Enigma

  * * *

  ‘Do you still have your contact over at DVLA?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ she said. ‘What do you want to know?’

  Love shifted some files on his desk and picked up a small piece of paper. ‘Find out what sort of vehicle a Mr Heinrich Pfeiffer of Featherstone Road, Mill Hill, NW7 drives.’

  ‘Will do. Anyone else whilst I’m at it?’

  ‘Actually, yes.’ Love rallied off some personal details.

  ‘I’ll get back to you, Love.’

  ‘Thanks, Chris, appreciate it.’ He was about to put the phone down when he called her back. ‘How are you doing with the tapes?’

  ‘Haven’t had any luck with the shoes yet but I’m still trying.’

  ‘What about Carol Butterfield’s receipts?’

  ‘Mr Butterfield gave us everything apparently and that’s not much. I’m coming up with no matches, nothing at all.’

  Love sighed heavily. Another possible connection coming to a possible dead end. ‘Okay, see you later.’

  Stuart looked up. ‘No luck with the tapes?’

  ‘Not with the receipts or the shoes,’ he said. ‘But she’s still on it.’

  ‘A question for you,’ he said glancing at his watch. ‘Nowhere we have to be is there?’

  Love nodded his head. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where for goodness sake?’

  ‘The canteen, I’m starving.’

  ‘Huh! You and me both,’ Stuart said. ‘A soggy Jammie Dodger just doesn’t do it for me.’

  Love glanced at the clock on his computer, it read 15:50 hours. ‘It’s afternoon but no problem.’ He grinned. ‘The canteen’s always serving lunch.’

  Stuart stood up, straightened his tie and shrugged on his jacket. He smiled. ‘Good stuff! Then what are we waiting for.’

  The Branch’s canteen down on the first floor was large, airy, had great views over Vauxhall Bridge to the side and Albert Embankment in front and if you cricked your neck, a view of the Thames to the back of the building.

  The floor was tiled, a harlequin pattern. The walls were partially covered in pine panels stained turquoise on a yellow wall the colour of golden sand not an egg yolk. For that, Love was grateful. He felt sure he wouldn’t be able to eat his meals or drink his beverages with any real enjoyment if he had to sit in what felt like the inside of a giant egg.

  An exploded egg.

  Large colourful prints echoed the seaside colour scheme depicting seascapes, fishing nets lying across upturned wooden boats beached on the sand and high stone granite walls withstanding aeons of Atlantic crashing up against them.

  A handful of the pictures were done out in sepia.

  Like days of old.

  Interesting contrast.

  The tables were red Formica, round in shape, and the chairs were fashioned from steel and covered in plastic. Pure retro fifties. The sounds of London outside were muted behind the thick panes of glass. The odd siren, a car horn. Someone shouting. Another calling out and laughing. A Christmas hymn filtered quietly through the canteen speakers followed by the easy tones of a smooth-talking DJ as he introduced “No More” by LL Cool J. Same radio station as Love listened to.

  When he bothered to turn it on.

  The room was fairly busy. Operatives took their lunch when they could. No set hours. Not in this job.

  You could eat fish and chips for breakfast.

  Your breakfast could be someone else’s evening meal. A large piece of cod soft and succulent covered in a golden crispy batter exquisitely chewy on the inside. And the chips. Scrumptious and cooked to perfection. Not long, thin and fried within an inch of their life and so hard one could dislodge a tooth. Or so brown and crunchy any semblance of a potato has long since disappeared, but a chip thickly cut delicately fried slightly mushy on the inside.

  Something you could sink your teeth into.

  All the occupants of the building gathered here to meet up, sit, talk, eat. The food was good. The canteen was open twenty-four hours a day. And it was the one room where regular MI6 mixed alongside DSBD.

  Love knew a few figures. He nodded to them as he and Stuart strolled through the large sliding doors, chose their food, joined the few individuals waiting in a queue, paid for it, and sat down at one of the tables near to a radiator. Stuart’s idea.

  Love took a bite of his chop. He’d chosen the lamb. It came with a helping of buttered mashed potatoes, carrots, peas and gravy. A moment later, he swallowed, and said, ‘Emma’s going to love you tonight.’

  Stuart grinned. He’d chosen a soya filet. It looked like chicken and tasted like chicken but was a lot healthier for you. And the fowl was none too ungrateful either. He’d opted for boiled potatoes and petits pois topped off with a cream sauce made from soya milk peppered with mixed herbs, organic mushrooms and garlic.

  ‘I’ll just make sure I eat my way through a tube of your mints before I go home.’ He picked up his paper serviette wiped his mouth and looked round the room. His gaze stopped on a young woman just entering the canteen.

  Her hair was long and blonde. Her face pretty but petulant. A man of about thirty walked in directly behind her. She paused and he caught up with her.

  ‘There’s your number one fan,’ Stuart said. He turned his attention back to his lunch and cut off a piece of filet.

  Love looked over to see Sophie click-clacking her way over to the end of the queue. It was a small queue. People were already drifting back to their job in hand. Verifying statistics, performing the duties of a personal assistant, IT, or hunting down an assailant, silently and unobserved, only to snap their neck in one effective move.

  She wouldn’t have to wait long to pay for her prawn salad and buttered roll. The man said something to her. She threw back her head and laughed loudly.

  ‘No friend of mine,’ Love said, scooping up a forkful of peas.

  ‘Is that the way the wind blows now?’

  ‘She was never serious about having one of the puppies.’ Not that Love had seriously entertained Sophie as a recipient of one of Julie’s puppies. As far as Love was concerned she was not the right sort of person. There was only room for one person in Sophie’s life and that was Sophie.

  ‘How come?’

  ‘She was just using Julie to get closer to me.’

  ‘Not a good move.’

  ‘It’s academic,’ he said, and chuckled. ‘Besides, I didn’t quite live up to her expectations.’

  ‘Looks like she’s already found your replacement.’

  ‘Poor bastard,’ Love said, and shook his head.

  The two men continued their meal, enjoying the food, the atmosphere, and the radio playing quietly in the background. The place was comfortable. It soothed. The smells wafting through first of garlic then cinnamon resulted in a combination that teased the taste buds and all Love wanted at the end of his meal was a cup of coffee and a cigarette.

  But he’d settle for a couple of mints and a cup of tea back up in the office.

  ‘Shall we go?’ Love said to Stuart.

  Stuart had finished and was sitting back in his chair savouring his meal enjoying the eighties song “Faith” by New Order. Stuart was an avid fan of mid-early to late eighties music. Someone had to be, he quipped.

  ‘Sure,’ he said. He wiped his mouth one last time and stood up just as the song finished.

  Love pushed back his chair. It made a scraping sound on the floor. Sophie looked up from where she was sitting, stared for a moment, then slowly turned away. If Love noticed he wasn’t reacting. That wasn’t his style. Playing games.

  Together the two men walked through the large sliding doors and over to the lifts. Individuals passed them. Talking, silently, some in a rush some were in a contemplating mood. A few of the men were wearing faded jeans and leathers carrying motorbike helmets in their hands. Not necessarily working undercover. Some of them came to work dressed like that. Whatever it took to do their jobs efficiently although most were wearing suits.


  The women were dressed smartly, skirts, shirts, suits. A few in trousers, skinny or boot-cut. The lift arrived with its customary gentle ping as the doors swiftly opened. The lift was empty. Love was glad. He wanted to talk to Stuart.

  ‘So now all we’ve got to do is figure out who and why.’ Love leant back against the rail. His shirt pulled tight across his broad, muscular chest.

  Stuart shoved his hands into the pockets of his trousers. He crossed one leg in front of the other as he contemplated Love’s question. His long fringe hanging over one eye. He looked like a public schoolboy on his way to a sixth-form debate.

  ‘What was it Dr Cooper said, that it was personal and could be precipitated by a projected emotion?’

  ‘Yeah, something like that,’ Love murmured. He had to bring up Dr Cooper.

  ‘So, this individual could come across as a bit strange?’

  ‘Strange how?’ Love glanced at the numbers. One more floor to go.

  ‘Strange as in giving you the feeling that he could be a bit fragile underneath his outwardly confident exterior.’

  ‘And underneath there’s this fuse just waiting to be ignited by the slightest thing.’

  ‘The slightest thing which is insignificant to most other persons.’

  ‘But not so to him.’

  The lift arrived at the seventh floor and the two men stepped out into the corridor. Love was first at the door, he punched in the code, pushed the door it buzzed and clicked open.

  Stuart closed it quietly behind him. He walked over to the window that looked out over the Thames. The river was brown and the current was strong. He watched as a gull fought tremendously to stay in one place as he bobbed about on the water. In the end he gave up and flew away up on to the shingle to survey his territory from relative comfort.

  Love strolled over to his desk, shrugged off his jacket, and sat down with a sigh. He opened his drawer and shut it again. He reached round to his jacket, pulled out his mints and chucked one into his mouth. He crunched down hard. He was thinking. He had some ideas but first he had to wait to hear back from Chris.

  He needed to see if his suspicions were correct.

  He rolled his baseball across his vast desk. The movement woke up the cat napping in the corner of his screen as his PC burst into life.

  He eyed it. They could have at least made it a dog.

  Suddenly, his mobile began to vibrate. He turned round and pulled it from his jacket.

  ‘Chris,’ he said.

  ‘Hello, sexy. How did you know it was me?’

  Love smiled. ‘Good guess. What do you have?’

  ‘Doesn’t mean anything to me but I’m hoping it will mean more to you.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘Okay, James Sullivan, he owns a 2010 730D 3.0 M Sport 4 door Saloon.’

  ‘And what is that in real speak?’

  ‘A BMW.’

  ‘Not surprised to hear it.’ He glanced at Stuart who had turned round to listen to the phone call.

  ‘In alpine white.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Not white, Love, it’s called alpine white,’ Chris said, and chuckled quietly. ‘You pay and for that you don’t get just “white” you get a far nicer sounding colour.’

  ‘I see,’ he said. ‘Hang on a moment.’ He glanced at the phone, swore silently, hesitated, hit conference call and laid the phone down on his desk.

  ‘And that’s exactly how it should be.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘A car of that class should be treated in such a manner! Goodness knows you pay enough for the things especially when they don’t hold their value.’

  ‘You seem to know a lot about it,’ Love said. He leant back in his chair with an amused expression on his face. Chris always was a car and motorcycle enthusiast, more so than Love ever would be.

  ‘I have one myself,’ she said quietly. Love glanced at Stuart who raised one eyebrow in return.

  ‘Really? We’re paying you too much,’ Love quipped.

  ‘No, it’s a not a new one it’s from 2004.’

  Love chuckled. ‘Oh, right, Chris, absolutely ancient so what does that make my Volvo an antique?’

  ‘Just about,’ Chris said, and laughed. ‘No, it’s like I said, they don’t hold their value and I managed to pick one up pretty cheaply.’

  ‘Does he have a motorbike?’

  ‘Yes, he does.’

  Stuart stepped closer to Love’s desk, and said, ‘What kind?’

  ‘Is that you, Stu?’

  ‘Yeah, hello Chris.’

  ‘Wotcha! What kind? Which one!’

  Love and Stuart stared at each other. ‘You mean he has more than one?’

  ‘Yep. Both BMWs,’ she paused. ‘Which I know will get the approval of someone not a thousand miles away.’

  ‘How well you know me,’ Stuart said, and grinned.

  ‘One is a 2012 BMW S1000 RR 999cc Sport.’

  ‘Wow! Not an easy bike to be overlooked,’ Stuart said. ‘And the colour?’

  ‘Like our flag. Red, white and blue but predominantly white.’

  ‘Definitely not one to be lost in a crowd.’

  ‘And the other?’ Love said.

  ‘It’s really old.’

  ‘How old?’

  ‘A classic and it’s a beauty,’ she said. ‘It’s a 1990 K75 S in this gorgeous light blue almost turquoise although not as pretty as the colour blue Ducati were using back in the eighties which was to die for.’

  ‘Okay,’ Love said. ‘Not what we’re looking for but good to know all the same.’ He shrugged at Stuart who was sitting on the edge of Love’s desk. He was leaning forward, fringe hanging over his face, poised, cute, like he was in the middle of a modelling shoot.

  ‘Interesting,’ Stuart said. ‘What about Pfeiffer?’

  ‘He owns one vehicle.’

  ‘And that is?’ Love said.

  Love had the feeling he knew the answer already. He reckoned asking Chris was simply academic but he needed to hear it. He needed to know if his suspicions were right or if he was chasing after his own tail.

  ‘It’s a motorbike. It’s a Yamaha FZ8 and brand new,’ Chris said. ‘Lucky boy.’

  ‘And the colour?’

  ‘Black,’ Chris said. ‘You know, if it’s speed and anonymity you’re looking for - this is your bike.’

  Love looked at Stuart. ‘Thanks, Chris, owe you.’

  ‘Anytime, Love, you know where to find me.’

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ he said, and laughed. ‘Later.’ He leant forward pressed the “off” switch on his phone, leant back again in his chair and stared at Stuart. ‘Well?’

  ‘Heinrich Pfeiffer could fit the profile.’

  ‘He has to have met Monica despite what he says.’

  ‘Or else his father did.’

  ‘Or his father did,’ Love repeated.

  ‘Heinrich’s grandfather was a pilot for the Luftwaffe,’ said Stuart.

  ‘And shot down, which means Heinrich could still have his pistol.’

  ‘But surely our boys would have taken it from him on his capture.’

  ‘Maybe he hid it and went back for it at a later date.’

  ‘Or he simply got hold of another one over the years.’

  ‘Something we need to question Heinrich about.’

  ‘Let’s say we have all that,’ Stuart said. ‘And now we have the bike which fits in with our theory but still there is no tie to Carol Butterfield. And where does that leave us with Sullivan?’

  ‘He’s certainly strange and nervous,’ Love said.

  ‘Sullivan?’

  ‘No, Heinrich Pfeiffer, but I reckon James Sullivan is also due another visit.’ Love thought back to the man with the pale blue eyes and manner to match. He reckoned he was hiding something underneath that icy exterior of his.

  And he was extremely neat and methodical.

  And then there was the faint smell of what could be aftershave on Carol’s clothing along wit
h Sullivan’s photography which, on the surface, added up to a pretty useless link and an obscure one at that, but Love didn’t want to dismiss it completely out of hand.

  And what did he mean with that crack about Dr Cooper owing him a favour?

  ‘What’s the boy’s motive?’ said Stuart.

  ‘I have no idea, mate, but if we’re looking for a projected emotion I think we need to dig into this guy’s background.’

  He pushed his chair back stood up and shoved his mints into the pocket of his chinos. He muttered something removed them and stuffed them into his jacket pocket, and said, ‘Starting with Heinrich’s mother.’