Enigma

  * * *

  Love and Stuart were in the car and on their way to visit Mr Sullivan.

  Stuart had rung ahead to discover Sullivan was at the hospital and currently in between patients. Stuart informed his receptionist they were on their way to see him.

  ‘I just got the preliminary report back from FST,’ Stuart replied. He gestured with his head to the back seat of his XF Luxury. ‘I’ve brought it along with me.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Love said. He half turned and stretched over to the beige leather seat behind him. He turned back to face the front and opened the file. ‘Okay, let’s have a look.’

  As Love studied the report, Stuart negotiated traffic, traffic lights and early Christmas shoppers as well as taking the time to take a few bites out of his egg and watercress granary roll.

  He drove into Kennington Lane and right into South Lambeth Road and past the parade of shops, a few already plastered with Christmas decorations. Glittering. Garish. Bright. Enticing. He thought of the presents he would buy Emma and Shannon. Shannon was easy. A Sindy doll, preferably vintage, a couple of outfits for her Sindy doll along with Sindy’s horse. Emma was not so easy. What do you give someone who claims they have everything they could possibly want or need?

  Stuart stole a glance at his partner sitting next to him. Talk about practically impossible, Stuart mused. At least Julie would be easy to buy for. But Love! It was almost as exasperating as the case they were working on. He shook his head to clear all thoughts.

  Had Love spoken?

  ‘Sorry, what did you say?’ he said, wiping his mouth and fingers on the large paper serviette spread out on his lap.

  ‘What about footprints?’

  ‘As far as footprints are concerned no clear prints can be ascertained. Only a number of nondescript larger prints side by side a few indentations of what could be those belonging to a female.’

  ‘Like he was wearing moon boots? Or perhaps he was wearing something over his feet.’

  ‘To cover up any prints he might make.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Love said. He gazed in front of him at the polished mahogany dashboard with all its buttons and switches. ‘Christ, Stuart, it’s like sitting in a cockpit of an aircraft.’

  Stuart smiled. ‘So I had to have the watch to match the car, now didn’t I.’

  Love glanced at Stuart’s Bell & Ross WW1 92 exposed on his wrist. ‘Wanker!’ Love said under his breath, and grinned.

  Stuart had been so excited when he’d taken delivery of his watch a month earlier. Like a little boy getting his first bicycle at Christmas. It was a beauty. Black alligator strap. Not so good for the reptile. Stylish. Sheer quality. Nice touch using technology from an aircraft’s cockpit. An original piece without being in your face. And that’s why Stuart had chosen it.

  Love glanced down. He was happy with his retro-style watch. A Timex Originals Sportster. Black dial, luminescent hands, rubber strap, water-resistant up to fifty metres. Handy should he ever go diving or fall in the Thames. Stranger things have happened especially when chasing a perpetrator. Cost him £50.00 on the nose looked good and it kept decent time.

  ‘You said to cover up his prints.’

  ‘That’s right, mate, possibly something worn over his footwear,’ Stuart said, and reached over to press a silver-coloured button. Immediately a blast of warm air shot out through the vents and on to the windscreen. ‘Something like FST would use.’

  ‘Or a surgeon,’ Love said quietly.

  17:15 hours

  Five minutes later, Stuart pulled into the car park of St Katherine’s Hospital.

  The hospital was substantial in size but not overly large. Private. Built in the late Victorian period and extensively modernised. At least internally. From the façade it looked pure 19th century. Specialised in psychiatric illnesses and broken bones. It was made up of mostly private accommodation although a handful of rooms and a small casualty wing was open to the general public in addition to a couple of wards which were small and open-plan.

  He cruised along until he found the spaces marked “Executive Staff” and pulled into an empty spot. He switched the paddle shift control into “P” for park and turned off the ignition. He was still undecided as to whether he preferred paddle controls or the lever stick found in other or older automatic vehicles.

  The two men stepped out of the car at the same time. Stuart pointed his key and pressed it. The car beeped the doors clunked, softly and with style, and together they strolled into the building via a side entrance although just as impressive with its large glass sliding doors and instant warmth that smacked all over your body.

  This was a different part of the hospital.

  Away from the patients and emergency wards. It was more restful. Less stressful. At least on the surface. Behind the walls of these long, carpeted hallways lay offices and consulting rooms where patients were given good news. Or bad. Which might account for the pastel-coloured artwork on the walls, Love mused.

  To soften the blow.

  They strolled over to a board listing the various doctors and location of their offices. Found Mr Sullivan’s name listed on the third floor stepped over to the lift which had just arrived and were swiftly transported upstairs. The lift smelt faintly of that distinctive hospital smell no one can actually identify along with a trace of perfume from the previous occupant.

  ‘Not bad,’ Love said as they stepped out of the lift a few moments later.

  ‘It’s where the money is,’ Stuart replied.

  ‘Make the environment as pleasant as possible. You’d want that if you were told you had only six months to live.’

  ‘Perhaps. Although it’s nearer the end of your life you’d want the nice surroundings. Wouldn’t you?’

  Love stared ahead. In front of them was a glass door marked “Mr Sullivan”. ‘I just want to go quick, mate. I’ve always had the feeling I would.’

  Stuart opened his mouth to say something but Love had already pushed open the door. Together they approached a slim figure sitting behind an impressive mahogany desk. She was surrounded by the usual office-come-reception paraphernalia. Telephones. PC and printer. In trays. Out trays. Wooden. Nice quality. Folders. Files. Paperwork. A wooden pen holder. Nice one, Stuart noticed. Made from ash. He looked at the young woman. Blue-hazel eyes, blonde hair pulled back into a chignon. High cheekbones.

  He smiled.

  She smiled back.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, as he pulled out his ID. ‘I’m DCA Stuart Le Fanu.’

  ‘And I’m DCA Dick Love,’ Love said as he flashed his wallet showing his identification.

  ‘You sound like a double act,’ the young woman said. She had a low voice. Sensuous. She looked at the two men appreciatively. Her gaze lingered on Stuart.

  ‘We’re here to talk to Mr Sullivan,’ Stuart said.

  ‘Yes, of course. We were expecting you. Would you wait one moment, please?’ She reached over to the telephone complete with intercom picked up the receiver and pressed a button. A moment later she was speaking quietly into the phone. She replaced the receiver in its cradle and looked up at Love and Stuart.

  ‘Mr Sullivan will be with you in just a minute. Would you like to take a seat while you wait?’

  ‘Thank you,’ Love said. He glanced at Stuart with a query in his eyes.

  Stuart nodded almost imperceptibly before turning back to the receptionist. He removed his cashmere overcoat and smiled his charming smile at the girl, and again, she smiled back.

  Love turned round and looked about him. Pale brown wool carpet offset with pale yellow walls. Similar yellow to my jacket, he thought to himself with a wry grin and determined he approved of the colour scheme before him. He stared at the artwork on the walls. An interesting collection made up of pictures and monochrome photographs.

  Sitting in the corner of the room was a terracotta plant pot inside of which was a cheese plant so large it was in danger of taking over the whole office space. Pleasant ambience. He
glanced at Stuart chatting quietly to the young woman behind the desk. Nice-looking people. Mr Sullivan likes to surround himself with pretty things, thought Love.

  Suddenly the phone buzzed. She picked it up. Spoke quietly. Replaced the receiver.

  ‘You may go in now.’ She smiled at both Love and Stuart. Her smile lingering that little bit longer on Stuart’s handsome face.

  Love strolled over to the door that led to Mr Sullivan’s office knocked once and took a step inside. He glanced over his shoulder. Stuart was still chatting to the receptionist. He returned Love’s glance, nodded, walked over to where Love was waiting and together they entered the office of the distinguished Mr Sullivan.

  The first thing that hit Love was the smell of Paco Rabanne. Not that he knew it at the time. Stuart told him after the meeting.

  The second thing that hit him was the neatness of Sullivan’s office. Coldly efficient. Decorated in blues and chrome it was the antithesis of his warm and colourful reception area.

  Stark pieces of expensive artwork by Gilgian Gelzer with their splashes of reds, blues and yellow proved to be the only colour in the room sitting side by side and interspersed with the monochrome photographs Love had noticed in the other room.

  A man rose from behind his chrome and glass desk. Handsome. Hair the colour of steel. A cool professional at the top of his game at only forty-nine years old. Well groomed. Pale blue eyes stared at Love and Stuart from behind a pair of round horn-rimmed glasses. His mouth, smiling, was a little on the thin side and the hand being offered was neatly manicured and suntanned. A flash of gold sparkled from his cuff and little finger. A signet ring, Love observed, as he caught sight of a crest in the centre of which sat a significant diamond.

  Diamonds can scratch.

  ‘How do you do?’ James Sullivan spoke first.

  Stuart stepped forward and shook the hand being offered. He flashed his ID and introduced himself. ‘We appreciate your taking the time to see us at such short notice,’ he said.

  ‘My pleasure,’ Mr Sullivan replied with a smile.

  ‘Dick Love DCA, thanks for seeing us, sir.’

  ‘Please,’ Sullivan indicated graciously to the two leather and chrome chairs in front of his desk. ‘Please have a seat and let me know how I can help you gentlemen.’

  Stuart glanced at Love before speaking. ‘It’s about an ex-patient of yours. A young boy called Stephen Butterfield. I understand you removed his tonsils.’

  ‘Let me look at my files,’ Sullivan replied. He turned to one side to face his computer. Large screen. Thin. Not unlike Scott Enfield’s, determined Love. He watched as Sullivan manoeuvred the mouse expertly with precision, little fuss and minimal energy. ‘Ah, yes, the Butterfield boy, that’s right. At fourteen he was a little old to have his tonsils removed, let’s see, I performed the operation on Monday, 14 August 2012, he stayed overnight and was discharged the following morning.’ He turned back to Love and Stuart with a query in his eyes. ‘What more can I tell you?’

  ‘Did you know his mother, Carol Butterfield?’ Stuart asked. His notepad flipped open and resting on his knee, Montblanc grasped in his left hand. Hovering. Waiting.

  ‘His mother? Only as the mother of my patient. I hardly knew her. Why?’

  ‘What about the father, Derek Butterfield?’

  ‘Again only in the capacity as the parent of my patient.’

  ‘So you didn’t meet either one outside office hours?’ Stuart asked as he scribbled something down.

  ‘Outside office… what on earth are you implying?’ He smiled showing an even row of teeth. Fairly white, but not glaringly snow-blind white and in-your-face.

  Love who’d been sitting saying nothing, simply quietly observing, spoke up. ‘We are implying nothing, Mr Sullivan. Please understand we have to ask these questions no matter how inconsequent they may appear to you.’

  ‘No, I didn’t meet with either of the parents outside these premises,’ he said. ‘That much I can assure you.’

  ‘Carol Butterfield was a volunteer here at the hospital,’ Stuart said. ‘You don’t recall bumping into her?’

  ‘No, sorry.’

  ‘We’re dealing with a murderer here, a possible serial killer,’ Love said. ‘Is there anything else you can tell us that may be of help?’

  Sullivan sat back in his chair. He raised his hands to his chin fingers pointing straight upwards like he was praying. ‘I’m sorry, nothing… unless you’d like to speak to Doctor Cooper. She assisted me during the operation.’

  ‘Is it normal to have two doctors present in such a simple operation?’ asked Stuart.

  ‘Normally, no, but the boy has a history of panic attacks which raises his blood pressure and this can have a detrimental effect on the whole procedure.’

  ‘But surely he was under. How can he get a panic attack?’

  ‘It was only a local he wasn’t under all the way.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Love.

  ‘The mother didn’t want it. Had a thing against full anaesthetic.’

  ‘What sort of thing?’ asked Love.

  ‘His heart stopped on two previous occasions whilst undergoing minor operations. The boy appeared to suffer an adverse effect so it’s logical to avoid full anaesthetic completely whenever possible.’

  ‘Why not try another type of anaesthetic?’ Stuart said.

  ‘The mother wasn’t interested in exploring that avenue at this time.’

  ‘So Doctor Cooper was present more in the role of therapist, to keep Stephen calm throughout?’

  ‘Yes, you can say that,’ he said. ‘Her area is currently in paediatrics and young adults. And she did it as a favour to me,’ he added.

  Love raised his eyebrows in query. ‘As a favour to you? Why is that?’

  Sullivan smiled a secret smile. ‘Nothing you need to know about, Detective Love, I can assure you, however, why not speak to Doctor Cooper? Her office is just a few doors down from my own.’

  Stuart closed his notepad with a snap. He pushed his Montblanc into an inside silk pocket in his suit jacket. Smiled and stood up. He proffered his hand towards Sullivan. ‘Thank you very much for your time, Mr Sullivan, we appreciate it.’

  Sullivan stood up and shook Stuart’s hand. ‘You’re welcome. Anytime at all.’

  Stuart removed his coat from behind the chair and shrugged it on.

  Love got out of his chair. Every move a deliberate action like he’d put a lot of thought into it. He reached out and extended his arm towards Sullivan. ‘Thank you, sir, appreciate it.’

  Sullivan nodded and smiled. He sat down behind his impressive desk and tapped something into his keyboard. The two men were effectively dismissed.

  ‘There is just one more thing, sir?’

  Mr Sullivan glanced up questioningly. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Did you happen to know a Monica or Timmy Dixon?’

  ‘Were they patients here?’

  ‘That we don’t know,’ Love said.

  ‘Let me check,’ Mr Sullivan said. He tapped a few keys. The computer whirred for a moment before coming up blank. ‘I have nothing on file and the names don’t ring a bell.’

  ‘I have a picture,’ Love said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the two shots of Monica and Timmy.

  Mr Sullivan took them, gazed down first at one then the other. ‘No, sorry, as far as I’m aware I’ve never seen either of them.’ He handed them back and smiled. ‘Goodbye and good luck with your investigations.’

  Love nodded and smiled. He and Stuart let themselves out of Mr Sullivan’s office and strolled into the reception area. Love smiled over at the girl behind the desk. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Have a nice day.’

  ‘Bye,’ she said, and glanced at Stuart.

  He looked back at her. ‘Cheerio,’ he said quietly. ‘It was a pleasure meeting you.’

  The girl smiled and lowered her gaze. Love opened the door and together they left.

  Once out in the expansive corridors of the third f
loor, Love let out a sigh. Something about that man had needled him. He was too in control. Too cool. He turned to Stuart.

  ‘So, what did you find out, you Irish charmer?’

  ‘The distinguished Mr Sullivan is a neat and precise man. Doesn’t smoke or drink. He’s single and devoted to his doctoring and art and,’ Stuart paused, ‘he’s ambidextrous.’

  ‘Really?’ That was interesting. ‘The art?’

  ‘You know the photographs on the wall?’

  Love thought back to the geographical views hanging on the walls of the reception area and in Sullivan’s office. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘All Sullivan’s work,’ Stuart said. ‘If he hadn’t gone into medicine there’s a good chance this is the direction he’d have pursued.’

  ‘As a professional photographer.’ Love thought back to his meeting with Timmy. What was that he’d said about cameras?

  ‘As a professional photographer,’ Stuart echoed.

  They’d reached the lifts. Love punched the button for the ground floor. He glanced over his shoulder. A woman in a white doctor’s coat was just entering Mr Sullivan’s offices. He stared at her as she went in. He felt like a rabbit caught in the headlights of an oncoming car. He turned back as the lift doors swished open. He hadn’t reckoned on seeing Dr Cooper.

  And he certainly hadn’t reckoned on his reaction.