Enigma

  Chapter Eighteen

  08:58 hours

  The car drove along Clapham Road before slowing down before an early Victorian three-storey building that included a basement with a separate entrance.

  Attractive. Small wrought iron balconies surrounded the long sash windows of the elegant-looking structure. Love indicated left and pulled off the road and on to the gravel car park to the front of the property.

  ‘Looks not bad,’ Stuart remarked. He unstrapped his seat belt opened his door and climbed from the car.

  Love said nothing as he stepped on to the gravel. He looked round the small parking area. One black Mercedes-Benz S-Class, a Ford, a Japanese hatchback and a small red BMW series something. Love wasn’t sure which model but it looked sporty and fast, even ‘nippy’.

  They walked up the eight stone steps in front of the property and stood before a glossy black door. Love reached out and pressed a bell.

  ‘They all look alike,’ he said as he observed the polished brass doorknocker and letter box. ‘Must be some lawyer thing,’ he muttered.

  Stuart grinned. ‘It’s part of their training.’

  The intercom burst into life. ‘Yes, can I help you?’ The voice said amongst much interference and static.

  ‘DCA Dick Love and DCA Stuart Le Fanu.’

  ‘Oh yes, come in, just push the door.’ A buzz followed by a click when Love pushed the door as instructed. It opened into a long hallway.

  Love took a step inside, paused to wipe his feet on the little coir mat and continued down the hall until he came to a glass door on the right. Stuart followed making no sound on the thick, dark blue wool carpet underfoot. Good choice. Lasts a long time and doesn’t show the dirt.

  ‘Hello,’ Love said, flashing his badge. ‘I’m DCA Dick Love and this is DCA Stuart Le Fanu.’

  Stuart held up his ID and nodded to the girl sitting behind the desk on the top of which sat a variety of pens, pencils, files, legal documents, notepads and a red geranium in a bright yellow pot.

  ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Would you take a seat please and I’ll see if either Mr Taylor or Mr Goodwin can see you now.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Stuart said. He turned round to find a group of leather and chrome seventies-style chairs pushed up against the wall. He removed his gloves put them in his pocket and sat down.

  Love strolled over to the chair next to him. As he took his seat his foot knocked the leg of the low wooden table. He was shifting his position when the glass door was flung wide open.

  A man of about forty-seven with salt-and-pepper hair curling on his shirt collar that showed signs of once having been auburn in colour stood in the doorway. He was wearing a blue pinstriped shirt, the trousers to a navy blue suit possibly Hugo Boss, a red silk tie and on his feet a pair of suede electric blue Cesare Paciotti shoes. He stepped forward and chuckled.

  ‘I usually get that reaction,’ he said pumping first Love’s then Stuart’s hand in greeting.

  ‘Sorry?’ Stuart said.

  ‘My footwear,’ he said. ‘Just a foible of mine. They look like tennis shoes and are just as comfortable. I can well recommend them. You should try them yourselves.’

  ‘I see,’ Stuart said.

  ‘Thanks,’ Love said. ‘I’ll remember that.’ Really? He was more than happy with his Anatomics. As far as he was concerned his sportswear days were long behind him.

  Stuart flashed his badge and introduced himself. ‘And you are which? Goodwin or Taylor?’ He grinned.

  The man shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, I’m Benjamin Taylor, Ben, the good-looking one of the partnership.’ He laughed. ‘Follow me, please.’

  He beckoned the two gentlemen into the hallway back towards the front door and into an office they’d passed on their way in. He closed the door behind him. The room was large. Comfortable. Had a lived-in feeling to it.

  It smelt faintly of aftershave and cigars. Leather-bound books lined the walls. A few traditional paintings hung next to them. Stuart looked closer. Nice but not originals. A variety of large office plants were placed about the room. The real thing not synthetic. A dark burgundy distressed leather Chesterfield sat to one side of the room two matching chairs at either end surrounding a low, smoky glass-topped coffee table.

  Ben Taylor’s desk, large and mahogany, stood facing into the room behind it two large sash windows looking out on to the road in front.

  The office, the whole building, gave a feeling of a one-time affluence which had been cast aside over the years but was now working her way back up the ladder again. Back to where she belonged.

  ‘Have a seat,’ Ben said. He walked round his desk pulled out his red-coloured leather chair and sat down. He leant forward. ‘Nasty business.’

  ‘Yes, it certainly is,’ Love said as he sat down in one of the two chairs facing Ben’s desk, also red-coloured leather. Smaller version.

  Stuart shrugged off his overcoat folded it in half and laid it on the back of his chair.

  ‘Nice coat,’ Ben observed.

  ‘Thank you,’ Stuart said. He sat down, removed his leather notepad and Montblanc. He flipped open his pad, and said, ‘Mr Taylor, what can you tell us about Monica Dixon?’

  Ben Taylor leant back in his chair. He wasn’t a large man and the chair appeared to envelop him completely. ‘Well, she was charming, polite. She was my own personal PA and has been for the last seven years. One of the best I’ve had.’ He shook his head as he gazed at a spot over Stuart’s head. ‘She’ll be missed.’

  ‘So she was an efficient worker.’

  ‘More than that, Detective Le Fanu, can I call you Stuart?’ he asked and not waiting for a reply he continued. ‘And I certainly can’t fault her work.’ From his desk he flipped open a silver box inside of which was a cluster of cigars. He proffered it to the two gentlemen who thanked him and declined.

  ‘And what were her work hours?’

  ‘Tuesday through Friday she worked between 08:45 and 17:30 hours and on Saturdays from 09:30 to 12:30 hours,’ he said. ‘Monday was her day off,’ he added.

  ‘How long was her lunch?’

  ‘She took thirty minutes in lieu of forty-five in order to get away fifteen minutes earlier.’

  ‘Because of Timmy?’ Stuart asked.

  ‘Yes. She’d go from here to a private house next to his school where a childminder looked after the boy until Monica would arrive to take him home.’

  ‘Did she socialise with anyone here out of office hours?’ Love asked.

  ‘Socialise? No, not that I know of.’

  ‘So it would be safe to say she didn’t have friends here, just co-workers.’

  Mr Taylor smiled. ‘Can I call you Dick? If you work here you’re automatically friends. We’re like a family.’

  ‘But only during office hours,’ he said, and smiled. ‘And it’s Love, just call me Love.’

  ‘Well, if you put it like that, Love,’ Mr Taylor said. He pursed his lips as if weighing up the question. ‘Just because you’re a family it doesn’t mean you have to live in each other’s pockets so to speak.’

  Love smiled again, and said, ‘Do you know of Monica meeting anyone? A man perhaps or of anyone coming here to see her?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge but then you’d be better off asking Maxwell’s PA.’

  ‘And she is?’ Stuart asked.

  ‘Emily Green.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Stuart said.

  ‘Stacy you’ve already met,’ Mr Taylor said. ‘Stacy Edwards, the young girl in reception. You might want to question her as well.’

  ‘We intend to,’ Love said.

  ‘Is it possible to see Mr Goodwin?’

  ‘He’s running a little late but in about ten minutes time he’ll be all yours,’ Mr Taylor said. He leant forward and crossed his arms on his desk. ‘He’s on the floor above. Exact same office layout as here apart from the reception area. We use that as a kitchen.’

  ‘Well, thank you, Mr Taylor, for your time, appreciate i
t, sir,’ Love said as he rose from his chair. ‘While we’re waiting for Mr Goodwin we’ll question the rest of the staff, if that’s all right?’

  ‘Yes, yes of course,’ Mr Taylor said as he stood up. ‘Listen, make yourself at home and call me Ben, it’s short for Benjamin.’

  Stuart smiled. He closed his notepad got up reached for his coat and slipped it over one arm. He held out his other arm. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Taylor, Ben.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ Ben Taylor said, and energetically shook Stuart’s hand. ‘I do like that coat. Cashmere?’

  ‘One hundred per cent.’

  Mr Taylor glanced over at Love’s Donegal. ‘And I like what you’re wearing. Interesting jacket.’ He stepped closer to peer at the material. ‘Nice quality too.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Love said. ‘You’re interested in clothes?’

  ‘Well, only to the point that clothes maketh the man or woman,’ he said, and laughed. ‘Can tell a lot about a person by what they’re wearing.’

  ‘Indeed you can, Ben, thanks again,’ Stuart said.

  ‘Monica always looked nice.’ His eyes had a faraway look. ‘My wife, Sheila, she runs her own interior design business a few miles south of here, well, she and I always said how nice Monica looked.’

  Stuart glanced at Love. ‘I’ll go and talk to Stacy while you finish up here?’

  Love nodded. ‘Sure.’

  Stuart smiled at Mr Taylor and walked out of the door, into the hall, and back to reception to where Stacy was typing a letter from a handwritten sheet of lined paper.

  ‘Goodbye,’ Love said. He took one last look at the office turned round to leave then stopped. ‘There is one last thing.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘That red BMW parked in front?’

  ‘Oh, you mean my little Coupé 650i SE,’ Ben Taylor said, and grinned. ‘A little extravagant admittedly but I couldn’t resist her.’

  ‘She looks fast.’

  ‘That’s an understatement.’ He shoved one hand into his trouser pocket and with the other jiggled his finger at Love. ‘Do you know she goes from 0 to 62mph in 4.9 seconds!’

  ‘Really?’ Love smiled. ‘Had her long?’

  ‘A little over two months.’

  ‘Ben, where were you on Monday, October 29th between 08:15 and 08:50 hours?’

  Ben looked momentarily surprised then resigned. He appreciated the detectives were only doing their job.

  ‘At work,’ he said. ‘From about half past eight onwards. Max and I arrived at the same time and prior to that I was with my wife.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Love said. ‘One more thing, Mr Taylor.’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘Would it be possible to see Monica’s office?’

  ‘Yes, of course you’d like to see it.’ Ben slipped by Love, turned right, walked past reception and stopped at the door next to it. He opened it and stepped back. ‘Here you are, Love, don’t know what you’ll find but hope it helps,’ he said.

  ‘What’s that over there?’ Love asked, indicating to a door on the other side of the hall.

  ‘It’s the downstairs cloakroom there’s one on the floor above as well,’ Ben said. He smiled, withdrew and walked back to his office.

  Love half turned to watch him leave. A moment later, he stepped into the empty room. He stood still. Listening. Absorbing. Letting the room and the spirit of Monica speak to him.

  The office was compact but had everything in it an office would need.

  A modern, wooden L-shaped desk sat in one corner. The ubiquitous canister filled chair behind it. Bright red fabric covering. The desk was fairly neat. Six in trays sat on the top. Some still had papers in them. A dictionary and thesaurus sat next to the trays.

  A pottery bowl holding coloured paper clips, a wooden pen holder complete with a variety of pens. A notepad A4 lined. Telephone, PC and a printer to one end of the desk on a separate table with a shelf underneath on which were brand-new reams of unopened paper.

  A plant sat on the window sill. Love walked over to it. It was moist. Someone was looking after it. He thought of the spider plant back in the office and told himself if it’s the last thing he did he’d water that damned thing.

  The view outside looked out on to a small stone courtyard and a large mature garden to the back. Very nice indeed, mused Love.

  He turned away and stepped over to the desk. He opened the top drawer. More pens, loose rubber bands, a stapler, a box of staples, scissors, Tipp-Ex, Post-its, a jar of rose lip balm like the one found in her bag.

  He pulled open another drawer. Three packets of tissues, loose papers in a file labelled “to be shredded”. He flicked open the file and pulled out a sheet. It was a letter from Mr Taylor to a client. He skimmed the contents. From what he could tell, as someone had put a thick, black cross through it, the letter was a straightforward case about contesting a will.

  A thick, black cross. He checked behind him quickly and pulled out his mobile. ‘Now,’ he muttered, ‘how do you take a picture with this damn thing!’

  Stuart had shown him. The last time was about a month ago. He stared at his mobile as if hoping it would tell him, pressed a couple of buttons, scrolled through the menu until eventually the phone made a strange clicking noise and a flash lit up the room. He glanced behind him again, slipped his mobile back into his pocket, replaced the sheet, shut the file, returned it to its place and closed the drawer.

  He glanced through the other drawers. Nothing of interest. He looked over at the filing cabinets. On top of one sat a small framed photo of Timmy taken at the seaside. He skimmed through the contents of the wooden bookcase, approached the door, and hesitated. He strode back over to the desk pulled open a drawer, grabbed what looked like a personal letter and a couple of cards, walked back to the door, closed it quietly, and left.

  ‘And how often would that be?’

  Stacy shrugged. ‘Let me think,’ she said. She put the pen she was holding up to her face. She tapped her cheek. ‘Not many, about six times I reckon.’

  Stuart turned to see Love walk in. ‘All right?’ he said.

  ‘Yeah, fine, mate. Have you spoken to Emily Green?’ He looked on as Stacy wrote something down in the day-to-day calendar sitting next to the telephone.

  ‘No, you want to do it and I’ll meet you in five,’ Stuart said, glancing at his watch. ‘We can interview Mr Goodwin together.’

  ‘Sure,’ Love said, and walked out again.

  ‘Now,’ Stuart said to the girl on the other side of the desk. She was in her early twenties, attractive, well dressed. ‘You say you met with Monica out of work on you think half a dozen occasions?’

  ‘Yes, that’s about right,’ Stacy said. ‘We all got on really well together and I liked her a lot but at the end of the day we all had our own families and lives to get on with.’

  ‘Yes, I understand.’

  ‘Plus she had the kid, Timmy.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I like the boy, don’t get me wrong, he’s a nice kid, but I’m not into this mum stuff at least not yet.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘And then she had her dancing every Monday,’ Stacy said. She put the pen down and picked up a rubber band. She twirled it round her fingers. ‘Monday was Monica’s day off, you see.’

  ‘Yes, so I understand,’ Stuart said. He scribbled something down looked up, and smiled. ‘Well, Stacy, you’ve been very helpful. Let me leave you my card in case you think of anything else.’

  Five minutes later, the two detectives were in the car heading back to the office.

  ‘Maxwell Goodwin,’ Stuart said suddenly. ‘He didn’t tell us anything we didn’t already know.’

  ‘No,’ Love said, and thought back to their earlier meeting. Mr Goodwin appeared a decent sort, like all the staff there, in his early fifties slightly more conservative than his partner and friend.

  ‘What did you get from Emily Green?’

  Love grunted.

&nb
sp; The sounds of London surrounded them. A hooter blasted then another one in return. A couple more after that as if not to be left out of the impromptu concerto. The screech and squeaking of brakes. Indicators clicking. People talking, laughing. The beep beep of the pedestrian crossing.

  ‘Just confirmation of what we already know,’ he said. ‘That Monica was a good worker, friendly, they all liked her, she had no male visitors who visited her at the office at least not to her knowledge, she’d come to work, collect Timmy at the end of the day, and go home.’

  ‘It’s too neat,’ Stuart said after a couple of minutes had passed.

  Love flicked his indicator left into Parry Street. ‘I know,’ Love said. A train thundered above them just as they passed under the arch. ‘We still don’t have the whole picture.’

  Love drove on. Stopping. Starting. Deep in thought. Suddenly, a buzzing interrupted his thoughts.

  Stuart pulled off one of his gloves reached inside his pocket and pulled out his mobile.

  ‘Hello, John, what’s up?’

  ‘Are you close?’

  ‘Less than a minute away. Why?’

  ‘Found something on the autopsy of Carol Butterfield.’

  ‘Really, what’s that?’

  ‘The test you and Love asked me to run - the Nicéphore test?’

  ‘Come up with something?’

  Love glanced at Stuart before returning his attention to the Jaguar XJ Series III in front of him as it decreased its speed due to a hold-up in the traffic. Love put his foot on the brake and his car slowed down to a crawl.

  ‘I certainly did.’

  Stuart glanced at Love. ‘Go on.’

  ‘It was only possible to see this through the process afforded by the Nicéphore test,’ he paused, ‘but it shows there were the faintest marks underneath and to the sides of the marks on Monica’s stomach.’

  ‘Deep?’ Stuart said before adding. ‘Hang on, John, I’m putting this on speaker.’ He pulled his mobile from his ear, glanced at it, pressed a button and held it out in the palm of his hand.

  ‘No, not deep, not at all, they were light but deep enough to draw a line of blood.’

  ‘And deep enough to leave a scar?’ Love asked. He looked back at the Jag in front of him that had now come to a stop. He was fully concentrating on driving but a part of him was focussed on what John had to say.

  ‘Yes, deep enough to leave a temporary scar but not immediately visible to the naked eye.’

  A lock of hair fell in Stuart’s eye. He flicked his head to one side. ‘Are we talking torture or something else?’

  ‘Well, that’s the thing. It looks like it could be a case of…’ he paused, ‘sadism.’

  Stuart looked over at Love. His mouth fell slightly open in surprise. Love was looking back at Stuart. The lock of hair fell in Stuart’s eye. He left it where it fell.