Chapter Ten
14:00 hours
‘I hope it snows at Christmas,’ Love said as he threw his cigarette butt to the ground and stepped on it.
On leaving PAL, the two men had detoured to Love’s flat to see to Julie before driving back to the Branch. Love parked the car and the two men walked down Kennington Lane to Locks bistro. It started to rain just as they stepped through the door. Stuart brushed a couple of stray drops from his sleeve and smiled at the girl behind the counter. She blushed and smiled back.
‘Good afternoon, I’m Detective Le Fanu and this is Detective Love.’
‘Hello,’ she replied and pushed a stray hair away from her eyes. ‘What would you like?’
‘Some information.’ Love smiled. ‘Can we speak to someone in charge - the manager perhaps?’
‘Yes, all right, I’ll just get him,’ the girl said, and stepped down from behind her counter to walk through a swing door that led to an office.
The noises coming from the back indicated the kitchen was still in full throttle of which the delicious smells confirmed. A moment later, a young man in black jeans and a black T-shirt walked over to where Stuart and Love were waiting.
He smiled at them showing an even row of white teeth.
Love and Stuart flashed their badges.
‘We’re in the process of an investigation and I wonder if I might ask a few questions,’ Love said.
The manager said nothing.
‘I wonder if you would check a bill of receipt,’ he continued.
The manager still said nothing when suddenly he clicked his fingers. ‘I know you, man! You were in here earlier, weren’t you?’
‘Yes, I had lunch here today.’
‘I remember. Had a foxy-looking chick with you,’ he said with a grin.
Love suspected that was the reason he remembered him. ‘Yes, a work colleague,’ Love replied stiffly.
‘Cool girl,’ he said, and waved his hand up and down fanning his face. ‘Is she your girlfriend then? You got something going on?’
‘No, she is not, Mr… and you are?’
‘Oh, yeah, sorry! Chris Jagger NRTM.’
‘NRTM?’
‘No Relation to Mick,’ he said. ‘Before you ask.’
‘I wasn’t going to,’ Love said.
Stuart looked away and smiled.
‘Mr Jagger...’
‘Chris, please.’
‘Chris, it would be real helpful if you would look at an account belonging to one of your customers. We believe he’s a regular.’
‘What’s this all about then?’
‘It’s simply an enquiry, but if you could just take a look, I’m not asking to take anything away.’
Stuart stepped forward. ‘It’s only information we’re after, it would be a bore to have to go through all the rigmarole of a warrant and you know how that would look for business and you know how time-consuming that would be...’
Chris interrupted Stuart. ‘Yeah, man, no problem. What do you want to know?’
Love gave him the dates of the week of Carol Butterfield’s murder.
‘I’ll have to get them from storage seeing as they’re a few weeks old,’ he said. ‘Be back in a minute.’ He grinned and disappeared into his office.
The two detectives took time to look about the small bistro. The restaurant was full and customers were still coming in through the door waiting to be seated or to collect an order. The small round tables were seated closely to each other. Something sounding like Burt Bacharach could be discerned throbbing gently in the background as “Walk on by” competed with a room full of customers talking, eating, and exchanging pleasantries or disappointments depending on how their morning had panned out.
A couple of minutes later the manager returned with a box file in his hands. He flicked off the lid looked at the two detectives and waited.
Love ran off Butterfield’s name and description, verified it was indeed Derek, and asked to see the meals he’d ordered and collected that particular week.
Chris NRTM sorted through the statements and pulled a few out. He passed them to Love.
Stuart kept up a stream of chatter to which the manager eagerly responded. He was a friendly sort, had nothing to hide, simply going through life the easiest way possible.
‘Stuart,’ Love said. He passed a handful of receipts over to his partner.
Stuart looked down at the bills. There was an entry for every day that week, at the same time, for the same meal, thick vegetable soup, a buttered roll and fish risotto. Except on the day of his wife’s murder.
‘If there’s no entry that means he didn’t order or he didn’t pick up?’ Stuart asked.
‘He usually gives us a bell if he’s not coming by but when he does come in he collects it between 12:05 and 12:30 hours.’
‘But he didn’t order anything that day?’
Chris looked down at the receipts. ‘It doesn’t look like it. He doesn’t come in every day,’ he added.
‘But he comes by most days.’
‘Yeah, he’s a really good customer. He must have had something special on to keep him away that day.’
Love said, ‘But he came in every other day that week.’
‘That’s right. Every day except Thursday.’
‘Anything at all you can remember will be of help,’ Love said.
Chris looked into the distance. He creased his brow in concentration. Suddenly he clicked his fingers and a huge smile covered his face. ‘Yeah, that was it! He said something about having something important to do.’
‘Meeting someone perhaps?’
‘Yeah, I guessed it was a woman.’
‘He has an account with you?’ Stuart asked.
‘Yeah, he settles up quickly. Doesn’t let it run over a week.’
‘Thanks, Mr Jagger, you’ve been very helpful.’ Love smiled and turned away.
Stuart handed back his receipts. ‘Thanks.’
‘Hey!’ Chris called after them as they were about to step outside. ‘That chick you were with,’ he said to Love, ‘if she’s not your girlfriend, you reckon I could ask her out? You think I’m in with a chance?’
‘Sure, I reckon you’re just what she’s looking for.’
‘Why do you want it to snow?’
‘What?’
‘Just before we went into Locks you said you wished it would snow.’
‘Because I hate it of course,’ Love replied exhaling the smoke from his cigarette. He took one last quick drag of his cigarette and stubbed it out. He’d lit it only half a minute earlier but was expediting this method of cutting down on smoking.
Stuart looked over his desk with a puzzled expression on his face.
The two detectives had returned to the office the afternoon before, spent a few hours working on the case before going home at 19:00 hours, only for Love to return to the office at midnight. Stuart had rejoined Love a couple of hours later. Their desks were littered with empty cartons. The sort that put money in the pockets of fast-food restaurants but little nourishment and protein in their customers’ bodies. The food was quick and on hand. It did the job.
‘What! You don’t think Americans can be ironic?’
‘That’s not being ironic that’s simply sarcasm.’
‘Is it? I thought it was a fair effort,’ Love said with a grin.
‘I suppose it’s not purely a prerogative of the British although you have to admit it is uncommon in an American,’ Stuart said as he threw some of the previous night’s remains of their meal in the bin next to his desk. ‘Don’t worry, marks for trying, we’ll make a Brit out of you yet.’
‘I’m not sure I like the sound of that - could be painful.’
Stuart smiled. ‘That’s more like it.’
Love grinned. ‘No, seriously, it hasn’t snowed once since I’ve been in England.’
‘It has. It snowed in April.’
‘Stuart, slush doesn’t count. That’s the one thing I mi
ss about New York. The big snows at winter.’ Love strolled over to the kettle, shook it, switched it on.
‘Shall we bring Butterfield in?’
‘We can’t. On what charge?’
‘Lying!’
‘He’s involved.’
‘He’s certainly involved somehow.’
‘We haven’t thought this through. What’s his motive? They were happily married.’
‘Supposedly.’
‘Yeah, supposedly,’ Love muttered and thrust a tea bag in to a mug. He held it up to Stuart who shook his head.
‘No, thanks,’ he said. ‘I need to go home have a quick shower and shave.’
Love poured in the boiling water and added milk. Then sugar. He stirred it thoughtfully. Something the manager had said.
‘Jagger NRTM said that Butterfield had been in every day that week.’ His hand strayed towards an open pack of digestives then changed his mind. The last one he’d tried had been soggy.
‘That’s right. Except Thursday.’
‘Except Thursday, the day his wife was killed. So you see what that means. He went back the following day on the Friday, the day after his wife’s murder.’
‘Business as usual.’
‘Life as normal,’ Love said, and stepped away from the sideboard on which held the kettle and necessities for making hot drinks. An attractive piece of furniture by Mantis purchased from Oak Furniture Land. A lightly waxed, solid mango sideboard boasting six chunky compact drawers with cubed handles and spacious cupboard space underneath accessed by two doors.
On the top stood a rattan basket in which nestled a handful of tiny containers of milk dusty from lack of use, to the side of which a split bag of sugar, a bottle of stevia, a box of Earl Grey tea bags, two opened jars of coffee (one decaffeinated and rock hard from lack of use), an electric kettle, a mini fridge and a couple of mugs. And to one side sitting in the corner on its own composite marble shelf a stylish round glass sink in black by Padova.
He grabbed his tea and sat down. He eyed Stuart across the desk. ‘It could be his way of coping with grief. It affects people in different ways and grief is a personal thing. Some retreat into themselves, some take it quietly, while others wail and flail about and make a huge noise and accuse everyone within earshot.’
Stuart said nothing.
‘Personally, I think all that noise and wailing should be left to the Greeks and the Arabs. They do it better than anyone.’
‘Like a culture thing.’
‘Stuart, it’s always been my opinion and proven many times, when someone shouts or protests the loudest, they have the most to hide.’
‘Butterfield didn’t shout. He went back to work and lunch per normal.’
‘He’s growling now. He’s hiding something and I reckon it’s because he’s feeling guilty.’
‘Feeling guilty because he murdered his wife? Or that he wasn’t there to save her? Or simply that he wasn’t there for her period. Guilt can take on many forms.’
‘Yes, it can. But think of this. The crosses he made today were methodical and similar to the ones made on his wife,’ he paused to take a sip of his tea, ‘and he’s left-handed. I reckon he’s been playing it close to his chest and now, a few weeks later, the guilt is starting to eat away at him. He’s getting nervous. He’s getting irritable. That’s not grief. Not even allowing for personal differences.’
‘What was Butterfield’s motive?’
‘I don’t know. All I know is that something there isn’t adding up.’ He picked up his mug and took another sip. ‘I know,’ he grimaced. ‘I know, we’re between the rock and the hard place with this one but he’s hiding something, partner. Believe me.’
‘I believe you, Love, but without a motive.’ Stuart shrugged. ‘By all accounts, they were happily married.’
Happily married? Yeah, he thought, course they were.
‘We need to talk to someone who wasn’t questioned.’ He grabbed his mug and stood up. He stepped over to the window and stared down at the people rushing by. He watched the nose to tail traffic crawling along like a disjointed caterpillar. He glanced at the traffic lights as they turned back to red. He noticed the traffic cameras mounted high up, black and glistening in the soft rain, recording every move. He took a welcome sip of his tea. It was cold outside.
Christmas was on its way.
The thought didn’t cheer him.
‘Like who? Neighbours have been questioned along with their friends.’
‘Cameras don’t lie.’
‘Cameras?’ repeated Stuart.
‘Yep.’ Love turned and grinned. ‘As in security cameras.’ He took another sip from his mug. ‘Hospitals have security cameras.’
‘How’s that going to help?’
‘Her husband claims he never went with her to the hospital during her voluntary visits and Sister Brookes backs that up. So, what if she took advantage of her time there and visited someone else besides the children and the senior citizens, I mean, OAPs.’
‘It’s a long shot, Love. We’re accusing the woman of having an affair.’
‘Not necessarily,’ he said, and set his mug down on the floor. ‘Maybe just some light entertainment, a friend, but it would give us a possible motive.’ Love pulled out his wallet and retrieved a card. He studied it, replaced it and his wallet in his back pocket, pulled out his mobile from his jacket. ‘And I know just the person who can help without this getting too public.’ He punched in a number, knelt down and grabbed his tea, strolled over to his desk and sat down.
A moment later, the phone was answered. ‘Doctor Cooper? Dick Love here.’ The call turned out to be short. They spoke for less than a minute.
Stuart looked on with interest. ‘Can she help?’
Love sat back in his chair and grinned. A sudden knock on the door prevented Love from replying. He and Stuart glanced over at the same time.
‘I’ll get it,’ Love said as Stuart began to get up. He pushed back his chair, strode over to the door and pulled it open.
A woman popped her head into the room. ‘Love, Stuart, you’re wanted by the commander right away.’
Love stared at the figure in front of him. ‘Thanks, Jenny.’
Jenny Gare. Fifty-two years old. Extremely attractive. Long, straight chestnut-coloured hair peppered with silver streaks. Entirely natural. Large, deep-set blue eyes. Nicely dressed. Light make-up. Eyeshadow, powder, flash of rouge and always topped off with her trademark pale lilac lipstick. Divorced. One son. Living in Australia. Jenny was sophisticated. Confident. Enjoyed being single. Enjoyed her job as personal assistant to the commander.
And she’d enjoyed her liaison with Love. While it lasted.
‘Why didn’t you call down on the telephone?’ Love asked.
‘Had to come down anyway to the seventh to pick up something,’ she replied.
Love put his hand on the door frame inches away from her face. He looked down at her. ‘Not that I’m complaining. How are you, Jenny?’
‘I’m fine, Love, just fine.’ She smiled. Love remembered that smile. He liked that smile.
‘Let’s go.’ Stuart said. He’d already stood up and had walked over to where Love and Jenny were standing. Jenny stepped back to allow the men through. Stuart closed the door and punched in the code.
‘Thanks, Jenny, see you later,’ Stuart said.
‘Yes, see you.’ Jenny smiled and glanced at Love. He glanced back at her. He didn’t say anything. She turned and went on her way. Stuart and Love watched her go before walking over to the lift. Stuart pressed the button and the doors opened immediately. They stepped inside and Love touched the button for the tenth floor.
Stuart spoke first. ‘No regrets?’
‘None at all.’
‘What killed it again?’
‘She didn’t like dogs.’
‘That’ll do it every time.’ Stuart grinned. ‘No awkward moments either?’
‘None at all.’ Thank goodness for real women wi
th maturity, Love thought to himself as his mind wandered to Sophie. He briefly compared her to Jenny. He shook his head. No comparison. ‘It’s been over for nearly a year now and we only dated for a couple of weeks. Three tops.’
‘Intense though, wasn’t it.’
‘Yeah,’ Love replied. ‘It was pretty intense.’