* * *
The morning had started off well enough despite the fact Love hadn’t slept properly in two days.
He was determined to get some sleep later that evening if it killed him. It probably would. Sleep deprivation. Not a good thing. Especially in his profession.
‘You look terrible. Here’s your tea.’
‘Thanks, mate.’ Love smiled as he looked over at Stuart dressed in his usual uniform of Hugo Boss suit and Morato shirt.
Love walked over to his desk pulled out his chair and sat down. He took a sip of the hot liquid. ‘That’s good.’
‘So was the claret last night. Did you eat?’
Love frowned. ‘Corned beef I think I don’t remember.’
Stuart strolled over to his desk and sat on the edge. He picked up the plastic file given to him by Patricia Dawson and flicked it open.
‘Want to contact this bloke who runs a charity in Cornwall or shall I?’
‘The Sven Stonehead character? Already done it first thing,’ Love said thinking back to his conversation earlier that morning. ‘Or at least I tried to.’
On getting through to Stonehead’s office in Cornwall he was told by a dim-witted secretary that Sven Stonehead was out at a meeting and wouldn’t be back until later that day. Love had left his number with instructions for Mr Stonehead to contact him at his earliest opportunity.
He didn’t hold out much hope.
He couldn’t get past the fact why a charity based in Cornwall was interested in renting a property in north west London. And more to the point how they were able to afford to do such a thing in the first place.
‘Then I’ll look into the rest of the local enquiries although so far I’ve drawn a blank.’
‘Did you have a good time with Emma last night?’
Stuart smiled a secret smile. He looked down and his hair flopped in front of his face. ‘A gentleman never tells.’
And then Love got this stupid idea of taking his lunch break with Sophie. Although, as things turned out, it turned out to be not a total waste of time. Some instinct of his had told him to try the attractive little pub-come-restaurant situated in between Butterfield’s office and his own.
And right now, he was glad he had.
Five minutes later, Love was parking his Volvo in a space reserved for a “Mrs Hawthorne” in the car park belonging to Property Association Lambeth.
Stuart was first out of the car.
‘He’ll be surprised to see us,’ he remarked as they walked across the parking area towards the large modern building that housed the offices of the property association.
Love grinned in reply, took one last drag of his cigarette and discarded it in the bin filled with sand just inside the stuffy and overheated reception area.
They attracted a few admiring glances from the women sitting behind their desks and an appreciative look from the gay guy at the poll tax counter on the end. Stuart looked good. He always did. Black hair falling below the collar of his shirt, model looks combined with a pair of pale green eyes framed with long, thick eyelashes.
It’s a fact that many men have the best, the thickest, or the longest eyelashes. It’s like Mother Nature is giving a helping hand to the sex who don’t have make-up to fall back on.
Stuart’s suit, smart, fashionable and a steal for £480.00 was Hugo Boss. A James Sharp single breasted one hundred per cent wool regular fit in black. And his white shirt snugly covering his lean, muscular torso could only be a stylish, sexy Antony Morato ranging in price from £47.50 to £65.00. Stuart wore nothing else. He had them in black, white, stone-coloured. Their distinctive tapered fit suited perfectly Stuart’s broad shoulders and narrow waist. The Italian designer spoke poetry with his shirt designs and their slim collars, some with chest pockets, others plain, some with a seam down the back, the designer logo branded on the chest or on the back of the shirt depending on the style.
On his feet he wore a pair of black John White Monk shoes, quality, fashionable, stylish, in supple calf leather, side silver buckle retailing around the £120.00 mark, and finally, a plain silk tie, off the peg, but quality and attractive.
And Love, in his standard uniform of a Samuel Windsor unstructured lemon jacket. Cotton and linen mix with its attractive contrasting blue lining that moulded his broad shoulders and muscular torso to perfection and normally retailing for £270.00, substantially less during their annual sales. A loosely-fitting tie over a Marks & Spencer sartorial pure cotton white shirt and black Burberry skinny fit chino trousers in cotton twill, topped off with a pair of Brazilian Anatomic & Co black calf leather chukka boots.
And as oblivious as ever to the attention he caused.
‘I’d like to see Mr Butterfield,’ Love said.
‘It’s his lunchtime you’ll have to come back at quarter to two.’
‘Is he in?’ Stuart asked.
The woman glanced in Stuart’s direction and shrugged her shoulders. ‘Could be, I don’t know the comings and goings of every member of staff.’
‘Then we’ll go and find out for ourselves.’
‘You can’t go in there,’ she said in a bored voice before returning her attention to her nail file and magazine.
‘I think you’ll find we can,’ Love said as he pulled out his badge. ‘I’m Detective Dick Love and this,’ he indicated to Stuart, ‘is Detective Stuart Le Fanu.’
‘Oh, I see, well, it’s the third door on the...’
‘We know.’ Love smiled. ‘We’ve been here before.’
The two men turned from her desk to walk down the carpeted corridor passing prints on the wall bought from Argos and a selection of artificial trees and plants sitting in their large brass pots purchased from B&Q. They stopped before a frosted glass panelled door. The sign read “Accounts”. Love knocked once and went inside.
‘Hello, Mr Butterfield.’ Love smiled over at the slim, middle-aged man eating his lunch.
Derek Butterfield stopped with his fork midway to his mouth. He looked shocked to see Love and Stuart and there was something else there too. Fear?
‘Detectives Love and Le Fanu,’ he said as he placed his cutlery to one side.
‘Sorry to interrupt your lunch,’ Stuart said.
‘That’s all right,’ he replied, leaning back in his chair. ‘I’ve nearly finished.’
‘We’d like a few moments of your time,’ Love said.
‘I gather you have some news to tell me.’
‘I’m afraid not at the moment, Mr Butterfield, however, you can be assured we are doing our utmost to bring the killer to justice.’ Love looked hard at him. Had he flinched? He certainly looked uncomfortable and not too happy to see them.
‘Please, sit down, can I get you a cup of coffee?’
Love looked at Stuart who shook his head. ‘No, thanks,’ Love said, and smiled. ‘We’re fine.’
Stuart nodded towards the remains of the fish risotto. ‘That looks pretty good.’
‘Yes.’ Derek looked from one man to the other. ‘Yes, it is, even after being reheated in the microwave.’
Love glanced down at the bin next to Derek Butterfield’s desk. On the top lay an empty and discarded polystyrene cup with a plastic spoon on top. He looked again and read out the logo. ‘Locks.’ He smiled. ‘Ever tried their chicken?’
‘No.’
‘You should, it’s real good.’
‘Really? I’ll bear that in mind.’
‘Go there a lot, do you?’ Stuart asked.
‘Yes, sometimes.’
‘Usually at lunch?’ Love said with a smile.
‘Yes, I get my lunch from Locks,’ Derek replied. ‘Look, what is this all about?’
‘Did you go there the day your wife was abducted and killed?’
Derek picked up his paper serviette and wiped his knife and fork, threw away the serviette and placed the cutlery neatly to one side. ‘The day my wife died is a blur, Detective. I can’t remember if I went to Locks or not, but I most pro
bably did.’
‘But you usually pick up your lunch there, isn’t that right?’
‘Like I said, I go there a lot but I can’t remember if I went there the day my wife was murdered,’ he replied, and looked at Love straight in the eye. ‘Why?’
‘Just tidying up ends, Mr Butterfield. We’re carrying out an investigation into your wife’s death and that of Monica Dixon’s and we have reason to believe they are connected.’
‘Really? What makes you say that?’
‘I’m not at liberty to say, I’m afraid, but as pointless as our questions may appear to you, they are pertinent. I assure you.’
‘We can check at the bistro if you can’t recall,’ Stuart said as he flipped open his notepad.
‘I’ve told you already I was at work sitting right here when my wife was killed. I have witnesses,’ he said, and waved his arm in the direction of three other desks within the same office.
Stuart and Love looked over. They nodded to a young middle-aged woman who was sitting with her back to the window, she was staring at them both. She smiled and went back to her magazine. It was My Weekly or something like that. The type of magazine that promises and delivers a typical lunchtime read providing escapism and recipes for tasty meals until it was time to return to reality.
On the opposite side of the office a man in his late forties continued to enter some information on to his computer while a younger man in his twenties sitting closest to Derek Butterfield was speaking rapidly into his mobile phone.
‘Mr Butterfield, we’re not accusing you of killing your wife,’ Stuart said.
‘It certainly feels like it.’
‘I apologise but we’re only trying to do our job,’ Stuart replied, and glanced at Love.
‘Mr Butterfield, let me give you my private mobile number in case you remember.’
‘Certainly,’ he said, and reached for a pencil. ‘Okay.’ His left hand hovered over the white sheet of his pad as he waited patiently.
‘It’s 2607-2828033,’ Love said, and waited as Derek wrote the number down.
‘No, that’s my old one. I have a new number, I am sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ll give it to you again.’
‘That’s all right,’ Derek said. He smiled and crossed out the number he’d just written down. Carefully. Methodically.
Love relayed another set of numbers. He and Stuart watched as Derek copied them down on to the sheet. They thanked him for his time and left.
They were outside in the car park before either of them spoke. Love looked up at the trees shedding their leaves. Already a few had settled on the bonnet of his car. They looked like big blobs of confetti.
He pulled up his collar. Time he put his linen jacket away and bring out his Austin Reed charcoal Donegal 2 in 1 wool jacket. A cool-looking single-breasted jacket costing £199.00, made from an Italian-woven wool outer jacket, flap pockets and two buttons to fasten, incorporating an internal grey quilted insert with a funnel neck and zip fastening.
Love might not own a substantial amount of clothes but the few he did were of good quality and lasted him years. He’d always appreciated the fact that good quality clothes hardly ever went out of fashion, which suited Love just fine not being a slave to the fashion industry, but it was Stuart who had introduced him to the delights of Burberry and Austin Reed. Love’s wardrobe, after years of good service and with the assistance of Stuart’s expert eye and guidance had recently been updated and its stock replenished.
It was the best looking it had ever been.
Love looked over at Stuart. He was waiting by the passenger door. The collar of his black Jaeger pure cashmere overcoat pulled up against the brisk wind. He was looking at Love.
‘He did it.’
Love pressed his key, the car beeped, the doors clunked he looked steadily at Stuart. ‘He’s certainly done something.’