‘So you reckon this Monica Dixon could be his auntie or something.’
‘Highly probable according to Doctor Cooper,’ Love replied and picked up his baseball. He held it between his two hands and rotated it slowly.
‘What’s the deal, Love?’
‘Who knows? Certainly puts a different slant on things though, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Doesn’t it. This ex-partner of Monica’s might not even be Timmy’s biological father. Could have nothing to do with him whatsoever which is why he walked.’
‘Still would like to talk to him,’ Love replied thoughtfully.
‘Yes,’ Stuart said, ‘so would I.’
‘That wasn’t the only finding,’ Love said recalling his conversation in the hospital cafeteria. ‘Timmy’s blood showed signs of Benzomenthapane.’
‘So, he was drugged,’ Stuart said, nodding slowly. ‘And now we know how. Sleeping tablets. But how did he ingest it?’
‘It would have to have been taken voluntarily.’
‘Which means it was given to him by someone he trusts.’
‘By someone he trusts,’ Love repeated. ‘And Benzomenthapane can be picked up by anyone if they want it bad enough. Any low life can get their hands on it.’
‘Any thoughts?’
‘Not yet, partner, but you’ll be the first,’ Love said, and replaced his baseball on top of a pile of paperwork on his desk. He scraped back his chair. It made no noise on the brown carpeted floor. Most other staff had been given the regulatory computer chairs. Canister filled, swivel facility, optional arms, sitting on five legs.
Love had declined in favour of a chair he’d picked up from an antique shop in Whitchurch, Shropshire. A late Victorian early Edwardian mahogany swivel desk chair with its original brass casters and hide seat. It turned out to be the one and only time Love had ventured up North. He found the place to be contrary with its quaint and pretty villages and exceptionally beautiful rolling countryside on one side and rows upon rows of terraced dwellings all crammed together under clouds of belching smoke on the other.
And as for the accent? Forget it! His ear was well and truly tuned in to all the various tongues to be found in London but couldn’t get to grips with the northern sounds and way of speaking. Still, it was an experience, a good one, and he found himself some pretty decent furniture into the bargain.
Love strolled over to the window. If he looked hard enough he could just make out the Houses of Parliament. His glance fell on the river below. ‘Who are you,’ he whispered to himself. ‘Where do you live? Where do you go every day? Why are you doing this?’
Why?
That was the easiest of all the questions to answer because he enjoys it. But there had to be something else to it. There was always something else to it, like money, jealousy or revenge.
Was revenge driving him on? Or was it jealousy? Or was he simply mad.
To hell with this, he thought, too many questions and not enough answers.
‘Come on, Stuart, let’s go.’
‘Where to?’
‘To where it all started, at least for us, let’s go back to where we found the kid.’
‘What about your tea?’
‘I’ll stick it in the microwave when I get back.’ Love grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair when his mobile started to ring. He picked it up glanced at it.
‘DCA Love,’ he said on the second ring.
Stuart stood still and waited as he listened to Love’s end of the conversation. A moment later he removed his gloves then his overcoat. He was sitting back down at his desk and tapping at his keyboard before Love had finished the phone call.
Stuart spoke first. ‘They’ve found her.’
‘Yes, they have,’ Love said, and nodded. ‘Nicely done, mate, the leads you gave our team paid off.’