Chapter Three
Day Two
Tuesday, 30 October 2012
08:00 hours
Love and Stuart worked late into the night.
There had to be a connection with St Katherine’s but how? Damned if he knew. Or was he grasping at straws? What did the two women have in common? They were white, middle-aged, had at least one child each. One was married one wasn’t. One wore clothes from a cheaper brand the other wore a nicer type of outfit. On the surface there was nothing to connect them.
And why had no one heard or seen anything?
Neither of the women had any personal connection with St Katharine’s. They were both infuriatingly healthy.
And there was nothing to show Carol Butterfield and Monica Dixon had even met.
He pulled out his pack of cigarettes took one out and lit it. The flame glowed long and red as Love took in a long pull and inhaled it deep into his lungs before stubbing it out in disgust. His breath tasted like an old sock. He wished he could give up smoking but then thought to hell with it. He grabbed his baseball and rolled it around in his hand.
Everyone’s allowed one vice and smoking was his.
Stuart’s phone rang. He watched his partner manoeuvre the receiver on to his shoulder and begin typing something on the keyboard in front of him.
Born into a family that followed in traditions, Stuart, at thirty-seven years old, was well spoken and good-looking, and had more than a passing resemblance to the Canadian actor, Marco Grazzini.
Stuart’s hair was a little longer than convention and his position as a DCA dictated. Black, layered, and not unlike Pierce Brosnan’s in GoldenEye albeit longer, more casual, side parted with a long fringe, fine hair but lots of it and that’s where the similarities to the ex-James Bond finished.
Stuart’s face was more chiselled, cheekbones more pronounced and his deep-set, thin almond-shaped eyes were pale green in colour. A lock of hair fell over his eye. Stuart pushed it away from his face in a manner that implied he hardly knew he was doing it. At five feet eleven inches, Stuart was smaller in height than Love but just as powerful except Love was quicker on his feet.
That’s where Love had the advantage.
To look at his bulk you’d expect Love to move slowly and methodically. That wasn’t the case. As an ex-professional baseball player he excelled in pitching and running and twenty years later, at the age of forty-two, still kept his body in good physical shape performing fifty press-ups a day and jogging when he could. Dick Love took care of himself, apart from the smoking.
Stuart was a brilliant detective and they were alike in many ways, but unlike Love, Stuart wasn’t alone.
He had a wife who loved him.
And a wife he loved in return.
Love and Stuart spent most of the evening trawling through documents and records in an attempt to discover as much about Monica and Carol as they were possibly able. The technology available to them was good. It was state-of-the-art. Programme in some data, press a button, and instant history is delivered to your fingertips.
Except it wasn’t as simple as that.
Nothing ever is.
You had to know which programmes to use which buttons to press. And how to extract additional information from the information you’d already obtained. It required an innate ability in computing and data technology. Stuart fitted that bill. But even he appreciated these wonder machines could do only so much. And they could get it wrong. They weren’t infallible. And they didn’t record every single piece of information in a person’s life. They didn’t record emotions, sounds, sights, smells.
Sometimes, they could even be a hindrance rather than a help. But he used them. Certainly he used them to extract information when working on a case. But he wasn’t blinded by them.
Stuart had a brain and he utilised that as well.
By the time the two men left the office it was 21:00 hours. They were tired. Hungry. And desperately in need of a bath or a shower.
And Love’s nerves were on edge.
Earlier in the day he’d heated up a vegetarian lasagne in the microwave then forgot to eat it. He took it home with him. Wrapped up in silver foil and placed inside a plastic evidence bag. He liked to eat meat but he also liked vegetarian meals especially when it came to reheating them.
Love wasn’t a huge fan of salmonella.
The morning was wet and overcast.
Everywhere people were running or walking as fast as they could with heads down like they were battling an invisible being. The lights of London blurred as the windscreen wipers on Love’s car screeched back and forth like it was too much trouble.
Like being in a damn car wash, Love thought, and leant down on his car horn when a motorbike messenger suddenly swerved in front of him. That’s all he needed, a suicidal biker, the idiot! It’s worth risking your life to get some papers from one company to another.
‘Sure it is,’ he muttered. He was in a foul mood and it showed.
Love had passed a restless night and he’d forgotten to get coffee. He’d written a note with one word “coffee!!!” on a Post-it and stuck it to his car radio. He was determined not to go for a third morning without his early morning caffeine boost. His nerves wouldn’t take it.
He drove for a little longer pulled off the road and into a side street where he knew he would find a parking space. He continued to drive looking left and right before suddenly slamming on the brakes. Damn! He’d driven right past a free spot.
‘Terrific,’ he said, and shoved the gearstick into reverse. Three aborted attempts later, he finally manoeuvred the car into a spot more suited to a Mini than a Volvo. ‘What is it about Brits and their toy cars,’ he muttered as he eased his large frame from the vehicle. Why did they have to come up with such small cars because then they had to make small parking spaces to go with their small cars?
On top of which he’d had to reverse. He hated reversing. He could never get the vehicle to go in a straight line.
And all without coffee!
This morning was not getting off to a good start.
He strode away from the car. As he crossed the road he looked back and winced at the sight of his car’s back end sticking out from its space. He hurried on into the shop. All he needed was some overcautious traffic warden to plant a ticket on his windscreen for dangerous parking and his morning would be complete. He strolled along the rows, his eyes darting up and down, found what he was looking for and loped over to the counter.
‘I think you move the items around just to confuse me.’
‘Hello, Love, how are you?’
‘Hi, Randi.’ Love grinned. ‘Been better. How about you?’
‘Can’t complain, Detective.’
‘How much do I owe you?’
‘That’s three pounds fifty, please.’
Love tossed some coins on to the shiny counter and waited for his change. ‘Thanks,’ he mumbled, picked up his jar of Fairtrade instant coffee and ran back to his car where to his immense relief the windscreen was free of leaflets, massage parlour adverts, but most importantly, a ticket.
He’d spent a long time getting to sleep the night before. His mind kept going over the conversation he’d had with the younger Mr Jenkins of Jenkins, Jenkins and Bainbridge.
Basically, it was to be a straightforward divorce. His wife didn’t want anything from Love. Love didn’t know whether to feel glad or insulted. He wasn’t sure what he felt. He’d loved her once but soon realised he’d made a mistake in getting married.
Maybe he wasn’t the marrying kind but then neither was she. At least not to him. It had been an error on both their parts.
Now it was to be rectified by a reasonably quick and painless divorce because she wanted to get married again. Not to Frank. That’s what surprised him. It was to some photographer he remembered meeting once or twice. Nice enough guy, Love recalled, in his thirties, wealthy and very good-looking. Had a reputation of being a bit of a ladies
man so he was doubly surprised at his soon to be ex-wife’s choice of a future husband. Perhaps he’d changed. People did. Perhaps she’d changed. Perhaps the photographer had settled down. Patrick. That’s right. Patrick with his dark green eyes and jet black hair.
What the heck. Belle was old enough to make her own decisions and mistakes.
It had hurt like hell when he’d first left Belle. It hurt like nothing he’d ever experienced before in his life. Now all he felt was nothing apart from a slight pang of something approaching… jealousy? Jealous that she’d found love and he hadn’t after five years of being alone? Single. And whose fault was that. He knew the answer. He also knew he was the one to rectify it.
If that’s what he wanted.
Love didn’t know what he wanted.
He was too busy for romance, he told himself. His job kept him away from cosy domestic scenes and regular hours. It would have to be some special lady to keep up with Dick Love.
Some real special lady, he mused. He wasn’t sure why, but a certain doctor seemed to drift into his thoughts when finally he fell asleep just as London was beginning to stumble into life.
Love motored along Vauxhall Bridge. Twenty seconds later he was turning left into the MI6 underground car park. He took the short flight of stairs, swiped his ID, punched in a number on the keypad above the handle, it clicked, he pushed the connecting door open and walked directly into reception. He showed his identification and came straight up to his office where Stuart was already working at his desk. He was thankful he hadn’t met anyone on the way in. He wasn’t in the mood for small talk.
Stuart took one look at Love’s face and informed him the kettle had just boiled. He said nothing more. He knew his partner’s moods after four and a half years of working together and living in each other’s lives. They were like an old married couple without the sex. Not everyone put up with Love’s moods. They took them too personally, which was the wrong thing to do as Love was not an ill-disposed man, and besides, if he felt out of sorts with an individual they would know about it. Love didn’t hide his feelings.
Except when they were of a personal nature.
Like romance.
09:15 hours
Two coffees, he felt he’d needed an extra caffeine boost seeing as he’d been without two days running, and three cigarettes later, Love was once again feeling part of the human race.
He was sitting at his desk. His computer was on. The cat was scratching its ear and meowing before scampering about chasing its own tail. Love eyed it with something coming close to contempt then reminded himself it was only an animation and in an odd sort of way it was comforting.
‘Got anything for me, Stuart?’
‘Perhaps. I’ve been working on this hospital connection of yours and I’m looking into Monica Dixon’s family.’
‘What have you come up with?’
‘As far as family is concerned nothing concrete to go on yet but we’re getting close,’ he said. He sifted through a pile of hard copies before handing a sheet to Love. ‘As for the assailant the hospital could be the connecting link.’
‘For both women?’ Love said, glancing down at the printout in his hand.
‘I don’t know yet.’ Stuart looked from Love back to his sleek computer. It was a newer version than Love’s and had cost the department in the region of four figures except Stuart’s keyboard was already showing more wear and tear than that of his partner’s.
‘Go on.’
‘I don’t believe we’re looking at two assailants. I think the abductions and murders were executed by one person.’
‘Yeah? Based on what?’
‘Only that Carol spent quite a lot of time at the hospital.’
‘And Monica Dixon?’
‘Never went there as far as I’m aware.’
‘Then how is it a connection? Did Timmy go there?’
‘Not as far as I know. Still working on that.’ He broke off to take a sip of his tea. ‘Thought I’d contact your Sister Brookes and get one of the team to trawl through hospital patient records starting from two months ago.’
‘Go with it, Stuart, and good luck with that. It’s worth a try. She might be so bowled over by your English-Irish charm and good looks she’ll positively swoon into your arms and tell you everything you need to know.’
‘Doesn’t go for the big rugged type then.’
‘It was like pulling teeth at first but I daresay you’ll have an easier ride.’
‘I’ll give her a ring and make an appointment to see her being the gentleman I am I won’t just show up,’ he said, and grinned.
‘For later in the day, tomorrow at the latest?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘That’s what I thought.’ Love smiled and glanced at the cat now sleeping peacefully on the side of his screen. ‘Did you want something from the case file notes?’ he indicated to his computer on his desk. It was surrounded by a half full mug of coffee, an ashtray, telephone, pads of Post-its, in trays both full, six ring binders, loose papers and a leather pen holder full of pens. Some chewed. Not by Love, by Julie. A brass ashtray holding colourful plastic paper clips, an open file, and his baseball.
‘Just checking on yours to see if you had anything I might have missed but our notes appear to match.’
‘Good. So, tell me, how is the hospital a connection if neither Monica or Timmy went there. Before now, I mean.’
‘It’s connected in an abstract way.’
‘Abstract? How do you come to that?’
‘I don’t know.’ Stuart shook his head. A lock of hair fell over one eye. He flicked it away absentmindedly. He gazed back at Love. ‘You think there’s a connection and that’s a good starting point and good enough for me. And like you, it’s my gut, Love, has to be it. I don’t know. But it’s there.’
Love opened his mouth to say something but stopped when his mobile suddenly started to ring. He automatically glanced at the cat on the screen to see if the noise had woken it up. He snapped his mobile open on the second ring.
‘Dick Love.’
‘He’s been asking for you.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. He said he’d like to talk to the man with the accent. The man who looks like a big blond bear.’
‘Very astute of him.’
‘My sentiments exactly,’ she said. He could detect a smile in her voice.
‘I’m on my way,’ he said, and grinned. What the hell! He sure was glad the boy was talking and that he wanted to see him. And, he had to admit to himself, glad that a certain doctor had called. He cursed under his breath and grabbed his crumpled jacket from the back of the chair.
‘What’s up?’
‘The boy’s talking and has asked to see me.’
‘Want me to tag along,’ his partner enquired.
Love looked back at him through the organised chaos made up of filing cabinets, books, old-fashioned trusted methods rubbing shoulders with the highest and most sophisticated technical data, and a brown spider plant. ‘Not this time, mate. Work on that gut of yours. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’