Chapter Eleven
14:50 hours
‘And that’s what you’ve got on him.’
He leant forward and placed his fingers in a steeple underneath his chin. Sir Charles Guildford, KCMG, Commander. His hair was short, grey and thick, his eyes steel blue and he was fierce as heck but always outwardly calm and always the gentleman.
‘Yes, sir,’ Love replied.
He and Stuart were standing in their commander’s office in front of his desk. It was a corner office with a 180 degrees view over London. The carpet underfoot was about one inch thick. The furniture was mahogany and antique. Stuart always felt like he was back at school when speaking with the commander.
‘It’s not enough,’ he said. He took a pen from its holder and started making some notes on a large leather, gold-edged notebook in front of him. ‘It’s not enough to bring him in on, however, I do commend your ingenuity.’ He paused from his writing. ‘Go back and talk to him again and speak to his co-workers and ask them if they remember Butterfield leaving the office earlier in the day, around lunchtime.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I do find it interesting, however, that when he crossed out your mobile number the pattern appeared to match the mutilation on his wife’s chest.’
‘We got a good look without making it too obvious and it looked pretty much the same, sir, but obviously it would need clarification,’ Love replied.
‘Sir,’ Stuart began, ‘not only that but it was the way he did it. Carefully and methodically, he considers before each action. It’s like John Fitch said. Whoever mutilated Carol Butterfield’s chest did it methodically and it was personal.’
‘And he’s definitely hiding something,’ Love added.
‘He’s your only suspect?’
‘At this stage,’ Love began, ‘so far, yes, Derek Butterfield is our only suspect. I agree the link is tenuous, sir, but it’s all we’ve got.’
‘Apart from a link to St Katherine’s,’ Stuart added.
‘Tell me more.’
Love glanced at Stuart and explained. ‘Gut feeling, sir, nothing more concrete to go on right now.’
Sir Charles stopped writing, laid down his pen, and gave his full attention to Love. ‘I know all about your gut feelings, Love, stay with it. And as for Butterfield, I agree, something’s not right. Go and talk to him again and take it from there.’ Sir Charles picked up his pen and resumed his writing. They were dismissed. ‘And keep me informed,’ he added.
They were outside the commander’s office in the reception area when Stuart spoke. ‘I don’t blame him for not going for it.’
Jenny’s young secretary looked up from her typing.
‘It was a long shot, but we can at least go back and talk to him again and see what happens. Let’s take it from there,’ Love said.
Derek Butterfield was turning out to be the closest suspect they had in this case so far.
The motive though.
What was his motive?
The two men stepped into the lift and pressed the button for their floor. ‘By the way, did you have any luck with Doctor Cooper and the hospital surveillance tapes?’
‘She said she’ll see to it and let me know,’ Love said.
‘Maybe we’ll get lucky.’ The lift stopped, it pinged gently, the doors silently opened and the two men got out. ‘It can only help.’
‘Exactly,’ Love said. ‘And talking of which I’m just going next door. I’ll see you in a minute.’ He ambled into the lobby and walked a few steps to the office next to his own. He tapped on the wooden frame surrounding the glass. A moment later the door opened and Love strode in.
‘How’s it going?’
‘We’re here. Doing what we can when you need us.’
‘Be on standby?’
‘Always. You know that. Charlie’s Angels are always at the ready. We look out for our own.’
Love nodded and went out again. He knew that. Charlie’s Angels. He smiled. What wag came up with that name.
Dick Love DCA, Detective Class A, was part of a worldwide but fairly small experimental group consisting of detectives, both men and women, whose ages ranged between thirty-two and sixty-five.
They had been especially chosen from their units because they showed aptitude, possessed certain skills, and went that little bit further and weren’t afraid to do so. Once picked, the individual then underwent a six-month intense training programme to see where their skills could be put to good use or even learn new ones.
The rate of detectives who saw the training through to the end or even passed was low, about one in twenty. Love was one of the few who had passed. A recruiting official had contacted Love in New York and had explained what they were attempting to set out to achieve. The thought of belonging to an elite group answering to no one but one boss high up in the hierarchy, Sir Charles Guildford who would work from his offices based at MI6 and Belgravia Police Station, appealed to Love.
He’d always had a problem with the chain of command and his superiors especially when they were idiots and had no business being there in the first place.
Although incidents would occur in which the team was required to work at various locations, they would be based in a suite of offices located at the headquarters of MI6 where much of the on-site services would be available to the DCAs.
Local police forces throughout London would also be at their disposal twenty-four hours a day.
Love had listened with interest but he had one problem - Belle. He knew she wouldn’t want to leave New York, but as things turned out, it hadn’t been a problem at all. He undertook the training with a fierce passion like he was trying to drive out all his devils and that’s because he was.
He passed with distinction.
These individuals were a few steps above regular detectives. They were the best of the best working for Sir Charles known in-house as Charlie’s Angels.
Except none of them looked anything like Farrah Fawcett. This was the real world.
Not television.
‘What else did you get from Sister Brookes?’ Love was standing looking out of the window in his office.
Two hours had passed during which time Love and Stuart had been working solidly at their desks apart from when Stuart disappeared for forty-five minutes to go home, shower and shave.
He leant back in his chair his hair still a little moist from his shower. He stared at Love thoughtfully. ‘Only that Carol Butterfield was a good volunteer, always arrived alone and left alone, never met anyone there, as far as Sister Brookes was aware.’
‘So, basically what she told me.’
‘Basically, except, she intimated there might have been an ulterior motive for Carol’s visits.’
‘Really?’ Love said then chuckled. ‘I knew you’d get further with her. You can always rely on those Irish good looks and charm. Never fails.’
Stuart smiled. ‘Yeah, anyway, it’s not what she said, it’s what she didn’t say.’ His hair flopped over one eye. He flicked it back with a toss of his head. ‘Just a feeling I got, Love, that someone at the hospital might have been a reason for her dropping by so often.’
‘Like a lover?’
‘Exactly. What better way to hide it behind volunteer visits. It’s almost perfect.’
‘Almost,’ Love replied as he momentarily turned round to face Stuart. ‘It’s still not necessarily the case and even then not necessarily someone who worked at the hospital.’
‘Absolutely. Could have been a patient.’
‘Or a fellow volunteer.’
Love watched as a woman ran across Vauxhall Bridge. A car sounded his hooter. He leant on the thing for about ten seconds. Wow! If cars could swear this one had Tourette’s. ‘I think it’s time we met up with Mr Sullivan.’
‘Definitely,’ Stuart said as he glanced down at his wrist. ‘Let me grab a roll from downstairs for on the way,’ he said. ‘I didn’t bring anything in with me.’
‘No problem. W
e’ll get something from the canteen.’
‘But you’ve already had lunch.’
‘Yeah, but it was an early lunch.’ He grinned. ‘And now I fancy something sweet like a Danish pastry.’
‘And Love?’
‘Yeah?’
‘I’m only half Irish you know. I’m Oxford-born.’
‘Yes, maybe.’ He grinned, and said, ‘But it’s the better half.’