No Simple Death (2019 Edition)

by Valerie Keogh

  Reassuring the managing director of their utmost reliability, West requested to speak to the pharmaceutical manager. Tolard made a brief call and then escorted them down a number of corridors and levels to a locked door, behind which lay the pharmaceutical division.

  ‘If you need anything else, please let me know,’ Tolard said as they waited for the door to be opened.

  A clink of keys heralded the appearance of a large, shaggy-haired man wearing an ill-fitting, spotless white coat. He greeted the three men and then, with a contemptuous wave of dismissal at the managing director, he ushered the two detectives into his stronghold, closing and locking the door behind them and indicating a door further along. ‘Take a seat in there, gentlemen.’

  He followed them in and sat with a weary groan, and then covered his mouth with a big, incredibly hairy hand as he yawned loudly. ‘You’ll have to excuse me; we’re launching a new product and I’ve been trying to get everything tied up. It’s been a bit hectic.’

  ‘We’re sorry to have to add to your workload, Mr James,’ West apologised. ‘As I explained to Mr Tolard, we are making some inquiries into an Adam Fletcher who does some contract work for you.’

  ‘Adam? Is there some problem? He isn’t hurt… or dead?’ The pharmaceutical manager looked at them aghast.

  West quickly reassured him.

  James looked puzzled. ‘Then what is it? Puzzlement gave way to suspicion. ‘You suspect him of some nefarious action, Sergeant? He was fully vetted before he joined my team, I assure you. I don’t,’ he added, ‘have much regard for our managing director but he does his work with efficiency. He’s a cold-blooded bastard, but an efficient, cold-blooded bastard.’

  ‘We believe Mr Fletcher works mostly in the evenings,’ West said.

  ‘It suited him,’ James said without elaboration.

  ‘You didn’t approve,’ West guessed.

  ‘I would have preferred to have discussed the change with Adam first; would have preferred to weigh up the implications. I am a cautious man and a suspicious one. It strikes me that when people seem to be doing something they consider altruistic, it is very often with a personal, and usually very selfish, agenda. As it was, I was presented with a fait accompli.’ He shrugged. ‘As it happens, it has worked well and I have had no problems. He does his work on time and the paperwork is competently finished.’

  West eyed him curiously. ‘You don’t like Fletcher very much, do you?’

  James snorted. ‘I don’t like most people. In fact, I find them increasingly irritating, although my wife tells me it is I who have become irascible. Fletcher did his job. He always left the laboratory as he found it, so I had no cause for complaint. Because of his hours, to be honest, I rarely saw him. But, no, you’re right, I don’t like him very much.’ He considered a moment. ‘He has cold, calculating eyes. I could see him being cruel, and I have no idea where that comes from. I have never seen him being cruel to anyone… it’s just something about him. A feeling I get from him, an impression, call it what you will. Am I making sense, at all?’

  ‘In our job, impressions and feelings are important, Mr James. We tend to call it intuition,’ West said. ‘May we see where he worked?’

  ‘If you wish, although I don’t know what you’re expecting to find. He doesn’t have an office, just a work station.’ He rose with another groan and stretched uncomfortably. ‘I need at least twelve hours sleep,’ he grumbled.

  He led them to the laboratory, stopping on the way to furnish each man with the obligatory white coat. ‘This is it.’

  It was a traditional laboratory; counter space along each wall with extra counter space down the centre of the room. It was well-lit with high, wide windows but much of the counter space also had powerful lamps in use. There were three people at work, each too engrossed to notice strangers in their midst. Mr James showed the two detectives around, naming various pieces of equipment and various machines. He brought them to the far corner of the room.

  ‘This is Adam Fletcher’s area of work. It is easier for us all to have designated areas; if we leave a test in progress, it is not disturbed. We don’t allow mobile phones so each workstation also has its own phone.’

  The area was neat and tidy. A small noticeboard was pinned with documents. The only personal items appeared to be a train timetable and a newspaper cutting which West looked at with interest before turning to listen to the manager.

  ‘Products that require their final quality assurance tests are left in this section; Fletcher does the test, attaches the correct paperwork and puts the item into these bags.’ He indicated a roll of clear plastic. ‘The bags are then put into a special designated store where they are kept for insurance purposes.’

  The two detectives looked around. All the equipment required to make high-class, illegal drugs was before them. All that was needed was a supply of ingredients.

  ‘Where do you store the ingredients for your products, Mr James?’ West inquired.

  ‘Ingredients, Sergeant? We’re not baking cakes, you know.’ Alan James raised an eyebrow disdainfully. ‘The key components of our products are kept in a locked store in the corridor.’

  ‘May we see it, please?’ he asked.

  With a flourish, James led the way out of the laboratory back down the corridor they had used previously, and stopped before a hitherto unnoticed door.

  Both men took a look, examining the flimsy padlock with which it was secured. West rattled it, while the manager searched his pockets unsuccessfully for a key. ‘I know I have one here somewhere,’ he muttered, as the lock fell into West’s hand. It hadn’t been engaged. With an unconcerned shrug, the manager took it from him.

  Inside, the small walk-in cupboard was an Aladdin’s cave of pharmaceutical components. Bottles, boxes and bags filled shelves from floor to ceiling. West read some of the labels aloud, his voice grim as both he and Andrews recognised many of them as being key ingredients of some of the nastier illegal drugs on the market.

  He turned, a stern expression on his face, his eyes hard. ‘This isn’t a secure unit, Mr James. Even had the padlock been shut, it is an easily opened one. When did you last do an inventory of this room?’

  James raised an eyebrow and said coolly, dismissively. ‘I’m a scientist. I don’t do inventories.’

  West’s reply was equally chilly. ‘You are in charge of this unit. Surely it is, therefore, your responsibility to ensure’ – he pointed to the overfull shelves – ‘that potentially dangerous components are, not only correctly stored, but accounted for?’

  ‘We are obliged to keep all components in a locked room, and I can assure you the lock is normally used. And I can also assure you, that not one of the components here is, in of itself, potentially dangerous.’

  He picked the wrong person to use jargon on. ‘That’s the crunch, though, isn’t it? “In of itself.’” He picked up a bag. ‘Sodium chloride, or salt as us laymen would call it, isn’t dangerous but’ – he chose three more components and handed them to the suddenly quiet scientist – ‘put it together with these and use some of your laboratory equipment and what do you get?’

  Getting no answer, he turned to Andrews and answered his own question. ‘These are the key components of an illegal drug called Nirvana, similar to Ecstasy, which appeared on the Cork and Dublin streets about a year and a half ago. It has, as far as we are aware, been responsible for at least five deaths in that period.’

  For the first time, James looked shaken. ‘You aren’t suggesting that this drug is made here, I hope. That is a very serious allegation.’

  ‘You admit you don’t keep an inventory of components, Mr James. Just say, for instance, someone was taking a smallish amount every month, would that be missed? Or even a larger amount?’

  James had the sense to put the scenario together. ‘You think Adam Fletcher has been helping himself while he worked here in the evenings?’

  ‘Not just helping himself to the components.’ West felt his temper beginning to fr
ay at the stupidity of the man. ‘He had the laboratory to himself, all the necessary equipment to hand, and freely available components. With no check, he has been manufacturing illegal drugs for almost two years making a tidy sum of money. A perfect setup.’

  ‘Illegal drugs,’ James gasped, going pale, the realisation beginning to hit home. ‘This will destroy the company. I have to talk to Stuart. Are you sure?’ He looked at the sergeant, willing him to refute his allegation.

  ‘No, Mr James,’ West replied. ‘No surer than you are that you’re not missing some of your… components.’

  27

  West and Andrews left the managing director and the laboratory manager making frantic phone calls to their shareholders. They were trying for damage limitation and at the same time assigning blame to each other.

  ‘Do we have enough for an arrest?’ Andrews asked as they moved quickly to their car.

  ‘No, it’s still all circumstantial, Peter. We have no concrete proof that Fletcher was stealing components and using the laboratory to manufacture illegal drugs. Even if we knew what was missing, how would we prove he took it? He’s a clever bugger. He sussed out the politics of the laboratory, the power play between Tolard and James and used them for his own ends. We may never know just how much stuff he has managed to make away with but the Drug Squad may be able to make a good guess.’

  As they walked, he rang a contact in the Drug Squad and quickly filled him in on the details of their case. He listened a moment. ‘Great, yes, that would be great. Yes, as soon as possible,’ and disconnected. ‘That was Inspector Bob Phelan, I worked with him years ago. He’s going to take a team over to Bareton Industries and do a full audit of components delivered, received and stored; he’ll be able to tell us how much is missing and he should be able to extrapolate from his data how much has gone missing over the two years Fletcher has worked there.

  ‘Even more interesting, is that Bob says there has been an influx of upmarket designer drugs over the last two years, Nirvana and a host of others, and they haven’t been able to identify the source. He is very interested in talking to our Mr Fletcher.’

  ‘As long as he remembers he is our Mr Fletcher and not the Drug Squad’s,’ Andrews said as they sped away towards Adam Fletcher’s home on the outskirts of Cork.

  A quick phone call to Inspector Duffy on the way ensured local cooperation, and they turned down the road to Fletcher’s house to find two squad cars waiting for them, discreetly parked in a slight lay-by. Garda Duggan climbed out of one of the cars as West pulled up alongside, and came around the car, bending down to speak through the open window.

  ‘Good evening, sir,’ said Duggan. ‘We’ve been asked to give you our full cooperation.’ He indicated the cars with a tilt of his head. ‘There are four of us. Just tell us what you’d like us to do.’

  West nodded in satisfaction. They didn’t expect trouble but they knew that never stopped it from happening.

  Duggan turned his head and looked down the street. ‘It’s the fifth house on the left, the detached one with the wrought iron railing.’

  West looked down the street of large, elegant, expensive homes. Fletcher’s, he noticed, was the biggest. ‘Let’s all pull up outside the house. Nothing like a little intimidation to get the ball rolling.’

  Duggan smirked and returned to his car. Soon, all three cars were parked conspicuously outside the imposing house.

  Andrews organised the four uniformed gardaí, sending two around the back of the house and instructing the other two to guard the front entrance, then he and West headed to the front door and pressed the doorbell. Very quickly, the door was opened by a slim, strawberry-blonde woman who greeted them with a pleasant smile that dimmed as she noticed the police cars. ‘Can I help you?’ she asked, looking from one to the other.

  They both held out identification. ‘Is Mr Fletcher here?’

  Looking puzzled and a little worried, she turned and called, ‘Adam, Adam, can you come here?’

  West disliked the man on sight. He came growling out into the hall behind his wife, complaining about being disturbed. His wife rushed to explain, putting a restraining hand on her husband’s arm that was brushed off roughly. Adam Fletcher stared at the two men in the doorway then dismissed his wife with a wave.

  Edel had described him well. His eyes were cold and hard beneath heavy, drooping lids, his lips a thin slash. He wore an air of cruelty on his stocky, muscular frame like a second skin as he stood looking at them, a hand high on each side of the door frame. A man at home with intimidation, every gesture was designed to show power and control.

  West and Andrews exchanged glances and, again, held their identification cards out for inspection. Fletcher took them and examined them carefully, checking the photo against their faces before handing them back with a disdainful grunt. ‘I spoke to you on the phone a couple of days ago, didn’t I?’ he said bluntly. ‘I told you then that I’d be free to talk to you next week and requested that you make an appointment with the secretary.’ He dropped one hand and reached for the door, keeping his other firmly on the frame. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I am a very busy man.’

  West, watching him closely, wasn’t fooled. He noted the tightening of expression, the grip on the door frame, the tension in his musculature that denoted fight or flight. He felt his own body’s response to the unconscious threat and deliberately slowed his quickening breath. Keeping his voice calm and quiet, he addressed him. ‘We have reason to believe, Mr Fletcher, that you were involved in the death of Cyril Pratt in Falmouth. We have a warrant to search your home and to remove your car and computer for forensic examination.’ West took the paper from his inside jacket pocket and presented it to him. For several minutes, Fletcher didn’t move, but the fingers that gripped the door frame tightened.

  Slowly, almost cautiously, he reached out one hand and, without comment, took the document. He read it carefully. ‘This is a ludicrous mistake. I don’t know anyone called Cyril Pratt. I’ll have to contact my solicitor before you can proceed, I’m afraid.’ His tone was cool and dismissive but a bead of perspiration on his forehead gave lie to the calm.

  He gave a preparatory step backward before West replied in an equally cool voice. ‘I’m afraid you don’t quite understand, Mr Fletcher. We intend to proceed with this warrant without delay. You may advise your solicitor, if you wish, but we are under no obligation to wait for his arrival.’

  Fletcher’s heavy-lidded eyes gave little away and, with a shrug of his shoulders and a sneer curling his thin lips, he stepped back and waved them into his home. ‘Be my guest.’

  Andrews called the four gardaí to assist and they made their way quickly and thoroughly through the flotsam and jetsam of the Fletcher household. West didn’t expect to find anything; if they were right, Fletcher had committed two murders, run an effective and very lucrative drug manufacturing business for two years and never appeared on the garda radar. That took cunning intelligence. They weren’t going to catch this man easily.

  Two hours later they had finished, and found nothing. Stretching wearily, West directed a garda to remove a computer and laptop. Another was directed to drive Fletcher’s car to Dublin where their forensic team were expecting it.

  Fletcher’s solicitor had, at this stage, arrived and was arguing vociferously against their removal. ‘My client requires both his laptop and car for work. This is unreasonable and we will be making a complaint to the highest authority. Mr Fletcher has denied any knowledge of this Cyril Pratt and you have given us no evidence that he is in any way involved in his murder.’

  Recognising a junior member of a law firm, West took pity and merely stated, ‘We have a warrant. You are aware, I’m sure, we could not have obtained a warrant without probable cause. We are under no obligation to inform you, at this stage, what that probable cause is. When we arrest Mr Fletcher, then you will be informed of the case we have built.’ West nodded to the solicitor who looked affronted at his attitude, and with a further nod to
Adam Fletcher, he and Andrews departed.

  Back in the car, West rang Bob Phelan and updated him on their search and results. ‘We’re taking his computer, Bob. I’ll have our IT people take it apart and relay any findings to you as soon as. We’ve also taken his car. The pathologist told us that whoever killed Simon Johnson would have had blood on him; if we are lucky, he may have left a trace in the car. Our forensic team will go through it. Hopefully, by tomorrow, they’ll also have gone through all the rubbish we found at the crime scene and found something we can use. Meanwhile, I think we should keep an eye on our Mr Fletcher, don’t you?’

  Inspector Phelan, anxious to close this source of upmarket designer drugs, agreed to provide surveillance after assurance that it would be for a very short period.

  Andrews raised an eyebrow as he heard the confident assurances and muttered under his breath. Finishing his call with Phelan, West turned to him. ‘Have faith, Peter. We’re going to get this guy.’

  The two remaining gardaí came running over to their car and knocked on the window, preventing Andrews giving West the reply he would have liked. ‘We’ve been ordered to stay here, Sergeant,’ one of them said breathlessly and added, with a barely suppressed air of excitement, ‘We’re going to keep the house under surveillance.’

  West and Andrews exchanged glances and, with a word of advice to the enthusiastic officers, they started for home.

  28

  West dropped Andrews home rather than back at the station, it was late, they were both tired. ‘I’ll pick you up early in the morning, Peter, don’t worry. Say hi to Joyce for me.’

  Back home, he stripped off and had a long, hot shower. He hated house searches, always felt contaminated by the need to do them. The prying, poking and delving into the detritus of other people’s lives never appealed to him. He used some citrus-scented shower gel given to him by someone, he couldn’t remember who, but the clean sharp smell worked for him and he lathered and lathered again. Finally, feeling clean, he stepped from the shower, dried himself briskly and walked naked to his bedroom. The mirror examined him in passing, reflecting back a lithe, athletic body, still tanned from an earlier holiday in Crete, the tan emphasising a thin scar on his left side, a relic of a bullet that had passed a little closer than he had expected.