Chapter Two
‘Mr Enfield? My name is Detective Dick Love. Thanks for seeing me.’
‘What do you want to know, Detective Dick?’ Scott Enfield asked as he sat back in his chair with a smile. His overlarge cufflinks sparkled giving the same impression as his tartan braces. Twenty-seven years old, gel in his black hair and already recipient of three “Journalist of the Year” awards. They were in full view on the wall in front of where Love had sat down. The computer on his desk was as thin as a supermodel and just as expensive. It didn’t impress Love. Two telephones sat next to it one of which was ringing.
‘Love. It’s Detective Love,’ Love said, as he pasted an equally sincere smile on his face.
‘Sorry,’ Enfield replied. ‘No offence.’
‘None taken. Three weeks ago you wrote a piece on the abduction and murder of Carol Butterfield,’ he paused, ‘where did you get your personal information?’
‘A good reporter never reveals his source,’ Enfield quipped then saw the look in Love’s eyes. ‘Dave, would you get that?’ He spoke to the journalist sitting at the desk next to his own. ‘Detective Love,’ he said, leaning forward. ‘I asked her husband, neighbours and friends. The usual route I go along.’
‘How much of it is fact?’
‘I resent that.’
‘Resent it all you like. I need a connection and I need to know the truth, so?’
‘About sixty per cent is based on fact.’
‘Her marriage, what did you discover?’
‘She and her husband had the perfect marriage.’
Whenever he heard the word “perfect” to describe a marriage, Love knew it was anything but. ‘And you got that where or from whom?’
‘The neighbours and the shop where she worked.’
Love nodded. His officers had heard the same thing during their door to door.
‘What about the tireless charity work?’
‘She sold flags one Saturday afternoon. For Mencap.’
Love resisted saying what sprang to mind. ‘Anything else?’
‘She helped out at a hospital and that much is fact.’
‘Doing what?’
‘She went there as a part-time volunteer, going round the wards, visiting the older patients or the children’s ward.’
‘Any particular reason?’
‘Her son had recently undergone treatment and it was her way of giving something back.’
‘What sort of treatment?’
‘Tonsils removed.’
‘What’s the name of the hospital?’
‘St Katharine’s,’ he replied. ‘Why? Do you know it?’
‘Yes,’ Love said, standing up. ‘Thanks for your time, Mr Enfield. You’ve been extremely helpful.’
‘No problem,’ Scott Enfield replied. A gold watch flashed on his wrist as he returned the hand being held out to him.
Love turned on his heel and walked out. Enfield was on the telephone before he’d left the building. St Katherine’s. That was the same place where Timmy was currently being held.
What was the connection? Was there one? He pondered as he stood on the pavement to allow a double-decker bus to drive past.
He saw a break in the traffic and ran across the road pushing past the crowds with their briefcases, shopping bags, hopes and despair, turned down a side street, tossed a five-pound note to a young student sitting in a shed that looked like it would fall down without too much persuasion, walked over to his car, beeped his key to open up his central locking and got in.
He pulled out of the car park much too fast spewing up gravel leaving deep grooves in his wake.
Moments later, Love stopped at a red light and pulled out his mobile from inside his jacket. He attached it to a small grey box on his dashboard. The device was not much larger than a CD, nothing much to look at, and had cost the price of a small car. An exclusive piece of equipment available only to detectives of Love’s calibre.
Or James Bond, Stuart had quipped.
Danger Man, Love had quipped back.
A useful device called an M-CADD that stood for Mobile Computer and Database Directory which gave hands-free operation and instant pick up either by voice recognition or personal ID. He had only to say one word for it to operate. He could dictate numbers and it would automatically dial and connect. It also had the capacity to send emails, faxes and tap into documents, go through all database and information on file back at head office along with fingerprints and statistics. It had an infrared camera and a night vision camera and if the target was successfully planted with a microscopic receiver it had the ability to tap into their mobile phone or PC SIM card within a range of thirty feet or nine metres.
It was a regular mobile database to hand sitting on the dashboard of his car. The only thing it didn’t do was make tea or coffee and that, as far as Love was concerned, was a huge failing.
Love’s personal method was to put himself in the assailant’s shoes. He liked to infiltrate their mind by thinking how they would think. It was a trusted and well-worn method of detective work and sometimes brought results. Not always. Some of the psychopaths he encountered were beyond his thought process. Happily, he grimaced. He wished he’d been in on this case from the beginning starting with the abduction and murder of Carol Butterfield, but at the time he’d been working on a case with MI6, and Stuart had been on holiday in the Caribbean.
Love went where he was needed.
Detective Dick Love, DCA. Detective Class A.
The light turned green, he let his foot off the brake and floored the accelerator pedal. Suddenly, he was anxious to get back to work except Love didn’t go back to the office. He wanted to keep going with his lead on Carol Butterfield and her charity work at the hospital.
His gut was telling him to keep with it.
‘That’s right, about twice a week. Cup of tea, detective?’
Three minutes after his interview with Scott Enfield, Love was turning left out of Atherfold Road into Landor Road and thirty seconds later was pulling into the car park of St Katherine’s.
‘Thank you, that would be very nice,’ he replied. He glanced at the small and tidy office of Sister Brookes, and said, ‘So, Mrs Butterfield pretty much had access to the wards and other floors?’
‘Well, if you put it like that, yes, I suppose she did. Marginally.’
‘More so than the regular visitor.’
‘Perhaps, on occasion.’
‘And was she always alone?’
‘Do you mean did anyone ever come with her?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why, no, certainly not.’
‘Thank you,’ Love said as Sister Brookes handed him a delicate cup decorated with bluebells. In some men’s hands it would have looked ridiculous. In Love’s it looked nothing at all. It was simply a cup of tea.
‘And I understand this all stemmed from the fact her son was treated here.’
‘That’s right, two and a half months ago.’
‘Is two to three times a week about normal?’
‘Compared to what?’
‘Compared to the other volunteers.’
‘Actually, no, she was our best volunteer by far.’
‘Meaning?’
‘She came by so often and everyone liked her.’
Not quite everyone, Love thought. ‘Who treated the son, Stephen?’
‘Well, I’m not sure I can...’
‘Please, Sister Brookes, we have another murder on our hands and I’m trying to connect them and we don’t have much time. We don’t know when or where he will strike again.’
‘I suppose it won’t do any harm or betray any confidences. He was operated on by Mr Sullivan.’
‘Mr Sullivan?’
‘Yes, he’s a resident consultant, the top dogs are always known as Mr.’
‘I see.’
‘And Doctor Cooper, of course.’
Love looked up from stirring his tea. ‘Doctor Cooper?’
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sp; ‘Yes, she provided post-operative care. Wonderful woman and a wonderful doctor and Mr Sullivan’s right hand.’ She smiled, and said, ‘More tea?’