Enigma

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  15:30 hours

  ‘He parks his car, waits for Monica to arrive approaches her… it’s not adding up.’ Stuart pulled at his tie and opened the top button of his shirt. ‘And all without anyone identifying him and presumably that goes for Timmy as well.’

  Love and Stuart had arrived back at the office. During the short journey from the hospital they’d listened to Love’s local radio station in the car. It was a diverse radio station to suit everyone’s taste including a little jazz, classical, rap, reggae and not forgetting the annual Christmas hymns.

  Love liked one song in particular. Who was it by again, John Williams? He logged it in the back of his mind. Might make a good Christmas present for his dad back in New York. For his mother he reckoned on getting the usual. A hamper of edible goodies she couldn’t get back in the States. She loved the British mince pies. Serving them round at one of her coffee mornings. They made a great talking point, so his mother was fond of telling him when they spoke on the telephone, which wasn’t that often but Love made the effort at birthdays and Christmas and sometimes in-between. She loved how her son sounded more like a Brit than a New Yorker which she’d tell him every time without fail.

  Five years of living in England hadn’t obliterated Love’s sharp New York tones but it had metamorphosed into something with the hint of a soft English lilt.

  ‘He knew she would be there,’ Stuart said. ‘This was no accidental meeting.’ Stuart sat down at his desk and stared over at Love.

  Love wondered if he should include a Christmas pudding with the hamper. They weren’t to everyone’s taste, hell! Even half the Brits didn’t like them, but then again, it was a British tradition and that was a novelty in itself.

  ‘Yep, I think I will include a Christmas pudding this year,’ Love said. He picked up his baseball and rolled it in his hand. ‘And some Christmas crackers, not the cheap ones you get with a tiny plastic toy inside that you’ll never use or play with. Not the sort the dog or kid under eighteen months can choke on but the ones that come with a decent gift, a decent joke, nice party hat.’

  ‘Crackers?’ Stuart repeated, and smiled. He leant back in his chair chucked his pen on the desk and waited. He knew how Love’s mind worked. Underneath that nonchalant exterior was a brain working overtime. Love wasn’t even in the room with him. He was out there. Tracing the killer’s steps. In the killer’s shoes.

  Hell, right now, Love was the killer.

  ‘I’m there ahead of her, waiting, because I know her schedule. I’m careful. I don’t strike out randomly. This was no random attack. I don’t work like that. This was personal and there was a reason behind it.’

  ‘Waiting where?’

  ‘Close to her dance studio, somewhere none too conspicuous. I’m blending in with the crowd.’ Then again, his mum might want something different this year. No, stick with what he knew. Stay with what she liked. ‘I have to be quick and I have to be invisible.’

  ‘What was the chain of events, Love?’

  Love replaced his baseball on the desk. He pushed back his chair, strolled over to the window. He raised his arms placed both hands on the window and stared down at the traffic crossing Vauxhall Bridge.

  A fast car might attract attention and so would wearing a dark pair of sunglasses to hide behind. It’s been mild, sure it has, but it hasn’t been sunny enough to wear sunglasses. He watched as his favourite of all a motorbike messenger swerved in and out of the traffic to end up at the front of the queue.

  An anonymous figure behind his gear, his helmet. Hell, he thought, Santa Claus himself could be driving the thing and no one would be the wiser.

  Love gazed at the figure on the motorbike. The rider’s face hidden from view. He blends in. No one takes any notice. No one looks twice. And he’s fast. Very fast.

  ‘I used a motorbike.’

  ‘It’s brilliant!’ Stuart ran his hand through his hair. ‘A motorbike weaves in and out of traffic it’s one of the fastest ways to get from A to B and no one looks twice at them because they’re so common they’re all over the bloody place.’

  ‘And dressed in waterproofs or dark or black leathers, a helmet, a blacked out visor.’ Love turned round to face Stuart. ‘It gives you complete anonymity.’

  ‘He was already parked in the car park around the corner from the dance studio, I mean, the pub.’

  ‘Waiting amongst the cars or blending in with the other bikes.’

  ‘Merging in completely.’

  ‘Totally,’ Love said. ‘Waiting for Monica to arrive he approaches her in his full motorbike gear.’

  ‘She couldn’t see who it was at least not at first.’

  Love paused, then said quietly, ‘But she recognised a gun when she saw one.’

  ‘He probably gave her the drink possibly already laced with Benzomenthapane.’

  ‘Or else he got her out of the car took her over to his bike and told her how it was going to happen.’ Love stared hard at the wall on the other side of the room as though the answer was written there. ‘He gave her the drink to give to Timmy, waited a couple of minutes or less for it to take effect.’ Love strolled back to his seat and sat down. He pulled open a drawer. Rummaged in it until he found what he was looking for. He opened a new pack of cigarettes and put one in his mouth. He didn’t light it. ‘Why would he have the Benzomenthapane on him?’

  ‘He’d recently got hold of it?’ Stuart got up and walked over to the kettle. He shook it, it was empty. He filled it up, switched it on.

  ‘But at that time in the morning it’s a safe bet he came straight from home.’

  ‘Or else it means that…’ Stuart half turned spoon in mid-air.

  Love interrupted. ‘He came prepared because he knew there was a good chance Timmy might be tagging along.’

  ‘So we’re back to the theory that he knew Monica well or at least well enough to know her schedule.’

  ‘It’s half-term and he was prepared.’ He nodded to Stuart. ‘Thanks, mate, make it extra strong and sweet.’

  ‘Timmy becomes drowsy or passes out whereupon our assailant slips him on to the back seat,’ Stuart said as he placed a tea bag each in two mugs. He stood back and crossed his arms. His fringe fell over one eye. He pushed it back.

  ‘And then he gets in the car with Monica.’

  ‘By which time he would have removed his helmet.’

  ‘But still would’ve kept his features hidden,’ Love said. ‘He kept his gloves on but would have worn a hat or a hoodie pulled well down over his face to prevent being recognised by any possible witnesses.’

  ‘Or one of those ski masks bikers wear for warmth and protection.’

  ‘Which would explain the lack of unidentified hairs or fingerprints found in Monica’s car.’

  Monica’s Alfa was still undergoing strict tests but so far the only fingerprints pulled were those belonging to Monica, Timmy, and two sets of recently identified prints taken from the back seat also belonging to children, possibly Timmy’s friends from school.

  Monica kept her car clean. It was spotless. The only hairs to be found were her own, a few from Timmy, and about half a dozen belonging to a dog. Timmy’s best friend had an Old English sheepdog.

  No telltale mud or particulars left behind on the mats. Nothing. No trace of blood. Saliva. Unlike on television where an individual from CSI Wherever finds and retrieves a particle of skin or a tiny piece of cotton, identifies it, which immediately leads them to who did it and why and what they had for breakfast that morning and dinner the night before.

  This was real life.

  ‘He gets her to drive to the empty building on Gloucester Avenue it would take a minute in the car.’

  ‘Parks to the side grabs the kid slips inside.’

  ‘Ties her up in the chair. He sticks the putty in the kid’s ears, blindfolds him, he’s not taking any chances, cuts her up and then shoots her,’ Stuart said. ‘It took only a matter of minutes.’


  ‘The whole operation would have been quick but I’m guessing he spent just as long slicing her skin making his mark.’

  ‘Yeah, methodical. Neat. He gets back in the car and returns to the studio.’

  ‘Jumps on his bike and slips away.’

  ‘Lost in the crowd.’

  ‘No one the wiser.’

  Smooth. Methodical. Well planned. Well executed. Love had crawled into the assailant’s mind he’d figured out how Monica had been killed.

  ‘Of course this is all theory,’ Love said.

  ‘Yes, but a bloody good one and one that makes complete sense,’ Stuart said. ‘I’m staying with it.’

  But it still left them with two questions.

  Who and why?