* * *
Finding out how long the Butterfield kid had been in hospital was the next step on Love’s agenda.
He also wanted to have a word with Derek Butterfield. It would be interesting to see how he was getting on.
At the time of his wife’s death, Love had watched him closely and it got Love wondering. His actions were that of a grieving husband. Love could find no evidence to show he’d had anything to do with his wife’s abduction. Yet, there was something there that wasn’t adding up. He was sure the husband was hiding something but with little evidence pointing in any direction and no witnesses, the two detectives had little to go on.
Love scanned his file and punched in a number. It was answered six rings later and after offering apologies for the call, Love got down to business.
‘Yes, Detective Love, I remember you,’ Derek Butterfield said. He spoke quietly.
He was just as Love remembered. A man of thirty-eight, worked as a housing clerk for the local government in an organisation called PAL, Property Association Lambeth, as some nine-to-five pen-pusher.
Nothing exciting ever happened in his staid, monotone life. He had the wife, mortgage and 2.4 kids. Then suddenly all that changed.
Except now there was an edge to his voice that hadn’t been there before. Love hoped it wouldn’t stay. Who knew how people cope with grief. In all his years as a cop he’d witnessed too many individuals grieving and coming to terms with their loss. Some did it better than others. Some got over it quicker than others whilst some took the rest of their lives. Then there was the small percentage that never got over it and there were those who wanted revenge. They were the ones that worried Love the most.
‘I’m sorry to bother you, Mr Butterfield. How are you, sir?’
‘I get up in the morning I drop my children off at school. I go to work and then I come home again. How do you think I am, Detective Love?’ he asked with a bitterness that hissed down the telephone line.
‘I’m sorry. I’d like to ask you a question about Stephen’s stay in hospital. I understand he was having his tonsils removed,’ he said. ‘How long did he stay in hospital?’
‘His stay in hospital? What do you want to know that for and what the bloody hell does that have to do with what happened?’
‘Yes, I realise that, Mr Butterfield, but if you could just answer the question, please.’
‘What are you playing at? My wife is gone she was murdered and now she’s out of my life...’ he stopped. His voice was quiet but now it had taken on a resigned but menacing tone. ‘He was in the hospital to have his tonsils removed and he was admitted overnight.’
‘Thank you, Mr Butterfield. That’s very helpful and I’m sorry to have bothered you at work.’ Love replaced the receiver with a click. He didn’t move for a moment. Something was wrong. Something wasn’t adding up and he didn’t like it. He didn’t like where this investigation was going.
‘How’s Mr Butterfield?’ Stuart had finished his conversation and had heard the last part of Love’s.
‘Bitter. Hiding something.’
‘Want to go and see him?’
‘Perhaps.’ Love pushed his chair back, grabbed his jacket and shrugged into it. Outside the temperature had dropped. He squinted as he looked up at the sky. It was grey and to Love it looked like a sky full of snow. Snow in autumn.
Stranger things had happened.
‘Stuart, I have to...’ He was interrupted as Stuart’s telephone began to ring.
‘Sorry, I’m expecting this call,’ Stuart apologised before picking up the receiver.
‘No problem,’ Love said. He waited a moment caught Stuart’s attention and made a gesture with his hand. He pulled open the door and stepped out into the spacious corridor.
The floors were all alike. The interior designer obviously had a thing for seventies retro with a nineties twist. Love reckoned it was cool. Two of his favourite eras. Coconut matting in dark beige made to look like seagrass covered the floors while the walls were painted stark white offset by colourful and abstract framed prints that looked like they’d come straight from Ikea. Tasteful. Not expensive.
Love walked on, his jacket brushed against an umbrella plant. He came to the lift, punched the button and waited. A young woman walked round the corner but stopped in her tracks when she saw Love standing in the corridor waiting for the lift.
‘Don’t forget,’ her voice rang out, ‘you promised me first refusal.’
Love turned his head and smiled. His narrow blue eyes crinkled at the corners. ‘I don’t know about first refusal but if Julie obliges and turns out more than one, you’ll definitely be one of the first to know.’
‘That’s all I ask,’ the girl replied. Sophie, twenty-five, worked at DSBD in IT as a service desk analyst, recently transferred from another department, currently single, and had one huge thing going for Love. ‘Free for lunch this week?’ she asked hopefully.
‘It’s doubtful.’ He saw the look of dismay cross her pretty face. Nice enough kid, but there was nothing there. Besides, he wasn’t looking and he wasn’t interested, still... ‘I’ll do my best,’ he added.
‘Make sure you do.’ She grinned and continued on her way.
Sophie had been after Love ever since she first came to work for the department four months ago. She loved her men big and powerful and they didn’t come much bigger than Love. And that accent! A real taste of something different.
She wanted him and Sophie Barker usually got what she wanted.
‘What are you grinning at?’
‘Just got a maybe lunch date with Love,’ Sophie replied.
‘Love? He’s nice enough although I prefer a different type of man, not so big, you know, not so bulky.’
‘I know,’ Sophie replied. Yes, she’d noticed, thinking of the effeminate slim-hipped character she’d seen waiting outside for her friend and co-worker.
‘Besides, he’s trouble, you should stay away from him,’ her friend added.
‘Why?’
‘Just things I’ve heard,’ she said.
‘Who cares what people say,’ Sophie said in disgust. ‘What do you mean by trouble?’
‘Well, not trouble exactly but, put it this way, he has a wife back in New York.’
‘Best place for her,’ Sophie replied firmly then smiled.
Love stepped out of the lift, took a few steps, and through the door leading into the underground car park. He strode over to his car and jumped in. He had an appointment to keep. He’d purposely chosen a firm near to DSBD.
This was all he needed for this to come now. On reflection, was there ever a good time?
Six minutes later, he was parking the car in an empty spot he’d found in Northumberland Avenue in the City of Westminster. He pushed the gearstick into neutral, yanked on the handbrake and turned off the ignition. He leant over to the glove compartment to retrieve a parking disc, checked the time, twiddled the dial, shoved it in the windscreen, got out.
He thrust his hand in his pocket, stepped over to the meter, fed it, walked back to the car, stuck the ticket to the side window and went on his way.
Traffic sped by and stopped and then started again. Exhaust fumes filled the air. Acrid but not entirely unpleasant. Familiar to Love. Car hooters blasted. Black taxis weaved in and out the traffic like dodgem cars. Some sedate, some taking their occupants for a drive they wouldn’t forget in a hurry. That was London for you. They were as bad or skilled, depending on which side of the fence you sat, as the yellow cabs in New York, he mused with a grin. They never appeared to have a crash or collide with any other vehicle. It seemed like the taxi and bus drivers of London followed a certain code. Come close, tempt fate and try it on but never cross the line. Love reckoned they were amongst the most skilled in the world next to HGV drivers. He had trouble reversing his Volvo and it always amazed him how the HGV drivers were able to manipulate those gigantic containers in reverse and park with less room to spare than the width of
a hand.
He strode past the crowds. Some in smart suits and some dressed casually. All appeared to have a purpose. He turned left in to Craven Street, passed a tramp sleeping in the stage door of The Playhouse Theatre. His hair was long, grey and filthy. He wore an old camel coat tied at the waist with a piece of string. He wore no shoes. His feet were filthy. Love made a mental note to make a slight detour on his way back and pick up some tennis shoes or a pair of boat shoes from Next. He guessed the man was about a size nine.
It was cold out and windy making the lapels on his jacket flap like the wings of a restrained bird trying to get free. He walked on for a few moments longer before suddenly coming to a stop outside an imposing Georgian building. It had a large door painted glossy black. It was shiny and remarkably clean. It looked intimidating. He’d been so engrossed in his thoughts he’d nearly walked right past.
A small polished brass plaque was attached to the white pillar. It read Jenkins, Jenkins and Bainbridge. Love’s wife had written to him. It was the first time he’d heard from her in five years. He’d received her letter the week before.
She was filing for divorce.