Enigma

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  10:20 hours

  Grey wisps of smoke from coal fires and car exhausts especially the older models like Love’s Volvo which are always that bit harder to get going on a cold morning, escaped in amongst the traffic and up to the sky like a plethora of mini parachutes.

  The pungent smell of coal, petrol and fried onions already in preparation for the anticipated lunchtime rush peppered the air about them. Love pressed a button and buzzed his window back up. Force of habit. Sometimes he liked to open his window on getting into the car. He’d listen, ensure the car was ticking over as it should be, he’d get his bearings, get his thoughts momentarily in order. The blast of cold air was a like a slap in the face, he was in full control, he drove on. By the time they’d turned on to the Embankment his window was closed.

  Stuart pointed to the dashboard. ‘Let’s christen her.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Love said, and grinned. ‘Be my guest.’

  Stuart turned a dial and a whoosh of lukewarm air filled the car. ‘I name this heater Bliss,’ he said, and laughed. ‘And it has variation control too unlike Emma’s Mini.’

  ‘Yeah, she’s good for a few more thousand miles yet,’ Love said, as he maneuvered into the correct lane under the railway arch. ‘Why, what’s with the Mini?’

  ‘Two choices: on or off.’

  ‘That’s still a choice.’

  The lights turned green, Love turned right into South Lambeth Road. Five minutes later, he was turning left into Mayflower Road into Atherfold and half a minute after that was indicating to turn right into the entrance of St Katherine’s. Traffic had been fairly busy and only to be expected on a Saturday morning but Love travelled an alternative route and had avoided most of it.

  ‘Did you ring ahead to see if he’s available?’ asked Stuart, as Love pushed the gear into neutral and turned off the car then as an afterthought the heater. The vehicle creaked a little as it settled around them.

  ‘No, I thought we’d take a chance.’

  ‘What if he’s not here?’

  Love opened his door and with one swift move was outside the vehicle standing in the car park looking at Stuart over the roof of the car. ‘Doesn’t matter,’ he said. ‘We can ask what his colleagues think of him, get a background on him, check on Timmy.’ He aimed his key, hit the button, the car beeped the car doors clunked and he and Stuart strolled towards the side entrance.

  ‘And Doctor Cooper too.’

  Love glanced at Stuart. ‘Why Doctor Cooper?’

  Stuart shook his head. ‘No reason.’

  The glass doors slid silently open and the warm air hit them like a huge invisible wall. Straight away Love unzipped his Donegal and even Stuart removed his gloves and opened his coat.

  Love glanced at Stuart. Doctor Cooper? Sure, he wouldn’t mind seeing her if they should bump into her but he hadn’t consciously come here in the hope of meeting her.

  As if.

  Had he?

  They caught the lift and made their way along the familiar corridor until they arrived at Mr Sullivan’s offices. Love opened the door stepped inside and stopped.

  ‘You’re the last person I expected to see here.’

  ‘Why is that?’ she said, as she looked up from where she was searching through some folders laid out on the receptionist’s mahogany desk. ‘I work here.’

  Love smiled. ‘I meant in Mr Sullivan’s office or to be more precise his receptionist’s office.’

  ‘Hello, Detective Le Fanu, how are you?’

  Stuart smiled. ‘Just fine, Doctor Cooper, and you?’

  ‘Oh, fine,’ she said, looking from Stuart to Love. ‘Fine but busy you know how that goes.’

  ‘We were just talking about you,’ Stuart said.

  She raised one eyebrow and pushed back a curl from her face. ‘Were you now?’ She continued to flip through the folders found what she was looking for, retrieved it, and hugged the file tightly in front of her body.

  Like a shield.

  Love stood looking at Doctor Cooper. He thrust both hands into his trouser pockets and cocked his head on one side. He looked calm, sensuous, dangerous.

  ‘No need to get defensive, Doc, it was nothing bad.’

  A slight red stain flickered across her face. ‘I’m not getting defensive,’ she said, and started to walk out of the office. She had to brush past Love who was standing near to the entrance. ‘You say the most ridiculous things.’

  Love grinned. ‘Sorry about that, Doctor Cooper, but it would appear only you seem to think so.’

  Julie turned to glare at Love. She was breathing heavily. She opened her mouth to say something glanced at Stuart and left.

  ‘You could run a small house on the electricity you two cook up together.’

  Love looked at the empty doorway. ‘Certainly seem to rub that lady up the wrong way.’

  Stuart strolled over to Sullivan’s office. He knocked once. There was no answer from within. He turned to Love. ‘So?’

  Love shrugged. ‘So we ask around and wait.’

  ‘Wait?’

  ‘I saw his BMW in the car park,’ Love said. ‘Mr Sullivan,’ he paused, ‘is in the building.’

  The waiting room back down on the ground floor was open-plan, spacious, and fairly busy.

  A reception station took up one side of the area and fabric-covered chairs placed in the shape of a horseshoe took up the remaining space. A regular sort of hospital waiting room like the ones you find in medical waiting rooms all over the country.

  A large coffee table sat in the centre on top of which was an assortment of magazines to suit most tastes. And pretty new too, Love observed.

  He and Stuart had enquired at reception of Doctor Sullivan’s whereabouts and were told he was doing his rounds and would be back shortly. They were asked if they would care to take a seat and wait.

  They said they would.

  And here they were.

  Stuart with his legs crossed balancing a polystyrene cup on one knee. Sitting. Waiting. Watching a myriad of doctors and patients milling about or waiting their turn to be seen.

  ‘Sure you don’t want one?’ he said to Love.

  Love glanced down at the black coffee in Stuart’s cup. ‘No, mate, I reckon I’ve had my ration for the day.’

  ‘They do tea as well.’

  ‘I know,’ Love said, and grimaced. ‘I’ve seen it.’

  Stuart chuckled took a sip and watched as a familiar figure strode into view. He placed his cup down on the table and stood up.

  Love had already got up from his seat. ‘Mr Sullivan,’ he said. He approached the doctor and stopped in front of him.

  Stuart followed Love a moment later. ‘Good morning,’ Stuart said.

  Mr Sullivan looked at Stuart. ‘Good morning, Detective…’

  ‘Le Fanu.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Mr Sullivan smiled. He looked directly at Love. ‘And hello to you, Detective Love.’

  Love smiled. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk, please, sir, it won’t take a moment.’

  ‘Of course, in my office,’ Mr Sullivan said. ‘I’m on my way there now.’ Love stood to one side and the three men walked along together until they reached the lifts. Mr Sullivan stepped forward and pressed the button. He turned his head to address Love. ‘How’s the investigation coming along?’

  ‘It’s coming,’ Love said. An ambiguous answer but he wasn’t in a position to reveal any details to the doctor.

  ‘Thanks for seeing us at such short notice,’ Stuart said.

  ‘I’d say no notice at all,’ Sullivan said, and laughed. ‘It’s all right, I’ve got an hour free until I’m needed in my instruction class.’

  The lift arrived with its gentle ping, the doors silently opened and the men and two other individuals stepped inside. Mr Sullivan pressed the button for the third floor. A man asked him to press five. Sullivan did so, and the man thanked him.

  ‘Otherwise I wouldn’t be qu
ite so accommodating,’ he added.

  A moment later, the three gentlemen were entering Mr Sullivan’s reception area. The desk in the office was still unmanned.

  ‘No receptionist today?’ Love asked.

  ‘She’s in but she’s out on an errand right now,’ Mr Sullivan said. He stopped by her desk glanced through a few notes that had been left there, picked one up, walked to his door, opened it and went inside. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘Come in gentlemen and make yourselves at home.’

  Love shrugged off his Donegal and laid it on a spare chair. Stuart removed his cashmere and folded it neatly on the back of his chair. They sat down. The only sound to be heard was the distant voice over the tannoy paging ‘Doctor Gerrard’ and the ticking of a clock.

  ‘Is that new?’ Stuart asked, indicating to the beautiful French timepiece.

  ‘Why, yes,’ Mr Sullivan said. ‘Antique of course but new to me,’ he said. ‘I acquired it only yesterday.’

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ Stuart said. The man obviously had taste at least where antiques were concerned. Where his sex life was concerned - they were hoping to discover.

  And that was another thing. You couldn’t just walk up to an esteemed doctor and surgeon and say, ‘Hey mate! Are you a bit of a perv in the old sexual area?’

  Stuart glanced at the poised and sophisticated veneer of the man sitting opposite him. When Stuart and Love had discussed it on the way over, Love had said simply to go with the flow and see where it took them. Well, Stuart determined, the flow was about to start.

  He only hoped they didn’t drown in the process.

  ‘Mr Sullivan,’ Love said. ‘You may recall in our previous interview we were enquiring about Carol Butterfield.’

  ‘Yes, I remember.’

  ‘You said you didn’t see her socially.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ he said.

  ‘We’re trying to find a connection between the two victims,’ Stuart said. He flipped open his notepad his Montblanc already grasped in his hand. ‘And the only connection we can come up with, however tenuous, is St Katherine’s.’

  Mr Sullivan looked steadily back at Stuart. A moment later he dropped his gaze, and said quietly, ‘I see.’

  ‘Mr Sullivan, I ask again, did you meet with Carol Butterfield other than as the mother of your patient?’

  Stuart waited for Mr Sullivan’s reply. Seconds passed. The clock ticked its delicate tick. The French certainly knew how to build clocks. And furniture. And architecture too with their beautiful palaces. At least the ones that were left standing. Thankfully not all were destroyed at the hands of the French revolutionaries.

  Mr Sullivan put one hand up to his mouth and coughed. His white coat opened briefly giving both men a glimpse of his outfit underneath. Stuart looked at Love who in turn nodded once. Almost imperceptibly. Stuart turned back to his notepad and scribbled something down.

  ‘Mr Sullivan,’ Love said quietly. ‘If we got our FST down here…’

  Mr Sullivan looked up. ‘I’m sorry, your what?’

  ‘Excuse me,’ Love said. ‘Our forensics services team, if we got them down here and had them inspect your BMW would we find DNA belonging to Carol Butterfield?’

  Mr Sullivan said nothing. He sat back in his chair and crossed his legs. His eyes darted from one man to the other. He looked relaxed but his body language indicated otherwise.

  ‘We’re pretty sure Carol was having an affair and we just need to clarify that so we can move on with our investigation,’ said Stuart.

  ‘You see, there was something unique we found on Carol’s body and we need to get that explained and eliminate it from our investigation.’

  Mr Sullivan ran a finger over his bottom lip. He was thinking. Perhaps now would be the time to come clean. ‘Can I count on your complete… your utter confidence in this matter?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Love.

  ‘Certainly,’ said Stuart.

  He nodded slightly. ‘Carol and I did see each other.’

  ‘At the hospital during her volunteering?’

  ‘Sometimes, yes, sometimes we’d meet up here and more often than not drive out to various hotels.’

  ‘In London?’ Stuart asked.

  ‘London, Berkshire.’ He shrugged.

  ‘How long did this go on?’ Love asked.

  Mr Sullivan sighed heavily. He pushed his chair back stood up and turned to look out the window that ran the length of the wall behind him. He stared down. Looking but not seeing. Remembering.

  ‘It started practically right after Stephen’s operation,’ he said. ‘There was an immediate connection between us like an electricity surge.’

  Stuart looked at Love. Love knew what he was thinking. ‘So what happened, you just started dating and things became serious?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Mr Sullivan, did you buy some lingerie for Mrs Butterfield,’ Stuart said. ‘In particular, Agent Provocateur from their Lorna range, a matching bra and knickers in turquoise Swiss tulle, scalloped-edged, fuchsia trim and satin bow with a rosebud detail.’

  Sullivan didn’t look round. He simply continued to stare ahead out the window. ‘Yes,’ he said, finally. ‘I bought those for Carol.’

  ‘I’m sorry to have to ask, Mr Sullivan, but where were you on Thursday, 4 October 2012 between the hours of 12:45 and 14:10?’

  Mr Sullivan turned his head to look at Love. He smiled. ‘Carol and I had an early lunch at a place in Golders Green. Afterwards I dropped her back in time for her two o’clock class. It must have been between twenty and quarter to two.’

  ‘Outside the college?’

  ‘Actually, no.’ Sullivan addressed Love directly. ‘I pulled into Hodford Road and let her out there. She mentioned something about getting some money out at Nationwide seeing as she now had the time.’

  ‘That’s very helpful,’ Love said. ‘It’ll help to pinpoint her time of death.’

  ‘Do you have receipts?’ said Stuart.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘On you?’

  Sullivan took a couple of steps over to where his suit jacket was hanging on a coat rack. He reached into the inside pocket and pulled out a black crocodile wallet. He extracted a small bundle of receipts, flicked through them, stopped, and passed one to Stuart.

  Stuart took it, gazed down at it. He knew the place. Nice little restaurant, good food, quiet. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘May I hold on to this for the moment?’

  ‘Certainly.’ Sullivan walked back to the window and continued to stare out of it.

  ‘What did you do then?’ Love asked.

  ‘I came straight back to the hospital where I remained until 19:00 hours that evening.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Sullivan,’ Love said.

  ‘It’s funny,’ Sullivan said.

  ‘What’s that?’ said Stuart.

  ‘I got the feeling she wanted to cool things off so when I didn’t hear from her I presumed…’

  ‘That you’d been dumped?’ Love said.

  Mr Sullivan turned from the window to face Love. ‘How eloquently you put it, but yes, that she’d broken things off that I had indeed been chucked or “dumped” as you say.’ He walked over to a large reproduction sideboard sitting underneath the picture by Gilgian Gelzer. He bent down opened a cupboard by its brass ring and pulled out a 70cl bottle of Hennessy XO cognac. He held the attractive and distinctively-shaped decanter in his hand, and said, ‘Can I tempt either of you gentlemen?’

  ‘Thank you, I certainly don’t find Hennessy abhorrent at any given time,’ Stuart said. ‘But not whilst on duty.’

  ‘Detective Love?’

  ‘Thanks, but no, I’ll pass too.’

  ‘Don’t care for brandy?’

  ‘Apart from being on duty I don’t drink at all, sir.’

  ‘Well, excuse me whilst I indulge in a snifter,’ Mr Sullivan said. He pulled out a balloon-shaped crystal glass into which he poured a small quantity of the rich and full-bodied
amber-coloured liquid. He swirled the cognac around a few times before taking a sip. ‘Ah, like nectar, drink of the gods.’

  ‘Mr Sullivan.’ Love glanced at Stuart. He adjusted the knot of his tie. ‘Mr Sullivan, did you engage in sex with Carol Butterfield?’

  Mr Sullivan smiled. ‘I would say that’s a foregone conclusion.’

  ‘Yes, sir, but did you engage in sadism?’

  The smile faded from Mr Sullivan’s face. He looked down at the glass still held in his hand. For a moment, Love thought he was going to throw the contents in his face. Gripping it tightly, Mr Sullivan raised it to his lips threw his head back and drained the contents.

  ‘I imagine you are already aware of the type of relationship in which she was involved otherwise you wouldn’t be asking.’

  ‘Are you denying it, Mr Sullivan?’ Stuart said.

  ‘I have no intention of denying anything,’ the doctor said. He half turned to place the glass down on the sideboard thrust both hands into his pockets and strolled over to lean against the window behind his desk. ‘Yes, we performed a certain kind of practise which you refer to as sadism.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Sullivan, but believe me this does help our investigation to know of this,’ Love said.

  Stuart said, ‘And I can assure you it won’t go any further than this room apart from our commander, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Did you have an argument?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘During your lunch,’ Stuart said. ‘You mentioned you suspected she wanted to cool things down.’

  ‘No, nothing like that. She simply told me she was planning on increasing her journalistic studies and that it wouldn’t leave her much time to see me. She said she still wanted to meet up but it would be less often.’

  ‘How did you take that?’ Love said.

  ‘Fine.’ Mr Sullivan shrugged. ‘Our relationship was based completely on our desire for a different kind of sex life with little or no emotions or ties on either side.’

  ‘Did you engage in sex on the day she was killed?’

  ‘No, we were going to but then I received a phone call on my mobile. I was needed back here so I dropped Carol off and returned to the hospital.’

  ‘Cutting it fine though,’ Love said.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Well, time-wise. If you had engaged in sex it wouldn’t have left her much time to get to her class.’

  ‘Is this really necessary?’

  ‘Please,’ Love said.

  Mr Sullivan pushed himself away from the window and sat back down at his desk. He crossed his legs and folded his arms loosely over his knees. ‘It would have taken five minutes.’ Mr Sullivan looked from one detective to the other. ‘A quickie if you like.’

  ‘I understand,’ Love said.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Stuart said. ‘So, no “certain kind of practise” was planned for that day?’

  ‘Actually yes, but we didn’t have time as things turned out.’

  ‘What did it consist of?’ Love said.

  Mr Sullivan took a deep breath. Clearly he was finding this uncomfortable. ‘Sometimes we would spill drops of candle wax on each other or draw fine lines on our bodies.’

  ‘By that you mean piercing the skin until it bled?’

  ‘Yes, pain and pleasure, Detective Le Fanu, two sides of the same coin.’

  Stuart smiled. ‘Nice tiepin,’ he said.

  Mr Sullivan automatically glanced down at the fine piece of jewellery adorning his navy silk tie. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘May I see?’

  Mr Sullivan looked puzzled. ‘Certainly, but I don’t see what…’

  ‘Mr Sullivan,’ Stuart said. ‘Bear with us, please.’

  Mr Sullivan slipped off the tiepin reached over the desk and handed it to Stuart.

  ‘Antique 18ct gold eagle head tiepin set with a diamond,’ Stuart said. He peered closer at it. ‘I’d say French late 19th century.’

  He handed it to Love.

  Love gazed down at the strong profile of an eagle’s head. The diamond grasped in its open beak. Gently he touched the end of the pin with his thumb. He looked up. ‘This seems pretty sharp.’

  ‘Is this what you used to perform your… piercing?’ Stuart said.

  Sullivan stared at both men and said nothing.

  ‘Mr Sullivan?’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I used.’

  Stuart glanced at Love who nodded in return. He reached behind him and pulled out a small plastic evidence bag from the back pocket of his skinny chinos and dropped the tiepin inside. ‘We’ll have to keep it for the moment, Mr Sullivan, but you’ll get it back as soon as possible.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Sullivan let out a sigh. ‘I understand.’

  Stuart scribbled something down in his notepad, tore off the sheet, he looked up. ‘Here’s a receipt for the tiepin and lunch receipt.’ He stood up, leant forward and gently placed the piece of paper on the doctor’s desk.

  As Love grabbed his Donegal he glanced at Sullivan still sitting staring ahead seeing nothing. ‘In any particular style or pattern?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘When you executed your piercing,’ Love said. ‘Any particular style?’

  ‘Yes, always the same one.’

  ‘And that was?’

  ‘In the form of a cross.’ Mr Sullivan picked up his pen and drew two lines on the blotter in front of him. ‘Like this,’ he said. ‘Always in the shape of a kiss.’