with such an irritatingly smug look on his face that she wanted to slap him there and then. ‘Enjoying your breakfast?’ he continued, crossing his arms and tilting the chair back.

  Speechless, Edel felt the breakfast gurgling in response to her increasingly rapid heartbeat. ‘What are you doing here?’ she managed to blurt out eventually.

  West raised an eyebrow and lowered the legs of the chair. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out the scrap of paper he’d photocopied from the one they had found on the body. He smoothed it between two fingers, and, reaching over, placed it on the table in front of her and sat back. It was all done very slowly, a trick he used often to unnerve people. It usually worked. This time, however, he had met a worthy opponent. She looked at the scrap of paper, reached down to get her handbag and, searching for a moment, pulled out her own scrap. Smoothing it between two fingers, just as he had done, she reached over and put it on the table in front of him. ‘Checkmate,’ she said quietly.

  At that inauspicious moment, the landlord came to remove the breakfast paraphernalia and they both hastily picked up the pieces of paper. If the landlord wondered at his two residents being known to one another, he said nothing, and soon they were alone again. West let the silence stretch as he assessed her. She looked better than the previous day, less fragile and stressed. Cleaner and prettier too. Deceitful, he reminded himself sharply.

  She took the scrap of paper from West. ‘Where did you get this?’

  He sat back, tilted his chair and answered, ‘It was in the pocket of the dead body you found. Is it your husband’s writing?’

  ‘No, this is his writing.’ She raised her own scrap of paper. ‘I found it in the pocket of the jacket I was wearing the day he disappeared. To be honest, it meant nothing to me at the time.’

  ‘Really?’ he said, the one word laced in disbelief.

  ‘Nothing,’ she repeated angrily. ‘I read it, shoved it back into my pocket and forgot about it until yesterday.’

  He stayed silent, and after a moment she continued. ‘I found it in the same pocket but… you know… I still didn’t understand. I had to Google it before it came back to me. As soon as I saw Cornwall, of course, I remembered this place and an afternoon we had spent here.’ She stopped, laid the scraps on the table, pushing her hair roughly behind her ears.

  She looked serious, intent… believable? He crossed his arms and waited for more.

  ‘Three months I’ve been waiting and wondering. Have you any idea what that is like? The not-knowing eats away at you, demolishes every particle of strength and self-belief.’ Her voice quivering, she stopped, took a shuddering breath and continued. ‘You relive every moment you were together, looking for clues; questioning and examining every word for tone, for nuance, until you no longer trust any memory, until you try not to remember because every memory might be the key, might be the reason he went, and it is just soul destroying. So, you try to live each day, waiting all the time for the world to make sense again, but when I go out…’ Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘…I see him everywhere; every man wearing a certain suit, a certain jacket becomes him. When I turn a corner, I search every face in case one is his. I have stopped my car in the middle of traffic, convinced I saw him amongst the crowd. I have accosted total and bemused strangers so many times in so many places. I hear his laugh sometimes and rush to groups of people where I stand and stare, searching for him, their irritation turning to curiosity and pity when I ask them if they have seen him, when I explain that my husband has disappeared. So now, I don’t go out unless I have to and even then, it doesn’t end.’

  With a stirring of sympathy, he watched shades of sorrow flicker across her face, turn down the corners of her full lips and settle in her pale blue eyes. ‘I was digging in my garden last month,’ she said, ‘just moving a bush that had outgrown its place, trying to get on with my life, you know. I had to dig quite deeply to get it out. It was pretty hard going, our soil is so stony but it felt really therapeutic, the sun was shining and, for a moment… just one short moment… I wasn’t thinking of Simon.’

  Gardening was the same for him, he reflected. In the middle of the most difficult case, no matter how exhausting or complicated, he could spend a few hours or even minutes in his garden, digging, deadheading or weeding and suddenly he didn’t feel quite so stressed and prickly.

  ‘One of my good neighbours rang the police and told them I was digging what looked like a grave,’ Edel said, meeting his eyes. ‘The gardaí who called around were very apologetic and one of them even helped me. But it wasn’t quite so relaxing after that.’

  ‘Tell me why you came here?’ West asked, hardening his heart against inappropriate sympathy.

  Haltingly, she told him everything she knew.

  ‘Let me get this straight,’ West said. ‘Your husband, under the name Cyril Pratt stayed here for two weeks?’ This was something unexpected.

  She leaned forward, hands clasped, elbows resting on the table. ‘I think he was waiting for me. He must be in some kind of trouble and left that note in my pocket expecting me to follow him.’

  He looked at her sceptically and fired a series of questions at her. ‘What kind of trouble? Why be so cloak and daggerish about it? If he left you a note, why wasn’t it more explicit? And when you didn’t turn up, why didn’t he contact you?’

  ‘You’re the bloody detective.’ She glared at him in frustration. ‘You tell me. My life has turned into an Agatha Christie novel and I’m just trying to make sense of it. I don’t know why Simon vanished. I don’t know why he’s using a different name. I don’t know anything and I am sick and tired of not knowing.’

  Her voice rose and became shrill. It brought the landlord into the room, a frown on his face. ‘Everything all right, miss?’ he queried, drawing close and glaring at West.

  He answered calmly, ‘We’re fine but some more coffee wouldn’t go amiss.’

  The landlord hesitated, then as Edel sat back, he delayed his departure by moving a few tables and chairs about, and, finally, with another glare at West, headed off to get the coffee.

  West watched him go in amusement, the
smile in his eyes dimming as he turned his attention back to Edel and speculated on her involvement. She sounded like she knew nothing but he had learned, both as a solicitor and a garda, not to take things at face value.

  ‘Do you know what a “pushaway” is, Sergeant?’

  He eyed her speculatively; he knew what she was getting at. ‘Someone who is forced by circumstances to disappear,’ he answered. ‘You think your husband falls into this category?’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ she said, firmly. ‘I’ve read everything there is to read about missing people, every single thing, and I’ve weighed up every possibility. I knew Simon. He wouldn’t have chosen to leave me. He loved me.’

  ‘Tell me about him,’ West said. He saw suspicion cross her face before she took a deep breath and in a calmer voice began to speak.

  ‘I bumped into him… literally,’ she said. ‘I’d been with my editor.’ She looked at him with a tilt of her head. ‘I don’t know if you know but I write children’s books.’ When he shook his head, she continued. ‘I rushed out the door without looking and barged straight into him. I apologised, so did he, and that was it, we went our separate ways. Then,’ – she gave a soft laugh – ‘amazingly, an hour later I was coming out of a shop a few streets away, and there he was, just passing by. He smiled at me. I remember I laughed, and promised not to bump into him again.’ She shrugged. ‘We ended up going for coffee.’

  Her voice faded away and West watched countless emotions flit across her face in rapid succession as she became lost in the past. Finally, she spoke again. ‘He is the kind of person who’s really easy to talk to. He really listens, you know. I told him things I’d probably never told anyone else, ever. We discovered we had so much in common; we liked the same music, the same type of architecture, the same books. It was amazing. Our first proper date, he took me to a restaurant I had wanted to go to for months. We liked the same kind of food, the same type of wine. It was just so wonderful.’

  The ensuing silence was broken by the arrival of the landlord with the coffee. He seemed reassured by the quiet and set the coffee down without further ado. He had also brought unbidden, slices of what looked like homemade coffee cake. Without hesitation, they both reached for a slice, West secretly amused that they looked like any couple out for a day in the country.

  He licked his fingers, sat back with a satisfied sigh, and watched as she finished off her slice, hesitating only slightly before reaching for a second with a guilty shrug. ‘I just love coffee cake,’ she justified. ‘And this is a really good one.’

  Her fabulous figure wasn’t at the expense of her appetite. West administered a mental kick to remind himself why he was here and that she could well be a murderer or at least an accomplice. Time to get back on track. ‘And you married after how long?’

  ‘Three months after we met,’ she said, polishing off the cake. ‘We didn’t see any point in waiting.’ She sat back with her coffee. ‘Shortly afterwards, we found the house of our dreams in Foxrock. It was a vacant possession, so things proceeded very quickly and Simon moved into it almost immediately. I stayed a few weeks longer in Drumcondra, to finalise the sale of my house there. It all fell together so perfectly,’ she murmured softly, her lips curving in a smile of such sweetness that West felt something inside go ping.

  He needed to take more control of this conversation. His voice a little harsher than was warranted, he said, ‘Simon worked as an engineer, I believe?’

  ‘Yes, he does contract work for several companies. He can do quite a lot from home, which is marvellous, as I do too.’

  ‘What kind of engineering?’ It probably didn’t make any difference but the more he could learn about the missing man the better. Plus, he was curious about this paragon of a man who had swept the woman opposite off her feet.

  ‘Chemical,’ she replied, taking another sip of her coffee. ‘I don’t know much about it, to be honest.’

  ‘Not the kind of stuff you’d put in children’s books, I suppose. He must have earned a good living, though. Contractors tend to be better paid than average.’

  ‘Very well,’ she agreed. ‘As I’ve said, we had a nice lifestyle. We spent one or two weekends a month away, usually in a spa or country house hotel, places a little out of the ordinary. Sometimes in Ireland, sometimes in the UK. Simon spent hours on the internet finding lovely old hotels in beautiful settings.’

  West watched a slight smile of reminiscence curve her lips as she drifted down the dangerous, slippery slopes of memory lane, her face softening, eyes glowing and, for an infinitesimal moment, he felt a sharp, unexpected pang of jealousy. Then he remembered her husband’s bank details; it was going to be very interesting to see his other bank account.

  He put his cup down sharply, the ensuing clatter making her blink and return from wherever it was she had gone. ‘Did you ever go further away?’ he asked, thinking of the victim’s frequent trips abroad.

  ‘No.’ Her abrupt answer startled both of them. She held both hands up, palms out. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, you just reminded me of an argument I had with Simon about six weeks before he disappeared. It was his birthday, and I’d surprised him with a holiday to Mauritius.’ She shook her head. ‘He refused categorically to go, said he hated flying. I couldn’t sway him at all.’

  A soft hum made West reach into his inside pocket. Pulling out his mobile, hearing Andrews’ voice, he nodded an apology to Edel and left the room. Heading to the car park for privacy, he leaned on his car. ‘Before you tell me what you’ve found out,’ he said to Andrews, ‘guess who’s staying in The Inn?’

  ‘Edel Johnson?’

  West shook his head. ‘I suppose you were bound to guess. Yes, she’s here.’ Quickly, he filled him in on what Edel had told him. ‘Okay, now it’s your turn.’

  ‘Well, I requisitioned our missing man, Simon Johnson’s full bank details. The two thousand euro is, indeed, an internal transfer from another account in Johnson’s name. However, the money didn’t come from any company where he worked but, in fact, appears to be coming, each month, from one individual by the name of Alberto Castlelione. It’s rent,’ Andrews informed him bluntly. ‘Rent for a very fancy Cork apartment. And that is the only money being deposited. No money from any company or business at all.’

  West frowned, digesting this news as the sound of Andrews slurping what was probably his third or fourth mug of coffee came down the line. ‘Anything else?’

  A smacking of lips was heard. ‘He’s never submitted tax returns. In fact, Inland Revenue don’t know our missing man, at all. He didn’t own the house in Drumcondra, that belonged to Edel Johnson, or Edel Shaw as she was then. However,’ he continued, accompanied by a rustle of paper, ‘our murder victim, Simon Johnson, did own an apartment in Cork. I spoke to his sister; she says her brother had it let out for the last year. We’re just waiting to hear if that is the same apartment our devious missing man rented out.’

  ‘Some form of identity theft,’ West surmised, with a shake of his head.

  ‘Starting to look that way, all right. We’ve still a few calls to make but we should have the information we need by late this evening or, maybe, early tomorrow.’

  ‘Cyril Pratt may well be our missing man’s real name so run it through and see what you come up with. Of course,’ he added, ‘if identity theft is his thing, he could be using any name at this stage. Not so much missing, as metamorphosing.’

  ‘A regular chameleon, eh? Right, I’ll see what we have on Cyril Pratt, to begin with. Not sure I’d blame the bloke changing a name like that, mind you.’

  ‘Not worth killing over though, is it?’ West had the last word and, cutting the connection, headed back into the dining room. He had a moment’s panic to see her gone before catching a glimpse of her through the window. Sitting, he took the opportunity to examine her more closely. Obviously relaxed in her stroll around the garden, he had to acknowledge she was a remarkably good-looking woman. Just at that moment, she turned and caught his gaze. Emba
rrassed, he looked away and shuffled in his chair.

  ‘I hope you didn’t think I had run away,’ she said when she rejoined him a few minutes later. ‘I just needed some fresh air.’

  He commented on the garden. ‘It looks nice out there. Tulips are a particular favourite of mine; I have a lot in my garden.’

  ‘They remind me of voluptuous showgirls displaying their underwear to all and sundry,’ she said with a smile.

  He hadn’t looked at tulips in that way before, he knew he would now. Dragging his wandering mind back to what Andrews had told him, he looked at her across the table. ‘Your husband told the estate agent in Foxrock that he was purchasing the house with money he had won on the lottery. How much, exactly, did he win?’ he asked, focused again.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she gasped, and took a sip of water. ‘Simon never won the lottery,’ she finally answered. ‘Where on earth did you get that idea?’

  If she were lying, she was good. ‘It was what he told the estate agent. He told them you would be able to move quickly on the sale because he had the cash from his win.’

  ‘He must have been joking,’ she replied with an unconvincing laugh.

  ‘Then where did you get the money to buy the house? You hadn’t sold yours.’ He watched her blink and look down.

  When she looked up again, he saw that her eyes were shimmering with tears. ‘My parents both died when I was in my early twenties,’ she said slowly, her voice thick. ‘Since then, I’ve looked after my own affairs, paid my bills, my taxes, kept everything ticking along. We were both so excited about the Foxrock house that when Simon said we could afford it, I didn’t question him.’ She ran a hand over her hair, pushing it behind her ears. ‘I believed him, I’d no reason not to. He told me he’d sold an apartment in Cork, just before he met me. So, the money was there, in the bank.’