Enigma

  Chapter Fifteen

  12:25 hours

  Love drove past the building in which the PAL offices were situated.

  He turned the next left into Sancroft Street left again into Stables Way through the open wrought iron gates and straight into the empty space reserved for “Mrs Hawthorne” the same place he’d parked on his earlier visit.

  ‘Either she’s off work a lot or she goes out a lot,’ Love remarked as he pulled on the handbrake and turned off the ignition.

  ‘Or she goes out to lunch,’ said Stuart. He opened the door pulled up his collar against the brisk wind that was making the trees sway and rustle with what was left of their leaves and started to make his way into the building.

  Love was out of the car in seconds. He pointed his key, pressed it, the car beeped and the locks clicked. He zipped his Donegal and followed Stuart who was already waiting in reception stamping his feet to ward off the cold. Together they approached the receptionist. They recognised the bored-looking woman behind the counter.

  She glanced up. The recognition was mutual.

  Love spoke. ‘Derek Butterfield?’

  ‘Go on through, I think he’s in,’ she replied, and almost smiled.

  Love nodded and Stuart murmured ‘thanks’ and together they strolled down the corridor with its Ikea paintings on the walls. A moment later, they stopped outside accounts. Love knocked at the door and not waiting for a reply, he and Stuart walked in.

  Derek Butterfield was sitting at his desk. He glanced up. He looked surprised to see the two detectives. He held his fork suspended in mid-air.

  ‘I see you took my advice,’ Love murmured.

  ‘Sorry?’

  Love pointed to the chicken and spaghetti in the polystyrene box. ‘The chicken.’

  Mr Butterfield glanced at his fork and then down at the half-eaten meal in front of him. ‘Oh, right! Yes, it’s delicious,’ he said as he placed his knife and fork in the box. ‘Thanks for the suggestion.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ Love said. He walked over to where Mr Butterfield was sitting.

  Stuart followed and stood by Love’s side. He glanced down at Derek Butterfield and nodded. ‘How are you, Mr Butterfield?’ he said, as he peeled off his black leather gloves.

  ‘Holding up, you know how it is.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ Stuart said. He glanced around him. The middle-aged woman with her magazine was sitting there as before. A Tupperware box in front of her. Empty apart from a few crumbs. A mug of what looked like coffee to the side of her. She glanced up at Stuart and smiled and Stuart smiled back.

  Derek Butterfield picked up his paper serviette and dabbed at the corners of his mouth before folding it and placing the serviette carefully to the side of his lunch. Precise. Methodical. ‘What can I do for you gentlemen?’

  ‘We have a few further questions to ask,’ Love replied.

  He pulled out a chewed biro and notepad. He glanced at his pen and grimaced. Why Julie had this compulsion to chew every single pen he brought into the house he had no idea. And as long as it wasn’t harmful to the dog he could happily live with it.

  ‘Is there somewhere private we can talk?’

  The woman looked over and spoke up straight away. ‘It’s all right, Derek, I was thinking of going outside for a cigarette anyway.’ She closed her magazine, opened a drawer pulled out a packet of Silk Cut and a lighter, stood up and walked over to the door. She reached over to the coat stand and grabbed a woollen coat, woolly scarf, and hat. A moment later, she left.

  Mr Butterfield gestured for the two men to sit down. They remained standing.

  Love spoke first. ‘No, thanks, Mr Butterfield, this won’t take long. I understand on the day of your wife’s murder you were at the office and the only time you left was to collect your lunch.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve already told you.’

  ‘I also understand that happens to be not quite true, is it?’

  ‘What are you implying?’

  ‘I’m implying nothing I’m stating a fact,’ Love said. He glanced at Stuart. He remained where he was. Observing.

  ‘What fact… what are you talking about?’

  ‘The fact that you left the office but not to pick up your lunch.’

  ‘I don’t recall exactly but I believe I did buy my lunch as per usual that particular day.’

  ‘You don’t have to recall, I have proof you didn’t.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  Stuart spoke quietly. ‘We know you go to Locks bistro most days but not on the day of your wife’s murder.’

  ‘So? What of it?’

  ‘So where did you go?’

  ‘Who says I went anywhere?’

  ‘I am,’ Love said. ‘We understand you left the office on the day of your wife’s murder.’

  ‘But not to buy your lunch,’ Stuart added. ‘At least not from Locks.’

  Butterfield looked from Stuart to Love. His eyes shone brightly. His face flushed. He was angry or frightened. ‘How dare you, how bloody dare you…’

  Love interrupted. ‘Mr Butterfield, sir, keep your cool, please. Just let us do our job and answer the questions.’

  ‘Answer your questions? Your insinuations more like.’

  ‘Mr Butterfield.’ Love spoke quietly. He moved closer to where Derek Butterfield was sitting looking like a cornered animal. His eyes darting from left to right as though searching for a place to escape. ‘Just tell us where you went that lunchtime.’

  ‘I… I can’t.’

  ‘Can’t or won’t,’ Stuart asked.

  Mr Butterfield stared at Stuart. He spoke sharply. ‘Does it make a bloody difference?’

  ‘Possibly not,’ Stuart said. ‘Why can’t you tell us? We know you’re hiding something.’

  ‘Would you rather we take you down to Detective Special Branch Division?’ Love said.

  ‘Bloody hell, no!’ Butterfield pushed back his chair and stood up. He walked over to the window and stared out of it. Agitated he began rubbing his hands together before stuffing them into the pockets of his trousers. Finally, he turned round. ‘All right,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ll tell you what you want to know.’

  Stuart and Love looked at each other and waited.

  ‘I did go out that day and not to buy any lunch.’ Butterfield looked from Stuart to Love and back down at the floor as though looking at their faces was too painful. ‘And I wasn’t alone.’

  A few moments passed before Stuart spoke softly. ‘Who was with you?’

  Butterfield blinked hard and sighed heavily. ‘She’s married.’

  ‘She?’ asked Love.

  ‘Do you need to know her name? Is that necessary?’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ Love said.

  ‘Please continue Mr Butterfield,’ Stuart said, and wrote something down in his notepad.

  Butterfield watched him for a moment before speaking again. ‘You know her, I mean, you’ve met on a couple of occasions.’

  Love narrowed his eyes and gestured over to the desk by the window. ‘You mean,’ he paused as he read the nameplate on the desk, ‘Mrs Moody?’

  Butterfield closed his eyes and nodded. ‘Yes, Mrs Moody. We’re having, we have a close friendship.’

  ‘You’re having an affair,’ Love said.

  Butterfield snapped open his eyes. ‘Don’t you dare do that! Don’t you dare make this out to be something nasty or sordid.’

  ‘I apologise, Mr Butterfield, I meant no disrespect but the official terminology for your friendship is known as an affair. Am I correct?’

  ‘Call it what you will, damn you. Mrs Moody and I have been close friends for about four and a half months. We find pleasure in each others company.’

  ‘Is your friendship sexual, Mr Butterfield?’ Stuart asked.

  ‘Sexual? It’s closeness. We call it an expression of our love for each other.’

  ‘Can I take that as affirmative?’

  ‘Yes! Yes! It’s sexual, all right? Are
you happy now?’ Butterfield shouted then slumped into himself. He pulled a clean white handkerchief from the inside of his jacket. He patted his forehead. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to shout at you.’

  ‘No problem, Mr Butterfield, in your own time, sir.’

  Derek Butterfield took a deep breath, and said in a quiet voice, ‘It’s not all about sex. We were intimate certainly but a full sexual relationship didn’t happen until later.’ Butterfield looked over at Love and smiled a pale ghostly smile. ‘We’ve known each other for a few years. Over time we became friends. We have things in common. We can talk to each other. I can talk to Linda, Mrs Moody, like I couldn’t talk to Carol.’

  ‘Is it the same for Mrs Moody?’ Stuart asked.

  Butterfield blinked rapidly. His gaze darted to the door. He appeared nervous. ‘Yes, she’s in a loveless marriage. We can be ourselves when we’re together. You know,’ Butterfield paused, ‘you know, if it wasn’t for the boys I’d have walked out long ago.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Carol and I had steadily been growing apart for years. She changed. I changed. No ones fault.’ His eyes flickered. ‘Earlier this year she took up studying. She said now the boys are getting older she could finally pursue her dream.’

  Love glanced over at Stuart. Stuart had been making notes all this time but now his hand hovered. He waited. Thinking. He glanced back at Love. Two minds. One thought.

  Love spoke first. ‘I appreciate your opening up to us, Mr Butterfield, but there’s something you’re still not telling us.’

  Butterfield stared at Love. ‘Well of course there’s something I’m not telling you,’ he muttered under his breath raised his hand and pointed to the door. ‘Outside that door and down to the end of the corridor is the assistant director of PAL.’

  ‘And?’

  He spoke directly to Love. ‘And his name is Barnaby Moody.’ He glanced at Stuart as he walked back over to his desk and in a hushed tone Love and Stuart could barely hear, he said, ‘Barnaby Moody just happens to be Linda’s husband.’