Enigma

  * * *

  Love’s thought process put him in the assailant’s shoes.

  It was necessary to get into the assailant’s head. Love had to find out what drove him to do this. He picked up his baseball. He studied the abstract painting on the wall directly in front of him. Costly. For office furnishings. It used to be in the commander’s office. Briefly. He was more of a Constable sort of guy, Love determined, but Love liked the picture with its swirls of reds, blues, yellows and black.

  He replaced the baseball on his desk, directed his mouse to a folder, woke up the cat in the process, glared at it, muttered under his breath and hit the print icon. Following a brief pause and a series of gurgles, a sheet of paper spewed from the printer that sat on a small table placed at a right angle to Love’s desk. He reached over and grabbed the sheet. He studied the items listed under clothing worn at the time of the crime.

  ‘Let’s go down and see Fitch.’ He spoke to Stuart who had just come back into the office drying his hands on a paper towel.

  He threw the discarded towel into the bin. Straightened his tie. ‘Why? Have you found something?’

  ‘Look at this list of Carol’s clothes,’ he said, passing the paper over to Stuart. Stuart took it in his hand and skimmed through the contents.

  ‘Basic, doesn’t tell us much,’ he said, glancing up from the sheet. ‘What are you getting at, Love?’

  ‘That’s simply it. It’s all very ordinary and vague,’ he said. He got up pushing his chair back. ‘I need to see them. Touch them. Smell them. I need more.’ He ran his hand through his short blond thatch. ‘I need you.’

  Moments later, Love and Stuart were being transported in the lift down to the basement.

  The lift stopped. Gentle ping and the doors opened. They were alone. Love was thankful for that. Making small talk wasn’t always welcome and it didn’t come easy to him not when he was in the middle of a thought process. He needed to keep his concentration, to stay with it.

  He walked out of the lift followed by Stuart. They strode over to the lab, knocked on the door and walked in.

  ‘Fitch? Are you here, mate?’

  No one answered. The pathologist’s office appeared to be empty. Not even a dead body laid out on the steel gurney. Stuart took a few steps and stopped in front of a jar. He gazed at it. ‘I don’t even want to know what this is.’

  ‘Wouldn’t help if you did.’ Love and Stuart turned round to see Fitch striding into his office. He was carrying a bundle of papers underneath one arm. He smiled. ‘Hello, gentlemen, and to what do I owe the pleasure.’

  ‘Hi, Fitch,’ Love said.

  ‘How are you, John?’ asked Stuart. ‘What is that by the way?’ He said, pointing to the murky contents inside the specimen jar.

  Fitch walked over to his desk dropped the bundle of papers on top. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his lab coat, and said, ‘Lunch.’

  ‘I beg your pardon!’

  ‘Excuse me!’

  Fitch grinned. ‘One of the staff brought back a takeaway meal from a fast-food restaurant and I use the word “restaurant” lightly. She went down with food poisoning and I’m determining what kind, strain etc.,.’

  ‘Fitch,’ Love said. ‘We’d like to take a look at Carol Butterfield’s clothes. Do you still have them to hand?’

  ‘I certainly do.’ Fitch walked over to a sliding door. He pulled it back. Inside was shelf upon shelf of plastic boxes containing the personal belongings of recent victims. He scanned the boxes for a moment before pulling one out. He stepped to one side and laid the box on the table. He nodded to Love. ‘There’s more if you wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘Sure,’ Love said. He strolled over to where Fitch was standing and pulled out another box. He placed it next to the one Fitch had just deposited on the table. Stuart followed a moment later.

  ‘Here we are,’ John said. He reached into a drawer pulled out a box of surgical gloves and placed it on the table in front of Love and Stuart.

  ‘Cheers,’ Love mumbled.

  ‘Thanks, mate,’ Stuart said. ‘Right, let’s get busy.’

  Gloves in place, Love reached into the box and pulled out a plastic bag, undid the zip and removed the first item. ‘Looks like it’s been washed a few times,’ he said.

  Stuart gently took it from Love. ‘Let’s have a look,’ he said holding it up in front of him. ‘Cream pencil-type wrap-around skirt.’ He pulled the label. ‘Yes, it’s so faded it’s hard to read but looks like Marks & Spencer. Modal mix from the 90s but I doubt if she’s had it that long.’ He folded it and placed it to one side. ‘I would say it’s a charity shop purchase. Oxfam perhaps. Nice enough piece probably cost her anything from £6.00 to £8.00.’

  ‘Or one of those second-hand shops.’

  ‘Quite possibly. What’s next?’

  Love pulled out another bag. He opened it. ‘Sweet,’ he said holding it up.

  ‘Another second-hand buy although I would say this one is from the early ‘80s,’ Stuart said. ‘Yes, sweet and quite revealing if one chose. Pale blue skinny-rib polyester knitted top from SPS costing anything from £6.50 to £10.00 depending on where it was bought.’ He studied the edges of the top round the neck, hem and armholes. ‘Scalloped-edged, sleeveless with plunging V-neck.’ He handed it back to Love. ‘What’s next?’

  ‘A long, floaty scarf,’ Love said. He held it carefully in both hands. He looked at Stuart. ‘Vintage?’

  Stuart nodded. ‘Vintage. From the 1980s. Any maker’s label?’

  Love searched the edges. He shook his head. ‘Nothing,’ he said, and passed it to Stuart.

  ‘Okay. Still very nice. It’s silk, long-length, floral. Large motifs in pink, purple, yellow, black and green.’

  ‘Cost?’ Love asked.

  ‘Give or take a quid I’d say £10.00.’

  Stuart carefully folded it and passed it to Love who placed it back in the bag. Stuart handed him the skirt. Love replaced all the items in their container before moving on to the next box. He pulled out the first evidence bag inside of which was a handbag. He handed it to Stuart.

  ‘This is actually fairly new.’ He checked the label. ‘Dorothy Perkins, bucket shopper bag I believe they’re called. Black with bronze handles and a DP metallic silver plaque on a travel tag. Polyurethane. Inside zipper. No great money spent on it but it’s attractive,’ he said. ‘I’d say it cost between £14.00 and £18.00. It’s absolutely fine if you want a large handbag-come-shopping bag.’ He gave it back to Love. ‘It does the job and does it well,’ he added.

  ‘I imagine it was useful for her college books,’ Love said.

  ‘I imagine you’re right,’ Stuart said. ‘Next?’

  Love pulled open the zip to reveal an overcoat. He held it up. ‘This looks new.’

  Stuart peered at it, and said, ‘Okay, let’s take a look.’ He laid the coat on the table in front of him. ‘Dark green, fully-lined, tie fastening belt at the waist with button fastening. Two buttons on the high-necked collar. It’s what you call a military formal coat. George at Asda.’ He opened the coat to read the label. ‘Has three per cent wool, mostly polyester, some acrylic, viscose, nylon. It’s man-made but attractive enough. Again, it does the job.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘A coat like this will set you back between £24.00 and £26.00.’

  Love nodded. Stuart folded it and was about to replace it in its bag when he stopped.

  ‘What is it?’ Love said. He watched as Stuart brought the coat up to his face. He pulled it away a moment later.

  ‘I can detect fried food and the faintest trace of what could be perfume or aftershave,’ he said. He looked over at John. ‘Did you get anything from this or from her hair?’

  John clicked his mouse a couple of times. A file came up on the screen. He scrolled down it, and said, ‘No, nothing apart from a faint aroma of deep-fried chips on the skirt slightly less discernible on the coat.’

  ‘Probably because it’s new,’ Stuart m
urmured.

  ‘You mean French fries,’ Love said.

  ‘Yes,’ John replied, and half turned his head. He smiled. ‘Chips.’

  ‘Fragrances of any kind?’ asked Stuart.

  ‘None. Her hair had been recently washed it had residue of shampoo and her clothes came up blank apart from the smallest residue of a fragrance on her underwear.’

  ‘No idea what it was?’ Love said.

  ‘Sorry, no. I could make only a partial identification.’

  ‘What did you come up with?’

  ‘A common base note that can be used in any type of fragrance be it anything from perfumes and aftershaves to hairspray.’

  Stuart put the coat back in its bag and placed it to one side. ‘Aftershaves,’ he said, and stared at Love.

  Love thought back to their meeting with James Sullivan. His office had reeked of the stuff. ‘Thinking of someone in terms of a suspect because they wore aftershave? Really?’ Love held up the next bag. ‘I like it!’ he said, and grinned. He looked at the bag in his hand. ‘Shoes.’

  ‘Shoes,’ Stuart repeated. He took one out of the bag and turned it over. ‘Judging by the soles these haven’t been worn that much.’ He turned it back over and looked inside. ‘George at Asda again, I thought as much, and, yes, fairly new.’

  ‘It’s possible she purchased the coat and shoes at the same time.’

  ‘More than likely, mate,’ he said. ‘Receipts would confirm that.’

  ‘I’m guessing these were cheap,’ Love said, gazing at the other shoe through the plastic.

  Stuart continued to study the shoe he was holding. ‘Not cheap. Inexpensive. I’d say between £17.00 and £19.00. Black suedette ankle boot. Side zip with a snake effect. Thin tapered heel four inches or ten centimetres in height.’ He pulled the other shoe out and took a good look before replacing them both in the bag.

  ‘This can’t be everything?’ Love said to John looking about him. ‘Where’s her lingerie? It’s listed in the file as “matching underwear”.’

  John pushed back his chair from where he was sitting in front of his computer. It rolled halfway out into the room. He stood up, hurried over to where the two men were standing. ‘It should be there. It’s in a separate container,’ he said.

  ‘I didn’t see it,’ Love said.

  ‘Then you must have missed it,’ he said.

  ‘Missed it!’ Love barked.

  ‘Here it is.’ Fitch pulled out another container and handed it to Love. Love set it down on the table.

  ‘Thanks,’ Love said before adding. ‘All right I missed it.’

  John grinned, returned to his work, rolling the chair behind him as he went. Like taking a dog for a walk on its lead reluctant to go because it was too cold out.

  Love opened the zip of the bag lying on top. He pulled out a pair of hold-ups.

  Stuart spoke softly. ‘Cream-coloured. Regular buy from most supermarkets. Medium denier,’ he said, but his attention was already on the items in the remaining bag underneath.

  Love followed his gaze and looked down. He lifted the bag out of the box and handed it to Stuart.

  ‘Now this is interesting,’ Stuart said. He pulled open the zip and with his fingers held up a delicate-looking bra. ‘Expensive stuff,’ he said, nodding to the pair of matching knickers.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Agent Provocateur,’ Stuart replied. ‘From their Lorna range. Turquoise Swiss tulle, scalloped-edged, fuchsia trim and satin bow with a rosebud detail. The bra will set you back about £114.00 and the briefs around £65.00.’

  ‘And you would know so much about it not just because it’s your job to know but…’

  Stuart smiled and said nothing. He looked over at the rest of Carol’s clothes. ‘Doesn’t add up with the rest of her gear, does it.’

  ‘No,’ Love said. ‘It doesn’t.’ He looked in the direction of where John was working. Hammering away on his keyboard like his life depended on it. ‘Who compiled this list? I mean, it’s not wrong but it could have been more detailed.’

  ‘She no longer works for me,’ John said, half turning his head. ‘She was transferred rather swiftly upstairs.’

  ‘To where?’ Love asked.

  ‘To IT as a service desk analyst,’ John said. ‘She wasn’t suited to first contact and investigative procedures.’

  ‘You’re telling me,’ Love said, then added. ‘Hang on, that’s the same office as Sophie Barker.’

  ‘It was Sophie Barker.’

  Love raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

  Stuart reached into the plastic evidence bag and pulled out the matching pair of knickers. He looked at them. ‘New, both items appear new. They haven’t been worn much at all. You don’t get to wear underwear this pricey when you compare it to the rest of this outfit.’

  ‘And that is?’ Love said.

  Stuart did a quick bit of reckoning. ‘I’d say the total cost of her outfit, excluding the underwear, give or take a couple of quid, comes to about £20.00 more than a pair of these briefs would cost you.’ Stuart gazed at Love.

  ‘Never take for granted what a woman is wearing underneath her clothes,’ John said from the other side of the room. He was peering closely at the screen. ‘Must get my eyes tested.’ He turned to look at the two men. ‘The most conservative outerwear can hide the most provocative underwear and vice versa.’

  ‘Good advice,’ Love replied. ‘But don’t worry I never do, we never do,’ Love added nodding at Stuart. ‘It’s just that this feels different.’

  ‘I agree,’ Stuart said, as he peeled off his plastic gloves and walked over to the steel pedal bin. He stepped on the pedal, the lid snapped open and he dropped the gloves inside. ‘This smacks of something out of the ordinary.’

  ‘Not her usual route?’ John said.

  ‘Her clothes give you a picture of a young middle-aged, working middle-class woman who doesn’t buy clothes at the higher level of quality or price either because she’s financially unable or she has no interest. I suspect it’s both.’ Stuart ran his hand through his hair. ‘The clothes match the individual’s house decor,’ he added. ‘All except the underwear which on the surface at least doesn’t fit into the picture.’

  ‘No,’ Love said quietly, thinking back to the Butterfield’s house.

  Victorian end-terraced three bedroom house in Catford. Sitting opposite a parade of shops and a stone’s throw from a Texaco garage combined co-operative shop open twenty-four hours a day and where Carol worked part-time. Surrounded by similar-looking houses all merging together on one long road. Everything about the place said working middle-class.

  Attractive but average.

  Furniture and décor from MFI and Argos and possibly a few charity shops. Local outlets. Local market. Large flat screen television took pride of place in the average-sized lounge. A beige three-piece suite, pale blue carpet mixed fibres mostly nylon, blue and beige polyester rug in front of a gas fireplace along with a couple of side tables. Plenty of videos and DVDs, magazines, not many books. Fairly tidy, fairly clean, a few clothes sitting in piles on the stairs freshly washed and waiting to be put away.

  The main bedroom consisted of a double bed, chest of drawers, two side tables and two lamps. Nothing out of the ordinary. A book by Agatha Christie Why Didn’t They Ask Evans? lay open on the side of the bed belonging to the husband. On Monica’s side Summer’s End by Danielle Steel and a box of tissues and a jar of hand cream. Tissues cheap. The type that are rough on the skin and because they are so thin you have to use double the amount. False economy. The cream was a brand by a company interested not in ethics or the environment only in making money and not even giving a quality product or one that delivered the goods in the process. That’s what you get when you omit cruelty-free produce from your life, Stuart had lamented, to which Love agreed.

  The Branch had sent in their team who had written down a complete inventory including Carol’s clothes.

  ‘We can double-check
her other clothes on the list but I think you’ll find this,’ Love broke off to pick up the bra, ‘or something like this won’t be listed on the inventory.’

  ‘Gets you thinking,’ Stuart said.

  ‘Seriously,’ Love said as he carefully dropped the knickers and bra into their bag and back into the container. ‘How’d you know so much about the lingerie?’

  ‘You really have to know?’ Stuart said.

  ‘Not desperately but it would be good.’

  ‘One word and one word only.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘Emma.’

  Love grinned. ‘Lucky man.’

  ‘Yes,’ Stuart said. ‘Yes, I am, even without the lingerie.’

  ‘Let’s talk stomach contents,’ Love said suddenly. Brisk and back to business in hand. From clothes to food. Love had a thought. Was it a link?

  ‘Your train of thought?’ Stuart asked.

  ‘Her underwear is something she wouldn’t normally wear.’

  ‘And she doesn’t have anything else like it at home,’ Stuart said. ‘Although we still need to verify that.’

  ‘Right! Which leads to one thing. Why?’

  ‘And why can lead to whom.’

  Love removed his gloves. He dropped them in the steel bin by the gurney. The lid clanged shut with a thud. ‘She comes across pretty much as a fish and chips, ready-made meal kind of woman.’

  ‘My sentiments exactly and neither is she the sort to wear Agent Provocateur as a matter of course.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Love said. ‘And if the clothes don’t match…’ He looked over at John who was now standing up and listening with interest to the conversation. ‘Fitch, do you still have Carol Butterfield’s stomach contents?’

  ‘I do,’ he said. He strode over to one side of the room on which stood a huge stainless steel refrigerator. His coat flapped open as he walked. Underneath he wore jeans and a black polo neck jumper. Caterpillar boots on his feet.

  He pulled open the door. The light went on. He reached to the back and pulled out a jar. He placed it on a steel table. He switched on an overhead light.

  ‘Here we are. Let me grab my notes and I can tell you exactly what she ate immediately before she was killed.’

  Love gazed at the contents and then John. ‘Anything interesting?’

  ‘Could be. Particles of smoked salmon and pasta,’ John paused momentarily as he peered closer at his file and then the jar. ‘Under closer examination I determined it was probably penne.’

  ‘What’s the green colouration?’ Love asked.

  ‘I imagine that would be mint and parsley sauce,’ Stuart said.

  Love stared at him. ‘How would you know that?’

  ‘It’s a tried and tested recipe for smoked salmon and penne.’

  ‘And like the lingerie,’ Love said, and paused, ‘salmon doesn’t fit into the overall picture. Right! Carol Butterfield was killed between 12:45 and 14:10 hours.’

  ‘Give or take either side,’ Stuart said. He picked up a pen and started flicking it back and forth.

  ‘Can’t concentrate,’ Love said. He eyed Stuart from where he was standing.

  Stuart stared back at Love. ‘What is going on with you lately, Love? You’re like a cat on a hot tin roof.’

  ‘I’m sorry, mate, I don’t know. It’s the divorce from Belle… oh, man, I don’t know and then there’s…’

  ‘There’s what?’ Stuart prompted.

  Love considered before replying. ‘Nothing, mate, nothing at all.’

  ‘Don’t give me that BS. I’m not going to leave it there. I know you too well.’

  Love smiled. ‘You sound like a wife.’

  ‘Maybe that’s exactly what you need in your life,’ he said. ‘A woman.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I don’t need.’

  ‘Look, as much as I know how enamoured you are of Julie,’ Stuart said.

  ‘Julie? What do you know about…’

  ‘And I love her too. She’s great company, a beautiful dog, but don’t you think you need something more in your life?’

  ‘Oh, right! No, I don’t.’

  ‘Okay, Love, I’ll drop it. I respect that.’ He grinned. ‘Sorry, I had to ask.’

  ‘I know, mate, just because you and Emma are love’s young dream but believe me,’ he paused as a certain doctor flashed into his mind, ‘I don’t need or even want a relationship right now.’

  ‘And thank you for the detour into Love’s love life but how does this help and where does it lead us?’ Fitch said. He tapped the jar with the pen Stuart had discarded. ‘And you’re quite correct about it being mint and parsley sauce.’ Fitch glanced at Stuart and grinned.

  Love spoke first. ‘That’s exactly what it’s all about, Fitch.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘Love,’ he replied. ‘Or lust.’