Enigma

Chapter Seven

  Love was prowling round the room like a caged animal. ‘Tell me again. Nobody saw or heard anything unusual.’

  ‘Only that one woman who has since come forward to say she saw a red car zooming off at about twenty to nine,’ Stuart said. ‘You know, it is feasible that one single gunshot wouldn’t be heard over traffic from the road in front and the noise from the trains at the back of the property.

  ‘Make and model?’

  ‘She can’t say she wasn’t wearing her glasses at the time,’ Stuart said. ‘Only that it was small and nippy.’

  Love stopped in his tracks and looked at Stuart. ‘Nippy?’

  Stuart smiled. ‘And apart from that we have no other witnesses or at least nobody is talking.’

  He watched as Love moved to look out of the window and realised how different their personal lives were. No wife. No son or daughter singing to him so sweetly on the telephone.

  ‘Care to come over for dinner tonight,’ he said suddenly. ‘Emma was saying only the other day it’s been far too long since you’ve come over for a meal.’ He saw Love hesitate. ‘We can continue our discussion over a fillet steak I think we have some in the freezer for our meat-eating guests. Soya steak for me along with a decent claret left over from a birthday celebration. For you, I’m pretty sure I still have Bonaqua from the last time you were there and if not I can get some in.’ Stuart grinned. ‘How about it?’

  ‘Emma would love that.’ Love smiled.

  ‘Yes, Emma would. Being a lawyer has its good points. Means she’s in tune with her detective husband for one. Besides, she likes you.’

  ‘Go home by yourself and be a good husband and father,’ he said. ‘Hop off back to that town house of yours on Rabbit Row and enjoy your steak substitute and fancy wine,’ he growled.

  Stuart grinned. He knew how to take Love.

  ‘We’ll make it another night, yeah?’ Love said. ‘I have to get home, you know, Julie will be waiting for me.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. Course we can. Another night then?’ Stuart said as he walked from the room.

  ‘Another night,’ Love said. He thought of the tin of corned beef he had in his cupboard and wondered if he’d done the right thing and then he thought of Julie and knew he had.

  He took one last look at the room stared at the bloodstains on the floor, closed the door behind him, and left.

  Their footsteps were silent on the stairs. A good quality carpet saw to that. Love wondered if the clothes manufactured by Nightingale Fashions had as much quality and time spent on them as the furnishings of their offices. He thought of Belle. She wouldn’t be seen dead modelling any outfit that cost under a thousand dollars. Then he wished he hadn’t.

  The two men stepped outside and Stuart shivered. The temperature had dropped. Christmas was less than two months away and the weather wasn’t about to let them forget. The department stores couldn’t have arranged it better. Free advertising. As if Stuart could forget with a six-year-old already voicing about what she would put in her letter to Father Christmas.

  Love pulled the key from his pocket and locked the inner door and set the alarm. He stepped outside closed the front door and double-locked it. He pocketed the key. The alarm on the front flashed silently, red and persistent. It was old and of a good quality. And it hadn’t been on at the time of the abduction and murder. Because the premises were empty the owners thought it unnecessary to keep the alarm on. It was thought to be too much trouble with people coming and going to view the property all day and sometimes into the evening. Since last night that had been rectified and the alarm was permanently on and functioning. The downstairs windows were barred and the front door was good and solid. It would take a tank to smash its way through that door but like so many others, the owners had paid little attention to the back of their premises.

  ‘Where’s their warehouse and production outlet?’ Love said to Stuart as they ducked under the tape. Love nodded as once again the constable held it aloft and nodded in return.

  ‘They have, or had, a small factory near Billingsgate Market.’

  ‘What? With all that fish about?’

  ‘Yeah, well, it’s cheap.’

  ‘Should have spent some of the money they were saving on effective deterrents instead.’

  Love turned round and glanced at the police tape fluttering in the breeze. It made a crinkling sound like a plastic kite on a windy day or like that gaudy bunting you sometimes find flapping about in the forecourt of second-hand car dealers. He looked at the red light blinking high and visible on the front of the building. ‘I think we’ll go pay them a visit.’

  ‘Today?’

  ‘No, not today, but soon maybe.’

  ‘Where to now?’ Stuart asked as they walked back to the car. His hands thrust deep in the pockets of his black Jaeger cashmere overcoat. A delightful and stylish piece of Italian cloth, single breasted with a vented back costing £740.00.

  A sudden gust of wind yanked open Love’s jacket exposing the contrasting blue lining. He pulled up his collar looked at Stuart stomping his feet, and said, ‘Maybe we should swing by where Carol Butterfield was discovered.’

  ‘Looking for the elusive connection?’

  ‘We have to explore the possibilities no matter how vague. Right now, we have nothing else to go on. What do you think?’

  Stuart pulled open the door to Love’s Volvo and stepped in. ‘Let’s do it. It’s less than four miles from here. But for heaven’s sake get the heater working on this old bucket of bolts. I’m freezing.’

  ‘You’re always freezing. Are you anaemic?’

  ‘More than possible.’ Stuart chuckled.

  Love grinned and glanced again at the plethora of cars parked in the car park and all the way along Gloucester Avenue out front. He put the key in the ignition turned it and the car fired into action. Stuart was talking. Love wasn’t listening. He was somewhere else. He pushed the gear into first and the car nudged forward. The wheels turned slowly as they crunched on the gravel.

  Love turned a tight circle indicated right and pulled out of the car park. He slowed the car to a crawl. Scanned the parked cars. He didn’t see it. Something was telling him it had to be close.

  It wasn’t at her home. It wasn’t at work. So where was it?

  He put his foot on the accelerator and the car shot forward. He was experiencing that same feeling. He’s taunting us. Making it too easy. Too obvious. Expect the unexpected, he pondered. The car sped along down Gloucester Avenue. A castle, Love thought, I need to find a castle. He had to keep going with this. It was a thought, just a thought but it was irritating him. Moments later, Love passed a pub on his right. He gave it a cursory glance. It was called the Pembroke. He turned a sharp left into Regent’s Park Road, checked his rear-view, slowed to a crawl. He hesitated outside Bibendum a wine merchants.

  Stuart looked at Love questioningly. He said something.

  Love didn’t hear him. He was too busy staring at the sign. He turned the wheel to the right and drove off the road down the driveway, stopped. He pushed the gear into neutral pulled on the handbrake and turned off the car.

  Stuart stopped talking. As if in slow motion he glanced in Love’s direction before following Love’s eyeline. He appeared to be staring at a small black car. Simply another parked car in a row of parked cars. Hard to distinguish one make from another.

  Love opened his door. Stuart did the same. Love ambled his way over to the front of the little car.

  It was an Alfa Romeo MiTo. He glanced down at the number plate turned back to face Stuart who was already punching a number into his mobile.

  FST would be on-site within minutes.

  Monica Dixon’s car had been found.

  Discovering Monica Dixon’s car had been a breakthrough.

  The forensic services team was already photographing the site, taking samples, sweeping the immediate area, getting the car ready to be towed back to the laboratory at DSBD.

 
Love and Stuart were expecting a preliminary report waiting on their return to the office. Or sooner. The team had strict instructions to send any crucial findings via the M-CADD in Love’s car. Perhaps they’d get lucky. The assailant might have left a fingerprint or a hair or even something from the bottom of his shoe.

  Only time would tell.

  Monica’s handbag had been retrieved from the floor of the front seat passenger’s side. Love slipped on a pair of surgical gloves he carried in his glovebox and scanned the items in her bag.

  The bag was leather, black, small. A bag by Enny, an Italian designer no longer in production. He discovered her purse complete with seventy pounds and fifty-five pence. Two credit cards. A slip for a dentist appointment in two weeks time for both Timmy and Monica. Check-up only. That part had been written in hand. Possibly by Monica. Driving licence. A couple of pens. A notepad. Blank. A jar of rose lip balm by Cioccolatina natural toiletries. Half a tube of mints. Love’s hand strayed to his pocket. He pulled out his own pack and tossed one into his mouth. He crunched down hard on it.

  ‘How did you know her car would be here?’ Stuart said as he made a sweeping gesture with both arms.

  Love looked round at the private car park situated two hundred and fifty feet from Pembroke Castle where Monica, and which immediate investigations would show, was a pupil in a dance class held in their function room. The car park was set back from the busy road. A sign to the front indicating the parking area was available only to residents and clients of the two immediate buildings including patrons of the Pembroke Castle.

  A selection of up to thirty cars could be parked there or would be coming and going at any given time. Monica’s Alfa had been obscured from view by some bushes and other parked cars. No security cameras and no nearby instant cash machines that might supply a visual diary.

  Love turned and headed back towards his car. He opened the door and got in, waiting for Stuart. He fired up the car and turned right out of the car park heading north along Regent’s Park Road on their way to Golders Green.

  Monica’s handbag had been passed into the care of an individual from the FST. All articles were at this moment being itemised and logged. On its return to DSBD it would undergo strict tests for fingerprints, DNA, or any other globule or microbe that comes out, or from, a human body.

  Love didn’t hold out much hope. He reckoned the assailant hadn’t even touched it. Robbery was not his motive.

  ‘If I were the killer that’s what I would have done,’ Love said belatedly in answer to Stuart’s question.

  ‘But how did you know to look here exactly?’

  Love thought back to his earlier chat with Timmy. ‘Chance. Pure chance. Something Timmy said. He wasn’t sure what it meant but he remembered Monica once jokingly saying she took her ballet class in a castle.’

  ‘And you sussed it was the Pembroke.’

  ‘Not straight away.’ He smiled.

  ‘Gut speaking?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Love said, and chuckled. ‘Something like that. Plus, I reckoned it had to be close to where she was killed.’ He indicated with his head. ‘And the tie-in that clinched it for me was the Pembroke which incidentally is also known as Pembroke Castle.’

  ‘And his own vehicle?’

  ‘He left it somewhere close by possibly in the car park itself and simply retrieved it when he brought Monica’s car back,’ Love said. ‘It’s how I’d have played it,’ he added quietly. ‘It’s what I’d have done.’

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ Stuart said. He watched as cars sped by, people going about their business. No one would pay any attention to a man and a woman driving along in a car. ‘Wait for her, abduct her, and get her to drive under protest to where she was killed.’

  ‘Exactly. A gun in her ribs. Timmy possibly already passed out in the back or at the least incapacitated.’

  As they drove along Regent’s Park Road the Volvo carefully negotiated parked cars and people waiting to cross over to the other side. A pretty road with an attractive mix of residential properties and shops like a small village or town had been encapsulated into this one road. Love slowed down and indicated right into Primrose Hill Road. Stuart turned his attention to his side window and the view speeding by. Trees, the mix of Georgian and Victorian architecture, and more trees. People are always amazed at how many trees and green areas are to be found in London. It amazed Stuart that this would amaze anyone. He watched as the Ford van in front swerved into the path of an oncoming car.

  ‘Idiot!’ Love muttered under his breath and pumped the brake pedal before slowing down at the traffic lights ahead. His foot pressed harder on the brake. He glanced at Stuart. ‘Which can only lead to one thing.’

  Stuart turned to face Love. ‘Which is?’

  ‘The assailant knew the area…’

  ‘And had been staking it out beforehand but in order for that to work he had to have known of Monica’s timetable.’

  Love smiled. He loved it when the pieces hinted at coming together. ‘Monica knew her assailant.’

  ‘Carol Butterfield knew her assailant.’

  Love turned his head to face forward. The lights had turned green. He glanced in his rear-view mirror, let his foot off the brake and clutch, pressed his foot on the accelerator and the car shot forward and across the road.

  Moments later they were bearing right into England’s Lane.

  ‘Although you realise this is all circumstantial.’

  ‘It’s certainly ambiguous and we don’t even know how it was executed,’ Stuart said before adding, ‘nice area around here.’

  ‘Not yet,’ Love said, glanced quickly at Stuart and smiled at the query in his face. ‘In answer to your first comment and yes it’s nice and has less traffic than say the route via Finchley Road.’ He slowed the car before pulling out almost immediately. ‘Look, I know I’m clutching at straws here, Stuart, but I keep going back to St Katharine’s.’

  ‘St Katherine’s?’ Stuart said. ‘Okay, I’m with you there, Love, it’s a strong possibility but there are other factors to consider.’

  ‘I appreciate that. For one thing, we have no record of Monica, Timmy or even Ashley ever having been admitted to that particular hospital.’

  ‘And we have her outside interests to consider. The dance studio. Her friends. Her work.’

  ‘I get the feeling she didn’t have much of a social life what with work and Timmy,’ Love said. ‘It could be they were connected.’

  ‘Meaning her work was her social life.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘At least she had her dancing. It was the one thing she did for herself.’

  ‘I appreciate the PCs have already done or are still doing the interviews on this but I think we personally need to go and check out her workplace and colleagues ASAP,’ Love said. ‘I have a few questions I need to ask.’

  ‘Already on it,’ Stuart said. He leant forward pressed a button and tapped in his personal identification number on the pad of the M-CADD. He pressed “Enter” and the device became activated. The phone at the other end was answered after three rings.

  The only time the M-CADD was put into operation was when Stuart was in the car. Love preferred to rely on BGF. Brains. Guts. Feet. Notwithstanding the fact he hated technology. It was a miracle Love possessed a mobile phone.

  ‘Taylor and Goodwin Associates, Stacy Edwards speaking, how may I help you?’

  ‘My name is DCA Stuart Le Fanu. My partner and I are heading the investigation into Monica Dixon’s murder.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ Stacy murmured. ‘Yes, it’s terrible what happened.’

  ‘We’d like to swing by and interview the staff. When would be a good time?’

  ‘Well,’ she said then paused as she checked the files on her screen. Stuart heard the clicking of her mouse followed by a quick rustling of papers. Possibly those belonging to a diary. ‘Looking at the schedule if you’d like to come along on Friday morning you’ll catch us all in.’

  ?
??You’ve been very helpful, Stacy, thank you.’

  ‘That’s all right. Goodbye.’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  Stuart ended the phone call leant forward and pressed the button for “Print”. A moment later, two pieces of paper shot out of a small-sized printer sitting in the middle of the back seat. Stuart turned round, grabbed them.

  ‘An encapsulated history of Taylor and Goodwin Associates.’

  ‘Anything interesting,’ Love asked.

  ‘Nothing that’s worth mentioning. The usual. Business is fairly low-key but successful and going by this has been in operation for fifteen years.’

  ‘It’s what they don’t tell you I find interesting,’ Love said. He was looking forward to their meeting at the offices where Monica had worked as a legal secretary / personal assistant for the past seven years. Time enough to make some friends, reckoned Love.

  And enemies.

  Eight minutes later, Love and Stuart were close to their destination.

  A delay of five minutes was due to a delivery van breaking down causing a traffic jam all the way back to Jack Straw’s Castle, a weatherboard building on the northern edge of Hampstead Heath. Stuart called it in but a group of uniforms had already been despatched and were on their way.

  ‘That used to be a pub.’

  Love stole a quick glance. ‘I remember something about this place.’

  ‘Named after a ringleader in the Peasant's Revolt of 1381 and none other than Charles Dickens is said to have been a patron,’ Stuart said, nodding to the impressive building. Love said nothing as he manoeuvred the car round the roundabout before coming to a complete stop. ‘Although you won’t get much of a beverage here nowadays unless you know someone personally.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘The pub’s been converted into flats.’

  ‘At least they didn’t pull it down,’ Love remarked dryly.

  ‘Yes,’ Stuart said quietly. He looked out of his window at the historic building. ‘There is that I suppose.’

  From his pocket, Stuart pulled the plastic file Patricia Dawson had given them. He bent it back the other way in an effort to flatten it. He cast his eyes down the list. It was like Patricia Dawson had said. Interest had been shown from various local companies some known to Stuart, a few not, along with that charity in Cornwall. He checked the name listed against the company.

  Lanner Blind, Land’s End, Cornwall, director, Sven Stonehead.

  ‘What would a private charity for the blind based in Cornwall want in London?’ he said.

  ‘Only one way of finding out,’ Love replied. The car in front suddenly moved. Love played with the clutch and accelerator, cleared the last few stragglers of the tailback, shifted into second then third and accelerated in the direction of Golders Green. ‘We ask them.’

  They continued their journey. Each to their own thoughts. Love took an appreciative glance at the tree canopies gracefully covering the road like protective umbrellas. And on either side sat the old stone walls now smothered in ivy interspersed with the odd rhododendron bush. The blooms now faded. The two men could have been in the heart of the countryside not in the midst of London.

  Further on down the road they passed a pub called the Old Bull & Bush.

  ‘Take that place.’ Stuart pointed with a gloved finger. ‘A pub has been on that spot since the early 18th century.’

  ‘Really?’ Love said. He glanced to his right to see an attractive brick square-shaped establishment.

  ‘In fact, the pub gave its name to the famous music hall song “Down at the Old Bull and Bush”.’

  ‘Yeah, I know that, sung in World War II, right?’

  ‘Absolutely. It’s a national treasure like Vera Lynn. Initially the pub was made popular by the cockneys, it was a day out for them, hence the song.’

  Love glanced at Stuart. ‘You’re not moonlighting as a tour guide are you, I mean, what is all this?’

  Stuart smiled. He flicked his head to move the hair out of his eye. ‘I grew up round here.’

  ‘I thought you were from Kensington.’

  ‘No, born in Oxford but…’

  ‘Is this going to take long because, really, as much as I find this fascinating, the life of Stuart Le Fanu…’

  ‘Wanker!’ Stuart said, and grinned. ‘We moved to Hampstead when I was two and then to Kensington in my late teens and there I’ve been ever since.’

  ‘New York for me all my life. Born. Bred. And…’

  ‘Don’t talk about dying, Love. It’s bad luck. Especially in our game.’

  Love smiled. He said nothing more on the subject. He didn’t like to spend too much time thinking about his own mortality. He’d experienced a few close shaves during his career in the force. He had the scars, mental and physical, to prove it. His only concern now was who would look after Julie if anything happened to him. Maybe he should sort that out. Will her to Stuart or something. He chuckled to himself at the thought of Stuart getting dog hairs all over his designer suits along with the odd muddy paw print planted on the beige-coloured leather interior of his Jaguar. His XF 3.0D V6 Luxury Jaguar. But then again, knowing Stuart, he would take it all in his stride. He might come across as a poser and a fashion plate to anyone who didn’t know him but underneath it he was the real deal.

  A genuine bloke as the Brits would say.

  And there was a serious side to him.

  Stuart possessed an exhaustive knowledge of the history of fashion right up to modern day having studied art, fashion and textiles at university. He was an interesting combination. Consider the idea of Sherlock Holmes being merged with Alexander McQueen and Stuart would be the result. In America they have a word for it. It’s a bona fide job and it’s a part of something they do called profiling. In the UK it’s simply a useful skill to help build up a complete picture of the victims.

  And sometimes even the assailants.

  They were nearing their destination. Love began to put himself in the killer’s shoes. He studied the properties as he sped down North End Road. Neat, suburban, attractive and tidy houses either side of the widely spaced, tree-lined road. A few early Victorian three-storey houses followed by the ubiquitous 1930s semis. Decent place. Surely too good for the likes of that scum to live in.

  So where did he come from?

  ‘Nearly there,’ Stuart said as they drove past a parade of shops. He began to unbuckle his seat belt.

  Love slowed down at the traffic lights. His foot pumping the brake. The lights turned green he bore left and past the empty shop where Carol had been abducted and murdered. He turned left into Hodford Road swung over to the other side to an empty space and parked the car.

  Stuart jumped out and shut the door. He glanced over the roof of the Volvo towards the narrow cobbled road on the other side. It gave a back access to the parade of shops running along Golders Green Road.

  The two men crossed the road and walked the few steps over to where Carol Butterfield lost her life.

  The empty shop where Carol had been discovered was situated towards the end of the Victorian parade.

  The shops on the ground floor were accessed via Golders Green Road some with residential properties above. The building was less than half a mile north east from Hampstead Heath.

  The shop had a back entrance that was completely private and not overlooked apart from a neighbouring property. Love stared up at the house and at what looked like a window belonging to a bathroom and a larger window on the floor below.

  He turned back to face the shop. The police tape surrounding the courtyard was flapping in the wind and was showing signs of the worse for wear. They both ducked underneath it and walked along the short path to the back door. Love pulled out a key and put it in the lock. He’d brought it along at the last minute just as they were leaving. He was glad he had.

  The door swung open and they stepped inside.

  The property consisted of a hallway, three rooms on the ground floor, one ro
om and a bathroom upstairs. The rooms were large and had high ceilings. The tiny kitchen had long since gone and been made into a storage room. All that remained was a 1970s stainless steel sink. The shop had been rented to a company selling second-hand clothes and rejects. They’d since moved to a larger property. At least some companies were prospering.

  The two men stepped into the room at the back. It was a small room. The bloodstain where Carol had been shot in the head was still evident. There was no furniture except for one wooden chair that had since been taken away by FST. The room’s only window was shut and locked with the blinds tightly drawn. It was one of those office blinds that hung in long, vertical strips. Stupid things, grimaced Love. The moment a gust of wind blew they would billow out into the room like twenty whips before being sucked back again in one huge tangle or coming apart in the process. Love glared at it, stood still and listened. He heard traffic from the road outside. He heard a siren in the distance.

  ‘Nothing out of the ordinary,’ he said to Stuart who was standing at the doorway looking inside.

  ‘With the room?’ he asked.

  ‘No, the noise.’

  ‘What noise?’

  ‘Exactly. It’s not over-noisy, is it? Not for London.’ He looked down at his wrist and with his hand pulled back his cuff. It’s now 13:07. Carol Butterfield was killed between 12:45 and 14:10 in the afternoon. The time is around the earlier part of her approximate time of death.’

  ‘Traffic would have been about the same.’

  ‘And no set pattern between the two murders apart from the point of entry.’

  ‘Which gives us what?’

  Love looked at Stuart, and said. ‘At this stage, I have no idea.’ He walked out of the room into the tiled hallway and stood facing the back door. It was brand new and solid. The owners had been allowed to replace it after FST had removed the original door to be processed back at their lab. The lock was brass and sturdy. Love grabbed the handle and shook the door.

  Nothing budged.

  It was where the assailant had entered the building, and where Carol Butterfield had taken her last steps.

  A local woman walking her dog had noticed the back door flapping in the breeze. She knew the place to be empty. Her dog barked. She wasted no time in pulling out her mobile and reporting it.

  Thirty minutes later, the police arrived and Carol’s body was discovered.

  When Derek had been questioned he claimed there had been nothing unusual about her day. Not as far as he knew. No special appointments apart from her afternoon class at the college a few doors further down in which she was studying English with a long-term view of becoming a journalist.

  He knew nothing, he said.

  Jon, the elder son, couldn’t shed any light on the situation and Stephen had been staying overnight at a friend’s house and gone straight to school from there. He couldn’t help.

  All their enquiries came to the same thing, a dead end.

  Love removed his hand from the door handle, turned back to face the hallway and stared at the papered walls. The Victorian skirting boards were scuffed but apart from that, and the bloodstain, the place was clean. FST had been through and had found nothing to report, at least not so far. These things could take their time. Except time wasn’t on his side. The assailant could strike again and Love had no idea where or who the next victim might be.

  ‘Why did he bring Carol here?’ He spoke out loud almost to himself.

  ‘As opposed to what?’

  ‘Well, in this situation he chose the room closest to the back door. Yet in Monica’s situation, he took them all the way upstairs and to the back of the building. Why didn’t he simply use a room on the first floor, I mean, ground floor, like he did here?’

  ‘Good question and I don’t have an answer.’

  Love glanced at Stuart leaning against the door frame and held his gaze for a moment. He looked like a model standing in a photo shoot.

  ‘Come on, handsome, let’s get back.’

  Stuart smiled and walked to the door. Love opened it and Stuart stepped outside. He stared at the estate agent’s board. Love right behind him. He slammed the door and locked it.

  ‘Right,’ Love said, thrusting his hands deep into his trouser pockets. ‘Let’s go.’ He looked at Stuart. ‘What is it?’

  Stuart didn’t answer but continued to stare at the glossy board in front of him. It was the same agency renting the property next to where Monica Dixon had been found. The agency belonging to Patricia Dawson.

  ‘Stuart?’

  Stuart shook his head and looked away. ‘I don’t know, Love. The agency is a common factor in this as much as St Katharine’s.’

  ‘We’re looking into it. We’re on it.’

  ‘Yeah, okay,’ he said. He turned and started walking back to Love’s Volvo. ‘It was a breakthrough finding Monica’s car.’

  As they approached the car, Love glanced through the side window at the M-CADD. No light was flashing which indicated no information was stored and waiting to be retrieved. ‘Looks like FST haven’t found anything yet but I agree it’s still a step in the right direction.’

  Stuart nodded. He narrowed his eyes against the cold wind. It was a moment before he spoke. ‘Has anyone checked out the individual staff at the estate agents?’

  Love had his car key in his hand. He pointed it at his blue S70 and the car beeped. A moment later, the doors clunked. ‘Half-and-half,’ he replied finally. ‘In addition to their routine questions the regular police are continuing along that line.’

  ‘You reckon we should dig deeper ourselves?’

  ‘Right now,’ Love said, ‘I reckon it can’t hurt, partner.’