 
Enigma

Wolf Black

Published by Wolf Black at Smashwords

Copyright © 2013 Wolf Black

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For Opa, Ernst Bach.

Wolf Black is a pseudonym.

To learn about the person behind Wolf Black please log on to the website http://www.rosemarybachholzer.co.uk

Chapter One

Day One

Monday, 29 October 2012

08:34 hours

'Look up.'

The woman's head didn't move.

'I said.' He spoke quietly. 'Look up or the child won't need a blindfold I'll simply remove his eyes.'

That did the trick.

He stared at the woman's face, full of fear and anguish. Her red hair stuck to her forehead in a tangle of sweat and blood. She began to whimper like a cornered animal.

'Smile,' he said, and the whimpering ceased.

* * *

'Yeah, what is it?' the man growled.

He'd had no coffee, his television was on the blink, his dog had been sick and he'd stepped in it. He wasn't in the mood for niceties.

'Love, it's me, there's been another one.'

He stopped dead in his tracks. 'Any witnesses?' he said quietly.

A woman with a pushchair careered straight into him. She gave him a dirty look before retracing her steps to manoeuvre around his bulk.

'So far, not one.'

'There never is when we want one. Plenty around when there's a nut of a streaker on the loose but when it comes to homicide,' he growled again.

So what if he sounded like a cop from New York. That's exactly who he was. Five years or fifty years of living in England wouldn't erase fifteen years of working with some of America's finest. Thugs, hoodlums, drug rings and the lowest scum you could imagine and that was just the police force, at least, the less than exemplary side of it.

A tough New York cop, through and through, and he'd seen it all.

At least, he thought he had.

'I'll be there in fifteen,' he said, snapping his mobile shut.

When the boy had fully regained consciousness he'd slithered on the floor like a large trussed up slug until he came upon the body of his mother. His screams could be heard fifty feet away over building works and speeding trains at the back of the property.

'Tracked down the father?' Love asked as his hand strayed to his inside pocket for a cigarette then remembered where he was and instead pulled out a manky-looking tube of mints. He'd gone straight to the scene of the crime and from there on to the hospital where they'd taken the boy. The boy. At least he hadn't been witness to his mother's torment. There was that one small salvation, he told himself as he crunched down hard on his mints. Everything about Detective Dick Love was aggressive.

'Haven't traced him yet.'

'Divorced?'

His partner flicked open a page on his black leather notepad and shook his head. 'No, there was someone in the picture but they never married according to our data but it's still downloading.'

'Even our prima technology can have its hiccups,' Love said.

Stuart read on. 'According to this he walked out on her when the boy was two months old.' He looked up. 'Nice bloke.'

'Let's hope so, for the boy's sake,' Love said, and stepped forward to peer through the glass to take a closer look at the young boy. He heard footsteps approach and half turned his large blond head.

'Two minutes?'

'One,' replied the figure in the white coat.

Love nodded, pushed open the door and walked inside. 'Hi, Timmy. My name is Detective Love,' he paused as Timmy continued to lie there and stare at something Love couldn't see. 'Can I ask you a couple of questions, son.'

'My mummy's dead, isn't she? They won't tell me, but she is, isn't she?'

He hadn't expected that. 'Timmy, I need to ask you something...'

'You can tell me the truth, I'm ten years old,' he whispered, and looked at Love for the first time.

'Yes, Tim. I'm sorry and that's why I need your help to catch the person who did this to you and your mother.'

'I don't remember.'

'Anything at all, Timmy, no matter how small.'

'I can't remember.' His voice began to whine. 'I told the nurse my name and mummy's name and there was a man and that's all I can tell you.'

'Timmy, I...'

'I couldn't see or hear. He put something gooey in my ears.'

'Yes, son, I know. It was putty,' Love said.

The assailant had lifted it from the building works on-site. Very clever. Leaving no clues. It was the same story with the pieces of nylon rope that had been lying in the dirt for months. All the materials had been removed from the premises and placed in the room ahead of time. Swift and methodical. Love thought of the child's blindfold fashioned from his mother's T-shirt. Same deal. Leaving nothing to lead them back to the assailant.

'I tried to shake it out of my head when I thought he wasn't looking. I did... a tiny little bit... and then I heard,' he faltered as he relived the image only he could see. 'I heard... there was something...'

'A noise, a word, Timmy?'

'I can't remember. I... I don't know... I want my mummy!'

Love stared at the boy as sobs shook his whole body. He felt sick. He needed a drink. A good stiff drink and the company of a good woman but most of all he needed to see the bastard responsible for this secured on a spit and roasted over an open fire. None of that was going to happen. He'd been clean now for eight years and would sooner have a strong, sweet cup of tea than a shot. Goddamn English and their tea, cursed it at first, dishwater he'd called it, and now he'd grown to like the stuff. Hardly ever touched coffee these days except for his first cup in the morning and the odd one during the day. Some habits were too hard to break.

A woman? No chance of that, and as for the assailant? He wouldn't end up on a spit but he'd get what was coming to him.

Love would make sure of that.

He heard a scuffle of feet behind him and stepped back to allow the doctor inside. She murmured a few soothing words, nonsense words as Love thought of them, but they did the trick. She signalled to the hovering nurse to administer a mild tranquilliser and then motioned for Love to step outside.

'Policemen like you make my life very difficult, Detective Love,' she said as she thrust her hands into the pockets of her white lab coat.

'That's not our intention, believe me, Doctor Cooper.'

'That boy has been through goodness knows what, he has temporary selective amnesia and I don't need you to come crashing in here and upsetting him like this.'

'Look lady, I'm well aware of what this boy's been through and that's why I'm making it my priority to catch the low life who's responsible for this so we don't have this conversation again.' He stared into her eyes breathing hard. 'Understand?' he added.

'I understand,' she replied, staring right back at him. 'And I also understand you are an uncouth oaf, Detective Love, and I'd like you to leave my hospital now.'

'Lady, I've been called worse things that,' he said, and grinned. 'From you, it's almost a compliment.'

10:40 hours

'What have we got?' Love asked his partner as he inhaled deeply on his cigarette.

The visit to the hospital had rattled him along with the kid, the crime scene, and the doctor.

Where the hell did it leave him?

Stuart switched on his computer and punched in his password. Why he bothered, Love had no idea. He was a good detective but lousy at hiding his personal feelings. The mouse clicked into action and Stuart leant forward to read directly from the screen.

'So far,' he replied, 'we're still trying to track down family. Parents, siblings, aunties.' He looked across the fine-grained veneer of his desk. 'The usual.'

'Any luck with the kid's father?'

He glanced back at the screen and manoeuvred his mouse. 'Nothing.'

'Stuart, what I can't figure out is how he got them into the room in the first place.'

'Held a gun on them? He drugged both of them?'

'I thought of that, but not two individuals, not at the same time.'

'He has a partner?'

'It's possible or else somehow he managed to grab the kid.'

'To use as a lure or as a bargaining tool?'

'Yeah.' He nodded.

'In the middle of north London.'

'In the middle of north London and during morning rush hour,' he said as he rubbed his chin. His hand scraped over a fine layer of bristle. 'We need to know where the kid was before he was abducted.'

'Don't expect too much from the child,' Stuart said, and got up to plug in the kettle. Equipment at Detective Special Branch Division (DSBD) located in a corner of the MI6 building in Lambeth, was second to none but when it came to domestic arrangements things took on a nostalgic air. 'Tea?' he asked holding up a mug.

'Yeah, thanks,' Love growled. He was thinking. Something had occurred to him and he needed to follow it up. It was just a hunch. But sometimes, hunches led to leads and leads led to arrests. He pulled out a bulging file from his drawer flung it down on his desk, opened it, and skimmed through the various contents until he found what he was looking for.

Love had access to a computer. It was a few years old but still intimidating as far as Love was concerned. It only got switched on when he was checking database or updating facts. He preferred to do things his way, the old-fashioned way. He preferred to hold something in his hand. He liked to feel it, to read it, and not stare at some damn computer screen with a cursor blinking at him on one side and a damned cat blinking at him from the other and although it was an improvement on that stupid paper clip they could have at least made it a dog.

Three and a half weeks ago the newspapers had been full of it.

Young mother tortured and shot! Police have no leads. The dead woman, a Mrs Carol Butterfield, leaves behind a husband and two children... and so it went on giving personal details about her life and how much she'd be missed in the community.

Love grimaced. To read the report written by the eager young reporter, what was his name? Scott Enfield. You'd think the dead woman was a paragon of virtue. Sensationalism he could do without. He'd had enough of that in America. Stick to the facts. That's all he was interested in, but maybe, just maybe.

He grabbed the telephone on his desk and punched in an extension. 'It's Love, are you ready for us?' The answer satisfied him and he replaced the receiver with a firm movement. 'Stuart, forget the tea.'

Stuart looked over with a tea bag hanging from a spoon and a question in his eyes.

'Fitch has finished his preliminary examination on Monica Dixon.'

'Really? Well, what are we waiting for?' he said, and dropped the teabag. It hit the base of the bin with a thud.

Three minutes later, Stuart and Love were standing in the sterile rooms of the forensic pathologist encased in one of the lower floors of DSBD. All around them was glass, white and steel. Cold. Efficient. No hint of colour except in two corners of the room where fish gurgled together in a large turquoise sea of paradise. Animated. Screen savers.

'Case number M345. Monica Dixon. Female. Caucasian. Forty years old at time of death.'

'Which was how and when?' asked Stuart. Not an obvious question. She could have already been dead when shot.

'Death by one shot to the head between 08:15 and 08:50 hours this morning.' John Fitch. Ruggedly handsome. Fifty-one years old and dedicated to his profession. 'It was instant,' he added.

'Was she drugged?' asked Love.

'No.' He shook his head. 'No drugs, she was tortured however.'

'How exactly?' Stuart asked. 'The same as Carol Butterfield?'

'On preliminary examination I would say yes, although...'

'Although what?'

'I don't know, Love. Something I can't put my finger on.'

'What can you tell us?'

'Judging by the way these impressions have been made the assailant appears to be left-handed.'

Love and Stuart glanced at each other. 'Interesting,' murmured Love.

John continued, 'Incisions were made on her stomach with a sharp instrument, pre-death, and her head wound,' he gestured to the top of the body where there was some visible swelling and bruising, 'was probably executed by the butt of the gun. I'll be able to confirm that given time.'

'So her DNA would be all over the gun,' Stuart said.

'Can I see the bullet?'

John nodded and handed Love a glass container inside of which was a spent bullet. It had been cleaned. Not all pathologists were as thoughtful. 'It's a 9mm and old... very old,' John said.

Love peered closely. 'What are these tiny scratch marks on the side?'

'I believe we might be looking at history,' John said. In all his years as a pathologist and working in crime forensics he'd only ever seen such a bullet once before. 'It's possible this bullet was fired from a German-made 9mm Albretta Walter DBG used by the Luftwaffe in World War II.'

Love looked over at John. 'From the same gun that killed Carol Butterfield?'

'Exactly.'

'So, it's highly possible we're looking at one assailant,' Stuart said as he glanced at the bullet and then at John. 'Or at least one murder weapon.'

John shrugged. 'It's possible, Stuart, but that's for you to find out.'

'And the scratches?'

'Chance in a million. The bullet almost misfired leaving these marks behind,' he said. 'And I'll tell you something else. On discharge the force of the bullet would have been strong enough to knock an elephant off its feet.'

'Really?' Love said. That would explain why they found Monica tied to the chair and flat on her back.

'Almost,' said John.

Stuart held out his hand and Love passed him the bullet. 'Not easy to trace or confirm your theory, John.'

'We'll get it through the forensics services team, usual channels, and see what they come up with.'

Love turned his attention away from the bullet and back to John. 'What sort of sharp instrument?'

The older man looked thoughtful as he stroked his monochrome beard. 'Hard one to answer I'm afraid although I can tell you what it wasn't. It wasn't a pair of scissors. See these marks here.' He broke off and pulled the sheet back to reveal a fine set of cuts on her stomach. 'The instrument responsible for this has a fine blade and is incredibly sharp.'

'Like a tool? Like the one used on Carol Butterfield?'

'I can't answer that, not yet, but yes, possibly a professional's tool.'

'What sort of profession?' Love asked quietly. 'Jeweller? Electrician? Surgeon?'

'I'm not certain but yes, it could be the work of a scalpel,' he said, and stared at Love. 'You know,' he paused, 'corpses can talk to you.'

'I know,' replied Love. 'I've had many a conversation with a corpse, a one-way conversation. They talk and I listen. I only wish I'd been called in from the beginning with Carol Butterfield instead of now. I'd liked to have talked to her,' he added.

Stuart turned his gaze from the body of Monica to speak to John. 'Taken the stomach contents?'

The pathologist nodded as he placed his clipboard to one side. He took a few steps over to a bench where he picked up a glass container. 'Traces of a light breakfast I would say.'

Love lifted his eyebrow in acknowledgement. 'Such as?'

'Coffee with milk, possibly rice or soya milk I'll be able to confirm that later,' he said, gazing at the contents. 'And a slice of toast and marmalade.'

'Off the top of my head I would say that's rice milk not soya milk,' Stuart remarked.

'How would you know?' said John.

'Soya milk is great on its own or when used in cereals and stuff but it doesn't taste so good in coffee or tea,' he explained. 'Quite disgusting in fact, personally I use rice milk.'

John gazed at Stuart. Stuart shrugged his shoulders. 'As a family we mostly avoid sugar, dairy and meat, but if I do drink cow's milk I ensure it's organic and lactose-free.'

'Well, good for you,' John said.

'But rice milk curdles in tea. It tastes all right but looks disgusting. If you can get past the shallowness of how it appears then you're fine.'

'Thank you, Stuart, I'll remember that,' John said. 'Especially as I'm trying to cut down on the cow juice myself.' He peeled off his gloves and walked over to a small sink in the corner where he began to wash his hands. 'I'll mention it to the wife.'

'And thank you, Julia Child.' Love looked from one man to the other before resting his gaze on Stuart. 'I need to check her clothes. I need you to do your thing, mate.'

Stuart nodded and grinned. 'Sure.'

John gestured with his head. 'Help yourself, Love, they're just behind you.'

'Thanks.' Love nodded, turned round and strode over to a large chrome shelving unit. He reached into a drawer, pulled out a pair of surgical gloves, slipped them on, grabbed the two plastic boxes sitting on top and placed them on a stainless steel bench next to it, flipped open the lid on one and pulled out a plastic evidence bag. He opened the zip. It was the only sound to be heard. He reached inside and extracted the garment.

'FST find anything on these?'

'Forensics services team? On preliminary examination, no, not a thing but they will be coming back shortly to inspect the items in more detail.' John flipped open the lid on the steel pedal bin and tossed a paper towel inside before strolling back over to where Monica was laid out. 'But something tells me they won't find anything.'

'What about the kid's clothing the FST took away with them?'

'The blood on it is slightly contaminated but we're working together on that.'

Stuart walked over to stand next to Love. He pulled on a pair of surgical gloves. 'Is this everything that was on her?'

'Yes,' John said. 'It's all there.'

'Nice quality,' Stuart said, as he pulled out a pair of black slim full-length leggings. 'Proskins anti-cellulite sportswear.' He glanced at the label. 'You can pick up a pair from Tesco or Next where they retail for about £50.00.' He folded the leggings placing them to one side.

'And this?' Love said, as he watched Stuart pull out another bag.

'This looks like a retro from the 1990s.' He held it up in front of him. It was torn where the assailant had cut off a piece to use as a blindfold for Timmy. 'A slim, long-line bright pink Minnie Mouse T-shirt, round neck with a cartoon print both front and back of Minnie Mouse.' He placed it on top of the leggings. 'Give or take a quid I'd say around £25.00. Cute.'

'Sweet look,' Love said. 'Real sweet.'

'Sweet?' Stuart looked up at Love. 'Sweet as in "cute" or sweet as in have you been watching Psych again?'

'Both actually,' Love said, and smiled. 'And purely for Cybill Shepherd although there was one episode in series two that had me laughing out loud.' Love watched as Stuart gently retrieved a black poncho from its evidence bag. 'The humour had a distinct British feel to it.'

'And you could see the difference? Excellent,' he murmured. 'We'll turn you into a home-grown Brit yet, partner.'

'Really?'

'Really.' Stuart laid out the garment in front of him. 'This is nice. It's cashmere with a V-shape front and back and side splits.' He checked the label. 'The White Company and I believe they retail round the £140.00 mark.' He folded it carefully before replacing it in its bag. He reached into the box again.

'These are quality,' he said as he extracted an ankle boot. He peered carefully at it, turning it over, studying the label inside. 'Okay, what we have here is a pair of tan Eska suede ankle boots from the Sessùn range purchased from Liberty.' He placed it down on the bench in front of him. 'Low crepe heel, curved tops which can be turned over to reveal a soft lambskin lining, adjustable strap across the front with buckle fastening at the side.' He looked at Love.

'How much?'

Stuart thought for a moment. 'If memory serves they sell for £255.00.'

'Nice-looking outfit,' Love said.

Stuart pulled out the final bags. Underwear by Marks and Spencer. Black. Plain. Comfortable. Not part of a matching set. One pair of white ballet tights, a black leotard and a Scrunchie. He lifted out the final evidence bag inside of which was a Hessian shopping bag. The contents included a pair of pink ballet pumps size six.

'Yeah, nice stuff,' Stuart murmured. 'Quietly sexy, quality, flattering, well put together.'

'And unless she throws us a curve ball I would say fitting for the owner,' Love said, and half turned to address John. 'No jewellery or cell phone, I mean, a mobile?'

John pointed to the bag Stuart was holding. 'The remains of her mobile, and it's incomplete by the way, are in the bag in what appears to be half a dozen tiny pieces and as for her jewellery, no rings, necklaces - nothing.'

Stuart reached for the leotard. He held it in his hands fingering it. Love watched as his partner brought the garment up to his face. He inhaled deeply.

'And?' Love said.

'Clean. No traces of sweat.' He turned to look at John. 'What was she wearing when she came in?'

John picked up his clipboard and studied it. 'Everything you see before you except for the ballet shoes.'

'Which all indicates she was abducted and killed before her dance class,' Love said.

'How are we doing on that?' Stuart asked.

'Until we discover which academy Monica attended...'

'Yes?'

'The constables will begin investigating all dance studios within a five-mile radius of her home. They'll increase it to ten should they find nothing and go from there.'

Stuart glanced at the clipboard in John's hand. 'What happened to the iPad?'

'Put it down for a moment looked away and my assistant accidentally split some bowel contents over it.' He shrugged. 'And that was the end of detailing my findings on electronic gadgets.'

'I'm with you there,' Love murmured. He strolled back over to where Monica Dixon was laid out. He stared down at her face.

'Sticking to pen, paper and my PC from now on - spill what you want on this,' John said as he held out his clipboard, 'and all information won't be lost.'

Stuart walked over to join the two men. He stared down at the body of Monica.

'Anything else you'd like to know?' John directed his question at both Love and Stuart.

Love said nothing. He was staring at the face of Monica Dixon. Almost willing her to open her eyes and say 'gotcha' like it had all been one big joke. He wasn't laughing. He was thinking of Timmy lying in hospital. Sometimes he hated his job. He shook his head and left the room.

Stuart gazed down at the white sheeted body in front of him thanked Fitch and sprinted after Love. They were on their way back upstairs before Stuart spoke.

'What do you think?'

'I think,' said Love, as he ran his hand through his thick, layered, dark blond, or dirty blond as it is also known by casting no aspersions as to the cleanliness of Love's hair which was always freshly washed. 'I think that our guy is either very clever or very stupid.'

'Too convenient to pin it on a doctor or surgeon.'

'Yeah, it's much too convenient. It's like he's taunting us. Catch me if you can. And we will,' he added under his breath.

'Don't have much to go on. At least, not yet.'

'Maybe. Maybe not.'

The two men strolled through the corridors until they came to their own office. It was a corner office, contemporary and airy due to windows running the length of two walls giving spectacular views over the river, Vauxhall Bridge, and Albert Embankment beyond.

Love spent a lot of time staring out of the window. Seeing but not observing. Thinking. Chewing over leads or hunches. He was methodical and tenacious in his approach. Irritatingly so, some thought, and he wasn't always popular because of it, but he got results.

It got him to where he was today. One of the elite.

'I promise you, Love, he's made a mistake somewhere and we'll find it. Sooner or later.'

Love said nothing as he raised his hand to the door. He punched in a series of numbers on a keypad. The glass-fronted door buzzed and clicked and he pushed it open. 'Count on it.'

The file on Carol Butterfield was still open on his desk exactly where he'd left it. He pulled out the plastic folder containing the photographs. He sifted through the black and white sheets taken at the scene of the crime and a dozen of her post-tidy taken by John Fitch. It showed a young, slim woman. Her blonde hair was scraped back from her face to reveal bruises and a broken cheekbone. At first glance, the cuts on her stomach looked random but as Love studied them he noticed they had a systematic approach to them.

They were precise. They were, he realised to himself with a sick feeling, personal.

He pulled out a wedding photograph taken sixteen years earlier. It showed a young couple smiling and happy.

But isn't that how most marriages start out?

Love hadn't liked her husband but he had nothing to pin on him. He had an alibi at the time of her death. Simply because you didn't like someone, it didn't make them a suspect. Personal feelings could help in a job like his but they could also be a hindrance. He had to tread carefully. He couldn't afford to mess up.

Love glanced once more at her photograph reached into his jacket and flipped open his notepad. What was it about these two women? Why these particular two? What invisible cord bound them together?

The telephone was answered on the second ring.

'Scott Enfield.'

Chapter Two

'Mr Enfield? My name is Detective Dick Love. Thanks for seeing me.'

'What do you want to know, Detective Dick?' Scott Enfield asked as he sat back in his chair with a smile. His overlarge cufflinks sparkled giving the same impression as his tartan braces. Twenty-seven years old, gel in his black hair and already recipient of three "Journalist of the Year" awards. They were in full view on the wall in front of where Love had sat down. The computer on his desk was as thin as a supermodel and just as expensive. It didn't impress Love. Two telephones sat next to it one of which was ringing.

'Love. It's Detective Love,' Love said, as he pasted an equally sincere smile on his face.

'Sorry,' Enfield replied. 'No offence.'

'None taken. Three weeks ago you wrote a piece on the abduction and murder of Carol Butterfield,' he paused, 'where did you get your personal information?'

'A good reporter never reveals his source,' Enfield quipped then saw the look in Love's eyes. 'Dave, would you get that?' He spoke to the journalist sitting at the desk next to his own. 'Detective Love,' he said, leaning forward. 'I asked her husband, neighbours and friends. The usual route I go along.'

'How much of it is fact?'

'I resent that.'

'Resent it all you like. I need a connection and I need to know the truth, so?'

'About sixty per cent is based on fact.'

'Her marriage, what did you discover?'

'She and her husband had the perfect marriage.'

Whenever he heard the word "perfect" to describe a marriage, Love knew it was anything but. 'And you got that where or from whom?'

'The neighbours and the shop where she worked.'

Love nodded. His officers had heard the same thing during their door to door.

'What about the tireless charity work?'

'She sold flags one Saturday afternoon. For Mencap.'

Love resisted saying what sprang to mind. 'Anything else?'

'She helped out at a hospital and that much is fact.'

'Doing what?'

'She went there as a part-time volunteer, going round the wards, visiting the older patients or the children's ward.'

'Any particular reason?'

'Her son had recently undergone treatment and it was her way of giving something back.'

'What sort of treatment?'

'Tonsils removed.'

'What's the name of the hospital?'

'St Katharine's,' he replied. 'Why? Do you know it?'

'Yes,' Love said, standing up. 'Thanks for your time, Mr Enfield. You've been extremely helpful.'

'No problem,' Scott Enfield replied. A gold watch flashed on his wrist as he returned the hand being held out to him.

Love turned on his heel and walked out. Enfield was on the telephone before he'd left the building. St Katherine's. That was the same place where Timmy was currently being held.

What was the connection? Was there one? He pondered as he stood on the pavement to allow a double-decker bus to drive past.

He saw a break in the traffic and ran across the road pushing past the crowds with their briefcases, shopping bags, hopes and despair, turned down a side street, tossed a five-pound note to a young student sitting in a shed that looked like it would fall down without too much persuasion, walked over to his car, beeped his key to open up his central locking and got in.

He pulled out of the car park much too fast spewing up gravel leaving deep grooves in his wake.

Moments later, Love stopped at a red light and pulled out his mobile from inside his jacket. He attached it to a small grey box on his dashboard. The device was not much larger than a CD, nothing much to look at, and had cost the price of a small car. An exclusive piece of equipment available only to detectives of Love's calibre.

Or James Bond, Stuart had quipped.

Danger Man, Love had quipped back.

A useful device called an M-CADD that stood for Mobile Computer and Database Directory which gave hands-free operation and instant pick up either by voice recognition or personal ID. He had only to say one word for it to operate. He could dictate numbers and it would automatically dial and connect. It also had the capacity to send emails, faxes and tap into documents, go through all database and information on file back at head office along with fingerprints and statistics. It had an infrared camera and a night vision camera and if the target was successfully planted with a microscopic receiver it had the ability to tap into their mobile phone or PC SIM card within a range of thirty feet or nine metres.

It was a regular mobile database to hand sitting on the dashboard of his car. The only thing it didn't do was make tea or coffee and that, as far as Love was concerned, was a huge failing.

Love's personal method was to put himself in the assailant's shoes. He liked to infiltrate their mind by thinking how they would think. It was a trusted and well-worn method of detective work and sometimes brought results. Not always. Some of the psychopaths he encountered were beyond his thought process. Happily, he grimaced. He wished he'd been in on this case from the beginning starting with the abduction and murder of Carol Butterfield, but at the time he'd been working on a case with MI6, and Stuart had been on holiday in the Caribbean.

Love went where he was needed.

Detective Dick Love, DCA. Detective Class A.

The light turned green, he let his foot off the brake and floored the accelerator pedal. Suddenly, he was anxious to get back to work except Love didn't go back to the office. He wanted to keep going with his lead on Carol Butterfield and her charity work at the hospital.

His gut was telling him to keep with it.

'That's right, about twice a week. Cup of tea, detective?'

Three minutes after his interview with Scott Enfield, Love was turning left out of Atherfold Road into Landor Road and thirty seconds later was pulling into the car park of St Katherine's.

'Thank you, that would be very nice,' he replied. He glanced at the small and tidy office of Sister Brookes, and said, 'So, Mrs Butterfield pretty much had access to the wards and other floors?'

'Well, if you put it like that, yes, I suppose she did. Marginally.'

'More so than the regular visitor.'

'Perhaps, on occasion.'

'And was she always alone?'

'Do you mean did anyone ever come with her?'

'Yes.'

'Why, no, certainly not.'

'Thank you,' Love said as Sister Brookes handed him a delicate cup decorated with bluebells. In some men's hands it would have looked ridiculous. In Love's it looked nothing at all. It was simply a cup of tea.

'And I understand this all stemmed from the fact her son was treated here.'

'That's right, two and a half months ago.'

'Is two to three times a week about normal?'

'Compared to what?'

'Compared to the other volunteers.'

'Actually, no, she was our best volunteer by far.'

'Meaning?'

'She came by so often and everyone liked her.'

Not quite everyone, Love thought. 'Who treated the son, Stephen?'

'Well, I'm not sure I can...'

'Please, Sister Brookes, we have another murder on our hands and I'm trying to connect them and we don't have much time. We don't know when or where he will strike again.'

'I suppose it won't do any harm or betray any confidences. He was operated on by Mr Sullivan.'

'Mr Sullivan?'

'Yes, he's a resident consultant, the top dogs are always known as Mr.'

'I see.'

'And Doctor Cooper, of course.'

Love looked up from stirring his tea. 'Doctor Cooper?'

'Yes, she provided post-operative care. Wonderful woman and a wonderful doctor and Mr Sullivan's right hand.' She smiled, and said, 'More tea?'

* * *

12:05 hours

Stuart was on the telephone when Love walked in.

He waved at Love and motioned him to pick up his extension. Love grabbed his receiver, pressed a button and listened. He looked at Stuart and smiled before replacing it almost immediately.

Shannon, Stuart's six-year-old daughter was at full throttle, 'I just called to say I love you.'

'That was wonderful, darling, now put mummy back on.'

He held on for a moment before speaking again. 'Hello, Emma,' he said then listened. 'Me too.' He looked over at Love. 'Absolutely, just the two of us, got to go. Bye, darling.'

'Dare I ask?'

'It was Emma's idea. Shannon's staying with Grandma for a few nights and will be gone by the time I get home.'

'At your mother's place in Oxford?'

'No. Emma's mum. She lives in London. Moved here recently from Norwich.'

Love smiled. 'Let's talk hospitals.'

'St Katherine's?'

'There has to be a connection, Stuart, and so far this is all we've got.'

'But St Katherine's...'

'Think about it,' Love said, and flicked open the file on Carol Butterfield. 'She was a part-time volunteer at St Kates because her son had been treated there and it was her way of saying thanks.'

'It's a possibility.'

'It's more than that. I've just met with Sister Brookes.'

'So where does that leave us? You reckon we're looking for a doctor?'

'I don't know the answer to that, not yet, but it's more than we had to go on a few hours ago,' he said. He removed his wallet and mobile from his inside pocket and laid them both on the desk. 'According to Sister Brookes, Carol Butterfield was a regular volunteer.'

'Meaning?'

'Meaning she went to St Katherine's about twice or even three times a week.' Love shrugged off his jacket placed it on the back of his chair and sat down.

'Sounds dedicated,' Stuart said. He narrowed his eyes as though deep in thought. 'And a bit over the top if you ask me.'

'That's what I thought. No one's that dedicated simply because their kid has their tonsils removed.'

'Did she come into contact with the same people?'

'Patients or staff?'

'Good question,' Stuart said.

Love flipped open his wallet and pulled out a card. He tapped it against his mobile as he sat there thinking. The assailant could be anyone from a surgeon down to an orderly. Any one of them could have access to a scalpel if they were determined enough. It could even be a patient! Hell, if this case wasn't already driving him nuts. Finally, he threw the card down on his desk studied the number for a moment picked up his mobile and punched the number on the keypad.

'Doctor Cooper.'

'Good afternoon, Doctor, DCA Dick Love here. I'm calling about Timmy.'

He heard her breathing and for a moment she said nothing. 'Yes, Detective Love, I wondered how long it would be before you got in touch.'

'And here I am.'

'And here you are.'

'I'll keep it brief, Doctor. Tell me, how's Timmy.'

'He's holding his own.'

'Nothing more to report?'

'Nothing.'

'Look, Doctor Cooper, I don't know what it is I'm supposed to have done...'

'It's nothing that you've done, Detective Love, it what's you haven't done.'

'Excuse me?'

'Protocol. I don't know how you do things in America but over here in the UK we're a little more respectful of following the correct channels.'

'Lady, what on earth are you talking about?'

'I'm talking about my patients, Detective. If you want to talk about my past, present or future patients, please have the decency to come to me directly and not to my supervisor.'

So that was it. Minor point but not so as far as the doctor was concerned.

'I'm sorry, Doctor Cooper, but if you recall you ordered me off the premises. No one tells me where or when to go, that's my job. And secondly, I hadn't finished what I'd gone there to do and if you weren't willing to help then I had to find someone who was.'

'Point taken,' she replied.

'I believe it has been. Good day to you, Doctor Cooper.'

Stuart was looking at Love. 'What on earth was that all about?'

Love shook his head. 'It would appear I stepped on the lovely doctor's shoes when I asked her supervisor about Stephen Butterfield.'

'Touchy about her patients.'

'Yeah, so it would appear. That woman is determined to be a thorn in my side,' he said, and smiled.

* * *

Finding out how long the Butterfield kid had been in hospital was the next step on Love's agenda.

He also wanted to have a word with Derek Butterfield. It would be interesting to see how he was getting on.

At the time of his wife's death, Love had watched him closely and it got Love wondering. His actions were that of a grieving husband. Love could find no evidence to show he'd had anything to do with his wife's abduction. Yet, there was something there that wasn't adding up. He was sure the husband was hiding something but with little evidence pointing in any direction and no witnesses, the two detectives had little to go on.

Love scanned his file and punched in a number. It was answered six rings later and after offering apologies for the call, Love got down to business.

'Yes, Detective Love, I remember you,' Derek Butterfield said. He spoke quietly.

He was just as Love remembered. A man of thirty-eight, worked as a housing clerk for the local government in an organisation called PAL, Property Association Lambeth, as some nine-to-five pen-pusher.

Nothing exciting ever happened in his staid, monotone life. He had the wife, mortgage and 2.4 kids. Then suddenly all that changed.

Except now there was an edge to his voice that hadn't been there before. Love hoped it wouldn't stay. Who knew how people cope with grief. In all his years as a cop he'd witnessed too many individuals grieving and coming to terms with their loss. Some did it better than others. Some got over it quicker than others whilst some took the rest of their lives. Then there was the small percentage that never got over it and there were those who wanted revenge. They were the ones that worried Love the most.

'I'm sorry to bother you, Mr Butterfield. How are you, sir?'

'I get up in the morning I drop my children off at school. I go to work and then I come home again. How do you think I am, Detective Love?' he asked with a bitterness that hissed down the telephone line.

'I'm sorry. I'd like to ask you a question about Stephen's stay in hospital. I understand he was having his tonsils removed,' he said. 'How long did he stay in hospital?'

'His stay in hospital? What do you want to know that for and what the bloody hell does that have to do with what happened?'

'Yes, I realise that, Mr Butterfield, but if you could just answer the question, please.'

'What are you playing at? My wife is gone she was murdered and now she's out of my life...' he stopped. His voice was quiet but now it had taken on a resigned but menacing tone. 'He was in the hospital to have his tonsils removed and he was admitted overnight.'

'Thank you, Mr Butterfield. That's very helpful and I'm sorry to have bothered you at work.' Love replaced the receiver with a click. He didn't move for a moment. Something was wrong. Something wasn't adding up and he didn't like it. He didn't like where this investigation was going.

'How's Mr Butterfield?' Stuart had finished his conversation and had heard the last part of Love's.

'Bitter. Hiding something.'

'Want to go and see him?'

'Perhaps.' Love pushed his chair back, grabbed his jacket and shrugged into it. Outside the temperature had dropped. He squinted as he looked up at the sky. It was grey and to Love it looked like a sky full of snow. Snow in autumn.

Stranger things had happened.

'Stuart, I have to...' He was interrupted as Stuart's telephone began to ring.

'Sorry, I'm expecting this call,' Stuart apologised before picking up the receiver.

'No problem,' Love said. He waited a moment caught Stuart's attention and made a gesture with his hand. He pulled open the door and stepped out into the spacious corridor.

The floors were all alike. The interior designer obviously had a thing for seventies retro with a nineties twist. Love reckoned it was cool. Two of his favourite eras. Coconut matting in dark beige made to look like seagrass covered the floors while the walls were painted stark white offset by colourful and abstract framed prints that looked like they'd come straight from Ikea. Tasteful. Not expensive.

Love walked on, his jacket brushed against an umbrella plant. He came to the lift, punched the button and waited. A young woman walked round the corner but stopped in her tracks when she saw Love standing in the corridor waiting for the lift.

'Don't forget,' her voice rang out, 'you promised me first refusal.'

Love turned his head and smiled. His narrow blue eyes crinkled at the corners. 'I don't know about first refusal but if Julie obliges and turns out more than one, you'll definitely be one of the first to know.'

'That's all I ask,' the girl replied. Sophie, twenty-five, worked at DSBD in IT as a service desk analyst, recently transferred from another department, currently single, and had one huge thing going for Love. 'Free for lunch this week?' she asked hopefully.

'It's doubtful.' He saw the look of dismay cross her pretty face. Nice enough kid, but there was nothing there. Besides, he wasn't looking and he wasn't interested, still... 'I'll do my best,' he added.

'Make sure you do.' She grinned and continued on her way.

Sophie had been after Love ever since she first came to work for the department four months ago. She loved her men big and powerful and they didn't come much bigger than Love. And that accent! A real taste of something different.

She wanted him and Sophie Barker usually got what she wanted.

'What are you grinning at?'

'Just got a maybe lunch date with Love,' Sophie replied.

'Love? He's nice enough although I prefer a different type of man, not so big, you know, not so bulky.'

'I know,' Sophie replied. Yes, she'd noticed, thinking of the effeminate slim-hipped character she'd seen waiting outside for her friend and co-worker.

'Besides, he's trouble, you should stay away from him,' her friend added.

'Why?'

'Just things I've heard,' she said.

'Who cares what people say,' Sophie said in disgust. 'What do you mean by trouble?'

'Well, not trouble exactly but, put it this way, he has a wife back in New York.'

'Best place for her,' Sophie replied firmly then smiled.

Love stepped out of the lift, took a few steps, and through the door leading into the underground car park. He strode over to his car and jumped in. He had an appointment to keep. He'd purposely chosen a firm near to DSBD.

This was all he needed for this to come now. On reflection, was there ever a good time?

Six minutes later, he was parking the car in an empty spot he'd found in Northumberland Avenue in the City of Westminster. He pushed the gearstick into neutral, yanked on the handbrake and turned off the ignition. He leant over to the glove compartment to retrieve a parking disc, checked the time, twiddled the dial, shoved it in the windscreen, got out.

He thrust his hand in his pocket, stepped over to the meter, fed it, walked back to the car, stuck the ticket to the side window and went on his way.

Traffic sped by and stopped and then started again. Exhaust fumes filled the air. Acrid but not entirely unpleasant. Familiar to Love. Car hooters blasted. Black taxis weaved in and out the traffic like dodgem cars. Some sedate, some taking their occupants for a drive they wouldn't forget in a hurry. That was London for you. They were as bad or skilled, depending on which side of the fence you sat, as the yellow cabs in New York, he mused with a grin. They never appeared to have a crash or collide with any other vehicle. It seemed like the taxi and bus drivers of London followed a certain code. Come close, tempt fate and try it on but never cross the line. Love reckoned they were amongst the most skilled in the world next to HGV drivers. He had trouble reversing his Volvo and it always amazed him how the HGV drivers were able to manipulate those gigantic containers in reverse and park with less room to spare than the width of a hand.

He strode past the crowds. Some in smart suits and some dressed casually. All appeared to have a purpose. He turned left in to Craven Street, passed a tramp sleeping in the stage door of The Playhouse Theatre. His hair was long, grey and filthy. He wore an old camel coat tied at the waist with a piece of string. He wore no shoes. His feet were filthy. Love made a mental note to make a slight detour on his way back and pick up some tennis shoes or a pair of boat shoes from Next. He guessed the man was about a size nine.

It was cold out and windy making the lapels on his jacket flap like the wings of a restrained bird trying to get free. He walked on for a few moments longer before suddenly coming to a stop outside an imposing Georgian building. It had a large door painted glossy black. It was shiny and remarkably clean. It looked intimidating. He'd been so engrossed in his thoughts he'd nearly walked right past.

A small polished brass plaque was attached to the white pillar. It read Jenkins, Jenkins and Bainbridge. Love's wife had written to him. It was the first time he'd heard from her in five years. He'd received her letter the week before.

She was filing for divorce.

Chapter Three

Day Two

Tuesday, 30 October 2012

08:00 hours

Love and Stuart worked late into the night.

There had to be a connection with St Katherine's but how? Damned if he knew. Or was he grasping at straws? What did the two women have in common? They were white, middle-aged, had at least one child each. One was married one wasn't. One wore clothes from a cheaper brand the other wore a nicer type of outfit. On the surface there was nothing to connect them.

And why had no one heard or seen anything?

Neither of the women had any personal connection with St Katharine's. They were both infuriatingly healthy.

And there was nothing to show Carol Butterfield and Monica Dixon had even met.

He pulled out his pack of cigarettes took one out and lit it. The flame glowed long and red as Love took in a long pull and inhaled it deep into his lungs before stubbing it out in disgust. His breath tasted like an old sock. He wished he could give up smoking but then thought to hell with it. He grabbed his baseball and rolled it around in his hand.

Everyone's allowed one vice and smoking was his.

Stuart's phone rang. He watched his partner manoeuvre the receiver on to his shoulder and begin typing something on the keyboard in front of him.

Born into a family that followed in traditions, Stuart, at thirty-seven years old, was well spoken and good-looking, and had more than a passing resemblance to the Canadian actor, Marco Grazzini.

Stuart's hair was a little longer than convention and his position as a DCA dictated. Black, layered, and not unlike Pierce Brosnan's in GoldenEye albeit longer, more casual, side parted with a long fringe, fine hair but lots of it and that's where the similarities to the ex-James Bond finished.

Stuart's face was more chiselled, cheekbones more pronounced and his deep-set, thin almond-shaped eyes were pale green in colour. A lock of hair fell over his eye. Stuart pushed it away from his face in a manner that implied he hardly knew he was doing it. At five feet eleven inches, Stuart was smaller in height than Love but just as powerful except Love was quicker on his feet.

That's where Love had the advantage.

To look at his bulk you'd expect Love to move slowly and methodically. That wasn't the case. As an ex-professional baseball player he excelled in pitching and running and twenty years later, at the age of forty-two, still kept his body in good physical shape performing fifty press-ups a day and jogging when he could. Dick Love took care of himself, apart from the smoking.

Stuart was a brilliant detective and they were alike in many ways, but unlike Love, Stuart wasn't alone.

He had a wife who loved him.

And a wife he loved in return.

Love and Stuart spent most of the evening trawling through documents and records in an attempt to discover as much about Monica and Carol as they were possibly able. The technology available to them was good. It was state-of-the-art. Programme in some data, press a button, and instant history is delivered to your fingertips.

Except it wasn't as simple as that.

Nothing ever is.

You had to know which programmes to use which buttons to press. And how to extract additional information from the information you'd already obtained. It required an innate ability in computing and data technology. Stuart fitted that bill. But even he appreciated these wonder machines could do only so much. And they could get it wrong. They weren't infallible. And they didn't record every single piece of information in a person's life. They didn't record emotions, sounds, sights, smells.

Sometimes, they could even be a hindrance rather than a help. But he used them. Certainly he used them to extract information when working on a case. But he wasn't blinded by them.

Stuart had a brain and he utilised that as well.

By the time the two men left the office it was 21:00 hours. They were tired. Hungry. And desperately in need of a bath or a shower.

And Love's nerves were on edge.

Earlier in the day he'd heated up a vegetarian lasagne in the microwave then forgot to eat it. He took it home with him. Wrapped up in silver foil and placed inside a plastic evidence bag. He liked to eat meat but he also liked vegetarian meals especially when it came to reheating them.

Love wasn't a huge fan of salmonella.

The morning was wet and overcast.

Everywhere people were running or walking as fast as they could with heads down like they were battling an invisible being. The lights of London blurred as the windscreen wipers on Love's car screeched back and forth like it was too much trouble.

Like being in a damn car wash, Love thought, and leant down on his car horn when a motorbike messenger suddenly swerved in front of him. That's all he needed, a suicidal biker, the idiot! It's worth risking your life to get some papers from one company to another.

'Sure it is,' he muttered. He was in a foul mood and it showed.

Love had passed a restless night and he'd forgotten to get coffee. He'd written a note with one word "coffee!!!" on a Post-it and stuck it to his car radio. He was determined not to go for a third morning without his early morning caffeine boost. His nerves wouldn't take it.

He drove for a little longer pulled off the road and into a side street where he knew he would find a parking space. He continued to drive looking left and right before suddenly slamming on the brakes. Damn! He'd driven right past a free spot.

'Terrific,' he said, and shoved the gearstick into reverse. Three aborted attempts later, he finally manoeuvred the car into a spot more suited to a Mini than a Volvo. 'What is it about Brits and their toy cars,' he muttered as he eased his large frame from the vehicle. Why did they have to come up with such small cars because then they had to make small parking spaces to go with their small cars?

On top of which he'd had to reverse. He hated reversing. He could never get the vehicle to go in a straight line.

And all without coffee!

This morning was not getting off to a good start.

He strode away from the car. As he crossed the road he looked back and winced at the sight of his car's back end sticking out from its space. He hurried on into the shop. All he needed was some overcautious traffic warden to plant a ticket on his windscreen for dangerous parking and his morning would be complete. He strolled along the rows, his eyes darting up and down, found what he was looking for and loped over to the counter.

'I think you move the items around just to confuse me.'

'Hello, Love, how are you?'

'Hi, Randi.' Love grinned. 'Been better. How about you?'

'Can't complain, Detective.'

'How much do I owe you?'

'That's three pounds fifty, please.'

Love tossed some coins on to the shiny counter and waited for his change. 'Thanks,' he mumbled, picked up his jar of Fairtrade instant coffee and ran back to his car where to his immense relief the windscreen was free of leaflets, massage parlour adverts, but most importantly, a ticket.

He'd spent a long time getting to sleep the night before. His mind kept going over the conversation he'd had with the younger Mr Jenkins of Jenkins, Jenkins and Bainbridge.

Basically, it was to be a straightforward divorce. His wife didn't want anything from Love. Love didn't know whether to feel glad or insulted. He wasn't sure what he felt. He'd loved her once but soon realised he'd made a mistake in getting married.

Maybe he wasn't the marrying kind but then neither was she. At least not to him. It had been an error on both their parts.

Now it was to be rectified by a reasonably quick and painless divorce because she wanted to get married again. Not to Frank. That's what surprised him. It was to some photographer he remembered meeting once or twice. Nice enough guy, Love recalled, in his thirties, wealthy and very good-looking. Had a reputation of being a bit of a ladies man so he was doubly surprised at his soon to be ex-wife's choice of a future husband. Perhaps he'd changed. People did. Perhaps she'd changed. Perhaps the photographer had settled down. Patrick. That's right. Patrick with his dark green eyes and jet black hair.

What the heck. Belle was old enough to make her own decisions and mistakes.

It had hurt like hell when he'd first left Belle. It hurt like nothing he'd ever experienced before in his life. Now all he felt was nothing apart from a slight pang of something approaching... jealousy? Jealous that she'd found love and he hadn't after five years of being alone? Single. And whose fault was that. He knew the answer. He also knew he was the one to rectify it.

If that's what he wanted.

Love didn't know what he wanted.

He was too busy for romance, he told himself. His job kept him away from cosy domestic scenes and regular hours. It would have to be some special lady to keep up with Dick Love.

Some real special lady, he mused. He wasn't sure why, but a certain doctor seemed to drift into his thoughts when finally he fell asleep just as London was beginning to stumble into life.

Love motored along Vauxhall Bridge. Twenty seconds later he was turning left into the MI6 underground car park. He took the short flight of stairs, swiped his ID, punched in a number on the keypad above the handle, it clicked, he pushed the connecting door open and walked directly into reception. He showed his identification and came straight up to his office where Stuart was already working at his desk. He was thankful he hadn't met anyone on the way in. He wasn't in the mood for small talk.

Stuart took one look at Love's face and informed him the kettle had just boiled. He said nothing more. He knew his partner's moods after four and a half years of working together and living in each other's lives. They were like an old married couple without the sex. Not everyone put up with Love's moods. They took them too personally, which was the wrong thing to do as Love was not an ill-disposed man, and besides, if he felt out of sorts with an individual they would know about it. Love didn't hide his feelings.

Except when they were of a personal nature.

Like romance.

09:15 hours

Two coffees, he felt he'd needed an extra caffeine boost seeing as he'd been without two days running, and three cigarettes later, Love was once again feeling part of the human race.

He was sitting at his desk. His computer was on. The cat was scratching its ear and meowing before scampering about chasing its own tail. Love eyed it with something coming close to contempt then reminded himself it was only an animation and in an odd sort of way it was comforting.

'Got anything for me, Stuart?'

'Perhaps. I've been working on this hospital connection of yours and I'm looking into Monica Dixon's family.'

'What have you come up with?'

'As far as family is concerned nothing concrete to go on yet but we're getting close,' he said. He sifted through a pile of hard copies before handing a sheet to Love. 'As for the assailant the hospital could be the connecting link.'

'For both women?' Love said, glancing down at the printout in his hand.

'I don't know yet.' Stuart looked from Love back to his sleek computer. It was a newer version than Love's and had cost the department in the region of four figures except Stuart's keyboard was already showing more wear and tear than that of his partner's.

'Go on.'

'I don't believe we're looking at two assailants. I think the abductions and murders were executed by one person.'

'Yeah? Based on what?'

'Only that Carol spent quite a lot of time at the hospital.'

'And Monica Dixon?'

'Never went there as far as I'm aware.'

'Then how is it a connection? Did Timmy go there?'

'Not as far as I know. Still working on that.' He broke off to take a sip of his tea. 'Thought I'd contact your Sister Brookes and get one of the team to trawl through hospital patient records starting from two months ago.'

'Go with it, Stuart, and good luck with that. It's worth a try. She might be so bowled over by your English-Irish charm and good looks she'll positively swoon into your arms and tell you everything you need to know.'

'Doesn't go for the big rugged type then.'

'It was like pulling teeth at first but I daresay you'll have an easier ride.'

'I'll give her a ring and make an appointment to see her being the gentleman I am I won't just show up,' he said, and grinned.

'For later in the day, tomorrow at the latest?'

'Absolutely.'

'That's what I thought.' Love smiled and glanced at the cat now sleeping peacefully on the side of his screen. 'Did you want something from the case file notes?' he indicated to his computer on his desk. It was surrounded by a half full mug of coffee, an ashtray, telephone, pads of Post-its, in trays both full, six ring binders, loose papers and a leather pen holder full of pens. Some chewed. Not by Love, by Julie. A brass ashtray holding colourful plastic paper clips, an open file, and his baseball.

'Just checking on yours to see if you had anything I might have missed but our notes appear to match.'

'Good. So, tell me, how is the hospital a connection if neither Monica or Timmy went there. Before now, I mean.'

'It's connected in an abstract way.'

'Abstract? How do you come to that?'

'I don't know.' Stuart shook his head. A lock of hair fell over one eye. He flicked it away absentmindedly. He gazed back at Love. 'You think there's a connection and that's a good starting point and good enough for me. And like you, it's my gut, Love, has to be it. I don't know. But it's there.'

Love opened his mouth to say something but stopped when his mobile suddenly started to ring. He automatically glanced at the cat on the screen to see if the noise had woken it up. He snapped his mobile open on the second ring.

'Dick Love.'

'He's been asking for you.'

'Really?'

'Yes. He said he'd like to talk to the man with the accent. The man who looks like a big blond bear.'

'Very astute of him.'

'My sentiments exactly,' she said. He could detect a smile in her voice.

'I'm on my way,' he said, and grinned. What the hell! He sure was glad the boy was talking and that he wanted to see him. And, he had to admit to himself, glad that a certain doctor had called. He cursed under his breath and grabbed his crumpled jacket from the back of the chair.

'What's up?'

'The boy's talking and has asked to see me.'

'Want me to tag along,' his partner enquired.

Love looked back at him through the organised chaos made up of filing cabinets, books, old-fashioned trusted methods rubbing shoulders with the highest and most sophisticated technical data, and a brown spider plant. 'Not this time, mate. Work on that gut of yours. I'll be back as soon as I can.'

Chapter Four

'Hello, Timmy.'

'Hello.'

'How are you?'

'All right, thank you.'

'That's good, son. I understand you wanted to talk to me.'

'I thought of something,' he said, then hesitated. 'I didn't know whether I should tell you but then I remembered you said anything at all, right?'

'That's right, Timmy. Anything at all.'

'It's something I heard, those words, he... that man said.' He swallowed hard before continuing. 'It's... it's something to do with cameras.'

'Cameras?' Love repeated and flipped open his notepad.

'I think so, when I try to remember, all I can think of is cameras.'

'That's great, Timmy! Well done, son.'

'Does... does it help?'

'It sure does,' he said as he reached over to ruffle Timmy's head. 'Why, you'll be my special partner before you know it.'

'Really?' Timmy's face lit up for a moment.

It wasn't much but it was a start. It was the beginning of the road to recovery. Love knew that one all too well.

'Can you think of anything else, Timmy?'

Timmy thought for a moment before speaking quietly to Love. 'That's all I can think of,' said Timmy.

'Okay,' Love said, and scribbled something down in his notepad. 'Thank you, son. You're doing a swell job.'

'I think Timmy's talked quite enough for today, Detective.'

'Doctor Cooper,' Love said without turning round. Did this woman have a bad sense of timing, or what?

'We were just finishing up, Doc, when...'

'When I barged in?' she finished. She was standing directly in front of Love and next to Timmy.

'The choice of words are yours, Doctor Cooper,' Love replied as he heaved his frame from the end of the bed. He stood looking down at her. At six foot one he pretty much looked down at most women but she was taller than most. She also had pretty hazel eyes. He hadn't noticed that before.

'Too much excitement for Timmy isn't good for him,' she said quietly. She tucked Timmy in murmuring promises of a hot drink the moment he woke from his nap. 'He's not to get excited, I won't have it, Detective.'

Love followed her into the corridor outside Timmy's room. He ran his hand through his thick hair and shook his head. 'Of course he shouldn't get upset,' he said. 'But excitement in the right way I think is just what he needs.'

'I disagree and I am his physician and his psychotherapist, not you.'

'A small dose of fun won't kill the kid, Doctor, and it wouldn't do you any harm either,' he said. 'You Brits are all the same, so stuck-up, always having to be seen to do the proper thing.'

'You don't have to be so insulting.'

'Believe me, lady, I could have been a lot more.'

'Why do Americans have to be so direct and brash?'

'I guess it comes naturally.'

'It certainly does to you.'

'Is there any point to this conversation, Doctor Cooper?'

'I think where you're concerned, Detective Love, you missed the point a long time ago,' she replied, turned and walked away.

He watched her go. He listened to the sound her heels made on that ridiculously shiny floor hospitals insisted on installing. He was surprised they didn't have more accidents from slipping on that damn floor. To hell with it! He went to go after her and then changed his mind. Let it go, he told himself. That's not what you're here for, besides, dames! They're all the same.

He turned on his heel and stormed off down the corridor. He didn't slow down until he reached the car park. That woman could drive him to distraction! One step forward, two steps back with her.

The fresh autumn air hit his face like a dose of cold water. What on earth had made him talk to her like that? He was supposed to be a cool professional, wasn't he? Always calm under fire whether that came from the barrel of a .38 or the mouth of some cute, curly-haired doctor with pretty eyes who was irritating him beyond reason because she kept dropping in on his thoughts. Uninvited. Now he'd have to apologise and there would be awkwardness and to hell with it. Dames! He stopped by his '98 Volvo pressed his key the car bleeped then clicked, he opened the door and slammed it shut again. This was no good. He'd have to go back and apologise. Dames!

Damn them all.

Thirteen miles away a man was putting the final touches to his plan. This one would work like a dream. No one would see this one coming. He smiled fondly as he remembered the way that last mother had cried and whimpered. She should have shown more mercy to her child. It was her fault. It was always the mother's fault when they let their children down. He made sure the mothers felt the pain and felt the agonies suffered by children when their mothers didn't care enough, all that pain, his pain, the hurt... all that hurt...

He was barely in through the main doors when Love was pounced upon. 'I have to talk to you,' she said as she fell into step with his large strides.

'Hey, listen.' He stopped in his tracks. 'I'd like to apologise for just now, Doctor Cooper...'

'Never mind, that,' she said, waving her hand in front of her face like she was trying to shoo away an irritating wasp. 'Something's come to light.'

'What's up?'

'Not here,' she said, and pulled him into a tiny office. It smelt of dust and old files.

'Really, Doctor Cooper, if you wanted to get me alone in a stinky room all you had to do was ask.'

She ignored him and ran her hand through her light brown curls. 'Blood tests have been run and rerun,' she said, handing him a sheet of paper. 'They're not related.'

'Excuse me?'

'Monica Dixon is not Timmy's mother.'

'What!'

'They're related, that much is certain, but she's not his mother.'

'How do you know?'

Julie Cooper pointed to the paper Love held in his hand. 'This just came through from your Mr Fitch.'

'John?' Love said as he glanced down at the facts and data in front of him until he came to a scribbled signature at the bottom of the page.

'That's right. He knew I was Timmy's doctor and psychotherapist and thought I should know.'

'Probably got that from Stuart,' Love murmured. He looked up. 'Is this the result from the blood on Timmy's sweater?'

'Apparently so.'

Love felt in his pocket for his mobile then remembered he'd left it in the car. As a matter of convenience. Hospitals were like aeroplanes in that respect. Mobiles were either not permitted or had restrictions imposed or else they had to be turned off.

From the moment he'd crawled out of bed earlier that morning he knew the day was going to throw a curve ball, although, he hadn't reckoned on this. He sure hadn't seen this one coming.

* * *

'You weren't all that wrong,' she said softly as she took a quick sip of hot coffee. She suddenly felt the need to hide behind something and that's all there was to hand.

'Excuse me?'

She gazed at Love. 'I was overreacting and you were right. A little fun is exactly what Timmy needs.'

'Oh, I see.' Love nodded and stretched his long legs out along the side of the Formica-topped table.

They were sitting in the hospital's cafeteria. Following the revelation of Timmy's blood results, Love had grabbed the doctor's hand and whisked her downstairs to the ground floor to where the hospital's cafeteria was situated. She didn't protest or argue. Not this time. She seemed pleased to be caught up in this man's presence as she followed him into the cafeteria where he purchased two hot drinks.

'So. Monica is not Timmy's biological mother.'

'No. A close relative but not his mother.'

'That could be awkward. I get the feeling Timmy doesn't realise.'

'How can you possibly know that?'

'Experience. Gut feelings.' He smiled thinking back to his earlier conversation with Stuart.

'We can't just come out and ask him.'

'Give me credit for some finesse, Doctor.' Love glanced at a couple walking by. The man was balancing a tray laden with tea and a plateful of currant buns. They walked a little way until coming to a stop at a table near to Love's. The man glanced over. He caught sight of Doctor Cooper and his gaze lingered appreciatively taking in her sparkling almond-shaped eyes with their golden flecks that matched the highlights in her shoulder-length, centre parted, curly hair. And her lips, not a surgically-enhanced trout pout or otherwise, but pretty. A face that was square in shape which held all her features, that on their own were not particularly remarkable but put together made an attractive picture.

Love leant towards the doctor. 'I'll ask Timmy only about the case, that's all I do. At least, that's all for now.'

'Timmy can't remember much. He's too traumatised.'

'That's understandable.' Love nodded.

'However, it's my belief that sooner or later he will start to recall what happened, it'll come back to him in pieces.'

'Let's make sure someone's around to pick them up,' Love said, stirred his tea and took a mouthful. It tasted good. It hit the spot and he relaxed a little.

The cafeteria was large but many of the tables were empty. Business picked up during lunchtime then slowed down a little before picking up again towards the afternoon. Teatime.

'What about you?' he asked as he brushed away a few sugar granules from the table. Whoever invented those tiny packets of sugar didn't take into account not all people were gifted with dexterous fingertips.

'Sorry?'

'Do you get enough fun?'

'That really is none of your business, Detective Love, and I fail to see...'

'Cool it, Doc, cool it. No need to get all hot under the collar especially when we were starting to get along so well.'

'Let's keep to the case, shall we?'

'I intend to, Doc. The better we work together, the better we can help Timmy and in turn he'll be able to help with the case.' He threw back his head and drained his cup. 'Shall we?' He stood up and took her arm to assist her from her chair. Even chivalry was alive and well in tough New York cops. 'My only interest is getting to the bottom of this investigation, Doctor Cooper, that's all I care about,' he added.

He didn't see the look that passed over her face.

Five minutes later, Love was sitting in his car. 'Stuart?' He spoke into his mobile. 'I'm about to leave the hospital and listen, mate... get the kettle on. I reckon we're going to need it.'

Becoming a detective wasn't Love's first choice of profession.

A sprained knee ligament in his second season as a professional baseball player brought his career to a resounding halt and so at twenty-two years old and to the delight of his father, he'd joined the police force. His mother was less enthused claiming how dangerous it would be and how she'd now have two men to worry about.

'No more dangerous than getting hit in the head by a baseball,' his father a police lieutenant at the time had retorted.

Mrs Love had a huge crush, a real thing going for Joe DiMaggio and that, Love suspected, was the real reason behind her disappointment.

Love did well in the force and within a few years had risen to detective. He was good at his job. Fair but firm and he got results.

One day, whilst he was on duty, he'd got a call to assist in a burglary and aggravated assault resulting in a shooting. The address given to him was downtown in SoHo, New York. An area he rarely visited as it was full of arty warehouses and loft apartments inhabited by artists, models and fashion designers.

In his summer uniform of crumpled linen jacket, standard black chinos and white shirt and conservative tie, he felt out place and didn't care a jot. The burgled apartment belonged to some model. Her neighbour was the one who had been shot and wounded in his heroic attempt to prevent the thief from running off with her jewellery worth over one hundred thousand dollars. He hadn't succeeded but was hailed a hero by neighbours and friends as he bled all over the occupant's white leather sofa. Love arrived, got rid of the lingering fan club, spoke to the officer on the scene and had the hero ushered into an ambulance. Love was busy making notes when someone approached him from behind.

'At least he didn't run off with my Galliano,' said a sultry voice. Her name was Belle and three months later, she became Love's wife.

By the time Belle was fourteen, she was five feet ten inches and still growing. The obvious road open to her was a fashion model and she took it. Belle was the result of a Jamaican father and Irish mother. Topping at five feet eleven inches of exotic gorgeousness with long, wavy black hair and deep-set eyes the colour of the Emerald Isles themselves as her mother was always fond of telling her. Twelve years later, she was at the top of her profession and captivated everyone who met her.

Love hadn't seen his wife in over five years. Not since he'd left the States and moved to England when eighteen months into their marriage, Love had come home to find his wife getting up, close and personal with his then partner Frank Delaney.

She was in love for the first time, she told him. She hadn't been happy in months, hadn't he noticed, she'd asked accusingly?

Yes, he'd replied sadly, he'd noticed.

Scrambling to his feet, Frank had spluttered something about being sorry and how he hadn't meant for Love to find out that way.

Love turned on his heel and walked out.

He never went back.

He jumped in his car and drove straight to police headquarters and by 23:00 hours that same evening was boarding a plane to London, England. He didn't bother going back to the apartment for his clothes. Clothes were Belle's department, not his.

Stuart would have more in common with Belle when it came to fashion.

Love bought only what he needed although he did insist on one criteria. Quality. He always bought good stuff regardless if it was the height of fashion or not. A pair of jeans, a couple of T-shirts, jumper. For work: chinos, usually skinny. Black, two pair. Two jackets. Six shirts, cotton, and six pairs of stretchy boxer briefs. Three ties. His conservative tie he was wearing, a silk patterned one a present from Belle, and one black tie. The latter two of which were at his office. A stop at the all-night drug store took care of his personal items and along with a few books and files that represented his life he threw everything into an old sports bag he kept in his locker. His only personal item was a signed baseball that he kept on his desk. He picked it up, threw it in his bag, and left.

He caught a taxi to JFK Airport and two hours later, Dick Love was on his way to England and a new life.

Chapter Five

10:15 hours

'So you reckon this Monica Dixon could be his auntie or something.'

'Highly probable according to Doctor Cooper,' Love replied and picked up his baseball. He held it between his two hands and rotated it slowly.

'What's the deal, Love?'

'Who knows? Certainly puts a different slant on things though, wouldn't you say?'

'Doesn't it. This ex-partner of Monica's might not even be Timmy's biological father. Could have nothing to do with him whatsoever which is why he walked.'

'Still would like to talk to him,' Love replied thoughtfully.

'Yes,' Stuart said, 'so would I.'

'That wasn't the only finding,' Love said recalling his conversation in the hospital cafeteria. 'Timmy's blood showed signs of Benzomenthapane.'

'So, he was drugged,' Stuart said, nodding slowly. 'And now we know how. Sleeping tablets. But how did he ingest it?'

'It would have to have been taken voluntarily.'

'Which means it was given to him by someone he trusts.'

'By someone he trusts,' Love repeated. 'And Benzomenthapane can be picked up by anyone if they want it bad enough. Any low life can get their hands on it.'

'Any thoughts?'

'Not yet, partner, but you'll be the first,' Love said, and replaced his baseball on top of a pile of paperwork on his desk. He scraped back his chair. It made no noise on the brown carpeted floor. Most other staff had been given the regulatory computer chairs. Canister filled, swivel facility, optional arms, sitting on five legs.

Love had declined in favour of a chair he'd picked up from an antique shop in Whitchurch, Shropshire. A late Victorian early Edwardian mahogany swivel desk chair with its original brass casters and hide seat. It turned out to be the one and only time Love had ventured up North. He found the place to be contrary with its quaint and pretty villages and exceptionally beautiful rolling countryside on one side and rows upon rows of terraced dwellings all crammed together under clouds of belching smoke on the other.

And as for the accent? Forget it! His ear was well and truly tuned in to all the various tongues to be found in London but couldn't get to grips with the northern sounds and way of speaking. Still, it was an experience, a good one, and he found himself some pretty decent furniture into the bargain.

Love strolled over to the window. If he looked hard enough he could just make out the Houses of Parliament. His glance fell on the river below. 'Who are you,' he whispered to himself. 'Where do you live? Where do you go every day? Why are you doing this?'

Why?

That was the easiest of all the questions to answer because he enjoys it. But there had to be something else to it. There was always something else to it, like money, jealousy or revenge.

Was revenge driving him on? Or was it jealousy? Or was he simply mad.

To hell with this, he thought, too many questions and not enough answers.

'Come on, Stuart, let's go.'

'Where to?'

'To where it all started, at least for us, let's go back to where we found the kid.'

'What about your tea?'

'I'll stick it in the microwave when I get back.' Love grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair when his mobile started to ring. He picked it up glanced at it.

'DCA Love,' he said on the second ring.

Stuart stood still and waited as he listened to Love's end of the conversation. A moment later he removed his gloves then his overcoat. He was sitting back down at his desk and tapping at his keyboard before Love had finished the phone call.

Stuart spoke first. 'They've found her.'

'Yes, they have,' Love said, and nodded. 'Nicely done, mate, the leads you gave our team paid off.'

'I can't wait to meet her.'

* * *

Her hair was red and pulled back in a chignon. Shiny. In good condition. Showed she ate well or took good care of her hair or both.

Probably the former.

Bodies have a way of acting like walking advertisement boards. Whatever you put in your body shows up on the outside.

Her eyes were blue-green. Sparkling with unshed tears. Her face carefully made-up. Nicely done. Light foundation, brown eyeshadow. Knew her stuff. Always to wear a contrasting eyeshadow. Rose pink blusher lightly brushed her cheeks topped off with white highlighter. A mere touch. Just enough to bring out her cheekbones. On her lips: pale pink. A well-defined mouth. Not too large. Not too small. Her body, slim, above average height.

A very attractive lady. Looked like a younger version of Monica Dixon. No coincidence. Her name was Ashley Dixon.

Monica's younger sister.

Love narrowed his eyes. He'd been staring at Ashley since she'd walked into the conference room at DSBD. He couldn't get over how much she looked like her sister. She was still wearing her flight uniform. Linen. Dark blue. Two piece suit. Pencil skirt below the knee. Single-breasted jacket one large button with nipped-in waist. Gold flight badge attached to her lapel "EWA" the insignia for European and World Airways. British. Flies out of London Heathrow Airport. Cream cotton shirt. Mandarin collar. Cream-coloured hold-ups. Dark blue court shoe medium heel. Style as well as comfort was of paramount importance.

'Thank you for coming in, Miss Dixon, won't you sit down?'

Ashley glanced at Love. She blinked and nodded before placing her navy blue raincoat she held over one arm on the back of the chair closest to her. She sat down. Placed her leather shoulder bag down on the carpet by the chair. Her matching hat was peeping out of a side pocket. Oval-shaped pillbox. She crossed her legs folded her hands in her lap and looked up at Love.

'How did it happen?'

Stuart, who had been standing over by the window walked across to the chair next to Ashley, he pulled it towards him and sat down. He spoke quietly.

'She was shot. One shot to the head.' He glanced at Love who had moved to sit in the seat opposite Ashley's. 'It was instant.'

'And Timmy? How's Timmy?'

'He's holding his own,' Love said.

He'd put a call through to Doctor Cooper to tell her the news. She was glad to hear Ashley had been located. Not half as happy as Love. Happy they'd finally tracked her down. Thanks to good detective work and state-of-the-art Internet access available to Love and Stuart and their outfit who had the skills to work on it. She'd been located in Spain about to fly on to Africa. Not due to return for a week. She was back in London within four hours and had come straight to DSBD.

'Was he hurt?' Her voice trembled. She spoke quietly. She looked like she was holding herself together but she was in shock.

A knock on the door interrupted Love from replying. 'Come in,' he said as he glanced over. 'Thank you.' He smiled at the young male constable who'd brought in the wooden tray. White bone china teapot. Three matching cups and saucers. Tea. Strong. Sweet. Good for counteracting shock.

Love picked up the teapot and poured. He looked over at Ashley. 'Milk and sugar?'

Ashley shook her head. 'No... no, I don't want anything... I...'

'Here,' Love said. He added a dash of milk and a teaspoon of sugar. He handed her the cup. 'Please take this. Have a sip. Just a sip.'

Ashley tried to smile, and murmured, 'Thank you.' She raised the cup to her lips. Blew on it took a sip. 'It's good, thank you.'

'Ashley,' Love said quietly. This wasn't going to be easy. But then if he wanted it easy he wouldn't have become a cop. 'Ashley, what can you tell us about Timmy's biological mother?'

She didn't speak. Stuart stared at her. Love looked first at Stuart then back at Ashley. The fine lines round her mouth had become more pronounced. She picked up the spoon in her saucer and stirred her drink. It was the only sound to be heard. Eventually she stopped. Replaced her spoon took another sip and with exaggerated care placed the cup on the table in front of her. She sat back and looked directly at Love.

'I'm Timmy's biological mother,' she said. 'But I think you already know that otherwise you wouldn't have asked.'

'We had to be sure,' Stuart said.

Ashley smiled. 'It's all right, Detective, I understand.'

'What happened?' Love asked.

'All I'd ever wanted was to be an air hostess,' she said, and smiled again. 'Nothing else. And my dream finally came true when I turned nineteen and was accepted by EWA. A year later I met a captain, we fell in love, and...'

'Let me guess, he was married.'

Ashley turned her head to look at Stuart. She nodded. 'Yes, he was married. I thought he might leave his wife but he didn't.'

'Before or after you became pregnant?'

'Before. I was in love and I thought it was reciprocated.'

'What happened?' Love asked.

'He didn't want me to have the baby,' she said. 'He's quite a bit older than me and already had two teenage sons at the time.' She spread her hands in a gesture as if to make her point. 'To be fair, he did stand by me, financially, I mean. When it was determined I'd have it.'

Love thought of the attractive and spacious studio flat in Southall. 'He pays the rent on the apartment in Southall?'

Ashley shook her head. 'No, as I refused to take any child maintenance from him he paid off the remainder of my mortgage and bought the flat outright as security for me.'

'We didn't find it under the name of Dixon.'

'No, you wouldn't. It forms part of a small trust fund, which he insisted on implementing, which Monica and I are keeping for Timmy's college education.'

Stuart thought back to Ashley's bank records they'd pulled. Not so much pulled but by using the Alpha-Zulu data available to them, Stuart had retrieved her bank records and statements going back to when she first opened an account with Barclays Bank when she turned eighteen before eventually switching to Nationwide Building Society.

'How does Monica feature in all this?' Love asked.

'By the time I discovered I was pregnant it was too late to do anything about it... otherwise...' she murmured, and shrugged. 'Things might have been very different. My parents were, by this time, dead. When my father died eleven years ago, Monica moved back to the family home to be with Mum who died a year after that and Monica just stayed on at the house. The only family I had was Monica. We talked about it and we decided it would be best for everyone if she took Timmy on as her own.'

'As opposed to putting him up for adoption?' said Love.

'Yes, playing the part of auntie appealed to me as opposed to the role of mother,' Ashley explained. 'I was never the maternal kind but Monica took to it like a natural.' She looked down at her cup now empty. 'It might have been different if I'd got married, but to be honest, I doubt it.' She shrugged. 'He, Timmy's biological father, and I are still good friends but no longer...'

Stuart shifted his position in his seat. He leant forward to get her attention. 'Lovers.'

'No.'

'The man Monica was seeing at the time - I understand they were living together?' Love said.

'Oh yes, David.' Ashley smiled. 'He wasn't prepared to take on the role of adoptive father which was his prerogative entirely and so things came to an abrupt end.' She shrugged. 'If nothing else it showed the relationship had its cracks.'

'So you could say it all worked out for the best,' Love said.

'Precisely. He was nice, I liked him, but they went their separate ways,' she said. 'Besides, I can hardly point the finger, can I?'

'What happens now, Ashley? With Timmy I mean?' he added.

'I've thought of nothing else. It's all I could think about on the way over here.'

Love said, 'And what did you decide?'

'I still think I'm not the maternal kind but all we've got now is each other. So, I'm going to take him on. One day I'll tell him the truth about his parentage but for now we'll take it one day at a time.'

'He seems like a good kid,' Love said.

She smiled and nodded. 'Yes, he is,' she said. 'Monica did a brilliant job.'

'What about your career?'

'I'll still do it, at least for the moment, but I'll fly short no more world trips. I can easily afford a nanny to look after Timmy for the times when I am away but for the immediate future I'm owed some holiday time which I'll take.'

'Where will you live?' Stuart asked.

'We'll work it out between my parent's house in Lee and my home over in Southall,' she said, and smiled. 'Lee is too far for me to commute but maybe I'll work it out. I can always use Monica's car it'll be quicker than going by train.'

'Will you keep your parents' house?' Stuart asked. He looked at her face. Composed. Scared. But defiant and in control.

'I'll either keep it on and rent it out or live there and rent my apartment out. At the very least it will be another income coming in giving Timmy and me security and stability for the future,' she said. 'We'll work it out as we go along,' she said again.

'Sounds like you've thought it through.' Love pointed to her empty cup.

Ashley shook her head. 'No, thank you,' she said. 'I'd like to see Timmy now if that's possible.'

'Of course, Miss Dixon,' Love said. He stood up. He looked good in his white cotton sartorial shirt, slightly creased, and his skinny black chinos. 'I'll get a constable to run you over to St Katherine's.'

'Thank you very much,' Ashley said. She reached for her bag and stood up. She hung the strap over her shoulder. She reached for her coat took a few steps and Love followed.

'Miss Dixon?' Stuart said. He stood up and walked over to where Ashley and Love were standing by the door. She turned to face him.

'Yes?'

'You don't seem surprised or put out at the fact that your personal statements have been researched.'

Ashley smiled. 'You are professionals, Detective Le Fanu, and a special kind of detective. You're just doing your job. I understand that.'

'I wish more individuals had your attitude,' Love said, and grinned. He shook her hand, and added, 'We're sorry to have met like this, Miss Dixon.'

'Thank you. Thank you to both of you for everything you're doing.'

Love opened the door and Ashley stepped out into the corridor. A moment later, he and Stuart followed. The door slammed behind them.

Chapter Six

'I still want to revisit the crime scene,' Love said.

He was leaning back in his chair. He looked relaxed but underneath that casual manner was a brain working overtime. Love knew the importance of catching the assailant before too much time passed. When clues were lost. And leads turned into dead ends.

'Got something?' Stuart asked.

'Not yet,' Love said as he jumped up from his chair and grabbed his jacket. 'But we can discuss it on the way, I'm open to suggestions.'

11:00 hours

Five minutes later, the two detectives had joined the throng of traffic and were travelling north.

London at any hour was filled with people and traffic. It had a vibration all of its own. It put out a heady combination of ancient and modern, of architecture, styles and attitudes. Old and new, sitting side by side, embracing a homely, friendly feeling of belonging. Or not.

London could be your best friend or your worst enemy.

For the moment, Love and London got along. He loved it. He hated it. It all depended on which day you caught him. How many of the bad lot he'd caught and how many had got away. Not many. His record was good, excellent in fact.

Dick Love usually got his man. Or woman.

'Nice lady,' Stuart said, thinking back to their interview with Ashley Dixon.

'Interesting,' Love said. He glanced out the side window. A street vendor was selling hot drinks from his stall. Hot chocolate sprinkled with cinnamon and vanilla essence. He knew the vendor. He was licensed to sell. And he knew the vendor's hot beverage. Delicious.

The distance from DSBD to Primrose Hill where Monica had been killed was less than five miles away. The journey could take anything between seventeen and twenty-five minutes but on this occasion traffic was being fairly kind as a little over nineteen minutes later, Love was turning right off Regent's Park Road into Princess Road. He drove all the way to the end until it connected with Gloucester Avenue. He checked for traffic both ways before crossing the road.

He pulled into the car park.

In front of him stood a row of eight large Victorian built warehouse-type buildings. Some were undergoing reconstruction although half were already in use and doing well judging by the amount of cars including BMWs and Jaguars parked outside in the car park.

Love gave them a cursory glance as he drove past an empty house that had been converted into office premises about thirty years earlier. It had a glossy painted "For Rent" sign fixed to the front door giving details of the agent along with a telephone number and website. Stuart had contacted the policeman on duty at the crime scene, got the number of the agency, rung ahead in the car on the way down and had arranged for the estate agent to meet them there.

And the agent was already waiting.

A body, female, was leaning against the side of her gleaming new silver BMW complete with shark fin protruding from the top. They always made Love smile. She looked slim and well dressed and her smile was something that probably cost in the region of three thousand pounds. Business must be booming but then at the rates they charged around here it didn't surprise him.

Love pulled up next to her, pushed the gearstick into neutral, pulled on the handbrake and turned off the car. He opened his door and stepped out on to the gravel. Or maybe business wasn't booming, he determined, glancing at the BMW. It was only a Series 3. Or maybe she wasn't ostentatious or the celebrity cult status held in the States simply for selling houses hadn't quite reached this part of England.

Yet, he grimaced.

She took a step forward and held out a slim hand in Stuart's direction. Her pale blue suit was a heavy linen and expensive and her navy shoes were a simple court from Russell & Bromley. Her stockings were pale and made from a fine denier although they could have been hold-ups. Nicely put together but not too obvious.

'Detective Stuart Le Fanu,' Stuart said. 'I hope you haven't been waiting long.'

'Not at all, Detective Le Fanu,' she replied with a professional smile.

'Detective Dick Love,' Love said, and shook her hand. It felt cool and firm.

'I'm Patricia Dawson,' she replied still smiling. 'But you know that already.' She pulled her hand away and tucked her handbag under her arm. Prada. Could have cost anything up to six hundred pounds. Or not. There was a shop on the Internet that sold Prada at a third of the price. Image-conscious.

Love spoke. 'I appreciate your meeting us here at such short notice. As Detective Le Fanu explained on the phone, we need to ask a few further questions.'

'Couldn't you have come to the office?'

'Would you have preferred that?'

Her eyes flickered. Love knew what she was thinking. 'I suppose not,' she replied.

'Has any interest been shown in recent weeks in this particular property?' He indicated to the smaller building about thirty feet from their crime scene.

'Some but nothing concrete.'

'Who by?'

She spread her hands out in front in a vague manner. 'Some private companies and a charity.'

'Which companies?' Stuart asked.

'Local. I have their names here.' She reached in through her open window and pulled out a cheap plastic file. 'I've copied them down for you,' she said. 'You can keep the file,' she added.

Love felt like they'd been put in their place. Plastic files for the not so important clients which included the police. Nicer ones for the more prospective clients. He'd noticed the leather-bound folders stacked neatly on the back seat. Let them know where they stood in the scheme of things.

'And a charity?' he said.

'Yes, they said they were looking to expand and wanted something in this general area.'

'What happened?'

'Well, they looked round, came back a couple of times but decided it wasn't for them in the end and left.'

'Which charity was it? A local one?'

'No, they weren't local at all.' She shook her head and her blonde hair fell across her cheek. 'They were far from home.'

'Why, where are they based?' Stuart asked.

'That's the funny thing,' she said. 'Cornwall!' She said it like it was Outer Mongolia.

'Are their details on this list?'

'Yes, you'll find them listed there.'

Love looked at Stuart who was still holding the file. He'd bent it in half.

'Do you have the keys with you?' Love asked.

'Of course,' she replied. 'Would you care to have a look?'

'Please.'

The two men followed her to the property sitting a little in front and to the side from the main building. It was a neat and compact property but more than a little run-down and Love reckoned it would hold a total of perhaps six average-sized rooms not counting bathrooms and perhaps a kitchenette. Large enough for the employees to boil a kettle and make their coffee, tea, soup and heat up microwave lunches.

'How long has it been empty?' he asked.

'Not long, about six weeks.' She pushed the key in the lock and the door swung open. A beeping indicated the alarm was on and working. She entered a series of numbers on the pad. The noise stopped. She pulled another key from her ring and opened another door. It led directly into what was once a fairly large reception room.

It smelt musty. It was empty apart from a few telephone connections and an old wooden desk.

Love wandered over to the large window facing the front. It had a good view of Gloucester Avenue, the adjoining road, shops and parking areas.

'Who leased this building last?'

'A small company,' Patricia replied. 'They went bust.'

'What did they do?' Stuart asked.

'Photocopying, printing, that sort of thing.'

That explained the faint smell of paper that still hung in the air. Shame about them going bust, Love thought. It happens. The larger companies take over eventually. They offer a cheaper service and the public lap it up. Cheap doesn't always mean quality. That was his philosophy and one he stuck to.

'Good view of Princess Road,' Love said to Stuart.

'Let's go upstairs,' Stuart said, and walked over to the staircase. He took the stairs two at a time with Love close on his heels. They went through each of the rooms, one by one. There was nothing remarkable to see. They were simply empty rooms with views over north west London front and back.

Location counted for everything.

Love stared at the floor and the walls. There was nothing to find apart from a few traces of Blu-Tack stuck to the wall and the dents left in the carpet from desks and filing cabinets where people had once sat and worked.

A dead spider plant sat forlornly on the window sill. It reminded Love of the one back in their office and he made a mental note to water it the moment he got back. The only redeeming feature as far as he was concerned was the bird's-eye view of the building next door.

Where Monica had been abducted and killed.

'There's nothing here,' he murmured to Stuart.

'Did you expect anything?'

'Our job is to expect anything and nothing, Stuart,' he said sharply.

Stuart looked at him and spoke quietly. 'What is it, Love?'

'It's getting away from us, Stuart, we're losing it.'

'That's not true. We're on track, why do you think they called us in the first place? The usual Plods were bumbling about in the dark so they call in the cavalry. We'll find him, Love. We will.'

Love didn't say anything he simply stared out the window. He rubbed his hand across his forehead before stuffing both hands in his pockets. This case - if it wasn't driving him crazy!

And not just this case. Lack of sleep was driving him to the brink of insanity.

He hadn't slept well last night, again.

Last night... last night when sleep was a million miles away and so totally out of his grasp when he found himself tossing and turning like a stranded fish and thought he would go crazy.

Finally, he'd given in.

He got up. Walked over to his chest of drawers, pulled open a drawer, grabbed hold of the contents and went back to bed. The lights of London had filtered in through the open wooden blinds of his large sash windows.

Love sighed heavily.

In the soft light he picked up the magazine he'd tossed on the bed. He flicked it open. He felt his pulse quicken. He turned the page.

Love's upfront about it like everything else in his life. He has nothing to hide apart from his innermost feelings.

Love and sex with no ties or emotions involved suited the detective.

And magazines don't break your heart.

It works for him.

'Damn.' He raised himself up on both elbows before collapsing back against the pillows.

Why did an image of Doctor Cooper have to show up in his head just at that very moment?

Love turned on his heel walked out the door and downstairs. Stuart stared after him before following a moment later.

They joined the agent in what had once been the reception area. She was standing in the middle of the room speaking on her mobile.

'Yes, tell him I'll be there in fifteen, thanks, Louise.' She snapped her silver phone shut and replaced it inside her Prada bag. 'I'm sorry about that but I do have another appointment,' she said, smiling her three thousand pound smile.

'Of course, thank you, Ms Dawson. You've been very helpful and we do appreciate it,' Stuart said, smiling in return.

The agent almost blushed as she looked from Stuart to Love. 'You're both very welcome and I'm sorry if I sounded, well, a little uptight earlier but you did pull me out of an internal briefing,' she said. 'Working six days a week means I am a very busy person and on a tight schedule.'

Yes, we wouldn't know what that's like, Love thought, but instead said, 'Thank you Ms Dawson and goodbye. We don't want to keep you any longer than necessary.'

She opened her mouth to say something, changed her mind, and gestured to Love and Stuart to follow her outside. She locked the inner door, set the alarm and pulled the front door firmly behind her. She smiled briefly before turning sharply to walk across the gravel-strewn parking area. Ten seconds later, she was pulling out with a small dust cloud following her. Five seconds after that she was lost in traffic.

The last thing to see of Ms Dawson was the shark fin on the top of her BMW.

Fine-looking lady, Love thought. Blonde hair, like his own, except hers had artificial assistance to help make it look like the colour of corn. Green eyes. Nicely put together.

So why did an image of a curly-haired doctor with an engaging smile keep creeping into his head?

Love turned to stare at the building where Monica had been killed.

'Come on,' he said to Stuart, and together they walked across the car park. His shoes scuffed on the gravel and pebbles, his feet churning up tiny clouds of dust with every step.

The individual compartments of the warehouse were larger than the building they'd just left but were laid out pretty much the same way.

A large sign was visible high up on the front of the building. It told anyone who was interested the property belonged to "Nightingale Fashions".

Another sign was attached to the front door. It was glossy and good quality. It said "For Sale" followed by the name of the estate agent although not the same agency as Ms Dawson's, a telephone number and website.

He nodded to the police constable on duty. It was the same one Stuart had spoken to from the car. He nodded in return and lifted up the blue and white police "Do Not Cross" barrier tape for them to walk under. Love ducked and then stopped.

'Let's go round the back first.'

'Why?'

'I don't know, just a feeling. I just want to see it again.'

They retraced their steps over to the side of the building and on to a narrow concrete path that led round to the back. The space behind consisted of a tiny courtyard made up of more concrete and gravel. It held a couple of wheelie bins, a few old packing cases and a lean-to that was practically derelict. Love turned his head to look over his shoulder. The photocopying firm had it in plain view but when they vacated the building, so had Nightingale's unofficial security.

Apart from that, the back door was not overlooked.

The forensics services team, the FST, had removed and taken away the original back door and the owner had wasted no time in replacing it with one that was brand new and solid. It had a good quality lock. It looked impenetrable. Unlike what had been there before.

'After the horse has bolted,' Stuart said quietly.

The owners had made entry to the building easy for the killer. At the time, the alarm had been disconnected. The back door had been old and wooden with four frosted glass panels and the lock was nearly as antiquated as the door and of poor quality. The perpetrator had smashed one of the panes of glass, reached through, and unlocked the door from inside. It must have taken all of five seconds.

It meant he could slip in and out unnoticed.

Any time he wanted.

The building had already been emptied. Apart from the odd chair, some office furniture, a few clothes racks. The owners saw no reason to be unduly worried. There was nothing left to steal. And the place was surrounded by individuals. Plenty of action was going on from all the construction work plus the tenants of nearby offices and the property next door which saw people coming and going all day. It was like having a group of unpaid security officers.

'He had to have come ahead of time, broken in and then brought them here when he was ready.'

'It's perfect. It's an empty building and it's not overlooked at least not since the photocopying firm went bust and moved out.'

'Sort of gives us a time frame, doesn't it. I mean, he couldn't come snooping round here or breaking in when it was occupied or with the photocopying staff and customers coming and going.'

Security sprung into action every evening. The estate agencies that owned the other six buildings on-site along with the tenants of the remaining offices had formed a cooperative a couple of years back and together they paid for after hours security to patrol the premises from 20:00 hours in the evening to 08:00 hours the following morning. Which gave the possibilities that either the security guards were lousy at their job or they were in on it.

It also meant the killer must have broken in and entered the building after the photocopying firm had moved out.

And who would know that?

For starters, it came back to the agency renting out the building including any prospective clients.

'It depends on the length of time between Nightingale's putting their property on the market and to when they actually vacated the premises.'

'Let's go,' Love said. 'I've seen enough.'

They walked back round to the front of the building. Love unlocked the front door and went inside. He pulled a card from his jacket, glanced at it, then typed in the code for the alarm. He unlocked the inner door. He pushed it open. It made a whooshing noise against the carpet. The whole place felt damp and dusty and cold inside. It felt cold as only a house or a building can feel when it's empty and unwanted.

The room where Timmy and Monica had been found was on the first floor. It was one of the smaller rooms in the building and had one window at the back overlooking the railway line. The room was empty apart from a blind at the window. Love prowled round. His size made the room appear even smaller. Every now and then he'd stop and look far away into the distance.

Stuart pulled his notepad from his pocket and began listing the case history notes to date.

Love listened and made comments. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it. The flame glowed red as he pulled down hard before exhaling the smoke in curly wisps. He listened to the muted sounds of traffic and the building works from a few doors away. Everyday sounds for London. Suddenly a train thundered past. Nothing unusual. He thought of the "For Sale" sign outside.

'Has there been any interest in this building in recent weeks?'

'None. When I got a uniform to interview the agency responsible for selling this property they said they hadn't had any enquiries for at least five weeks.'

'Really?'

'Currently checking the agency but so far coming up clean.'

'Is that usual?'

'The length of time?'

'Yeah.'

'Nothing out of the ordinary,' his partner replied, and snapped shut his notepad. 'This area is considered prime location but for some it's considered to be on the wrong side of the river too close to the tracks and therefore overpriced.'

'It's been empty for three months.'

'Yes, the previous, or I should say current owners want to sell up and retire.'

'Sure,' Love said, nodding. 'Made enough dough from the fashion trade and now they want to get out and enjoy the fruits of their labour.'

'Something like that,' Stuart said.

'Not to mention cash in on the property boom, although, they might have missed the boat in that aspect.'

'They probably have although I don't imagine they care, as long as they've got enough to retire with and I guess they have.'

'Don't tell me. To Dorset?'

'Close. When I spoke to them they said they want to relocate to where their son is living.'

'Where's that?'

Stuart stared at Love. He spoke softly. 'Cornwall.'

Chapter Seven

Love was prowling round the room like a caged animal. 'Tell me again. Nobody saw or heard anything unusual.'

'Only that one woman who has since come forward to say she saw a red car zooming off at about twenty to nine,' Stuart said. 'You know, it is feasible that one single gunshot wouldn't be heard over traffic from the road in front and the noise from the trains at the back of the property.

'Make and model?'

'She can't say she wasn't wearing her glasses at the time,' Stuart said. 'Only that it was small and nippy.'

Love stopped in his tracks and looked at Stuart. 'Nippy?'

Stuart smiled. 'And apart from that we have no other witnesses or at least nobody is talking.'

He watched as Love moved to look out of the window and realised how different their personal lives were. No wife. No son or daughter singing to him so sweetly on the telephone.

'Care to come over for dinner tonight,' he said suddenly. 'Emma was saying only the other day it's been far too long since you've come over for a meal.' He saw Love hesitate. 'We can continue our discussion over a fillet steak I think we have some in the freezer for our meat-eating guests. Soya steak for me along with a decent claret left over from a birthday celebration. For you, I'm pretty sure I still have Bonaqua from the last time you were there and if not I can get some in.' Stuart grinned. 'How about it?'

'Emma would love that.' Love smiled.

'Yes, Emma would. Being a lawyer has its good points. Means she's in tune with her detective husband for one. Besides, she likes you.'

'Go home by yourself and be a good husband and father,' he said. 'Hop off back to that town house of yours on Rabbit Row and enjoy your steak substitute and fancy wine,' he growled.

Stuart grinned. He knew how to take Love.

'We'll make it another night, yeah?' Love said. 'I have to get home, you know, Julie will be waiting for me.'

'Yeah, I know. Course we can. Another night then?' Stuart said as he walked from the room.

'Another night,' Love said. He thought of the tin of corned beef he had in his cupboard and wondered if he'd done the right thing and then he thought of Julie and knew he had.

He took one last look at the room stared at the bloodstains on the floor, closed the door behind him, and left.

Their footsteps were silent on the stairs. A good quality carpet saw to that. Love wondered if the clothes manufactured by Nightingale Fashions had as much quality and time spent on them as the furnishings of their offices. He thought of Belle. She wouldn't be seen dead modelling any outfit that cost under a thousand dollars. Then he wished he hadn't.

The two men stepped outside and Stuart shivered. The temperature had dropped. Christmas was less than two months away and the weather wasn't about to let them forget. The department stores couldn't have arranged it better. Free advertising. As if Stuart could forget with a six-year-old already voicing about what she would put in her letter to Father Christmas.

Love pulled the key from his pocket and locked the inner door and set the alarm. He stepped outside closed the front door and double-locked it. He pocketed the key. The alarm on the front flashed silently, red and persistent. It was old and of a good quality. And it hadn't been on at the time of the abduction and murder. Because the premises were empty the owners thought it unnecessary to keep the alarm on. It was thought to be too much trouble with people coming and going to view the property all day and sometimes into the evening. Since last night that had been rectified and the alarm was permanently on and functioning. The downstairs windows were barred and the front door was good and solid. It would take a tank to smash its way through that door but like so many others, the owners had paid little attention to the back of their premises.

'Where's their warehouse and production outlet?' Love said to Stuart as they ducked under the tape. Love nodded as once again the constable held it aloft and nodded in return.

'They have, or had, a small factory near Billingsgate Market.'

'What? With all that fish about?'

'Yeah, well, it's cheap.'

'Should have spent some of the money they were saving on effective deterrents instead.'

Love turned round and glanced at the police tape fluttering in the breeze. It made a crinkling sound like a plastic kite on a windy day or like that gaudy bunting you sometimes find flapping about in the forecourt of second-hand car dealers. He looked at the red light blinking high and visible on the front of the building. 'I think we'll go pay them a visit.'

'Today?'

'No, not today, but soon maybe.'

'Where to now?' Stuart asked as they walked back to the car. His hands thrust deep in the pockets of his black Jaeger cashmere overcoat. A delightful and stylish piece of Italian cloth, single breasted with a vented back costing £740.00.

A sudden gust of wind yanked open Love's jacket exposing the contrasting blue lining. He pulled up his collar looked at Stuart stomping his feet, and said, 'Maybe we should swing by where Carol Butterfield was discovered.'

'Looking for the elusive connection?'

'We have to explore the possibilities no matter how vague. Right now, we have nothing else to go on. What do you think?'

Stuart pulled open the door to Love's Volvo and stepped in. 'Let's do it. It's less than four miles from here. But for heaven's sake get the heater working on this old bucket of bolts. I'm freezing.'

'You're always freezing. Are you anaemic?'

'More than possible.' Stuart chuckled.

Love grinned and glanced again at the plethora of cars parked in the car park and all the way along Gloucester Avenue out front. He put the key in the ignition turned it and the car fired into action. Stuart was talking. Love wasn't listening. He was somewhere else. He pushed the gear into first and the car nudged forward. The wheels turned slowly as they crunched on the gravel.

Love turned a tight circle indicated right and pulled out of the car park. He slowed the car to a crawl. Scanned the parked cars. He didn't see it. Something was telling him it had to be close.

It wasn't at her home. It wasn't at work. So where was it?

He put his foot on the accelerator and the car shot forward. He was experiencing that same feeling. He's taunting us. Making it too easy. Too obvious. Expect the unexpected, he pondered. The car sped along down Gloucester Avenue. A castle, Love thought, I need to find a castle. He had to keep going with this. It was a thought, just a thought but it was irritating him. Moments later, Love passed a pub on his right. He gave it a cursory glance. It was called the Pembroke. He turned a sharp left into Regent's Park Road, checked his rear-view, slowed to a crawl. He hesitated outside Bibendum a wine merchants.

Stuart looked at Love questioningly. He said something.

Love didn't hear him. He was too busy staring at the sign. He turned the wheel to the right and drove off the road down the driveway, stopped. He pushed the gear into neutral pulled on the handbrake and turned off the car.

Stuart stopped talking. As if in slow motion he glanced in Love's direction before following Love's eyeline. He appeared to be staring at a small black car. Simply another parked car in a row of parked cars. Hard to distinguish one make from another.

Love opened his door. Stuart did the same. Love ambled his way over to the front of the little car.

It was an Alfa Romeo MiTo. He glanced down at the number plate turned back to face Stuart who was already punching a number into his mobile.

FST would be on-site within minutes.

Monica Dixon's car had been found.

Discovering Monica Dixon's car had been a breakthrough.

The forensic services team was already photographing the site, taking samples, sweeping the immediate area, getting the car ready to be towed back to the laboratory at DSBD.

Love and Stuart were expecting a preliminary report waiting on their return to the office. Or sooner. The team had strict instructions to send any crucial findings via the M-CADD in Love's car. Perhaps they'd get lucky. The assailant might have left a fingerprint or a hair or even something from the bottom of his shoe.

Only time would tell.

Monica's handbag had been retrieved from the floor of the front seat passenger's side. Love slipped on a pair of surgical gloves he carried in his glovebox and scanned the items in her bag.

The bag was leather, black, small. A bag by Enny, an Italian designer no longer in production. He discovered her purse complete with seventy pounds and fifty-five pence. Two credit cards. A slip for a dentist appointment in two weeks time for both Timmy and Monica. Check-up only. That part had been written in hand. Possibly by Monica. Driving licence. A couple of pens. A notepad. Blank. A jar of rose lip balm by Cioccolatina natural toiletries. Half a tube of mints. Love's hand strayed to his pocket. He pulled out his own pack and tossed one into his mouth. He crunched down hard on it.

'How did you know her car would be here?' Stuart said as he made a sweeping gesture with both arms.

Love looked round at the private car park situated two hundred and fifty feet from Pembroke Castle where Monica, and which immediate investigations would show, was a pupil in a dance class held in their function room. The car park was set back from the busy road. A sign to the front indicating the parking area was available only to residents and clients of the two immediate buildings including patrons of the Pembroke Castle.

A selection of up to thirty cars could be parked there or would be coming and going at any given time. Monica's Alfa had been obscured from view by some bushes and other parked cars. No security cameras and no nearby instant cash machines that might supply a visual diary.

Love turned and headed back towards his car. He opened the door and got in, waiting for Stuart. He fired up the car and turned right out of the car park heading north along Regent's Park Road on their way to Golders Green.

Monica's handbag had been passed into the care of an individual from the FST. All articles were at this moment being itemised and logged. On its return to DSBD it would undergo strict tests for fingerprints, DNA, or any other globule or microbe that comes out, or from, a human body.

Love didn't hold out much hope. He reckoned the assailant hadn't even touched it. Robbery was not his motive.

'If I were the killer that's what I would have done,' Love said belatedly in answer to Stuart's question.

'But how did you know to look here exactly?'

Love thought back to his earlier chat with Timmy. 'Chance. Pure chance. Something Timmy said. He wasn't sure what it meant but he remembered Monica once jokingly saying she took her ballet class in a castle.'

'And you sussed it was the Pembroke.'

'Not straight away.' He smiled.

'Gut speaking?'

'Yeah,' Love said, and chuckled. 'Something like that. Plus, I reckoned it had to be close to where she was killed.' He indicated with his head. 'And the tie-in that clinched it for me was the Pembroke which incidentally is also known as Pembroke Castle.'

'And his own vehicle?'

'He left it somewhere close by possibly in the car park itself and simply retrieved it when he brought Monica's car back,' Love said. 'It's how I'd have played it,' he added quietly. 'It's what I'd have done.'

'It's beautiful,' Stuart said. He watched as cars sped by, people going about their business. No one would pay any attention to a man and a woman driving along in a car. 'Wait for her, abduct her, and get her to drive under protest to where she was killed.'

'Exactly. A gun in her ribs. Timmy possibly already passed out in the back or at the least incapacitated.'

As they drove along Regent's Park Road the Volvo carefully negotiated parked cars and people waiting to cross over to the other side. A pretty road with an attractive mix of residential properties and shops like a small village or town had been encapsulated into this one road. Love slowed down and indicated right into Primrose Hill Road. Stuart turned his attention to his side window and the view speeding by. Trees, the mix of Georgian and Victorian architecture, and more trees. People are always amazed at how many trees and green areas are to be found in London. It amazed Stuart that this would amaze anyone. He watched as the Ford van in front swerved into the path of an oncoming car.

'Idiot!' Love muttered under his breath and pumped the brake pedal before slowing down at the traffic lights ahead. His foot pressed harder on the brake. He glanced at Stuart. 'Which can only lead to one thing.'

Stuart turned to face Love. 'Which is?'

'The assailant knew the area...'

'And had been staking it out beforehand but in order for that to work he had to have known of Monica's timetable.'

Love smiled. He loved it when the pieces hinted at coming together. 'Monica knew her assailant.'

'Carol Butterfield knew her assailant.'

Love turned his head to face forward. The lights had turned green. He glanced in his rear-view mirror, let his foot off the brake and clutch, pressed his foot on the accelerator and the car shot forward and across the road.

Moments later they were bearing right into England's Lane.

'Although you realise this is all circumstantial.'

'It's certainly ambiguous and we don't even know how it was executed,' Stuart said before adding, 'nice area around here.'

'Not yet,' Love said, glanced quickly at Stuart and smiled at the query in his face. 'In answer to your first comment and yes it's nice and has less traffic than say the route via Finchley Road.' He slowed the car before pulling out almost immediately. 'Look, I know I'm clutching at straws here, Stuart, but I keep going back to St Katharine's.'

'St Katherine's?' Stuart said. 'Okay, I'm with you there, Love, it's a strong possibility but there are other factors to consider.'

'I appreciate that. For one thing, we have no record of Monica, Timmy or even Ashley ever having been admitted to that particular hospital.'

'And we have her outside interests to consider. The dance studio. Her friends. Her work.'

'I get the feeling she didn't have much of a social life what with work and Timmy,' Love said. 'It could be they were connected.'

'Meaning her work was her social life.'

'Exactly.'

'At least she had her dancing. It was the one thing she did for herself.'

'I appreciate the PCs have already done or are still doing the interviews on this but I think we personally need to go and check out her workplace and colleagues ASAP,' Love said. 'I have a few questions I need to ask.'

'Already on it,' Stuart said. He leant forward pressed a button and tapped in his personal identification number on the pad of the M-CADD. He pressed "Enter" and the device became activated. The phone at the other end was answered after three rings.

The only time the M-CADD was put into operation was when Stuart was in the car. Love preferred to rely on BGF. Brains. Guts. Feet. Notwithstanding the fact he hated technology. It was a miracle Love possessed a mobile phone.

'Taylor and Goodwin Associates, Stacy Edwards speaking, how may I help you?'

'My name is DCA Stuart Le Fanu. My partner and I are heading the investigation into Monica Dixon's murder.'

'Oh, I see,' Stacy murmured. 'Yes, it's terrible what happened.'

'We'd like to swing by and interview the staff. When would be a good time?'

'Well,' she said then paused as she checked the files on her screen. Stuart heard the clicking of her mouse followed by a quick rustling of papers. Possibly those belonging to a diary. 'Looking at the schedule if you'd like to come along on Friday morning you'll catch us all in.'

'You've been very helpful, Stacy, thank you.'

'That's all right. Goodbye.'

'Goodbye.'

Stuart ended the phone call leant forward and pressed the button for "Print". A moment later, two pieces of paper shot out of a small-sized printer sitting in the middle of the back seat. Stuart turned round, grabbed them.

'An encapsulated history of Taylor and Goodwin Associates.'

'Anything interesting,' Love asked.

'Nothing that's worth mentioning. The usual. Business is fairly low-key but successful and going by this has been in operation for fifteen years.'

'It's what they don't tell you I find interesting,' Love said. He was looking forward to their meeting at the offices where Monica had worked as a legal secretary / personal assistant for the past seven years. Time enough to make some friends, reckoned Love.

And enemies.

Eight minutes later, Love and Stuart were close to their destination.

A delay of five minutes was due to a delivery van breaking down causing a traffic jam all the way back to Jack Straw's Castle, a weatherboard building on the northern edge of Hampstead Heath. Stuart called it in but a group of uniforms had already been despatched and were on their way.

'That used to be a pub.'

Love stole a quick glance. 'I remember something about this place.'

'Named after a ringleader in the Peasant's Revolt of 1381 and none other than Charles Dickens is said to have been a patron,' Stuart said, nodding to the impressive building. Love said nothing as he manoeuvred the car round the roundabout before coming to a complete stop. 'Although you won't get much of a beverage here nowadays unless you know someone personally.'

'What are you talking about?'

'The pub's been converted into flats.'

'At least they didn't pull it down,' Love remarked dryly.

'Yes,' Stuart said quietly. He looked out of his window at the historic building. 'There is that I suppose.'

From his pocket, Stuart pulled the plastic file Patricia Dawson had given them. He bent it back the other way in an effort to flatten it. He cast his eyes down the list. It was like Patricia Dawson had said. Interest had been shown from various local companies some known to Stuart, a few not, along with that charity in Cornwall. He checked the name listed against the company.

Lanner Blind, Land's End, Cornwall, director, Sven Stonehead.

'What would a private charity for the blind based in Cornwall want in London?' he said.

'Only one way of finding out,' Love replied. The car in front suddenly moved. Love played with the clutch and accelerator, cleared the last few stragglers of the tailback, shifted into second then third and accelerated in the direction of Golders Green. 'We ask them.'

They continued their journey. Each to their own thoughts. Love took an appreciative glance at the tree canopies gracefully covering the road like protective umbrellas. And on either side sat the old stone walls now smothered in ivy interspersed with the odd rhododendron bush. The blooms now faded. The two men could have been in the heart of the countryside not in the midst of London.

Further on down the road they passed a pub called the Old Bull & Bush.

'Take that place.' Stuart pointed with a gloved finger. 'A pub has been on that spot since the early 18th century.'

'Really?' Love said. He glanced to his right to see an attractive brick square-shaped establishment.

'In fact, the pub gave its name to the famous music hall song "Down at the Old Bull and Bush".'

'Yeah, I know that, sung in World War II, right?'

'Absolutely. It's a national treasure like Vera Lynn. Initially the pub was made popular by the cockneys, it was a day out for them, hence the song.'

Love glanced at Stuart. 'You're not moonlighting as a tour guide are you, I mean, what is all this?'

Stuart smiled. He flicked his head to move the hair out of his eye. 'I grew up round here.'

'I thought you were from Kensington.'

'No, born in Oxford but...'

'Is this going to take long because, really, as much as I find this fascinating, the life of Stuart Le Fanu...'

'Wanker!' Stuart said, and grinned. 'We moved to Hampstead when I was two and then to Kensington in my late teens and there I've been ever since.'

'New York for me all my life. Born. Bred. And...'

'Don't talk about dying, Love. It's bad luck. Especially in our game.'

Love smiled. He said nothing more on the subject. He didn't like to spend too much time thinking about his own mortality. He'd experienced a few close shaves during his career in the force. He had the scars, mental and physical, to prove it. His only concern now was who would look after Julie if anything happened to him. Maybe he should sort that out. Will her to Stuart or something. He chuckled to himself at the thought of Stuart getting dog hairs all over his designer suits along with the odd muddy paw print planted on the beige-coloured leather interior of his Jaguar. His XF 3.0D V6 Luxury Jaguar. But then again, knowing Stuart, he would take it all in his stride. He might come across as a poser and a fashion plate to anyone who didn't know him but underneath it he was the real deal.

A genuine bloke as the Brits would say.

And there was a serious side to him.

Stuart possessed an exhaustive knowledge of the history of fashion right up to modern day having studied art, fashion and textiles at university. He was an interesting combination. Consider the idea of Sherlock Holmes being merged with Alexander McQueen and Stuart would be the result. In America they have a word for it. It's a bona fide job and it's a part of something they do called profiling. In the UK it's simply a useful skill to help build up a complete picture of the victims.

And sometimes even the assailants.

They were nearing their destination. Love began to put himself in the killer's shoes. He studied the properties as he sped down North End Road. Neat, suburban, attractive and tidy houses either side of the widely spaced, tree-lined road. A few early Victorian three-storey houses followed by the ubiquitous 1930s semis. Decent place. Surely too good for the likes of that scum to live in.

So where did he come from?

'Nearly there,' Stuart said as they drove past a parade of shops. He began to unbuckle his seat belt.

Love slowed down at the traffic lights. His foot pumping the brake. The lights turned green he bore left and past the empty shop where Carol had been abducted and murdered. He turned left into Hodford Road swung over to the other side to an empty space and parked the car.

Stuart jumped out and shut the door. He glanced over the roof of the Volvo towards the narrow cobbled road on the other side. It gave a back access to the parade of shops running along Golders Green Road.

The two men crossed the road and walked the few steps over to where Carol Butterfield lost her life.

The empty shop where Carol had been discovered was situated towards the end of the Victorian parade.

The shops on the ground floor were accessed via Golders Green Road some with residential properties above. The building was less than half a mile north east from Hampstead Heath.

The shop had a back entrance that was completely private and not overlooked apart from a neighbouring property. Love stared up at the house and at what looked like a window belonging to a bathroom and a larger window on the floor below.

He turned back to face the shop. The police tape surrounding the courtyard was flapping in the wind and was showing signs of the worse for wear. They both ducked underneath it and walked along the short path to the back door. Love pulled out a key and put it in the lock. He'd brought it along at the last minute just as they were leaving. He was glad he had.

The door swung open and they stepped inside.

The property consisted of a hallway, three rooms on the ground floor, one room and a bathroom upstairs. The rooms were large and had high ceilings. The tiny kitchen had long since gone and been made into a storage room. All that remained was a 1970s stainless steel sink. The shop had been rented to a company selling second-hand clothes and rejects. They'd since moved to a larger property. At least some companies were prospering.

The two men stepped into the room at the back. It was a small room. The bloodstain where Carol had been shot in the head was still evident. There was no furniture except for one wooden chair that had since been taken away by FST. The room's only window was shut and locked with the blinds tightly drawn. It was one of those office blinds that hung in long, vertical strips. Stupid things, grimaced Love. The moment a gust of wind blew they would billow out into the room like twenty whips before being sucked back again in one huge tangle or coming apart in the process. Love glared at it, stood still and listened. He heard traffic from the road outside. He heard a siren in the distance.

'Nothing out of the ordinary,' he said to Stuart who was standing at the doorway looking inside.

'With the room?' he asked.

'No, the noise.'

'What noise?'

'Exactly. It's not over-noisy, is it? Not for London.' He looked down at his wrist and with his hand pulled back his cuff. It's now 13:07. Carol Butterfield was killed between 12:45 and 14:10 in the afternoon. The time is around the earlier part of her approximate time of death.'

'Traffic would have been about the same.'

'And no set pattern between the two murders apart from the point of entry.'

'Which gives us what?'

Love looked at Stuart, and said. 'At this stage, I have no idea.' He walked out of the room into the tiled hallway and stood facing the back door. It was brand new and solid. The owners had been allowed to replace it after FST had removed the original door to be processed back at their lab. The lock was brass and sturdy. Love grabbed the handle and shook the door.

Nothing budged.

It was where the assailant had entered the building, and where Carol Butterfield had taken her last steps.

A local woman walking her dog had noticed the back door flapping in the breeze. She knew the place to be empty. Her dog barked. She wasted no time in pulling out her mobile and reporting it.

Thirty minutes later, the police arrived and Carol's body was discovered.

When Derek had been questioned he claimed there had been nothing unusual about her day. Not as far as he knew. No special appointments apart from her afternoon class at the college a few doors further down in which she was studying English with a long-term view of becoming a journalist.

He knew nothing, he said.

Jon, the elder son, couldn't shed any light on the situation and Stephen had been staying overnight at a friend's house and gone straight to school from there. He couldn't help.

All their enquiries came to the same thing, a dead end.

Love removed his hand from the door handle, turned back to face the hallway and stared at the papered walls. The Victorian skirting boards were scuffed but apart from that, and the bloodstain, the place was clean. FST had been through and had found nothing to report, at least not so far. These things could take their time. Except time wasn't on his side. The assailant could strike again and Love had no idea where or who the next victim might be.

'Why did he bring Carol here?' He spoke out loud almost to himself.

'As opposed to what?'

'Well, in this situation he chose the room closest to the back door. Yet in Monica's situation, he took them all the way upstairs and to the back of the building. Why didn't he simply use a room on the first floor, I mean, ground floor, like he did here?'

'Good question and I don't have an answer.'

Love glanced at Stuart leaning against the door frame and held his gaze for a moment. He looked like a model standing in a photo shoot.

'Come on, handsome, let's get back.'

Stuart smiled and walked to the door. Love opened it and Stuart stepped outside. He stared at the estate agent's board. Love right behind him. He slammed the door and locked it.

'Right,' Love said, thrusting his hands deep into his trouser pockets. 'Let's go.' He looked at Stuart. 'What is it?'

Stuart didn't answer but continued to stare at the glossy board in front of him. It was the same agency renting the property next to where Monica Dixon had been found. The agency belonging to Patricia Dawson.

'Stuart?'

Stuart shook his head and looked away. 'I don't know, Love. The agency is a common factor in this as much as St Katharine's.'

'We're looking into it. We're on it.'

'Yeah, okay,' he said. He turned and started walking back to Love's Volvo. 'It was a breakthrough finding Monica's car.'

As they approached the car, Love glanced through the side window at the M-CADD. No light was flashing which indicated no information was stored and waiting to be retrieved. 'Looks like FST haven't found anything yet but I agree it's still a step in the right direction.'

Stuart nodded. He narrowed his eyes against the cold wind. It was a moment before he spoke. 'Has anyone checked out the individual staff at the estate agents?'

Love had his car key in his hand. He pointed it at his blue S70 and the car beeped. A moment later, the doors clunked. 'Half-and-half,' he replied finally. 'In addition to their routine questions the regular police are continuing along that line.'

'You reckon we should dig deeper ourselves?'

'Right now,' Love said, 'I reckon it can't hurt, partner.'

Chapter Eight

By the time Love's Volvo hit the road the lunchtime traffic was doing its best to cause hold-ups. It did its best but failed and twenty-seven minutes later, the two men were walking through the marble reception area of MI6.

They nodded to security and paused momentarily to show their identification. Love had driven back a different route to avoid the hold-up. Knowing how things worked he reckoned the van would probably still be there.

'I want to go through both files again. We've missed something, Love. It's in there somewhere. I know it.'

'There's a definite connection between the two women but we're not picking up on it.'

'Is there?'

'What do you mean?'

'We're so sure there is a connection but what if there isn't. What if it's not a serial and we're looking at a copycat?'

Love leant over and punched the arrow up button for the lift. 'What keeps coming back to haunt me is how did he manage to abduct them in daylight with loads of people around.'

'She knew him.'

The lift arrived and the doors opened. Love moved to one side as two men and a woman stepped out. They were all dressed in suits and carrying files in one arm and briefcases in the other. They looked like smart university students. Or young professors. Love and Stuart stepped into the lift and Stuart pressed the button for level seven.

'Exactly,' Love said. 'Like I said it's circumstantial and ambiguous but I still say both women had to have known their assailant.'

'And I still think it's the same man,' Stuart said.

A woman looked over at Love. He caught her staring and she looked away. The lift stopped. Love automatically checked the floor before following Stuart from the lift.

Stuart half turned and said over his shoulder, 'By the way, I have an appointment to see Sister Brookes tomorrow morning. Want to come?'

'I'll let you know.'

'Let's pull the photographs of both victims,' Love said as he took off his jacket laid it on the back of his chair and loosened his tie.

He reached into his trouser pocket and removed his pack of cigarettes. He opened the pack and with a jerk of his wrist a cigarette popped up. He directed it straight into his mouth. He flicked his brass lighter he'd already pulled from his jacket pocket and watched as a blue swirl of smoke curled high into the air.

Stuart peeled off his gloves, shrugged off his coat and hung it on the clothes rack. He turned back to his desk opened the file and removed the shots of Carol Butterfield. He laid them out in a row. He then did the same with Monica Dixon.

He looked up at Love who was standing to his right. 'Screening?' He pushed his hair back with his hand.

'Sure, let's go,' Love said, and in one swift movement had gathered up the photographs. He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray on his desk on the way out.

Together they walked into a room two doors down from their office. A polished wooden table ran the length of one wall. To one side a gigantic cheese plant sat next to a huge chrome desk stacked with an array of equipment. A large flat screen television dominated another wall. Computers were set up side by side and in the middle of the room was another table made of glass and chrome. It was on this Love laid out the photographs and switched on the overhead spotlights.

He pulled out his cigarettes he'd looked round for an ashtray and then remembered he was in a smoke-free area. He stuffed them back into his trouser pocket and pulled out his mints.

Stuart eased himself down on to one of the black leather stools that were placed around the room, the sort of stool you would find in trendy bars all over London, but Love remained standing. He simply stood, crunched down hard on his mints and looked from one set of photographs to the other.

He picked one up and fingered it carefully.

It was of Carol Butterfield.

The markings on her stomach were a series of crosses like when you've signed your name on a birthday card and underneath you scribble a line of kisses.

Except these weren't kisses and they hadn't been made out of love.

He laid it back down and picked up a colour ten by twelve of Monica Dixon. The same marks. A series of crosses like kisses that really weren't. He stared at them. He stared at her face. She'd been pretty. Red hair. Green eyes, according to the pathologist's report. He couldn't see them in the photograph. Her eyelids were shut.

What was the last thing she had seen? His face. Grinning at her. Leering at her. Or was it the barrel of his gun pointing at her.

Carol and Monica.

What was the connection?

Finally, he walked over to the desk and pulled out a magnifying glass. He removed it from its leather case and held it up to his eye. Sometimes a good old-fashioned magnifying glass worked better than a blow-up of a photograph.

He'd try both.

Working at DSBD meant he had access to all the latest technology and gadgets and he'd use whatever it took. He made an effort to be open to pretty much everything.

Except his computer with its flashing cursor and that damn cat.

He looked from one photograph to another. 'Stuart, look at that,' he said, pointing to Carol's mutilated stomach. He passed him the magnifying glass.

A moment later, Stuart laid it down on the table. 'How did we miss that?'

'Have we missed something? Or is it nothing?' Love replied.

'No, it's something. They're different, Love. They're definitely different.'

Love pulled hard on his cigarette and stubbed it out.

They were back in their own office. Stuart was sitting at his desk. He ran his hands through his dark hair. What they'd come up with was subtle and it might mean something or nothing at all but it needed investigating.

The marks, the cuts on the victims, didn't match.

'So, are we back to our partner or even a copycat theory?' Stuart asked as he punched in a number on his telephone.

'Could be.' Love looked over at Stuart sitting at his desk.

Stuart was running his free hand through his hair in an agitated manner. He did this when he was perplexed. Usually when working on a case. And when it was going nowhere or not as fast as he would have liked. He spoke into the telephone and began making some scribbled notes. He wrote something down then crossed it out.

Love picked up his baseball and turned it slowly in his hand. Two murderers? Was it a copycat killer? Two women dead and one boy drugged and trussed up. Why had he included the boy? Had it been planned or had the kid been in the wrong place at the wrong time?

Stuart replaced his receiver and ran his hand through his hair. 'That was Fitch,' he said. 'The tests just came back from crime forensics. The bullet is untraceable.'

'How come?'

'It was damaged when it was discharged. One in a million chance.' He cursed silently under his breath and pushed back the chair from his desk. 'They can't give a definitive answer that the bullet was fired from the same weapon that killed Carol Butterfield.' He stood up and walked over to the window.

Love rolled his baseball across his desk and wondered. Wondered where this was leading them and how it would all end.

Chapter Nine

Day Three

Wednesday, 31 October 2012

'So, how did a New York copper,' she paused, 'or cop, as you would say, end up in London then?'

Love had given in to loneliness or hunger or something. A moment of weakness, Love wasn't sure himself. By 11:40 hours he'd put a call through to Sophie and now found himself sitting at a cloth-covered table in a busy 'it's so cool we just have to go there' bistro a few minutes walk from the Branch. It was noisy, people in a hurry, talking, eating, and Sophie was savouring every moment.

Love played with his fork. He didn't look at her. Not immediately. He was too busy looking over at the counter watching the people coming and going.

'It's a boring story, you don't want to hear it,' he replied finally.

'Oh, but I do,' Sophie said, and smiled charmingly at him.

'It was all to do with politics, good PR, we send one of ours over here and you return the compliment.'

'Like an exchange.'

'That's about it. I was in two minds about it myself and then... well, then I discovered I had nothing to keep me in New York so I took them up on their offer and volunteered.'

'And that was five years ago?'

'That's about it,' Love replied, and smiled at the waitress who placed a plate of steaming spaghetti and chicken on the table in front of him.

She looked at Love. 'I hope you enjoy your meal,' she said as she smiled in return before serving Sophie her tuna and sweetcorn salad.

'I'm glad you called me, Dick,' Sophie said, and picked up her glass of chilled house wine. She took a sip then put it down again running her fingers up and down its stem.

Love said nothing. He tucked into his meal. He was hungry and he hadn't felt like eating on his own. Not this time. Sophie had made no secret of her attraction towards him and on the spur of the moment Love had wanted to see her. Now he was beginning to think it hadn't been such a good idea. He simply wanted to eat his meal and get back to the office. He was eager to get back to his lead. Was it a lead?

'Excuse me?'

'I said, it looks like you're enjoying that,' Sophie said as she pointed with her fork at Love's plate.

Love swallowed before replying. 'I'm sorry, Sophie, yes, it's very good. How's yours?'

'It's fine. Maybe we could do this again, Dick. Make a habit out of it? Just the two of us.'

'I'm known as Love. Just Love, never by my first name,' he said as he looked directly at her. He narrowed his eyes as if weighing her up before continuing. 'I don't get much time to go out for lunch. This is a one-off, I'm afraid.'

A look of anger passed over Sophie's pretty face. She wasn't looking for marriage or anything. She just wanted to have some fun with someone who could afford to give it to her. Maybe she'd got it wrong. He might be good-looking but he wasn't any fun. Not like his name at all, she thought churlishly, tucking into his chicken, not saying much. She felt like a fool. She picked at her salad for a few minutes then reached for her glass and took another sip of wine. She glanced at Love. Threw her head back and emptied the contents.

'Would you like another?' Love nodded towards her empty glass.

'No, thanks.'

Love continued to eat his lunch. Every now and then he'd glance towards the desk where meals were handed over as takeaways and lunches were paid.

'How's your wife, Dick?' she asked suddenly then wished she hadn't.

Love laid down his fork and wiped his mouth with his paper serviette. 'I can see no reason why you should be asking after my wife,' he said quietly. 'As far as I am aware, you don't know each other, do you?'

Sophie said nothing.

'Then again, there's a lot about my wife I don't know.' He stood up. He edged round the small table and pulled out her chair. 'Shall we go?'

Sophie continued to say nothing. She simply stepped away and waited as Love paid the bill with his credit card and together they left the restaurant.

The return walk back to DSBD was silent and awkward. Love strolled along at a brisk pace while Sophie stepped alongside him with small rapid steps. The high heels of her boots click-clacking in time on the pavement until their arrival back at the Branch a few minutes later. They stood side by side in the opulent reception area waiting to show their ID. Petulance and perfume came from Sophie's direction in gulfs of waves. She flicked her hair back over one shoulder with a manicured hand causing hair gel or hairspray or something, whatever, to waft over in Love's direction. The fragrance smelt sickly and commercial and it hit Love right in the face. Love felt like he was stepping into a highly charged London fog. One that invaded his senses and it made him slightly nauseous.

'I'm sorry, Sophie. Whatever it is you're after I'm not the one.'

'I thought we could go out, have a laugh, be friends.'

'I don't have time for friends.'

'I don't blame your wife for leaving you,' she said before turning on her heel. Her pride was hurt and she was hitting back the only way she knew how.

Love looked after her. 'Neither do I,' he remarked, flashed his ID, and ambled on over to the lift.

12:30 hours

'How was lunch?'

Stuart was standing by one of the large windows looking out at the busy chaos going on around him made up of traffic and clusters of people catching buses and hailing taxis or simply shopping.

In his hand he held a mug of tea. He'd turned at the sound of Love crashing into the room. The blind swung out violently before settling back against the glass panel with a final clatter.

'What? Oh yeah, nice bit of chicken, I can recommend going there.' Love was at his desk in two strides. He began to rifle through his files. 'How did your meeting with Sister Brookes go?'

'I meant the company and thank you, my meeting went well.'

'Company? Oh yeah, well, she's sweet enough if you like them shallow but it won't happen again. I'm not interested in playing games.' Love waved his hand in the air. Never mind all that. Something had occurred to him in the lift on the way back.

Something important.

He continued to rifle through his paperwork and then did the unthinkable. He reached for his mouse and clicked it. He noticed the cat awaken with a start.

'Love?'

Love said nothing but clicked on a file and stepped back with a smile. 'There it is.'

'What?' Stuart walked over to Love's desk and peered at the screen.

'Mr Butterfield. His statement. At the time his wife was abducted and murdered, Butterfield told us he had an alibi.'

'That's right, he did, it was checked and verified. He was at work, he had witnesses.'

'Yes, but what he failed to tell us was that sometime, perhaps an hour earlier, he left his office.'

'How do you know?'

'Because I saw him, just now, at lunch.'

'And?'

'And, he was there picking up a soup and fish risotto to go. And the girl behind the counter asked him if she should put that on his account to which he mumbled something in reply, I didn't hear what he said, but then as he left, she called after him, "Bye Mr Butterfield, see you same time tomorrow."'

Stuart took a sip from his mug as Love continued.

'He's got a standing order, Stuart. Looks like he goes there every day. He didn't tell us that though, did he! He said he'd been at work at the time of his wife's murder.'

'But he was, he wasn't lying.'

'No, he wasn't lying, he simply didn't tell us the whole story. He had been in his office during the time of her abduction but what he failed to tell us was that he'd been out of the office an hour before.'

'Maybe he thought it wasn't important.'

'If it wasn't any big deal, why hide it. Why not mention it?'

'I'm acting devil's advocate here but I can't think of a reason,' Stuart said as he stared back at Love. A moment later he placed his mug down on a filing cabinet and grabbed his jacket. 'Come on.'

'Where?'

'We're going to pay Mr Butterfield a little visit. At work.'

* * *

The morning had started off well enough despite the fact Love hadn't slept properly in two days.

He was determined to get some sleep later that evening if it killed him. It probably would. Sleep deprivation. Not a good thing. Especially in his profession.

'You look terrible. Here's your tea.'

'Thanks, mate.' Love smiled as he looked over at Stuart dressed in his usual uniform of Hugo Boss suit and Morato shirt.

Love walked over to his desk pulled out his chair and sat down. He took a sip of the hot liquid. 'That's good.'

'So was the claret last night. Did you eat?'

Love frowned. 'Corned beef I think I don't remember.'

Stuart strolled over to his desk and sat on the edge. He picked up the plastic file given to him by Patricia Dawson and flicked it open.

'Want to contact this bloke who runs a charity in Cornwall or shall I?'

'The Sven Stonehead character? Already done it first thing,' Love said thinking back to his conversation earlier that morning. 'Or at least I tried to.'

On getting through to Stonehead's office in Cornwall he was told by a dim-witted secretary that Sven Stonehead was out at a meeting and wouldn't be back until later that day. Love had left his number with instructions for Mr Stonehead to contact him at his earliest opportunity.

He didn't hold out much hope.

He couldn't get past the fact why a charity based in Cornwall was interested in renting a property in north west London. And more to the point how they were able to afford to do such a thing in the first place.

'Then I'll look into the rest of the local enquiries although so far I've drawn a blank.'

'Did you have a good time with Emma last night?'

Stuart smiled a secret smile. He looked down and his hair flopped in front of his face. 'A gentleman never tells.'

And then Love got this stupid idea of taking his lunch break with Sophie. Although, as things turned out, it turned out to be not a total waste of time. Some instinct of his had told him to try the attractive little pub-come-restaurant situated in between Butterfield's office and his own.

And right now, he was glad he had.

Five minutes later, Love was parking his Volvo in a space reserved for a "Mrs Hawthorne" in the car park belonging to Property Association Lambeth.

Stuart was first out of the car.

'He'll be surprised to see us,' he remarked as they walked across the parking area towards the large modern building that housed the offices of the property association.

Love grinned in reply, took one last drag of his cigarette and discarded it in the bin filled with sand just inside the stuffy and overheated reception area.

They attracted a few admiring glances from the women sitting behind their desks and an appreciative look from the gay guy at the poll tax counter on the end. Stuart looked good. He always did. Black hair falling below the collar of his shirt, model looks combined with a pair of pale green eyes framed with long, thick eyelashes.

It's a fact that many men have the best, the thickest, or the longest eyelashes. It's like Mother Nature is giving a helping hand to the sex who don't have make-up to fall back on.

Stuart's suit, smart, fashionable and a steal for £480.00 was Hugo Boss. A James Sharp single breasted one hundred per cent wool regular fit in black. And his white shirt snugly covering his lean, muscular torso could only be a stylish, sexy Antony Morato ranging in price from £47.50 to £65.00. Stuart wore nothing else. He had them in black, white, stone-coloured. Their distinctive tapered fit suited perfectly Stuart's broad shoulders and narrow waist. The Italian designer spoke poetry with his shirt designs and their slim collars, some with chest pockets, others plain, some with a seam down the back, the designer logo branded on the chest or on the back of the shirt depending on the style.

On his feet he wore a pair of black John White Monk shoes, quality, fashionable, stylish, in supple calf leather, side silver buckle retailing around the £120.00 mark, and finally, a plain silk tie, off the peg, but quality and attractive.

And Love, in his standard uniform of a Samuel Windsor unstructured lemon jacket. Cotton and linen mix with its attractive contrasting blue lining that moulded his broad shoulders and muscular torso to perfection and normally retailing for £270.00, substantially less during their annual sales. A loosely-fitting tie over a Marks & Spencer sartorial pure cotton white shirt and black Burberry skinny fit chino trousers in cotton twill, topped off with a pair of Brazilian Anatomic & Co black calf leather chukka boots.

And as oblivious as ever to the attention he caused.

'I'd like to see Mr Butterfield,' Love said.

'It's his lunchtime you'll have to come back at quarter to two.'

'Is he in?' Stuart asked.

The woman glanced in Stuart's direction and shrugged her shoulders. 'Could be, I don't know the comings and goings of every member of staff.'

'Then we'll go and find out for ourselves.'

'You can't go in there,' she said in a bored voice before returning her attention to her nail file and magazine.

'I think you'll find we can,' Love said as he pulled out his badge. 'I'm Detective Dick Love and this,' he indicated to Stuart, 'is Detective Stuart Le Fanu.'

'Oh, I see, well, it's the third door on the...'

'We know.' Love smiled. 'We've been here before.'

The two men turned from her desk to walk down the carpeted corridor passing prints on the wall bought from Argos and a selection of artificial trees and plants sitting in their large brass pots purchased from B&Q. They stopped before a frosted glass panelled door. The sign read "Accounts". Love knocked once and went inside.

'Hello, Mr Butterfield.' Love smiled over at the slim, middle-aged man eating his lunch.

Derek Butterfield stopped with his fork midway to his mouth. He looked shocked to see Love and Stuart and there was something else there too. Fear?

'Detectives Love and Le Fanu,' he said as he placed his cutlery to one side.

'Sorry to interrupt your lunch,' Stuart said.

'That's all right,' he replied, leaning back in his chair. 'I've nearly finished.'

'We'd like a few moments of your time,' Love said.

'I gather you have some news to tell me.'

'I'm afraid not at the moment, Mr Butterfield, however, you can be assured we are doing our utmost to bring the killer to justice.' Love looked hard at him. Had he flinched? He certainly looked uncomfortable and not too happy to see them.

'Please, sit down, can I get you a cup of coffee?'

Love looked at Stuart who shook his head. 'No, thanks,' Love said, and smiled. 'We're fine.'

Stuart nodded towards the remains of the fish risotto. 'That looks pretty good.'

'Yes.' Derek looked from one man to the other. 'Yes, it is, even after being reheated in the microwave.'

Love glanced down at the bin next to Derek Butterfield's desk. On the top lay an empty and discarded polystyrene cup with a plastic spoon on top. He looked again and read out the logo. 'Locks.' He smiled. 'Ever tried their chicken?'

'No.'

'You should, it's real good.'

'Really? I'll bear that in mind.'

'Go there a lot, do you?' Stuart asked.

'Yes, sometimes.'

'Usually at lunch?' Love said with a smile.

'Yes, I get my lunch from Locks,' Derek replied. 'Look, what is this all about?'

'Did you go there the day your wife was abducted and killed?'

Derek picked up his paper serviette and wiped his knife and fork, threw away the serviette and placed the cutlery neatly to one side. 'The day my wife died is a blur, Detective. I can't remember if I went to Locks or not, but I most probably did.'

'But you usually pick up your lunch there, isn't that right?'

'Like I said, I go there a lot but I can't remember if I went there the day my wife was murdered,' he replied, and looked at Love straight in the eye. 'Why?'

'Just tidying up ends, Mr Butterfield. We're carrying out an investigation into your wife's death and that of Monica Dixon's and we have reason to believe they are connected.'

'Really? What makes you say that?'

'I'm not at liberty to say, I'm afraid, but as pointless as our questions may appear to you, they are pertinent. I assure you.'

'We can check at the bistro if you can't recall,' Stuart said as he flipped open his notepad.

'I've told you already I was at work sitting right here when my wife was killed. I have witnesses,' he said, and waved his arm in the direction of three other desks within the same office.

Stuart and Love looked over. They nodded to a young middle-aged woman who was sitting with her back to the window, she was staring at them both. She smiled and went back to her magazine. It was My Weekly or something like that. The type of magazine that promises and delivers a typical lunchtime read providing escapism and recipes for tasty meals until it was time to return to reality.

On the opposite side of the office a man in his late forties continued to enter some information on to his computer while a younger man in his twenties sitting closest to Derek Butterfield was speaking rapidly into his mobile phone.

'Mr Butterfield, we're not accusing you of killing your wife,' Stuart said.

'It certainly feels like it.'

'I apologise but we're only trying to do our job,' Stuart replied, and glanced at Love.

'Mr Butterfield, let me give you my private mobile number in case you remember.'

'Certainly,' he said, and reached for a pencil. 'Okay.' His left hand hovered over the white sheet of his pad as he waited patiently.

'It's 2607-2828033,' Love said, and waited as Derek wrote the number down.

'No, that's my old one. I have a new number, I am sorry,' he said. 'I'll give it to you again.'

'That's all right,' Derek said. He smiled and crossed out the number he'd just written down. Carefully. Methodically.

Love relayed another set of numbers. He and Stuart watched as Derek copied them down on to the sheet. They thanked him for his time and left.

They were outside in the car park before either of them spoke. Love looked up at the trees shedding their leaves. Already a few had settled on the bonnet of his car. They looked like big blobs of confetti.

He pulled up his collar. Time he put his linen jacket away and bring out his Austin Reed charcoal Donegal 2 in 1 wool jacket. A cool-looking single-breasted jacket costing £199.00, made from an Italian-woven wool outer jacket, flap pockets and two buttons to fasten, incorporating an internal grey quilted insert with a funnel neck and zip fastening.

Love might not own a substantial amount of clothes but the few he did were of good quality and lasted him years. He'd always appreciated the fact that good quality clothes hardly ever went out of fashion, which suited Love just fine not being a slave to the fashion industry, but it was Stuart who had introduced him to the delights of Burberry and Austin Reed. Love's wardrobe, after years of good service and with the assistance of Stuart's expert eye and guidance had recently been updated and its stock replenished.

It was the best looking it had ever been.

Love looked over at Stuart. He was waiting by the passenger door. The collar of his black Jaeger pure cashmere overcoat pulled up against the brisk wind. He was looking at Love.

'He did it.'

Love pressed his key, the car beeped, the doors clunked he looked steadily at Stuart. 'He's certainly done something.'

Chapter Ten

14:00 hours

'I hope it snows at Christmas,' Love said as he threw his cigarette butt to the ground and stepped on it.

On leaving PAL, the two men had detoured to Love's flat to see to Julie before driving back to the Branch. Love parked the car and the two men walked down Kennington Lane to Locks bistro. It started to rain just as they stepped through the door. Stuart brushed a couple of stray drops from his sleeve and smiled at the girl behind the counter. She blushed and smiled back.

'Good afternoon, I'm Detective Le Fanu and this is Detective Love.'

'Hello,' she replied and pushed a stray hair away from her eyes. 'What would you like?'

'Some information.' Love smiled. 'Can we speak to someone in charge - the manager perhaps?'

'Yes, all right, I'll just get him,' the girl said, and stepped down from behind her counter to walk through a swing door that led to an office.

The noises coming from the back indicated the kitchen was still in full throttle of which the delicious smells confirmed. A moment later, a young man in black jeans and a black T-shirt walked over to where Stuart and Love were waiting.

He smiled at them showing an even row of white teeth.

Love and Stuart flashed their badges.

'We're in the process of an investigation and I wonder if I might ask a few questions,' Love said.

The manager said nothing.

'I wonder if you would check a bill of receipt,' he continued.

The manager still said nothing when suddenly he clicked his fingers. 'I know you, man! You were in here earlier, weren't you?'

'Yes, I had lunch here today.'

'I remember. Had a foxy-looking chick with you,' he said with a grin.

Love suspected that was the reason he remembered him. 'Yes, a work colleague,' Love replied stiffly.

'Cool girl,' he said, and waved his hand up and down fanning his face. 'Is she your girlfriend then? You got something going on?'

'No, she is not, Mr... and you are?'

'Oh, yeah, sorry! Chris Jagger NRTM.'

'NRTM?'

'No Relation to Mick,' he said. 'Before you ask.'

'I wasn't going to,' Love said.

Stuart looked away and smiled.

'Mr Jagger...'

'Chris, please.'

'Chris, it would be real helpful if you would look at an account belonging to one of your customers. We believe he's a regular.'

'What's this all about then?'

'It's simply an enquiry, but if you could just take a look, I'm not asking to take anything away.'

Stuart stepped forward. 'It's only information we're after, it would be a bore to have to go through all the rigmarole of a warrant and you know how that would look for business and you know how time-consuming that would be...'

Chris interrupted Stuart. 'Yeah, man, no problem. What do you want to know?'

Love gave him the dates of the week of Carol Butterfield's murder.

'I'll have to get them from storage seeing as they're a few weeks old,' he said. 'Be back in a minute.' He grinned and disappeared into his office.

The two detectives took time to look about the small bistro. The restaurant was full and customers were still coming in through the door waiting to be seated or to collect an order. The small round tables were seated closely to each other. Something sounding like Burt Bacharach could be discerned throbbing gently in the background as "Walk on by" competed with a room full of customers talking, eating, and exchanging pleasantries or disappointments depending on how their morning had panned out.

A couple of minutes later the manager returned with a box file in his hands. He flicked off the lid looked at the two detectives and waited.

Love ran off Butterfield's name and description, verified it was indeed Derek, and asked to see the meals he'd ordered and collected that particular week.

Chris NRTM sorted through the statements and pulled a few out. He passed them to Love.

Stuart kept up a stream of chatter to which the manager eagerly responded. He was a friendly sort, had nothing to hide, simply going through life the easiest way possible.

'Stuart,' Love said. He passed a handful of receipts over to his partner.

Stuart looked down at the bills. There was an entry for every day that week, at the same time, for the same meal, thick vegetable soup, a buttered roll and fish risotto. Except on the day of his wife's murder.

'If there's no entry that means he didn't order or he didn't pick up?' Stuart asked.

'He usually gives us a bell if he's not coming by but when he does come in he collects it between 12:05 and 12:30 hours.'

'But he didn't order anything that day?'

Chris looked down at the receipts. 'It doesn't look like it. He doesn't come in every day,' he added.

'But he comes by most days.'

'Yeah, he's a really good customer. He must have had something special on to keep him away that day.'

Love said, 'But he came in every other day that week.'

'That's right. Every day except Thursday.'

'Anything at all you can remember will be of help,' Love said.

Chris looked into the distance. He creased his brow in concentration. Suddenly he clicked his fingers and a huge smile covered his face. 'Yeah, that was it! He said something about having something important to do.'

'Meeting someone perhaps?'

'Yeah, I guessed it was a woman.'

'He has an account with you?' Stuart asked.

'Yeah, he settles up quickly. Doesn't let it run over a week.'

'Thanks, Mr Jagger, you've been very helpful.' Love smiled and turned away.

Stuart handed back his receipts. 'Thanks.'

'Hey!' Chris called after them as they were about to step outside. 'That chick you were with,' he said to Love, 'if she's not your girlfriend, you reckon I could ask her out? You think I'm in with a chance?'

'Sure, I reckon you're just what she's looking for.'

'Why do you want it to snow?'

'What?'

'Just before we went into Locks you said you wished it would snow.'

'Because I hate it of course,' Love replied exhaling the smoke from his cigarette. He took one last quick drag of his cigarette and stubbed it out. He'd lit it only half a minute earlier but was expediting this method of cutting down on smoking.

Stuart looked over his desk with a puzzled expression on his face.

The two detectives had returned to the office the afternoon before, spent a few hours working on the case before going home at 19:00 hours, only for Love to return to the office at midnight. Stuart had rejoined Love a couple of hours later. Their desks were littered with empty cartons. The sort that put money in the pockets of fast-food restaurants but little nourishment and protein in their customers' bodies. The food was quick and on hand. It did the job.

'What! You don't think Americans can be ironic?'

'That's not being ironic that's simply sarcasm.'

'Is it? I thought it was a fair effort,' Love said with a grin.

'I suppose it's not purely a prerogative of the British although you have to admit it is uncommon in an American,' Stuart said as he threw some of the previous night's remains of their meal in the bin next to his desk. 'Don't worry, marks for trying, we'll make a Brit out of you yet.'

'I'm not sure I like the sound of that - could be painful.'

Stuart smiled. 'That's more like it.'

Love grinned. 'No, seriously, it hasn't snowed once since I've been in England.'

'It has. It snowed in April.'

'Stuart, slush doesn't count. That's the one thing I miss about New York. The big snows at winter.' Love strolled over to the kettle, shook it, switched it on.

'Shall we bring Butterfield in?'

'We can't. On what charge?'

'Lying!'

'He's involved.'

'He's certainly involved somehow.'

'We haven't thought this through. What's his motive? They were happily married.'

'Supposedly.'

'Yeah, supposedly,' Love muttered and thrust a tea bag in to a mug. He held it up to Stuart who shook his head.

'No, thanks,' he said. 'I need to go home have a quick shower and shave.'

Love poured in the boiling water and added milk. Then sugar. He stirred it thoughtfully. Something the manager had said.

'Jagger NRTM said that Butterfield had been in every day that week.' His hand strayed towards an open pack of digestives then changed his mind. The last one he'd tried had been soggy.

'That's right. Except Thursday.'

'Except Thursday, the day his wife was killed. So you see what that means. He went back the following day on the Friday, the day after his wife's murder.'

'Business as usual.'

'Life as normal,' Love said, and stepped away from the sideboard on which held the kettle and necessities for making hot drinks. An attractive piece of furniture by Mantis purchased from Oak Furniture Land. A lightly waxed, solid mango sideboard boasting six chunky compact drawers with cubed handles and spacious cupboard space underneath accessed by two doors.

On the top stood a rattan basket in which nestled a handful of tiny containers of milk dusty from lack of use, to the side of which a split bag of sugar, a bottle of stevia, a box of Earl Grey tea bags, two opened jars of coffee (one decaffeinated and rock hard from lack of use), an electric kettle, a mini fridge and a couple of mugs. And to one side sitting in the corner on its own composite marble shelf a stylish round glass sink in black by Padova.

He grabbed his tea and sat down. He eyed Stuart across the desk. 'It could be his way of coping with grief. It affects people in different ways and grief is a personal thing. Some retreat into themselves, some take it quietly, while others wail and flail about and make a huge noise and accuse everyone within earshot.'

Stuart said nothing.

'Personally, I think all that noise and wailing should be left to the Greeks and the Arabs. They do it better than anyone.'

'Like a culture thing.'

'Stuart, it's always been my opinion and proven many times, when someone shouts or protests the loudest, they have the most to hide.'

'Butterfield didn't shout. He went back to work and lunch per normal.'

'He's growling now. He's hiding something and I reckon it's because he's feeling guilty.'

'Feeling guilty because he murdered his wife? Or that he wasn't there to save her? Or simply that he wasn't there for her period. Guilt can take on many forms.'

'Yes, it can. But think of this. The crosses he made today were methodical and similar to the ones made on his wife,' he paused to take a sip of his tea, 'and he's left-handed. I reckon he's been playing it close to his chest and now, a few weeks later, the guilt is starting to eat away at him. He's getting nervous. He's getting irritable. That's not grief. Not even allowing for personal differences.'

'What was Butterfield's motive?'

'I don't know. All I know is that something there isn't adding up.' He picked up his mug and took another sip. 'I know,' he grimaced. 'I know, we're between the rock and the hard place with this one but he's hiding something, partner. Believe me.'

'I believe you, Love, but without a motive.' Stuart shrugged. 'By all accounts, they were happily married.'

Happily married? Yeah, he thought, course they were.

'We need to talk to someone who wasn't questioned.' He grabbed his mug and stood up. He stepped over to the window and stared down at the people rushing by. He watched the nose to tail traffic crawling along like a disjointed caterpillar. He glanced at the traffic lights as they turned back to red. He noticed the traffic cameras mounted high up, black and glistening in the soft rain, recording every move. He took a welcome sip of his tea. It was cold outside.

Christmas was on its way.

The thought didn't cheer him.

'Like who? Neighbours have been questioned along with their friends.'

'Cameras don't lie.'

'Cameras?' repeated Stuart.

'Yep.' Love turned and grinned. 'As in security cameras.' He took another sip from his mug. 'Hospitals have security cameras.'

'How's that going to help?'

'Her husband claims he never went with her to the hospital during her voluntary visits and Sister Brookes backs that up. So, what if she took advantage of her time there and visited someone else besides the children and the senior citizens, I mean, OAPs.'

'It's a long shot, Love. We're accusing the woman of having an affair.'

'Not necessarily,' he said, and set his mug down on the floor. 'Maybe just some light entertainment, a friend, but it would give us a possible motive.' Love pulled out his wallet and retrieved a card. He studied it, replaced it and his wallet in his back pocket, pulled out his mobile from his jacket. 'And I know just the person who can help without this getting too public.' He punched in a number, knelt down and grabbed his tea, strolled over to his desk and sat down.

A moment later, the phone was answered. 'Doctor Cooper? Dick Love here.' The call turned out to be short. They spoke for less than a minute.

Stuart looked on with interest. 'Can she help?'

Love sat back in his chair and grinned. A sudden knock on the door prevented Love from replying. He and Stuart glanced over at the same time.

'I'll get it,' Love said as Stuart began to get up. He pushed back his chair, strode over to the door and pulled it open.

A woman popped her head into the room. 'Love, Stuart, you're wanted by the commander right away.'

Love stared at the figure in front of him. 'Thanks, Jenny.'

Jenny Gare. Fifty-two years old. Extremely attractive. Long, straight chestnut-coloured hair peppered with silver streaks. Entirely natural. Large, deep-set blue eyes. Nicely dressed. Light make-up. Eyeshadow, powder, flash of rouge and always topped off with her trademark pale lilac lipstick. Divorced. One son. Living in Australia. Jenny was sophisticated. Confident. Enjoyed being single. Enjoyed her job as personal assistant to the commander.

And she'd enjoyed her liaison with Love. While it lasted.

'Why didn't you call down on the telephone?' Love asked.

'Had to come down anyway to the seventh to pick up something,' she replied.

Love put his hand on the door frame inches away from her face. He looked down at her. 'Not that I'm complaining. How are you, Jenny?'

'I'm fine, Love, just fine.' She smiled. Love remembered that smile. He liked that smile.

'Let's go.' Stuart said. He'd already stood up and had walked over to where Love and Jenny were standing. Jenny stepped back to allow the men through. Stuart closed the door and punched in the code.

'Thanks, Jenny, see you later,' Stuart said.

'Yes, see you.' Jenny smiled and glanced at Love. He glanced back at her. He didn't say anything. She turned and went on her way. Stuart and Love watched her go before walking over to the lift. Stuart pressed the button and the doors opened immediately. They stepped inside and Love touched the button for the tenth floor.

Stuart spoke first. 'No regrets?'

'None at all.'

'What killed it again?'

'She didn't like dogs.'

'That'll do it every time.' Stuart grinned. 'No awkward moments either?'

'None at all.' Thank goodness for real women with maturity, Love thought to himself as his mind wandered to Sophie. He briefly compared her to Jenny. He shook his head. No comparison. 'It's been over for nearly a year now and we only dated for a couple of weeks. Three tops.'

'Intense though, wasn't it.'

'Yeah,' Love replied. 'It was pretty intense.'

Chapter Eleven

14:50 hours

'And that's what you've got on him.'

He leant forward and placed his fingers in a steeple underneath his chin. Sir Charles Guildford, KCMG, Commander. His hair was short, grey and thick, his eyes steel blue and he was fierce as heck but always outwardly calm and always the gentleman.

'Yes, sir,' Love replied.

He and Stuart were standing in their commander's office in front of his desk. It was a corner office with a 180 degrees view over London. The carpet underfoot was about one inch thick. The furniture was mahogany and antique. Stuart always felt like he was back at school when speaking with the commander.

'It's not enough,' he said. He took a pen from its holder and started making some notes on a large leather, gold-edged notebook in front of him. 'It's not enough to bring him in on, however, I do commend your ingenuity.' He paused from his writing. 'Go back and talk to him again and speak to his co-workers and ask them if they remember Butterfield leaving the office earlier in the day, around lunchtime.'

'Yes, sir.'

'I do find it interesting, however, that when he crossed out your mobile number the pattern appeared to match the mutilation on his wife's chest.'

'We got a good look without making it too obvious and it looked pretty much the same, sir, but obviously it would need clarification,' Love replied.

'Sir,' Stuart began, 'not only that but it was the way he did it. Carefully and methodically, he considers before each action. It's like John Fitch said. Whoever mutilated Carol Butterfield's chest did it methodically and it was personal.'

'And he's definitely hiding something,' Love added.

'He's your only suspect?'

'At this stage,' Love began, 'so far, yes, Derek Butterfield is our only suspect. I agree the link is tenuous, sir, but it's all we've got.'

'Apart from a link to St Katherine's,' Stuart added.

'Tell me more.'

Love glanced at Stuart and explained. 'Gut feeling, sir, nothing more concrete to go on right now.'

Sir Charles stopped writing, laid down his pen, and gave his full attention to Love. 'I know all about your gut feelings, Love, stay with it. And as for Butterfield, I agree, something's not right. Go and talk to him again and take it from there.' Sir Charles picked up his pen and resumed his writing. They were dismissed. 'And keep me informed,' he added.

They were outside the commander's office in the reception area when Stuart spoke. 'I don't blame him for not going for it.'

Jenny's young secretary looked up from her typing.

'It was a long shot, but we can at least go back and talk to him again and see what happens. Let's take it from there,' Love said.

Derek Butterfield was turning out to be the closest suspect they had in this case so far.

The motive though.

What was his motive?

The two men stepped into the lift and pressed the button for their floor. 'By the way, did you have any luck with Doctor Cooper and the hospital surveillance tapes?'

'She said she'll see to it and let me know,' Love said.

'Maybe we'll get lucky.' The lift stopped, it pinged gently, the doors silently opened and the two men got out. 'It can only help.'

'Exactly,' Love said. 'And talking of which I'm just going next door. I'll see you in a minute.' He ambled into the lobby and walked a few steps to the office next to his own. He tapped on the wooden frame surrounding the glass. A moment later the door opened and Love strode in.

'How's it going?'

'We're here. Doing what we can when you need us.'

'Be on standby?'

'Always. You know that. Charlie's Angels are always at the ready. We look out for our own.'

Love nodded and went out again. He knew that. Charlie's Angels. He smiled. What wag came up with that name.

Dick Love DCA, Detective Class A, was part of a worldwide but fairly small experimental group consisting of detectives, both men and women, whose ages ranged between thirty-two and sixty-five.

They had been especially chosen from their units because they showed aptitude, possessed certain skills, and went that little bit further and weren't afraid to do so. Once picked, the individual then underwent a six-month intense training programme to see where their skills could be put to good use or even learn new ones.

The rate of detectives who saw the training through to the end or even passed was low, about one in twenty. Love was one of the few who had passed. A recruiting official had contacted Love in New York and had explained what they were attempting to set out to achieve. The thought of belonging to an elite group answering to no one but one boss high up in the hierarchy, Sir Charles Guildford who would work from his offices based at MI6 and Belgravia Police Station, appealed to Love.

He'd always had a problem with the chain of command and his superiors especially when they were idiots and had no business being there in the first place.

Although incidents would occur in which the team was required to work at various locations, they would be based in a suite of offices located at the headquarters of MI6 where much of the on-site services would be available to the DCAs.

Local police forces throughout London would also be at their disposal twenty-four hours a day.

Love had listened with interest but he had one problem - Belle. He knew she wouldn't want to leave New York, but as things turned out, it hadn't been a problem at all. He undertook the training with a fierce passion like he was trying to drive out all his devils and that's because he was.

He passed with distinction.

These individuals were a few steps above regular detectives. They were the best of the best working for Sir Charles known in-house as Charlie's Angels.

Except none of them looked anything like Farrah Fawcett. This was the real world.

Not television.

'What else did you get from Sister Brookes?' Love was standing looking out of the window in his office.

Two hours had passed during which time Love and Stuart had been working solidly at their desks apart from when Stuart disappeared for forty-five minutes to go home, shower and shave.

He leant back in his chair his hair still a little moist from his shower. He stared at Love thoughtfully. 'Only that Carol Butterfield was a good volunteer, always arrived alone and left alone, never met anyone there, as far as Sister Brookes was aware.'

'So, basically what she told me.'

'Basically, except, she intimated there might have been an ulterior motive for Carol's visits.'

'Really?' Love said then chuckled. 'I knew you'd get further with her. You can always rely on those Irish good looks and charm. Never fails.'

Stuart smiled. 'Yeah, anyway, it's not what she said, it's what she didn't say.' His hair flopped over one eye. He flicked it back with a toss of his head. 'Just a feeling I got, Love, that someone at the hospital might have been a reason for her dropping by so often.'

'Like a lover?'

'Exactly. What better way to hide it behind volunteer visits. It's almost perfect.'

'Almost,' Love replied as he momentarily turned round to face Stuart. 'It's still not necessarily the case and even then not necessarily someone who worked at the hospital.'

'Absolutely. Could have been a patient.'

'Or a fellow volunteer.'

Love watched as a woman ran across Vauxhall Bridge. A car sounded his hooter. He leant on the thing for about ten seconds. Wow! If cars could swear this one had Tourette's. 'I think it's time we met up with Mr Sullivan.'

'Definitely,' Stuart said as he glanced down at his wrist. 'Let me grab a roll from downstairs for on the way,' he said. 'I didn't bring anything in with me.'

'No problem. We'll get something from the canteen.'

'But you've already had lunch.'

'Yeah, but it was an early lunch.' He grinned. 'And now I fancy something sweet like a Danish pastry.'

'And Love?'

'Yeah?'

'I'm only half Irish you know. I'm Oxford-born.'

'Yes, maybe.' He grinned, and said, 'But it's the better half.'

* * *

Love and Stuart were in the car and on their way to visit Mr Sullivan.

Stuart had rung ahead to discover Sullivan was at the hospital and currently in between patients. Stuart informed his receptionist they were on their way to see him.

'I just got the preliminary report back from FST,' Stuart replied. He gestured with his head to the back seat of his XF Luxury. 'I've brought it along with me.'

'Thanks,' Love said. He half turned and stretched over to the beige leather seat behind him. He turned back to face the front and opened the file. 'Okay, let's have a look.'

As Love studied the report, Stuart negotiated traffic, traffic lights and early Christmas shoppers as well as taking the time to take a few bites out of his egg and watercress granary roll.

He drove into Kennington Lane and right into South Lambeth Road and past the parade of shops, a few already plastered with Christmas decorations. Glittering. Garish. Bright. Enticing. He thought of the presents he would buy Emma and Shannon. Shannon was easy. A Sindy doll, preferably vintage, a couple of outfits for her Sindy doll along with Sindy's horse. Emma was not so easy. What do you give someone who claims they have everything they could possibly want or need?

Stuart stole a glance at his partner sitting next to him. Talk about practically impossible, Stuart mused. At least Julie would be easy to buy for. But Love! It was almost as exasperating as the case they were working on. He shook his head to clear all thoughts.

Had Love spoken?

'Sorry, what did you say?' he said, wiping his mouth and fingers on the large paper serviette spread out on his lap.

'What about footprints?'

'As far as footprints are concerned no clear prints can be ascertained. Only a number of nondescript larger prints side by side a few indentations of what could be those belonging to a female.'

'Like he was wearing moon boots? Or perhaps he was wearing something over his feet.'

'To cover up any prints he might make.'

'Yeah,' Love said. He gazed in front of him at the polished mahogany dashboard with all its buttons and switches. 'Christ, Stuart, it's like sitting in a cockpit of an aircraft.'

Stuart smiled. 'So I had to have the watch to match the car, now didn't I.'

Love glanced at Stuart's Bell & Ross WW1 92 exposed on his wrist. 'Wanker!' Love said under his breath, and grinned.

Stuart had been so excited when he'd taken delivery of his watch a month earlier. Like a little boy getting his first bicycle at Christmas. It was a beauty. Black alligator strap. Not so good for the reptile. Stylish. Sheer quality. Nice touch using technology from an aircraft's cockpit. An original piece without being in your face. And that's why Stuart had chosen it.

Love glanced down. He was happy with his retro-style watch. A Timex Originals Sportster. Black dial, luminescent hands, rubber strap, water-resistant up to fifty metres. Handy should he ever go diving or fall in the Thames. Stranger things have happened especially when chasing a perpetrator. Cost him £50.00 on the nose looked good and it kept decent time.

'You said to cover up his prints.'

'That's right, mate, possibly something worn over his footwear,' Stuart said, and reached over to press a silver-coloured button. Immediately a blast of warm air shot out through the vents and on to the windscreen. 'Something like FST would use.'

'Or a surgeon,' Love said quietly.

17:15 hours

Five minutes later, Stuart pulled into the car park of St Katherine's Hospital.

The hospital was substantial in size but not overly large. Private. Built in the late Victorian period and extensively modernised. At least internally. From the façade it looked pure 19th century. Specialised in psychiatric illnesses and broken bones. It was made up of mostly private accommodation although a handful of rooms and a small casualty wing was open to the general public in addition to a couple of wards which were small and open-plan.

He cruised along until he found the spaces marked "Executive Staff" and pulled into an empty spot. He switched the paddle shift control into "P" for park and turned off the ignition. He was still undecided as to whether he preferred paddle controls or the lever stick found in other or older automatic vehicles.

The two men stepped out of the car at the same time. Stuart pointed his key and pressed it. The car beeped the doors clunked, softly and with style, and together they strolled into the building via a side entrance although just as impressive with its large glass sliding doors and instant warmth that smacked all over your body.

This was a different part of the hospital.

Away from the patients and emergency wards. It was more restful. Less stressful. At least on the surface. Behind the walls of these long, carpeted hallways lay offices and consulting rooms where patients were given good news. Or bad. Which might account for the pastel-coloured artwork on the walls, Love mused.

To soften the blow.

They strolled over to a board listing the various doctors and location of their offices. Found Mr Sullivan's name listed on the third floor stepped over to the lift which had just arrived and were swiftly transported upstairs. The lift smelt faintly of that distinctive hospital smell no one can actually identify along with a trace of perfume from the previous occupant.

'Not bad,' Love said as they stepped out of the lift a few moments later.

'It's where the money is,' Stuart replied.

'Make the environment as pleasant as possible. You'd want that if you were told you had only six months to live.'

'Perhaps. Although it's nearer the end of your life you'd want the nice surroundings. Wouldn't you?'

Love stared ahead. In front of them was a glass door marked "Mr Sullivan". 'I just want to go quick, mate. I've always had the feeling I would.'

Stuart opened his mouth to say something but Love had already pushed open the door. Together they approached a slim figure sitting behind an impressive mahogany desk. She was surrounded by the usual office-come-reception paraphernalia. Telephones. PC and printer. In trays. Out trays. Wooden. Nice quality. Folders. Files. Paperwork. A wooden pen holder. Nice one, Stuart noticed. Made from ash. He looked at the young woman. Blue-hazel eyes, blonde hair pulled back into a chignon. High cheekbones.

He smiled.

She smiled back.

'Hello,' he said, as he pulled out his ID. 'I'm DCA Stuart Le Fanu.'

'And I'm DCA Dick Love,' Love said as he flashed his wallet showing his identification.

'You sound like a double act,' the young woman said. She had a low voice. Sensuous. She looked at the two men appreciatively. Her gaze lingered on Stuart.

'We're here to talk to Mr Sullivan,' Stuart said.

'Yes, of course. We were expecting you. Would you wait one moment, please?' She reached over to the telephone complete with intercom picked up the receiver and pressed a button. A moment later she was speaking quietly into the phone. She replaced the receiver in its cradle and looked up at Love and Stuart.

'Mr Sullivan will be with you in just a minute. Would you like to take a seat while you wait?'

'Thank you,' Love said. He glanced at Stuart with a query in his eyes.

Stuart nodded almost imperceptibly before turning back to the receptionist. He removed his cashmere overcoat and smiled his charming smile at the girl, and again, she smiled back.

Love turned round and looked about him. Pale brown wool carpet offset with pale yellow walls. Similar yellow to my jacket, he thought to himself with a wry grin and determined he approved of the colour scheme before him. He stared at the artwork on the walls. An interesting collection made up of pictures and monochrome photographs.

Sitting in the corner of the room was a terracotta plant pot inside of which was a cheese plant so large it was in danger of taking over the whole office space. Pleasant ambience. He glanced at Stuart chatting quietly to the young woman behind the desk. Nice-looking people. Mr Sullivan likes to surround himself with pretty things, thought Love.

Suddenly the phone buzzed. She picked it up. Spoke quietly. Replaced the receiver.

'You may go in now.' She smiled at both Love and Stuart. Her smile lingering that little bit longer on Stuart's handsome face.

Love strolled over to the door that led to Mr Sullivan's office knocked once and took a step inside. He glanced over his shoulder. Stuart was still chatting to the receptionist. He returned Love's glance, nodded, walked over to where Love was waiting and together they entered the office of the distinguished Mr Sullivan.

The first thing that hit Love was the smell of Paco Rabanne. Not that he knew it at the time. Stuart told him after the meeting.

The second thing that hit him was the neatness of Sullivan's office. Coldly efficient. Decorated in blues and chrome it was the antithesis of his warm and colourful reception area.

Stark pieces of expensive artwork by Gilgian Gelzer with their splashes of reds, blues and yellow proved to be the only colour in the room sitting side by side and interspersed with the monochrome photographs Love had noticed in the other room.

A man rose from behind his chrome and glass desk. Handsome. Hair the colour of steel. A cool professional at the top of his game at only forty-nine years old. Well groomed. Pale blue eyes stared at Love and Stuart from behind a pair of round horn-rimmed glasses. His mouth, smiling, was a little on the thin side and the hand being offered was neatly manicured and suntanned. A flash of gold sparkled from his cuff and little finger. A signet ring, Love observed, as he caught sight of a crest in the centre of which sat a significant diamond.

Diamonds can scratch.

'How do you do?' James Sullivan spoke first.

Stuart stepped forward and shook the hand being offered. He flashed his ID and introduced himself. 'We appreciate your taking the time to see us at such short notice,' he said.

'My pleasure,' Mr Sullivan replied with a smile.

'Dick Love DCA, thanks for seeing us, sir.'

'Please,' Sullivan indicated graciously to the two leather and chrome chairs in front of his desk. 'Please have a seat and let me know how I can help you gentlemen.'

Stuart glanced at Love before speaking. 'It's about an ex-patient of yours. A young boy called Stephen Butterfield. I understand you removed his tonsils.'

'Let me look at my files,' Sullivan replied. He turned to one side to face his computer. Large screen. Thin. Not unlike Scott Enfield's, determined Love. He watched as Sullivan manoeuvred the mouse expertly with precision, little fuss and minimal energy. 'Ah, yes, the Butterfield boy, that's right. At fourteen he was a little old to have his tonsils removed, let's see, I performed the operation on Monday, 14 August 2012, he stayed overnight and was discharged the following morning.' He turned back to Love and Stuart with a query in his eyes. 'What more can I tell you?'

'Did you know his mother, Carol Butterfield?' Stuart asked. His notepad flipped open and resting on his knee, Montblanc grasped in his left hand. Hovering. Waiting.

'His mother? Only as the mother of my patient. I hardly knew her. Why?'

'What about the father, Derek Butterfield?'

'Again only in the capacity as the parent of my patient.'

'So you didn't meet either one outside office hours?' Stuart asked as he scribbled something down.

'Outside office... what on earth are you implying?' He smiled showing an even row of teeth. Fairly white, but not glaringly snow-blind white and in-your-face.

Love who'd been sitting saying nothing, simply quietly observing, spoke up. 'We are implying nothing, Mr Sullivan. Please understand we have to ask these questions no matter how inconsequent they may appear to you.'

'No, I didn't meet with either of the parents outside these premises,' he said. 'That much I can assure you.'

'Carol Butterfield was a volunteer here at the hospital,' Stuart said. 'You don't recall bumping into her?'

'No, sorry.'

'We're dealing with a murderer here, a possible serial killer,' Love said. 'Is there anything else you can tell us that may be of help?'

Sullivan sat back in his chair. He raised his hands to his chin fingers pointing straight upwards like he was praying. 'I'm sorry, nothing... unless you'd like to speak to Doctor Cooper. She assisted me during the operation.'

'Is it normal to have two doctors present in such a simple operation?' asked Stuart.

'Normally, no, but the boy has a history of panic attacks which raises his blood pressure and this can have a detrimental effect on the whole procedure.'

'But surely he was under. How can he get a panic attack?'

'It was only a local he wasn't under all the way.'

'Why not?' asked Love.

'The mother didn't want it. Had a thing against full anaesthetic.'

'What sort of thing?' asked Love.

'His heart stopped on two previous occasions whilst undergoing minor operations. The boy appeared to suffer an adverse effect so it's logical to avoid full anaesthetic completely whenever possible.'

'Why not try another type of anaesthetic?' Stuart said.

'The mother wasn't interested in exploring that avenue at this time.'

'So Doctor Cooper was present more in the role of therapist, to keep Stephen calm throughout?'

'Yes, you can say that,' he said. 'Her area is currently in paediatrics and young adults. And she did it as a favour to me,' he added.

Love raised his eyebrows in query. 'As a favour to you? Why is that?'

Sullivan smiled a secret smile. 'Nothing you need to know about, Detective Love, I can assure you, however, why not speak to Doctor Cooper? Her office is just a few doors down from my own.'

Stuart closed his notepad with a snap. He pushed his Montblanc into an inside silk pocket in his suit jacket. Smiled and stood up. He proffered his hand towards Sullivan. 'Thank you very much for your time, Mr Sullivan, we appreciate it.'

Sullivan stood up and shook Stuart's hand. 'You're welcome. Anytime at all.'

Stuart removed his coat from behind the chair and shrugged it on.

Love got out of his chair. Every move a deliberate action like he'd put a lot of thought into it. He reached out and extended his arm towards Sullivan. 'Thank you, sir, appreciate it.'

Sullivan nodded and smiled. He sat down behind his impressive desk and tapped something into his keyboard. The two men were effectively dismissed.

'There is just one more thing, sir?'

Mr Sullivan glanced up questioningly. 'Yes?'

'Did you happen to know a Monica or Timmy Dixon?'

'Were they patients here?'

'That we don't know,' Love said.

'Let me check,' Mr Sullivan said. He tapped a few keys. The computer whirred for a moment before coming up blank. 'I have nothing on file and the names don't ring a bell.'

'I have a picture,' Love said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the two shots of Monica and Timmy.

Mr Sullivan took them, gazed down first at one then the other. 'No, sorry, as far as I'm aware I've never seen either of them.' He handed them back and smiled. 'Goodbye and good luck with your investigations.'

Love nodded and smiled. He and Stuart let themselves out of Mr Sullivan's office and strolled into the reception area. Love smiled over at the girl behind the desk. 'Thanks,' he said. 'Have a nice day.'

'Bye,' she said, and glanced at Stuart.

He looked back at her. 'Cheerio,' he said quietly. 'It was a pleasure meeting you.'

The girl smiled and lowered her gaze. Love opened the door and together they left.

Once out in the expansive corridors of the third floor, Love let out a sigh. Something about that man had needled him. He was too in control. Too cool. He turned to Stuart.

'So, what did you find out, you Irish charmer?'

'The distinguished Mr Sullivan is a neat and precise man. Doesn't smoke or drink. He's single and devoted to his doctoring and art and,' Stuart paused, 'he's ambidextrous.'

'Really?' That was interesting. 'The art?'

'You know the photographs on the wall?'

Love thought back to the geographical views hanging on the walls of the reception area and in Sullivan's office. 'Yeah?'

'All Sullivan's work,' Stuart said. 'If he hadn't gone into medicine there's a good chance this is the direction he'd have pursued.'

'As a professional photographer.' Love thought back to his meeting with Timmy. What was that he'd said about cameras?

'As a professional photographer,' Stuart echoed.

They'd reached the lifts. Love punched the button for the ground floor. He glanced over his shoulder. A woman in a white doctor's coat was just entering Mr Sullivan's offices. He stared at her as she went in. He felt like a rabbit caught in the headlights of an oncoming car. He turned back as the lift doors swished open. He hadn't reckoned on seeing Dr Cooper.

And he certainly hadn't reckoned on his reaction.

Chapter Twelve

Day Four

Thursday, 1 November 2012

Love sat down on his sofa.

Julie, who was sitting next to him, laid her head on his knee with a big sigh. He looked down, smiled, and with his large hand stroked her tenderly and lovingly.

Julie wagged her stumpy tail in return.

Julie was the only female in Love's life and that suited him just fine. She was loyal, loving and great company. Under normal circumstances she would accompany Love to work, ride about in his car, sit under his desk or curl up under one of the windows in his office.

These past few weeks, Love had chosen to leave her at home. He thought it best at least until after the puppies were born. He made sure he dropped in at his flat at least twice a day to see to her needs and if he couldn't make it he had an arrangement with Mrs Burton who lived in the flat above him. A teacher, retired, dog lover, reliable and trustworthy, and she had a spare key to Love's flat.

Normally, Julie never mixed with other dogs and having her spayed was something Love had meant to get done and now it all seemed immaterial. Talk about shutting the door after the horse had bolted or whatever that saying was, he mused. And how it happened still remained a mystery to Love.

Before work he'd take her out for her walk first thing in the morning in nearby Rochester Terrace Gardens. They'd join other dog owners on the way. Some carrying plastic bags holding poop scoops, kitchen roll and plastic gloves, and some without. The latter unconcerned about helping to defecate an area of green set aside in the built-up areas of London.

Love usually met up with a widow and her Rottweiler puppy called Jake. He didn't know her name but knew she worked in a bank, was in her fifties, tall and attractive and carried the telltale carrier bag. Jake was black and tan and extremely friendly. A little too friendly, Love figured, and suspected when the puppies were born they'd show more than a passing resemblance to the young Rottweiler.

Julie came into his life one year ago. Love had responded to a call to inspect a gunfire heard by a passer-by in a suspected drug dealing area of town. An undercover operation headed by Love and Stuart's unit had been staking the place out for weeks. When the call came through about the gunfire from the near-hysterical person who'd reported it the undercover team was getting ready to make a move and the "witness" could have blown the whole thing open.

Stuart and Love smashed their way in to the warehouse to find the dealer and his client arguing over some merchandise. Despite the odds the bust went smoothly, they got their men, they got their drugs, found them in full possession and no one was harmed.

The gunfire had turned out to be a car backfiring.

There were no casualties, except for a tiny bundle of foul-smelling fur whimpering in a dark corner of their filthy headquarters.

Animal abuse to be added to their list of offences, Love had growled to Stuart, and with one quick movement ripped off the chain that held her captive and scooped her up in his arms. He wrapped the emaciated creature in a blanket from the boot of his car and took her home where she's been ever since.

Now here he was, a year later, sitting with a pregnant boxer and slowly going insane because some perpetrator was still at large. Kidnapping, torturing, killing.

And Love wasn't coming up with any answers.

His eyes flickered to the clock on the mantelpiece. It was five o'clock in the morning and Love hadn't slept properly for over twenty-four hours. He wasn't sure if he could think anymore. Going over and over until his eyes stung and his head throbbed like someone was inside it beating on a drum. He ran his free hand over his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose to try and ease the pain.

What the hell was going on? How did they let this happen?

He had to get back to Doctor Cooper. He had to get a psychological profile on this piece of scum that was responsible. He leant forward to use his mobile on the table in front and then pulled back.

At 05:30 hours in the morning? Hell, he thought, why not.

'I appreciate your coming here, Doctor Cooper,' Love said one hour later as he opened the door to allow her inside.

'Don't think anything of it,' she replied. At 06:30 hours in the morning she was tired but in control. Early morning starts or late nights were all in a day's work for Doctor S.J. Cooper.

She walked over to the couch and set her briefcase down on the coffee table that sat in between the couch and the fireplace.

'Lovely dog,' she said, nodding to Julie who had lumbered out of her basket and pink and purple princess dog bed featuring images of Cinderella, Belle and Sleeping Beauty to say hello to the visitor. She sniffed Doctor Cooper's hand before waddling back to her spot in the corner by the French window. 'Is she pregnant or is it just a weight problem?'

'Pregnant. She has about a week to go.'

'Are you prepared for it, Dick?'

It's the first time she'd called him by his name. She shrugged off her midnight blue velvet coat. A lovely, simple and elegant piece of designer wear from Pearce Fionda she'd picked up from Debenhams in Reading, Berkshire fourteen years earlier.

'I didn't see it coming,' he replied. The rattle of cups and a fridge being opened and shut filtered through into the lounge from the open-plan kitchen which was compact, attractive and had a large French window overlooking the front. 'And it's Love, just Love.'

'Okay, Love, how could you miss that? Two dogs copulating in broad daylight in public must be extremely difficult to miss.'

Love said nothing but smiled.

'Especially for a detective,' she added as she pulled out a file from her case, sat down on the couch and removed a silver pen from inside her blue velvet shoulder bag.

The one bedroom flat situated on Gaisford Street in Kentish Town was of Victorian era in what was now a reasonably fashionable part of north London. In the 1870s Kentish Town had become a poor area and was greatly involved in mission work. Then it became simply unfashionable which suited Love just fine but in more recent years she was aspiring back up the ladder of respectability and local property prices were leaping on to that bandwagon.

The furnishings in the flat were old but comfortable along with a couple of nicer pieces and the whole place had a feeling of a socialite who'd fallen on hard times. The property and most of the furniture belonged to the Branch. It was part of the package that came with the job. It was only supposed to be temporary but Love moved in here five years ago and had never left.

'All right, Doctor Cooper, point to you.'

She looked up. Love was standing by the side of the table holding a tray of tea and biscuits and those cakes the British were so crazy about. Cherry Bakewell Tarts.

'Delicious!' She smiled. 'And it's Julie.'

'Excuse me?'

'Call me Julie. We're going to be working close together on this, so please, call me Julie.'

'It says S.J. Cooper on your business card.'

'I know, Julie to my friends.'

'Julie it is.' Love nodded, looked over at his dog, and grinned.

'I hope they're Tesco's Free From,' she said helping herself to one of the little iced tarts. 'They're the best, you know.'

'I agree. I don't go for so-called popular brand names they're usually less than average and have the ethics of a parasite.'

'You don't look the sort.'

'What's that supposed to mean?'

'Well, you don't come across as all green and caring.'

'I'm not particularly I simply don't help exploit companies who have only their own interests at heart and usually at the expense of others.'

'I see.'

'Eat your cake Doctor Cooper and stop analysing me.'

'With pleasure.' She spread a paper serviette over her long-length Esprit burnt orange linen skirt. It was getting a bit cold to wear what with winter round the corner but it was lined, it looked good, and it was comfortable.

'Why Julie?' said Dr Cooper after a couple of minutes had passed.

'Why Julie what?'

'Why did you call your dog Julie?'

'I named her after the actress.'

'Roberts? No, that's Julia. Which one?'

'Julie Christie.'

'Julie Christie? How do you know about her?'

'I'm not a complete philistine, Doctor Cooper, I have seen the original Doctor Zhivago.'

'So have I. Unfortunately,' she said, and raised her eyes upward. 'But in my defence I was very young at the time.'

Love grinned.

'To my shame I'm not entirely into the great Russian novelists,' she paused, 'but at least it's one step up from Tyson or Bruno,' she added.

'You mean because she's a boxer.'

'Exactly.'

'Thanks! I think.'

'It's as original as calling my cat Fluffy or Ginger,' she said.

'And do you?'

'No,' she said. 'And do you know why?'

'Why?'

'I don't have a cat.'

Love smiled. He was glad to hear it.

'So what are we left with?' Love stretched his long legs in front of him and they disappeared underneath the table and out the other end.

'I can't put it together, Detective. We're left with a heap of contradictions.'

'Doctor Cooper, Julie, come on! You have to do better than that, for God's sake,' he cried, and jumped to his feet. The tone of his voice made Julie, the canine one, look up from her basket. 'For God's sake,' he said again in a more controlled voice. 'We have this sick monster out there praying on these women and who know who he intends his latest conquest to be.'

'Now wait a minute, Detective Love...'

'Love. My name is Love.'

'Love... I...'

'All right, let me tell you.' Love spoke quietly. 'We're looking for a smooth character and an egotistical type. Fairly normal on the outside but in reality, a regular Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde.'

'Exactly.'

Love pulled a photograph from a folder sitting on the table in front. 'Can I show you these?' He handed Julie a post-mortem photograph of both Monica and Carol.

Julie took them studied them, and said, 'It's personal. He's methodical. Making his mark sending a message. We're talking about a classic paranoid schizophrenia.'

'Know anyone like that, Doc?'

'Only sixty per cent of the world's population.'

'A Jekyll and Hyde,' Love repeated to himself.

'Full of contradictions.' She looked up. 'Someone like you.'

'Do stop analysing me, Doctor, and keep to the matter in hand,' he said, and lit a cigarette. He looked at her through the smoke.

She laid her pen down, and spoke quietly. 'I am.'

'Look, lady, Julie, I didn't mean to bite your head off.'

Julie sat forward and hugged her knees. 'Do you want to get some fresh air?'

'No, I'd sooner stay here because of one very pregnant individual,' he said pointing to the boxer who was now resting her head on one paw while watching her surroundings with one eye. Love jumped up and paced back and forth in front of the fireplace when suddenly he stopped.

'Look, let's go through it again. Maybe we missed something.'

'All right, but sit down you're wearing out the carpet,' she said, gesturing to the empty seat next to her. 'Do you want some more tea?'

'I should be asking you that, but no, thanks.' He ambled over to the chair next to the couch and sat down.

Julie Cooper took another look at the photographs. 'It's possible this is a case of projected emotions.'

'Excuse me?'

She ran her fingers through a couple of soft curls in an attempt to brush them away from her face. It didn't work. A moment later, they bounced right back.

'It could be that the assailant has some deep hatred projected not towards the victims but towards someone else entirely.'

'You mean, Carol and Monica reminded him of someone.'

'Precisely,' she said. 'Or else something they did triggered it off.'

Love took a long drag. He flicked the redundant ash into the ashtray. He studied the glowing red tip of his cigarette. 'Is it possible that he can't punish the person responsible so he punishes the next best thing?'

'Highly possible.'

'Now that is interesting.'

She gazed at Love before speaking. 'You know, something's just occurred to me.'

'What is it?'

'I couldn't put my finger on it until now.'

'And that is?'

'You have more than a passing resemblance to Robert Redford.' She smiled. 'I mean, Redford from the late seventies early eighties. The same dirty blond layered hairstyle with the thick, side parted fringe over the forehead and his deep-set blue eyes.' She cocked her head on one side and her gaze flickered down. 'The same square jaw.'

'Excuse me?'

'Excuse you! What do you say "excuse me" for? You don't want to get past me. You didn't burp or worse. Say "pardon" or "what did you say" or "sorry" or another word that projects your exact meaning like everyone else for goodness sake! You've lived here long enough.'

'Wow! Where did that come from?'

She held his gaze for a moment, and said, 'I'm not sure and I'm even more unsure that I want to know.'

'Too telling, Doc, too exposed for your liking?'

'Let's put it down to an early morning start.'

'Cop out, Doc.'

'Perhaps it's lack of interest. Have you thought of that?'

Love raised an eyebrow. 'So that's a good thing?'

'What?'

'Robert Redford.'

Julie averted her gaze and looked down at her list of scribbled notes. 'So, what have we got? One of the abducted mother's children has been admitted to St Katherine's within the last two and a half months.'

Love smiled before replying, 'Yes, Doc, we'll play it your way.'

'The mothers didn't know each other and neither did they mix in the same circles and the same goes for their husbands or at least husband,' Julie paused and tapped her file with a chewed pen she'd picked up from the floor. 'That leaves the rest of the family. What about siblings, aunts, uncles?'

'Let's keep to the immediate facts, Julie, let's keep to what we know. Which leaves the doctors and the surgeons involved.'

'Yes, and as far as I can make out going by hospital records that gives us a total of seven doctors and surgeons.'

'We've dismissed four due to them having staunch alibis at the time which leaves us with three possibilities. Julie?'

'Sorry, it's just that... it's just that I find it so hard to believe a doctor is responsible.'

'We haven't determined that yet.'

'I'm not being obtuse, of course doctors, surgeons, whatever - can be criminals the same as anyone else, it's just that I know the staff at St Katherine's and if any one of them is responsible for these crimes, well, they had me fooled good and proper and I'll quit and grow vines in France.'

'Well, let's hope it's not a doctor then.'

'Actually, we have four possibilities.'

'How's that?'

'I haven't included myself.'

'There's just one thing wrong with that.'

'What?'

'You are most certainly not a man.'

'I didn't think you'd noticed.'

'What sort of lousy detective do you think I am, lady?'

Julie smiled and almost blushed. She looked down and said nothing before glancing at her watch. 'Look, it's nearly eight o'clock. I have to make a phone call. Will you excuse me for a moment?' Julie smiled as she picked up her mobile and stepped outside on to the tiny balcony to the front of the property.

She closed the French door firmly behind her.

Five miles from the Houses of Parliament a mobile phone began to vibrate.

It sounded like a cow in labour.

A man picked it up and listened.

'Yes, Doctor Cooper, I'll see you at the usual place. You can rely on me.' He spoke quietly finished the call and closed his mobile. He looked up and smiled.

Not long now, he told himself, not long now.

'Have to go,' Julie said as she bent down to retrieve her briefcase.

She snapped it open and placed the file inside and snapped it shut again, grabbed her coat from the back of the couch. She glanced over her shoulder as Love helped her on with it, and spoke gently.

'Perhaps I'll see you later at the hospital?'

'Can't say, but hey! Listen, thanks so much for all your help.'

She walked through the archway into the hallway, stopped, and turned round to face Love. 'That's quite all right,' she said. 'By the way I've been meaning to ask.'

'Yes?'

'What does DCA stand for?'

'Detective Class A.'

'Oh, I see.' She cocked her head to one side. 'Is that good?'

'It's good.' Love held her gaze and smiled.

Her eyes flickered and she glanced away. 'That's what I thought.'

'And it's not a problem checking the security tapes?' he said referring to their conversation of the day before.

'A problem?' she repeated. She pushed a curl back from her face as she pondered the question. 'I don't see why not but I rather think if it were you would easily get round it.' She grinned. 'Give me a ring later.'

'Before lunch?'

'Before lunch.'

'I appreciate it, I really do.'

Love crossed the room until he was standing in front of her. His eyes glanced down at the front of her white cotton shirt. One of the top buttons had come undone exposing a gentle mound encased in a lacy cream bra. He coughed and looked away. A faint stirring passed through his entire body ending in his crotch. 'Christ,' he muttered.

'Is something wrong?' Julie looked at Love.

She was only inches away from him. She licked her lips with the tip of her tongue. Her mouth remained slightly open, moist and inviting.

Love took a step closer, their eyes met.

She waited.

He reached slowly towards her, her face, her soft curls, continued on by and pulled open the front door. 'Nothing at all,' Love murmured. 'Just a little cramp I get from time to time. A slight stiffness I'm sure will go away in a minute.'

'Oh? Well, must go,' she said, and smiled. She went to say something else but changed her mind. And with one last look at Love, who was looking steadily back at her, she turned round and left.

The door closed behind her with a final click.

Julie didn't leave straight away but instead leant her body against the door. Christ! What on earth had just happened? She was convinced she'd felt a connection, a moment between them. She was sure he was going to kiss her. She wanted him to. She wanted to feel his mouth upon hers.

What was she saying!

'Get hold of yourself, woman, you're forty years old not an adolescent coping with her first love,' she muttered, and shook her head. She pulled herself away from the door, down the elegantly scruffy staircase and out into the hustle and bustle of London where all thoughts of Love and kissing left her mind as once again the cool professional took over.

She strode along to the corner of the road to where she'd parked her car. She jumped in and pulled away almost immediately. She couldn't be late for her meeting.

She couldn't keep him waiting.

Love stared at the door and then turned to retrieve his cigarettes from the mantelpiece above the wrought iron faux fireplace. He pulled one out, flicked his lighter and lit it. Damn! He needed a strong cup of coffee and a shower and a change of clothes and he had a very pregnant dog to feed and take out for her walk.

'Come on, Julie, meat for you, coffee for me. In that order.'

Julie raised her head and looked adoringly at Love. She eased herself up out of her basket and waddled into the tiny kitchen. Love spooned some food into her bowl and placed it on her mat. He re-boiled the water in the kettle and stubbed out his cigarette made himself a cup of coffee lit another cigarette and then promptly stood it upright on the counter. He walked into the lounge sipping his coffee and turned on his television. Then remembered and turned it right off again.

Another note he had to make was to get someone in to fix the television. Or would he have to take it in to be repaired or worse. Would they tell him it was too old, these particular digital parts no longer available, don't repair TVs these days, just throw it away and replace it with a plastic, cheap piece of crap that will probably last a year by which time you go through the whole process again.

Love placed his mug down on the table and called through to Julie. She'd finished her breakfast and was ready to go outside. Fifteen minutes later, Love walked through to the bathroom. Ten minutes after that he was in his bedroom standing in front of his chest of drawers pulling out a pair of black Doreanse boxer briefs, a pair of black cotton socks, grabbed a clean but slightly creased white cotton shirt and a fresh pair of Burberry skinny fit black chinos from the wardrobe next to it, slipped on his black leather Anatomic & Co chukkas or ankle boots as they are also known by, made a quick telephone call, said goodbye to Julie, and left.

He walked down the road to where he'd parked his car the night before, beeped, got in and drove straight to work.

Chapter Thirteen

08:57 hours

Love was at DSBD within twenty-two minutes.

He flashed his ID to the security guard. 'Hi, Geoff, how are you this morning?'

'Not too great, Love, I'm not sleeping too well lately.'

'I know all about that,' Love replied.

'You too?'

'Yeah, me too.' Love grinned.

He pushed his ID back into the pocket of his Austin Reed Donegal jacket. On his way to work, Love had dropped off his Samuel Windsor linen jacket at the dry cleaners down the road from his flat. Weather dictated it was time to put it away and replace it with his Donegal. At least for the moment he could still get away without his Peter Christian navy woollen Reefer jacket. Snow would have to be on the ground three inches deep before he wore his Reefer.

Love was hard. Inside and out. Nothing would sway that, no woman, no assailant. Nothing.

'I thought of taking a jog and going to the gym this evening. See if that helps.'

'Well, good luck with that. Hope it does help.' Love smiled at the guard before sauntering over to the lift. He pushed the button for up and stood back and waited. Behind him he heard the click-clack of high heels.

He guessed to whom they belonged.

A moment later the scent of a cheap and strong perfume, the latest moneymaking ploy by some celebrity, confirmed his thoughts.

He turned his head to one side.' Hello, Sophie, how are you?'

Sophie flashed a look at Love. Petulant. Unforgiving. She raised her hand and in an effort to look cool and nonchalant, she flicked her long hair over one shoulder.

It didn't work.

'Hello...' she paused, 'Dick.' She said his name with some emphasis.

Love smiled to himself and looked at the ground. He spoke quietly. 'I'm sorry about that Sophie, maybe they do medication for it.'

'Sorry?' Sophie was staring at Love now. Confusion written all over her pretty and petulant face.

Love looked up. 'For memory loss. I told you I'm known as Love. The only person who gets to call me Dick is my mother,' he said. 'And that's under protest,' he added.

Sophie glared at Love. Her mouth twitched as though trying to think of a suitable retort. None was forthcoming. The lift arrived, the doors swished open. Love stepped back to allow Sophie to get in first.

'Forget it,' she snapped. 'I'd rather walk.'

'As you like,' Love said. He stepped into the lift and pressed the button for the seventh floor. The doors closed and Love let out a sigh. How immature, he pondered. He'd totally done the right thing there nipping that in the bud.

Women! Damn women and their manipulative ways. Suddenly, the face of a certain doctor filled his mind. At least she was a real woman, intelligent, around forty years old he reckoned, and not some silly little actress out for what she can get.

Yep! Now, Doctor Julie Cooper was one kind of woman... suddenly, he felt hot and agitated. His finger pulled at the inside of his shirt collar.

'Morning, Love.'

'Hi, Stuart,' Love replied. He strode into his office, the door clonking shut behind him, undid his zip and shrugged off his Donegal. 'When did you get in?'

'About fifteen minutes ago. Kettle's just boiled.'

'Thanks, mate, maybe later.'

Stuart looked up from his computer. 'You look flushed... everything all right?'

'Yeah, fine.' Love pulled out his chair and sat down. Everything all right? His head was in turmoil! Doctor Cooper! That's all he needed was for her to be on his mind or in his life to confuse things right now. Cloud his judgement. He snapped his attention to the folder on his desk. He flipped it open. He mentioned to Stuart about Julie Cooper coming over to the flat.

'And how was your time with the lovely Doctor Cooper?'

'Good. She was helpful and the meeting gave me food for thought.'

'You want to share it?'

Love thought back to the moment to when they said goodbye. 'Yeah, I'll fill you in... Stuart?'

'Yes?'

'How do you know when it's lust or something else?'

'So it did go well then.'

'There might have been a moment there... sort of, I'm not sure. I'm kind of out of practise.'

'Love, it's like riding a bike.'

'I'm serious. It's just that... I don't know, mate... listen, forget it, it was nothing.'

Stuart stared at Love. He didn't believe him. He didn't believe Love for one minute. 'If you say so, listen, just hang cool.'

'I hear you,' Love said. He was abrupt, he felt awkward at momentarily opening up. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his drawer looked at them and put them back. 'I'm going to go through the notes and photographs to see if we missed anything else.'

'That's what I'm doing,' Stuart said. 'By the by, will we be getting access to the security tapes anytime soon?'

'Yeah, she's on it,' Love said. 'She said anything they can do to help and told me to give her a call sometime this morning.'

'That's great,' Stuart said. He was wearing his usual uniform of Hugo Boss suit and Antony Morato shirt.

The jacket was hanging on the back of his chair. His tie was bold. A splash of vibrant colour usually found on the wall of a modern museum. Or in a young child's art class.

'Get anywhere with that character in Cornwall,' he paused momentarily to glance at his computer, 'Sven Stonehead?'

'Stonehead?' Love said.

Suddenly, Stuart's telephone rang. 'Sorry, one moment, I'll just get this.' He picked it up, listened, said something in return and replaced the receiver. 'Got to go,' he said. He stood up, slipped on his jacket, grabbed a file from the top of his desk.

'Where to?'

Stuart patted his pockets found what he was looking for. 'Fitch,' he replied. He tapped a couple of keys on his keyboard. 'I won't be long. Ben from MI6 has some personal clothes and items belonging to a victim and needs the low-down on them. I'll be back in a few minutes.'

'Yeah, sure.' Love said, and watched him go. He turned back to face his computer. Glad to see the cat was asleep. He pulled a scrappy piece of paper from his wallet. It was yellow, lined and dog-eared. He glanced at one of the numbers scribbled upon it, placed the paper down on his desk and dialled the number using his landline, slipped the paper back into his wallet. He stared at the wilting spider plant through narrowed eyes. 'Must remember to water that damn thing.'

'Sorry?'

'Miss Dixon?'

'Yes.'

'DCA Love here. May I ask you a few further questions?'

'Yes, of course. How may I help?'

'I tried you earlier at your apartment but...'

'After I saw Timmy yesterday I went home to my place packed a suitcase and here I am.'

'And there you are, back at the old homestead,' Love said, and chuckled softly. He wasn't being insensitive. It was called communicating on any level. He was doing his job.

'Yes,' Ashley said. She smiled. Here she was. Back home again. 'Have you found Monica's car yet?'

'Yes, we have. It's currently being processed but we'll keep you notified about that,' he said. 'Miss Dixon...'

'Call me Ashley.'

'Ashley, would you happen to know why Monica would be out at Primrose Hill on a Monday morning?'

'I would say it's to attend her weekly ballet class.'

Love knew this but didn't say anything. The police constables or PCs had approached the dance studio where Love had discovered Monica's car a third of a mile from where Monica had been killed.

'Appreciate that, Ashley, but surely there are studios closer to home.'

'You make it sound like she was trekking halfway across the country.'

'Granted. As far as the crow flies it's not a lot of mileage but we're talking getting from Lee in Lewisham to the borough of Camden on a Monday morning. There must be easier ways of doing it.'

'Perhaps, Detective Love, but for one thing.'

'Which is?'

'Monica has been dancing all her life. We both have until I was accepted at EWA and had to stop and the reason why Monica goes...' she paused and caught her breath before continuing, 'the reason why Monica used to go to Two Left Feet in Primrose Hill was purely because of the teacher, a Mrs Adams.'

'Is Mrs Adams particularly good then?' Love glanced down at his report.

Mrs Adams. Widowed no children. Sixty-seven years old. Danced first as a commercial dancer before becoming a teacher when she turned thirty. Lived all her life in and around north west London. Positive reports regarding her skills as a teacher, however, interviewing Monica's fellow dance pupils was still ongoing.

'She's an excellent teacher,' Ashley said. She picked up a cushion moved it from the telephone chair in the hallway and sat down with the cushion on her lap. 'But that's only part of it. Monica has known her for ooh... it must be going on for thirty-five years now.'

'So she's been teaching Monica pretty much since she was a young girl then.'

'That's right.'

'I had no idea.'

'About what?'

'I didn't realise how much loyalty existed in the world of dance.'

'Yes,' Ashley said, and smiled. 'Loyalty is alive and well in dance.'

'I imagine competition can be fierce too. Amongst the pupils, I mean.'

Ashley paused as if weighing up her answer. 'But in Monica's class not enough to kill anyone for, Detective.'

Cute. Smart cookie. Love smiled. He liked this girl. She had guts, intelligence. 'Always a pleasure to talk to you, Ashley, but again, I'm sorry it's under such tragic circumstances.'

'It's my pleasure,' Ashley replied. 'Anything to help, anytime, you know where to find me.' She murmured a goodbye and hung up the phone.

Love's thought process told him Timmy's presence at the time of Monica's abduction had been unexpected. He wasn't meant to be there. Timmy being there had surprised the killer who'd acted on the spur of the moment. He'd compromised. He hadn't only cleverly used Monica's top as a blindfold but simply because he had nothing else to use. Love pondered, but if that was the case why did he have the Benzomenthapane on him.

Five minutes later, Love picked up the receiver and dialled. It rang. It was answered after four rings.

'Ashley, excuse me, but just one more thing.'

'Certainly, Detective Love, what is it?'

'Did Monica wear any jewellery?'

'Yes, she sometimes wore a Victorian emerald ring that belonged to our grandmother and she also had a watch.'

'Was it a retro Valkyrie LP101 Swatch?'

'Yes, that's right.'

That tallied with the inventory of items taken at Monica's house. The constables had listed one Victorian emerald ring and a Swatch as two of the items found amongst a modest collection of jewellery. This latest piece of information appeared to rule out burglary.

'I only ask because your sister didn't have any jewellery on her at the time of her death.

'No, she wouldn't. It's common practice to remove all jewellery before dancing.'

'Why?'

'It's not recommended as it can get in the way or you could accidentally collide with someone and a ring can do some nasty damage, you know.'

'Yes, I can imagine,' Love said. 'Well, once again you've enlightened me in the world of dance.'

Ashley smiled. 'Glad to have been of some help, Detective Love,' she said.

'One last thing.'

'Yes?'

'As far as you're aware did Timmy usually accompany Monica to the dance studio? I appreciate it's half-term right now.'

'No, not at all. Usually he'd be at school, as you say, or else Monica would get a babysitter in or failing that he would spend the morning with friends.'

'Really? Well, thank you.' Love balanced the phone on his shoulder as he jotted something down on another dog-eared piece of paper. He stuffed it into his trouser pocket, and said, 'That's very helpful. We'll be checking up on that but I needed to hear it from you.'

'Talk to you again soon.' It was a statement not a question.

Love smiled. 'More than possible, Ashley, it's more than possible.' Love was lost in thought as he replaced the receiver.

A sudden tap on the glass made Love look up. He smiled, picked up his wallet, got up from his chair and strode over to the door, pulled it open.

'Your phone has a hands-free option,' she said. 'If you like I can show you.'

Love shook his head. 'You should know better than to ask me that,' he said as he shoved his wallet into the back pocket of his chinos.

'Not even hands-free?'

'No, don't want to go there. By the time I've pressed the buttons put the phone down done my song and dance act my line of thought has gone.'

'And how is your line of thought coming along, Love?'

Love turned and walked back to his desk. He sat down shifted a few papers and looked up at her. 'Is this simply personal interest or are you acting on the commander's instructions?'

Jenny smiled. 'Let's just say it's a bit of both.' She took a few steps closer to Love.

As he looked on questioningly she hitched up her skirt a few inches to perch on the end of his desk. She was wearing a lilac cashmere top. Skinny-ribbed, long sleeved V-neck. Her skirt was fairly tight. Cream. Wool. And on her shapely legs she wore hold-ups. Love knew she always wore hold-ups, never tights or stockings, always hold-ups. They were dark grey in colour. On her feet she wore pale lilac ankle boots. Soft, supple leather with a thick heel, medium in height. Classy and nicely put together. Jenny could wear clothes a woman even ten years younger might balk at putting on but Jenny had style. And she had confidence both in herself as a woman and in her looks. If she wanted to wear a potato sack she could probably get away with it.

She smiled at him showing a row of even white teeth. Love stared at her mouth covered in its customary lilac lipstick.

He smiled in return and shook his head. 'Jenny, first of all, I'd go easy on the bleach your teeth are giving me snow blindness and second of all,' he paused as he leant forward to rest his arms on his desk, 'I know that's not how the commander works, so what's the real reason?'

Jenny folded her arms.' Well, Love, first of all, I'll take that crack about my teeth only from you and no one else and second of all,' she paused and raised her arms up in the air in a surrender position, 'I admit I'm here on pretence.'

'Go on.'

'Would you like to come to dinner on Saturday?'

Love slumped back in his chair. 'I didn't see that coming,' he said. He ran his hand through his dark blond fringe and stared up at her with a question in his blue eyes. 'What's brought this on?'

'Don't get any romantic notions, Love, it's just that I'm one guest short and I wondered if you'd like to fill the spot.'

'One guest short?'

'Yes, I'm hosting a dinner party for eight but I only have seven due to one of my guests dropping out at the last minute.' She shook her head. 'So inconsiderate of him to get the flu.'

Love chuckled and shook his head.

'But can't be helped I suppose.'

'So I'm a last-minute gap-filler,' he said. 'And from anyone else I would be offended.'

Jenny smiled. 'Well, what about it?'

'I'd have to decline, sweetheart, but thanks for thinking of me.'

'You're not going out with anyone on a serious basis are you?' She creased her brow. That didn't sound like Love.

'No, not even on a light-hearted one. It's just that dinner parties aren't my thing and I'm too involved in this case right now to make plans I'd probably have to break.'

Jenny jumped off his desk and nodded. 'Hear you, Love, but I had to ask,' she said, and smiled cheerfully. 'It's a shame. You'd have looked good at my table.'

Love spread his hands open. 'Get a sunflower instead.'

She walked back over to the door and turned her head. Love was standing right behind her. He reached towards her grabbed the handle and pulled open the door.

'Maybe I should do that.'

'Good luck with it.'

'Thanks,' she said, and saluted. She turned and strode from his office. By the time she reached the lifts, Love had already forgotten their encounter.

Love was lost in thought.

He was busy going over his earlier meeting with Doctor Cooper. The sort of person she'd described was clever, good at hiding himself amongst society. On the outside he appeared fairly normal.

Or did he? Were there clues, Love pondered, clues to pick up on?

The dance studio, the hospital, what did it all mean?

He opened his drawer grabbed his pack of cigarettes looked at them put them back down, closed the drawer. He reached across his desk and grabbed a tube of mints. Tore the paper retrieved a smooth white mint and chucked it into his mouth. He crunched down hard. He pulled back his shirt cuff and looked at his Timex Sportster. It read 09:20 hours. He reached behind and slid his fingers into his back pocket, pulled out his wallet, flipped it open and extracted a card. He grabbed his mobile from his jacket pocket, punched in the number and waited. It was answered on the seventh ring.

'Hello.'

'You sound breathless,' Love said. He'd got up from his desk and was standing at the window watching a stream of traffic drive by. 'I hope I didn't take you away from anything important.'

She smiled. 'I was about to ring you and no, not at all, I was just coming down the hall and into my office.'

'So you didn't have your cell phone, I mean, mobile phone on you.'

'That's quite correct.'

'Excuse me, Julie, but there's a reason why they are called mobiles.'

'Detective Love...'

'Just Love, remember?'

She paused. 'Love, I am well aware of the significance of having a mobile phone and although use is permitted in this area I refuse to take it...' she paused.

'Take it?'

'Into the toilet with me,' she said in a rush.

'Good point,' he said, and grinned. 'I'm sorry.'

'Yes, well, I presume you're ringing about the tapes?'

'Yes ma'am, and by the way, how's Timmy doing?'

They spoke momentarily of the boy's progress until a moment later, she said, 'Come by anytime. Just pop along to the security office they're expecting you.'

'Thank you,' Love said. 'And Julie, I appreciate your help.'

'It was nothing,' she said. 'Bye, Love.'

'Goodbye.' He closed his mobile and looked up at the sky. It looked like it wanted to rain. He didn't mind the rain. The Brits loved to talk about the weather in general, moan good-naturedly about the wet, cold, or hot but it didn't bother him. And tough if it did. Not a lot he could do about the state of the climate.

He wondered if they would find anything on the security tapes. Anything that would give them a lead. The sooner they made a start and get down to viewing them the better.

As he continued to stare out of the window the first drops of rain spattered down on the pane. He ran his hands through his hair. Christ, he was tired. He strolled back to his desk and sat down. Thinking. Wondering. His mind going round in circles. He leant his head back in his old leather and wooden chair. Outside, the buzz of London's traffic filtered through the thick glass and the rain continued to fall gently hitting the window, but inside his office it was warm, he was comfortable, and the buzz soon turned into a soothing lullaby.

Chapter Fourteen

He was standing by the side of his bed. She was standing in front of him. He could make out the shape of her body in the soft darkness of the room.

The muted sounds of London traffic in the distance were the only sounds to be heard. A soft click, a moment later her bra fell to the floor. He smiled. She moved a step closer to him. He took a step towards her. An electricity began to surge through his entire body ending up in his groin. It always ended up there. Like a national grid centre. You could always count on it ending up there, reliable, on reflection, perhaps not too much like a national grid centre after all. He reached for her hand and took a step back. His mobile fell from his bedside table its light softly illuminating the room. He looked into her eyes.

'Doctor Cooper?'

Love snapped to attention. 'Stuart! Oh man...' he groaned.

'Love, are you all right?' Stuart looked down at his friend and partner. 'You're going to burn yourself out, mate.'

'I'll be fine,' he said. 'I just had a catnap for two minutes.' Love pushed his chair back, stood up and strode over to the window. He leant his forehead against the cold pane of glass and closed his eyes.

That woman was haunting him.

'Would you like some water...' Stuart half turned to look in the direction of the mango sideboard. 'I think we've still got some of that Bonaqua you're so hung up on,' he said, and smiled. 'Or would you prefer a cup of tea?'

Love pulled back from the window and turned his head. 'Tea would be great,' he said. 'Thanks, mate.'

Stuart smiled, nodded and walked over to the kettle, shook it and switched it on. 'I was asking how your phone call about the tapes went with Doctor Cooper.' He turned back to look at Love. 'Love? Mate, what is it?'

'Yeah?'

'What happened whilst I was out of the office? I was only gone,' he paused as he glanced down at his watch, 'for twenty minutes. Did aliens come down and do something I should know about?'

Love thought back to his dream. 'No!'

'Well, that's emphatically said.' Stuart chuckled. He was part amused part concerned with his friend. He'd never known him to be so visibly agitated. Even his impending divorce had been mentioned only in passing. 'So, can the good doctor help?'

Love thought back to his recent conversation. He rubbed his eyes, turned away from the window and walked back to his desk. He searched for his cigarettes but found the pack in his drawer to be empty.

'She's been real helpful,' he said. 'She's arranged it with their security.' He patted his chinos and found half a pack in one of the pockets. He took one out flipped it into his mouth grabbed his lighter from his other pocket and ignited a flame. He inhaled deeply.

'That's great! When will they be ready?'

Love walked back to the window opened it wide and blew the smoke outside. 'Anytime today,' he said. 'I'll get a PC to go and collect them.' He took another long drag on his cigarette holding the smoke in his lungs before exhaling it out the window.

'You're not going?'

'Why would you say that?'

'Well, you could check on Timmy whilst you were there.' Stuart placed the teabag in Love's mug poured in boiling water and squeezed it hard repeatedly with the back of the teaspoon. He was determined to get every bit out of it. He reckoned his partner could use it.

'I asked after the kid. He's doing all right but still doesn't remember anything else,' he said. He pulled the window shut, strode back over to his desk and stubbed out his cigarette. Well aware of the building's policies. The division carried a no smoking policy and had put aside a smoking room for that purpose. Love hardly ever made it in there. Instead he'd light up a cigarette take a couple of long drags put it out and crunch his way through a supply of mints.

'That's good news,' he said handing Love his mug. 'About Timmy doing well I mean.'

'Thanks, mate.' Love took the mug gratefully. He took a sip. 'Wow! Hot but good. Yes, it sure is.'

'How far are you going to go?'

'Excuse me?'

'With the security cameras. How far back are you going?'

'Starting off with the week before Carol's death and we'll work our way forward from there.'

'Well,' Stuart said as he bent his head slightly and took a sip of his tea. His hair fell forward over his eye, he flicked it away from his face. 'If Carol was meeting anyone let's hope the cameras have picked it up.'

'Yeah,' Love said, taking another mouthful. 'Let's hope so.'

For those few minutes Love hadn't been in full control. And he didn't like that. Love was a man who knew what he wanted, who was in control of his emotions, and he let nothing or no one get in his way.

This had rattled him. He told himself he had no interest in the doctor in any romantic capacity.

Then why was he trying so hard to convince himself of that?

The rest of the morning was taken up with endless cups of tea, telephone calls, cigarettes half-smoked or less and going over files and theories.

Love looked over at Stuart who was working on one of the programmes available to them. He cursed silently under his breath. Damned how he knew Stuart had the patience. The software afforded a lot more than was available to the regular police force but it was up to Stuart and his unique computer skills to get that much more from it.

Some called it cheating. Love called it skilful. A means to an end and it produced results.

Love glanced at the clock on the wall. He leant back in his chair and stretched his arms high above his head. 'Butterfield should be tucking into his lunch right now,' he said. 'Shall we make our move?'

Stuart stopped typing and looked up at Love. 'Now?' He glanced down at his Bell & Ross. 'Yeah, why not. At least we know we can catch him at the office. Safe bet anyway.'

'My sentiments exactly.' Love rolled back his chair, stood up, patted his pockets and shrugged on his Donegal.

Stuart clicked his mouse a couple of times, jumped up, his chair rolling a short distance behind him, grabbed his jacket, his cashmere, and said, 'All right then, let's make tracks.'

At that moment, Love's mobile rang. 'Sorry, hang on.' He reached into his pocket and snapped it open. 'Dick Love.'

'Love, it's Julie Cooper.'

'Really? Hello again.'

'I'm ringing about Timmy,' she said. 'He remembers what that word was.'

'The one he heard the assailant say,' Love said. 'Now that is interesting.'

'He said "smile".'

'Smile?'

'Yes,' Doctor Cooper said. 'Just that one word and then he pulled the trigger.'

'Well, thank Timmy for me, very much.'

'Does it mean anything?'

'At this stage, Julie, everything means something.'

'Well, goodbye.'

'Goodbye and thanks again.' He snapped his mobile shut. Stuart looked on questioningly. 'I'll tell you about it on the way down.'

'Smile?' Stuart said.

The lift doors opened and they walked out into reception and along to the door that would lead them into the underground car park.

'Yeah, just like you say before taking a photograph.'

'And there enters the camera connection,' Stuart said, and smiled. 'Clever boy.'

Love nodded. He was indeed a clever boy associating the word with cameras. 'Let's keep it in mind, mate, you never know where it might take us.'

Less than a minute later, Stuart and Love were driving along in Love's Volvo and on their way to the property offices in Kennington Lane. It had been a toss-up as to whose car they would take. There was always a risk of running into trouble when out in the midst of an investigation and Stuart didn't relish having to take his Jag into the garage for repairs yet again. It had already been resprayed and two dents taken out of the rear end this year alone.

The police force footed the bill and Stuart was given an allowance towards the car but it was still his own personal automobile. His baby. And he didn't want to give it up to drive around in a Ford or some other frightful contraption on four wheels, although, what could be worse than a Ford Ka or a Nissan Micra, he wasn't all that sure.

Well, he told himself, you can take it or leave it, matey, so shut up and get on with it and if you don't like it getting damaged don't buy a car you love! But he was still glad to be out in his partner's Volvo.

Even if the lack of heating did leave something to be desired.

'Love, when are you going to get this heating repaired?' Stuart groaned. He pulled up the collar of his cashmere overcoat and rubbed his hands together. He raised his body slightly from his seat and scrambled inside the pockets of his coat to retrieve his leather gloves. Black, fine leather lined with silk, by Dents. He pulled them on. 'I'm bloody freezing.'

Love quickly buzzed up his window. It had stopped raining but now a slight breeze had picked up. 'I keep meaning to, mate, but just don't get around to it.'

'Send it off with one of the constables when you're next in the office and you're not using it, for goodness sake.' Stuart turned his head and grinned at Love. 'I'm beginning to regret winning the toss.'

Love smiled. He was thinking of his recent phone call with Sven Stonehead. The man had hedged. He was hesitant. Like he was hiding something. It was only for a split second but Love picked up on it. Love also took an instant dislike to him. He didn't like his voice. Effeminate. Whining. On the outside he sounded charming enough. But he was hiding his real personality. Putting on an act. Everyone does at first. But Love felt this character took it to extremes.

'Stonehead is coming to London next week. I've arranged for him to meet up with us next Tuesday.'

'Really? You got through to him then?'

'I did.'

'Where's the meeting?'

'At the Branch.'

'Was he accommodating?' Stuart asked.

Love slowed down and stopped at the traffic lights. His foot on the clutch and brake he pushed the gearstick into first and turned to face Stuart. 'He was cooperative in a guarded and reluctant way.'

'How so?'

'Charming on the surface but possibly hiding the antithesis of what's really going on inside.'

'One of those,' Stuart said raising his eyebrows. He glanced at the car in the lane next to theirs. 'Bet he drives a Ka,' he added more to himself.

'Yeah,' Love said. The lights turned amber, Love pushed the gear into first, the lights turned green and he let his foot off the brake. 'One of those.'

Chapter Fifteen

12:25 hours

Love drove past the building in which the PAL offices were situated.

He turned the next left into Sancroft Street left again into Stables Way through the open wrought iron gates and straight into the empty space reserved for "Mrs Hawthorne" the same place he'd parked on his earlier visit.

'Either she's off work a lot or she goes out a lot,' Love remarked as he pulled on the handbrake and turned off the ignition.

'Or she goes out to lunch,' said Stuart. He opened the door pulled up his collar against the brisk wind that was making the trees sway and rustle with what was left of their leaves and started to make his way into the building.

Love was out of the car in seconds. He pointed his key, pressed it, the car beeped and the locks clicked. He zipped his Donegal and followed Stuart who was already waiting in reception stamping his feet to ward off the cold. Together they approached the receptionist. They recognised the bored-looking woman behind the counter.

She glanced up. The recognition was mutual.

Love spoke. 'Derek Butterfield?'

'Go on through, I think he's in,' she replied, and almost smiled.

Love nodded and Stuart murmured 'thanks' and together they strolled down the corridor with its Ikea paintings on the walls. A moment later, they stopped outside accounts. Love knocked at the door and not waiting for a reply, he and Stuart walked in.

Derek Butterfield was sitting at his desk. He glanced up. He looked surprised to see the two detectives. He held his fork suspended in mid-air.

'I see you took my advice,' Love murmured.

'Sorry?'

Love pointed to the chicken and spaghetti in the polystyrene box. 'The chicken.'

Mr Butterfield glanced at his fork and then down at the half-eaten meal in front of him. 'Oh, right! Yes, it's delicious,' he said as he placed his knife and fork in the box. 'Thanks for the suggestion.'

'You're welcome,' Love said. He walked over to where Mr Butterfield was sitting.

Stuart followed and stood by Love's side. He glanced down at Derek Butterfield and nodded. 'How are you, Mr Butterfield?' he said, as he peeled off his black leather gloves.

'Holding up, you know how it is.'

'I can imagine,' Stuart said. He glanced around him. The middle-aged woman with her magazine was sitting there as before. A Tupperware box in front of her. Empty apart from a few crumbs. A mug of what looked like coffee to the side of her. She glanced up at Stuart and smiled and Stuart smiled back.

Derek Butterfield picked up his paper serviette and dabbed at the corners of his mouth before folding it and placing the serviette carefully to the side of his lunch. Precise. Methodical. 'What can I do for you gentlemen?'

'We have a few further questions to ask,' Love replied.

He pulled out a chewed biro and notepad. He glanced at his pen and grimaced. Why Julie had this compulsion to chew every single pen he brought into the house he had no idea. And as long as it wasn't harmful to the dog he could happily live with it.

'Is there somewhere private we can talk?'

The woman looked over and spoke up straight away. 'It's all right, Derek, I was thinking of going outside for a cigarette anyway.' She closed her magazine, opened a drawer pulled out a packet of Silk Cut and a lighter, stood up and walked over to the door. She reached over to the coat stand and grabbed a woollen coat, woolly scarf, and hat. A moment later, she left.

Mr Butterfield gestured for the two men to sit down. They remained standing.

Love spoke first. 'No, thanks, Mr Butterfield, this won't take long. I understand on the day of your wife's murder you were at the office and the only time you left was to collect your lunch.'

'Yes, I've already told you.'

'I also understand that happens to be not quite true, is it?'

'What are you implying?'

'I'm implying nothing I'm stating a fact,' Love said. He glanced at Stuart. He remained where he was. Observing.

'What fact... what are you talking about?'

'The fact that you left the office but not to pick up your lunch.'

'I don't recall exactly but I believe I did buy my lunch as per usual that particular day.'

'You don't have to recall, I have proof you didn't.'

'What are you talking about?'

Stuart spoke quietly. 'We know you go to Locks bistro most days but not on the day of your wife's murder.'

'So? What of it?'

'So where did you go?'

'Who says I went anywhere?'

'I am,' Love said. 'We understand you left the office on the day of your wife's murder.'

'But not to buy your lunch,' Stuart added. 'At least not from Locks.'

Butterfield looked from Stuart to Love. His eyes shone brightly. His face flushed. He was angry or frightened. 'How dare you, how bloody dare you...'

Love interrupted. 'Mr Butterfield, sir, keep your cool, please. Just let us do our job and answer the questions.'

'Answer your questions? Your insinuations more like.'

'Mr Butterfield.' Love spoke quietly. He moved closer to where Derek Butterfield was sitting looking like a cornered animal. His eyes darting from left to right as though searching for a place to escape. 'Just tell us where you went that lunchtime.'

'I... I can't.'

'Can't or won't,' Stuart asked.

Mr Butterfield stared at Stuart. He spoke sharply. 'Does it make a bloody difference?'

'Possibly not,' Stuart said. 'Why can't you tell us? We know you're hiding something.'

'Would you rather we take you down to Detective Special Branch Division?' Love said.

'Bloody hell, no!' Butterfield pushed back his chair and stood up. He walked over to the window and stared out of it. Agitated he began rubbing his hands together before stuffing them into the pockets of his trousers. Finally, he turned round. 'All right,' he said quietly. 'I'll tell you what you want to know.'

Stuart and Love looked at each other and waited.

'I did go out that day and not to buy any lunch.' Butterfield looked from Stuart to Love and back down at the floor as though looking at their faces was too painful. 'And I wasn't alone.'

A few moments passed before Stuart spoke softly. 'Who was with you?'

Butterfield blinked hard and sighed heavily. 'She's married.'

'She?' asked Love.

'Do you need to know her name? Is that necessary?'

'I'm afraid so,' Love said.

'Please continue Mr Butterfield,' Stuart said, and wrote something down in his notepad.

Butterfield watched him for a moment before speaking again. 'You know her, I mean, you've met on a couple of occasions.'

Love narrowed his eyes and gestured over to the desk by the window. 'You mean,' he paused as he read the nameplate on the desk, 'Mrs Moody?'

Butterfield closed his eyes and nodded. 'Yes, Mrs Moody. We're having, we have a close friendship.'

'You're having an affair,' Love said.

Butterfield snapped open his eyes. 'Don't you dare do that! Don't you dare make this out to be something nasty or sordid.'

'I apologise, Mr Butterfield, I meant no disrespect but the official terminology for your friendship is known as an affair. Am I correct?'

'Call it what you will, damn you. Mrs Moody and I have been close friends for about four and a half months. We find pleasure in each others company.'

'Is your friendship sexual, Mr Butterfield?' Stuart asked.

'Sexual? It's closeness. We call it an expression of our love for each other.'

'Can I take that as affirmative?'

'Yes! Yes! It's sexual, all right? Are you happy now?' Butterfield shouted then slumped into himself. He pulled a clean white handkerchief from the inside of his jacket. He patted his forehead. 'I'm sorry. I didn't mean to shout at you.'

'No problem, Mr Butterfield, in your own time, sir.'

Derek Butterfield took a deep breath, and said in a quiet voice, 'It's not all about sex. We were intimate certainly but a full sexual relationship didn't happen until later.' Butterfield looked over at Love and smiled a pale ghostly smile. 'We've known each other for a few years. Over time we became friends. We have things in common. We can talk to each other. I can talk to Linda, Mrs Moody, like I couldn't talk to Carol.'

'Is it the same for Mrs Moody?' Stuart asked.

Butterfield blinked rapidly. His gaze darted to the door. He appeared nervous. 'Yes, she's in a loveless marriage. We can be ourselves when we're together. You know,' Butterfield paused, 'you know, if it wasn't for the boys I'd have walked out long ago.'

'Why is that?'

'Carol and I had steadily been growing apart for years. She changed. I changed. No ones fault.' His eyes flickered. 'Earlier this year she took up studying. She said now the boys are getting older she could finally pursue her dream.'

Love glanced over at Stuart. Stuart had been making notes all this time but now his hand hovered. He waited. Thinking. He glanced back at Love. Two minds. One thought.

Love spoke first. 'I appreciate your opening up to us, Mr Butterfield, but there's something you're still not telling us.'

Butterfield stared at Love. 'Well of course there's something I'm not telling you,' he muttered under his breath raised his hand and pointed to the door. 'Outside that door and down to the end of the corridor is the assistant director of PAL.'

'And?'

He spoke directly to Love. 'And his name is Barnaby Moody.' He glanced at Stuart as he walked back over to his desk and in a hushed tone Love and Stuart could barely hear, he said, 'Barnaby Moody just happens to be Linda's husband.'

Chapter Sixteen

'You were scared of losing your jobs.'

Love spoke to Butterfield who was sitting back down at his desk. He was drinking a cup of strong, sweet tea.

Love put a mug to his lips. He'd felt in need of one himself.

Stuart had declined. He stayed where he was resting on the edge of a nearby desk. Observing. Making notes.

'Yes, of course we were. We still are.' He took a sip of his beverage and cupped his hands around the mug. Suddenly there was a tap at the door, it opened, and in walked Linda Moody.

'Is it all right if I come in now?'

Love spoke. 'Yes, absolutely. Thank you for your cooperation.'

'That's all right,' she said, and smiled. 'I usually have a cigarette after lunch although I'm trying to give up.'

Linda Moody. Thirty-eight. No great beauty but she exuded a calming aura. Soft, shoulder-length brown hair. Blue eyeshadow lightly applied over large, intelligent brown eyes.

Love said. 'Your return is timely, Mrs Moody.'

Linda removed her hat, scarf and coat. She looked back at Love with a query and a smile. 'Why is that?' She glanced at Butterfield and the colour ran from her face. 'Derek,' she said quietly. 'You told them.'

Derek Butterfield said, 'I'm sorry, Linda, I had no choice.'

'Well, I daresay. It was only a matter of time.' She wiped her hands down the front of her tweed skirt and pulled at the hem of her chain store polyester jumper. 'I'd like to sit down if I may.'

'Mrs Moody, we will keep this confidential you have nothing to worry about.'

Linda pulled out her chair and sat down. She folded her arms and leant on the desk. 'Do you have any questions for me, Detective?'

'We haven't got to that part yet,' Love said. 'Have we Mr Butterfield?'

Butterfield shook his head. 'On the day my wife was murdered, Mrs Moody left the office at 12:00 o'clock and I followed five minutes later.'

'Practically together?' Love asked. 'Isn't it difficult with Mr Moody on the premises?'

'Highly difficult which is why Linda and I have a secret meeting place.'

'Which is where exactly?' Stuart asked.

'The Texaco garage just down the road. She waits for me there inside the shop. If the coast is clear I pick her up in my car and from there we drive to Southwark Park. It's far enough away not to meet anyone from the office.'

'And that's what happened on the day of your wife's murder?' said Love.

'Yes, we met up, Linda got in the car and we drove to the park. We walked. We talked. Nothing more.'

Love looked at Linda. 'Can you verify this, Mrs Moody? Is that what happened?'

'Yes, that's it exactly. We stayed at the park for about thirty minutes before coming back to the office. Instead of the regular way back Derek did a loop and dropped me off in Cardigan Street close to where it meets with the other end of Stables Way. He drove in alone. I walked back alone.'

'You go to a lot of trouble.'

'It's worth it Detective Le Fanu,' replied Butterfield.

'Can anyone verify this?'

Derek Butterfield smiled. 'Normally I would say no but on this occasion we each bought a mug of soup from the cafe in the park.'

'Who served you?' Stuart asked.

'Have no idea but we usually see her there most days.'

'Any reason why she should remember you two?'

'No, I'm afraid not.'

'Think hard,' Love said. 'Anything at all.'

Butterfield shook his head. 'No, nothing unless, hey! Wait a minute.'

'Yes?'

'The soup. I said it tasted good, like the stuff you can get from Locks bistro. The woman laughed and said something about where did I think she got the recipe from.'

Love spoke. 'Good. That gives us something.'

'Anything else?' Stuart said. He waited. He felt Derek Butterfield and Linda Moody weren't telling them everything.

'No, that's it. That's about everything.'

Stuart sat for a moment and snapped shut his notepad. 'Thank you very much, Mr Butterfield. We'll be in touch.'

Love spoke up. 'Mr Butterfield, can you tell us anything about the crosses on your wife's stomach?'

Butterfield shook his head. 'No, of course not. What would I know about them?'

Love stared at Butterfield briefly before replying. 'Mr Butterfield, we may have some more questions, I hope you understand. Perhaps you'd like to come into the Branch for an informal chat.'

'But I don't understand, I've told you everything you need to know.'

'Have you?' Love said. He smiled before adding, 'If either of you think of anything else, here's my card.' He reached into the pocket of his chinos and pulled out his wallet. He flipped it open to produce a stiff white card. He handed it to Mr Butterfield and then took a couple of steps reached over and gave one to Linda Moody.

She took it in her slim hand and held it.

'And here's mine,' Stuart said. He flipped open a silver card case and removed two cards. He gave one to Butterfield and one to Linda. Butterfield took it and placed it on the desk next to Love's card.

Linda took it and stared at the two cards resting in her hands.

Love spoke. 'Thank you very much for your time. We'll be in touch.' Love turned to leave then hesitated. 'Mr Butterfield, do you own a gun?'

'What!' Butterfield replied. He looked shocked. 'Of course I don't!'

'I'm sorry, we have to ask.'

Stuart slipped on his gloves and nodded. 'Appreciate your time and cooperation.' He pointed at Butterfield's cold chicken and spaghetti. 'Sorry about your lunch.'

Butterfield glanced down at the remains of his lunch on his desk. 'Pardon? Oh, my lunch, it doesn't matter we have a microwave I can reheat it up in.'

Love and Stuart took one last look at the two individuals caught up in their secret love tryst and left. They were outside in the car park before either of them spoke.

'Didn't see that one coming,' Love said as his pointed his keys towards his Volvo. He pushed, it bleeped, it unlocked.

'Not so close to home you mean.'

'Exactly. I knew they didn't have a perfect marriage. Felt it in my gut from the beginning. But having a thing with a work colleague whose husband is on the premises is walking a tight line.'

'He's a cool customer.'

'So is she, but she's got warmth.'

'Not a cover girl as far as her looks are concerned but I can certainly appreciate the attraction.'

'Especially if he wasn't getting any comfort at home.'

'There's still something he hasn't told us.'

Love stopped in front of his car door. He pulled it open. 'I agree. He's still hiding something,' he said as he manoeuvred his bulk into his seat.

Stuart jumped in and rubbed his hands together.' Love, please get the heating...'

'I will,' he interrupted. 'I'll see to it when we get back to the Branch.'

'Thank you.' Stuart grinned and looked out of the side window. He glanced at the building to where he figured the accounts office would be. He glanced again and was sure he'd spied the outline of two figures standing behind the venetian blinds.

Watching them leave.

13:15 hours

Love drove out of the offices only to be swallowed up by the lunchtime rush.

He joined the bustle and traffic. Busy people. Busy lives. Single persons. Married. Some having affairs. Some not.

Love thought back over his interview. He knew, like Stuart, Butterfield was still holding something back. The sun was shining. Doing its best. Weak and watery but at least it was shining. Love drove on. Deep in thought.

Suddenly, a buzzing interrupted his thoughts.

Stuart pulled off his gloves stuffed them in a pocket of his overcoat reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out his mobile. He looked at the screen before answering. Not a fan of BlackBerry. Strangely enough. Smart-looking bloke. Wealthy. Fashionable. But like Love, not a complete slave to the fashion industry.

He liked to put his own personal spin on his attire. He could if he chose but he didn't run with the pack. That wasn't his style. He was old school. Not the new bling-type of celebrity wealth. He used a regular Nokia. Middle of the range, nothing cheap but not too expensive either. A phone that was good at taking photographs.

That, as far as Stuart was concerned in his line of work, was important.

'Hello?' He listened. A car passing in the opposite direction blasted its horn. 'Sorry, can you repeat that?'

Love concentrated on the traffic. It was busy. That was nothing unusual. Cars. People. Some of whom were shopping at Tesco. Some getting a packed lunch. Sandwiches. Whatever. Which reminded him, he had to buy something for his dinner tonight. Preferably something already cooked, like a chicken. He continued to watch the crowds. Some individuals were no doubt buying a small bottle of liquid lunch, something that could easily fit inside their jacket pocket because they didn't want anyone else to know about it.

Love knew all the tricks. Glad he was no longer there.

And some already stocking up on their perishables in time for the festive season. And then come the week before Christmas they'd have to do it all over again because the first lot of supplies would be gone.

'That was Chris.'

'Which one - Chris as in she who is built like Sophia Loren or Chris who looks like Ray Winstone?'

Stuart smiled. 'Sophia.'

'And what did she have to say?'

'No luck with the hospital records.'

'That's a bummer.'

'She cross-checked with the names from Monica's work and her dance class.'

'And came up with nothing.'

'And came up with nothing.'

'So what's her plan?'

'She's going to extend the search to include acquaintances.'

'No family, other than Ashley and Timmy, or friends?'

'None that we can find, Love,' said Stuart. 'I reckon you were right.' He pushed the phone back into his pocket and slipped his gloves back on. 'Her work life is also her social life.'

Love grunted and swerved to avoid a bicycle messenger. His favourite. Guaranteed to extract a reaction whatever his mood. No friends, huh? Work life was her social life? Love determined he knew all about that ball game.

A minute later, they'd come to a halt in front of the underground car park of MI6. He and Stuart each swiped their ID on a verification device lined up either side of the car complete with infrared and heat-seeking security cameras. All occupants of a vehicle are required to perform this procedure both incoming and outgoing. Armed security guards also patrolled the area, out of sight, but aware of every move. The wrought iron gate opened. Love cruised over to the spaces allocated for DSBD stopped the car, pulled on the handbrake. He left the vehicle running, his hand hovering in front of the key.

'Love?'

'Yeah, mate, just thinking.'

* * *

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 murmured.

'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.'

Chapter Seventeen

Day Five

Friday, 2 November 2012

He heard a noise in the distance. It was insistent. Buzzing in his ear. Irritating. Wanting his attention.

Suddenly, he was awake.

He sat up sharply on both elbows, the duvet slipped down exposing his bare chest. He eyed the rivers of sweat snaking their way down his body.

'Damn!'

His arm reached to one side and he pressed the alarm button on top of his clock. It stopped its incessant noise. He dropped on to his back. 'Damn,' he said again. He glanced down, and growled, 'For Pete's sake you could go camping in that!'

He jumped out of bed and paced the room. He threw on his dressing gown, last year's Christmas present from Emma and Stuart, and walked into the lounge to the kitchen flicking on the lights as he went along. He snapped the "on" switch on the kettle and stood for a moment mentally composing himself before walking back through into the lounge to check on Julie.

'Hello, pregnant lady. How are you this morning?' he said, as he knelt down by her basket.

Julie thumped her stump of a tail in return. She moved her paw until it made contact with Love's hand. He held it deep in thought.

What the hell was happening to him? He felt like he was on unsure ground. He liked to be in complete control at all times and right now he wasn't in control.

Something was happening to him.

He felt vulnerable and exposed and he didn't like that feeling. He didn't like it one bit.

* * *

08:20 hours

Love walked into reception, showed his security and strolled over to the lifts.

He punched the button with the arrow pointing upwards and waited. The hum of the air conditioning could be heard or had the heating kicked in already, he wondered. The sound of people walking across the floor made click-clacking and squelching noises on the marble. Love listened as he waited. The lift made a gentle ping and the doors opened. It was empty. Love was glad of that. He strode in and punched seven, the doors closed with a gentle motion and Love was swiftly transported upstairs.

He stepped out the lift, head down deep in thought, walked round the corner to his and Stuart's office, punched the security code into the pad, the door clicked, he opened it and stopped dead. He looked across at the man sitting down at his desk and cursed.

'I thought I'd beat you for once and be first in today.'

'Nearly, Love, but I had to get an early start this morning,' Stuart said. 'We have to catch that scum before number three becomes a reality.'

'We will,' Love replied. He patted Stuart's shoulder. He sure hoped he was right.

'Besides, your tea sucks.'

'What still? After all these years? Nah!'

Love was on his fourth cigarette that morning and it was still only 08:50 hours.

He didn't know if he should contact Julie Cooper on a personal level or keep things strictly professional. What if she were the sort who went for a house in the country, husband, kids and a mortgage?

Love shook his head as he took a long drag of his cigarette. He exhaled the smoke and watched it curl before escaping out of the open window. Not his style at all. He wasn't interested in marriage, house in the suburbs, or kids. He liked to go out and enjoy the company of a good woman without any strings attached. He was upfront about it every time. He liked things simple.

Was that so difficult, he wondered.

He turned from the window, walked back to his desk, sat down, and stubbed out his cigarette. He checked his watch. Bit his lip. It was time he and Stuart got going.

He rifled through some papers strewn all over his desk. Organised chaos. He pulled one out and studied it. He glanced at his watch again. Definitely time to leave. Stuart would be waiting downstairs. He grabbed his Donegal strode over to the door and pulled it open. The blinds flapped noisily. He closed the door firmly behind him punched in a sequence of numbers, threw on his jacket, and left.

Investigations into the staff at the estate agents who were responsible for letting the property where Carol was found dead, were coming up blank.

It appeared the staff of whom there were six in total, were a mixture of law-abiding, bingo playing, club-hopping individuals. The choice of club might be put down to bad taste as far as one of the staff was concerned but bad taste was not illegal. At least not yet but given time, Love mused. He was receiving regular reports from the operatives who were leading the operation and so far the staff members were coming up clean.

On top of which, Love and Stuart had received another request via Jenny and as appreciative as Love was always to see her, he really could have done without it. The commander was requesting the latest update.

The latest update? The latest was that Love reckoned a connection with the hospital was the main factor but he had nothing to go on. He thought Butterfield was involved but it turns out not the way he suspected although he still hadn't been given the full green light.

And then there was that surgeon, Mr James Sullivan. Far too cool for his own good and he also tied in with the hospital connection so-called.

What was his story?

Plus, there was that tenuous photography link.

Give an update to the commander?

That was a joke.

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 it, 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.

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.

Chapter Nineteen

09:40 hours

'I know the Nicéphore test is intricate takes a bit of time and that's why it's so expensive but was it ever worth it,' said Stuart.

Love had turned his head back to face the front. Finally the long stream of traffic was moving. The transport of London was once again on the move like a boa constrictor swiftly going after its prey.

He sped along the remainder of Parry Street turned right down Wandsworth Road and into the Embankment. As he approached the entrance to MI6, Love pressed his remote and the steel gate swiftly slid open. He cruised round to the back of the building pulling up in front of the wrought iron gate. The two men each swiped their ID, brief pause, the gate slid open and he drove through and into an allocated space in the private underground car park, pushed the gearstick into neutral, pulled on the handbrake, turned off the ignition and sat back resting his head on the seat's headrest.

'What are we getting into here, Stuart?'

Stuart tapped his phone on his knee. 'We shouldn't be surprised. Not in our game. But Carol Butterfield?'

Love turned his head to look at his partner. 'Something more than we bargained for.' He unsnapped his seat belt and eased his bulk from the car. Stuart was already out of his seat. Love looked at him over the roof of the Volvo. 'The million dollar question is - who did she practise this with.'

The two detectives strode along past the various parked cars. BMWs. Fords. Jaguars. Skodas. An eclectic mix. Some private. Some belonging to the Branch. They took the short flight of stairs leading to ground floor alongside of which was installed a ramp for the operatives who got about on two wheels, and moments later were striding into the building where they each flashed their ID before walking over to the lifts.

'I hate to say this,' Love said as they stepped into the lift. The doors closed. The lift moved silently and efficiently. 'But I think it's time we had our friend Mr Butterfield pay us that visit sooner rather than later.'

'To question him about this possible sadism link?' Stuart asked.

'Sounds freaky doesn't it, but do you have a better idea?'

Stuart dug his hands deep into the pockets of his cashmere overcoat. 'At this moment in time, Love, I can't wait to ask.'

* * *

10:20 hours

'Thanks for dropping by, Mr Butterfield,' Love said as he indicated a seat.

He and Stuart were in conference room number one. The room was medium-sized. Informal. Decorated in smooth browns and beige offset against splashes of vibrant orange, yellow and blue. A large mirror hung from one wall, a two-way mirror.

Large plants in containers were placed in all four corners of the room. Artificial. A large wooden coffee table sat off-centre surrounded by four brown corduroy and steel comfy chairs.

An orange-coloured dried flower arrangement sat in the middle of the table and to the side of that a tape recorder. It belonged to Love. It was an old cassette player.

The large window overlooked central London and in the distance stood Battersea Power Station. Its four chimneys standing to attention like large brick skittles defying to be knocked down. Beige blinds flapped in the gentle breeze coming from the crack in the window which Love had opened minutes before. It was a comfortable room and gave nothing away. It could have been a room in any office or home.

Stuart nodded to Butterfield. 'Hello, Mr Butterfield, how are you?'

Derek Butterfield sat down in the chair nearest to him. He was wearing a thick corduroy jacket, woollen gloves and scarf. The gloves and scarf looked home-made. He leant forward slightly and placed his gloves on the table in front of him. He unpeeled the unruly woollen snake from his neck as he spoke.

'Not too bad, thank you, Detective Le Fanu.'

'Good,' Stuart said. 'Glad to hear it.' He smiled and flicked back his hair with a toss of his head. He looked like he'd stepped from a cover of a magazine of which he had no idea and was partly what made him so attractive. That and his complete lack of vanity.

Love leant forward in his chair opposite Butterfield's and pressed the "record" and "play" buttons on the tape recorder. He spoke. He recorded the time, date and persons present.

'Now, Mr Butterfield, I'm sorry if this is painful for you,' Love began. 'But we've been reviewing your wife's autopsy photographs.' Love stopped talking.

Butterfield was staring at Love. Listening intently. His face giving nothing away.

'Would you like a coffee or tea? I'm sorry I should have asked straight away.'

'No, I'm fine, thank you. I had a coffee just before I left work,' Butterfield said as he glanced at his watch. 'I hope this doesn't take too much time I have a meeting to get back to.'

'No, we won't take any longer than necessary,' Stuart said. He was sitting in the chair next to Butterfield.

Love continued. 'I'm sorry to have to ask this but did your wife practice sadism?'

The two detectives waited for the expected explosion. It didn't come. Butterfield dropped his head and looked at the carpet. He focussed on a small stain where someone had recently split some coffee.

Love followed his gaze.

A few moments passed before Butterfield spoke. 'For the last few months of Carol's life it was like living with a stranger.'

'How so?' Stuart asked softly.

'She changed,' he said, as he began wiping his hands on his trousers.

'Changed how?' asked Love.

'Suddenly, ordinary sex was out of the question,' he broke off momentarily. 'Not that we indulged that often because we didn't but suddenly she wanted me to do things and I refused.'

'Mr Butterfield, what sort of things, please, it's important.'

Butterfield looked up at Love. His eyes looked hollow as though the memory of it was too painful to talk about. 'She wanted me to pour hot candle wax on her body and...'

Love and Stuart looked at each other. 'And?' Love prompted.

'And to scratch fine lines on her.'

'And you say you refused?' asked Stuart.

'Yes.'

'Did you pour hot candle wax on your wife?'

'No,' Butterfield answered quietly and firmly.

'Did you scratch your wife during sexual relations as a form of sadism?'

'No.'

'Did you ever perform sadism with your wife?'

Butterfield flinched. 'No, Detective Le Fanu, I didn't.'

'Not even once? Just to see if you liked it?'

Butterfield stared at Love. 'Detective Love, you don't have to eat gravel to know you wouldn't enjoy it.' Butterfield glanced down at his hands which were resting on each of his knees. He glanced up again and smiled a thin smile. 'I refused. And she didn't seem to care. That was the strangest thing about it. Her not caring. She didn't even argue the point.'

'You didn't ask her how this sudden desire came about?' Love asked.

'I didn't think to ask,' he said. He wiped his hands vigorously back and forth on his knees.

'Did you continue to have sexual relations?' asked Stuart.

'No, we didn't.' Butterfield shifted his weight. 'A couple of weeks later my relationship with Linda progressed to a more intimate basis and then a few months after that... Carol was dead.'

'When did your wife change her sexual preferences,' asked Love. 'Can you remember?'

'Yes, I do remember.'

'You seem certain of the date, why is that?' asked Stuart.

'Because it was one week after Stephen's operation.' He looked at Stuart. 'And a week after she began her volunteer visits at the hospital.'

'How interesting was that?' Love said as he rolled his baseball around in his hand.

Stuart walked over to his desk and sat down. He punched in a few details and the reports for both Monica Dixon and Carol Butterfield came up on his screen. He directed his mouse and clicked a couple of icons. The details of both victims began to scroll down side by side. He moved his finger and the mouse clicked again. The speed of the scrolling decreased to a crawl.

Stuart stared at the screen. 'At least now we have a tentative link,' he said, and looked over at Love. 'As far as Carol Butterfield is concerned.'

'Absolutely,' Love replied. 'Time we went back to St Katherine's.'

'You go. I can stay on here and follow up on our other lead.'

'Which is?'

'More of a hunch really but I'll say it's a lead as it sounds good in case the commander asks.'

'Which is?'

'The hospital security tapes.'

Love grinned. 'Come with me to the hospital.'

Stuart looked intently at Love. 'Something you're not telling me?'

'How well you know me,' Love quipped.

He was thinking back to his dream of earlier that morning. He wasn't sure how he was going to face Doctor Cooper. He wasn't sure if he wanted to.

Despite his body telling him differently.

Chapter Twenty

11:00 hours

'It's called the Nicéphore test.'

Love and Stuart had left the Branch and driven straight to St Katherine's. In good time. The traffic had been kind. No hold-ups. No traffic works. No motorcycle messengers or ones on bicycles trying to cause a pile-up. The journey had been smooth and swift and now, eight minutes later, the two detectives were sitting side by side facing Doctor Julie Cooper.

'Is this going to take long because...' she said glancing at the clock on the wall.

'No, not long,' Love said. 'And we thank you for your time, Doctor Cooper.'

She smiled as she looked at Love. 'It's Julie, remember?'

'Yes,' Love murmured. 'Julie.' He could hardly forget but determined if he put things back on to a more formal basis it might ease the situation. What situation? Damned if he knew except the woman was getting under his skin in a big way.

'You were lucky to catch me in between patients but I can spare only five minutes.'

'We thought we'd take a chance on that,' Love replied.

Stuart smiled. He glanced round at his immediate surroundings. It was a small office full of medical books, dictionaries, a few personal objects and plants of all description green and thriving unlike the one back in their office. Stuart glanced at Love. It was the office of a busy professional. Slightly messy, a little chaotic. Lived-in. Calming, cheerful, inviting, decorated in yellows and blues.

And those healthy green plants.

'Can I get you something?' Doctor Cooper asked. She looked from Love to Stuart and back to Love. Her white coat was slightly open revealing a tight-fitting pale pink silk blouse. It moulded her slim figure and narrow waist. It was attractive. Doctor Cooper was attractive. Love found himself looking at her face intently, glanced at Stuart, and cleared his throat.

'No, I'm fine, nothing at all, Stuart?' Stuart shook his head and held his hand up in a gesture of decline. 'But please,' Love added. 'Do share with me your secret in how you keep your plants looking so good.'

Stuart chuckled quietly. He glanced down and crossed his legs, picked a piece of fluff from his knee and waited.

Doctor Cooper smiled. She continued to look at Love, and said, 'It's quite simple, Love, I water them. You were explaining about a - Nicéphore test, was it?'

'Over to Stuart, if it's not a camera with an old-fashioned film I don't want to know.'

'Doesn't that attitude hinder your investigations?' Doctor Cooper spoke quietly. She picked up a pen from her desk and scribbled something down. She folded the paper and fixed her stare on Love. Her face giving nothing away.

'We are a team, Julie, the best of the best in our field and each one of us brings something to it.' Love smiled. 'We all have our idiosyncrasies and preferences.'

'And what do you bring to your team, Love? What's your speciality?'

Love sat back in his chair and grinned. 'I always get my man... or woman.'

'Surely that can be applied to all your individual team members.'

'Perhaps, but I'm usually one step ahead.'

'Why is that?'

'I get into their heads.' Love leant forward. 'I anticipate their next move or I tune into their previous line of thought.'

'So, it's like a case of two becoming one?' Doctor Cooper said.

Stuart glanced from his partner to the doctor. 'And didn't the Spice Girls sing about that very thing?'

'You could be right, Detective Le Fanu, I'm not exactly a fan.' Doctor Cooper laughed. 'I haven't followed the charts not for many years now.'

'Well, surely with the average age of your patients isn't that considered to be a hindrance?' Love said. His eyes crinkled at the corners. He was almost laughing. At her?

She couldn't tell.

'I think we can get things moving along here. You were asking about the Nicéphore test, Doctor Cooper?'

Doctor Cooper turned her gaze on to Stuart. She sat back in her chair and crossed her legs. 'Yes, Detective Le Fanu, I'm sorry, please go on.'

'Highly intricate. Almost science fiction. Available only to the few. It works on the same premise as verifying old masterpieces. Where fine art is concerned an X-ray is taken of the painting which in turn shows up any previous work on the canvas not visible to the naked eye. The Nicéphore test works on the same premise but with photographs. It scrambles up the molecules and particles of the photograph to act like a 3-D window.'

'It's like you're looking inside the photo. It gives you access which even the naked eye denies you,' Love added.

'Or behind it,' Doctor Cooper said.

'Exactly. You almost get a full 360 degree view of what's going on. The Nicéphore test practically gives you X-ray eyes.' Stuart smiled his charming smile at Doctor Cooper.

She smiled in return. 'Remind me then always to wear my most flattering underwear if ever I'm in your vicinity.'

Stuart laughed and Love grinned looked away and then back at Dr Cooper. 'Or at least a clean pair, right?'

'In case you get run over by a bus!' the doctor said, and laughed. 'I was privy to the same philosophy when I was growing up.'

'Well now,' Love said. 'Isn't it a small world.'

The remainder of the interview centred on Timmy. Love was eager to know how the boy was doing. He was holding his own. Doing fairly well. He was due to be discharged at the end of the week. Physically, nothing wrong with the boy. Mentally he was holding up, but Doctor Cooper wanted to keep him under observation for a while longer. His memory still hadn't returned. Ashley was visiting him every day. Bringing him fruit. Small toys. Books. Herself. They were getting to know each other. The boy had no idea Ashley was his biological mother.

Ashley had told Doctor Cooper that she'd decided she would tell Timmy at a later date.

When things had calmed down.

Stabilised.

And how long that would be was anyone's guess.

'Shall we stop by to see how Timmy's doing?' Stuart asked Love.

They were striding along the wide corridors and on their way back down to the ground floor. The interview with Julie Cooper had gone all right. Love had got through it. He'd kept his mind on the job. Damned if he'd let that woman get to him.

What was it about her anyway?

'Yeah, good idea,' Love said. 'Let's do that.'

Less than a minute later, they were standing outside Timmy's door situated one floor below. Love knocked. A voice from inside told him to come in. He opened the door to find Ashley sitting on the edge of the bed. Timmy was sitting up looking a lot brighter since the last time he'd seen him.

'Hello, Ashley, how are you?' he said looking at Timmy.

Ashley rose from the bed and turned to face the two men. 'I'm fine,' she said. 'We're both doing pretty well, thank you.'

'Hello, son,' Love said. 'What's that you have there?' He pointed to a small toy aeroplane in the boy's hands.

'Auntie Ashley gave it to me,' he said. 'It's a Spitfire.'

'Is it now?' Love said.

'That's neat, Timmy,' said Stuart. He walked over to stand by the boy. 'Can I see it?'

'Yes,' Timmy said, and handed it to Stuart.

Stuart looked the little model aeroplane over. It was plastic and probably cheap but lots of fun and by the look on Timmy's face a huge hit. 'It's great,' he said handing it back to Timmy. 'Thanks, son.'

'They sell them in the hospital shop just inside the main doors,' Ashley said.

'I know the one,' Love said. 'Looks like they sell a little of just about everything in there.'

'Yes.' Ashley grinned. 'It's a real treasure trove.'

Love nodded. Stuart pulled out his gloves and started to put them on. 'Well, we'll leave you in peace we just wanted to stop by and say hello.'

'Thank you,' Ashley said.

She looked composed and attractive. Her hair was hanging loose. It was straight and reached just past her shoulders. She was wearing a black cashmere polo neck jumper offset by a pair of bright turquoise jeggings under which she wore silky black tights. A pair of black leather pumps completed her outfit.

'We didn't want to intrude but please know that we're doing all we can,' Love said.

'I know you are and thank you.' Ashley smiled, turned round and sat back down on the bed.

Love and Stuart walked from the room closing the door quietly behind them.

A large man dressed in filthy jeans and a sweatshirt advertising a popular brand of beer walked by. He glanced back at Stuart, stopped, and said, 'Oy, Prince Charles, where's main reception?'

Stuart gazed at the man. 'On the way out.'

'Sorry, mate, I get lost in hospitals which way is that?'

'Take the lift down to the ground floor keep walking in this direction turn left at the end just follow the corridor and you're there.'

'Cheers, Charles, you're a diamond.' The man grinned gave a thumbs up sign and ambled on his way.

Stuart looked over at Love. 'What!'

'Prince Charles? That's a new one.'

'I take it as a compliment,' Stuart said, smoothing down the collar of his overcoat. 'But I'm curious as to why he didn't make it William, or one of the others, seeing as I am slightly nearer to that age group.'

'Yeah, but you're far more mature,' he said, and grinned. 'And better dressed, just like his dad,' he added.

Love zipped up his Donegal as they made their way to the main entrance.

'There's the "Aladdin's Cave",' Stuart said, nodding towards the shop.

The open-plan shop was nestled in between the main entrance and reception. Handy for those who'd either forgotten or hadn't had time on their way to the hospital to pick up a present. The ubiquitous card or flowers. Magazine. Made a change from the odd bunch of sad, dusty grapes. Whatever. The shop was crammed full of goodies, customers and staff alike.

Business appeared to be good. There was no shortage of sick people. Like a funeral director you were safe in the knowledge you'd never have a problem with lack of business.

People always got sick and they always died. You could count on it.

Love and Stuart strolled over. Stuart pointed to a shelf. 'Timmy's Spitfire,' he said.

'Can I help you?'

Love and Stuart turned to face a young man smiling at them.

'No, we're just looking, thanks,' Love said. 'Nice shop you have here,' he added.

'Thank you, but it belongs to my father, I just help out when I'm needed.'

'When it gets busy?' Stuart asked.

'And that seems to be most days lately,' the man said, and laughed. His attention focussed on the other side of the shop past the plastic toys, boxes of chocolates, stationery, books, magazines and newspapers. 'Excuse me but I'm wanted over by the flower display.'

Love and Stuart watched him go. 'Never a dull moment,' Stuart said.

'No, not in a shop like this.'

A woman brushed past them trailing a crying child behind her. His knees were bloodied. Nothing that a wash, a dab of disinfectant and a couple of plasters wouldn't put right.

Stuart turned to look at them. 'You should see the scars already on Shannon's knees. It's all part of growing up.'

'Exactly. A few cuts and bruises is all part of the process,' Love said. He reckoned the woman was causing the kid more upset and grief than his wounds were giving him.

The large sliding doors opened with a whooshing sound allowing a rush of cold into the building. The two men made their way to the car and moments later were heading back to the office. A spot hit the windscreen then another. Love turned on his wipers. It was only a soft drizzle and he turned them down to the slowest speed. Each lost in thought.

Suddenly, Stuart started to hum.

'You always do that,' Love said as he negotiated a car in front changing its lane at the last second.

'What?'

He pulled up at the traffic lights and stopped. 'Every time we pass the YMCA you start humming that song.'

'Do I?' Stuart chuckled. 'Automatic reaction, mate, especially when I'm thinking.'

'Any thoughts you'd care to share?'

'Apart from wondering when in blazes you're going to get the heating repaired in this thing?' he said, and grinned. 'And I was thinking about Sven Stonehead's meeting on Tuesday,' Stuart said after a few minutes had passed.

Love drove on for a bit flicked his indicator to turn left into Parry Street and a moment later bore right. Stuart was already unfastening his seat belt.

'Yeah, I'd really like to know what's behind his recent trips to Primrose Hill.' Love turned off Albert Embankment into the underground car park, a pause, ID verification, another pause and over to the spaces allocated for DSBD. He pulled into an empty space yanked the handbrake on and turned off the car. He had a feeling about that guy. Something wasn't adding up.

'It'll be interesting to meet him.'

Love looked at his partner. 'Let's get one step ahead and pull his records just to see what sort of shape the charity is in.'

'All right,' Stuart said.

He and Love were walking towards the exit when behind them a car screeched out of the car park. They didn't even bother looking behind them. Cars coming and going on two wheels or four was all in a day's work.

They climbed the few stairs, swiped their IDs, each entered their own personal code, Stuart stepped forward and pulled open the heavy door that would lead them into reception. 'I'll bring in Michael,' he said, thinking of their fellow operative.

Michael Kozlowski, sixty years old, amongst his skills he brought to the team was an infinite capacity for sniffing out fraud and backhanders.

'If there's anything dodgy going on, Love, he'll find it.'

11:30 hours

'Yeah, sure,' Love said, and nodded in reply to Stuart who was holding up a tea bag.

He got up, grabbed his empty mug. Rinsed it under the hot tap and handed it to Stuart who dropped a tea bag in it. He strode over to the window and stared out at the river. Grey. Strong current. He touched the radiator underneath. It was lukewarm. He grabbed the dial and over his shoulder said to Stuart, 'You don't mind, do you?'

'Up or down?'

'Up,' Love said.

'You'll get no complaints from me.' Stuart grinned as he poured boiling water into two mugs. He picked up the spoon added a teaspoon of sugar in Love's mug, stirred it and squirted a drop of stevia into his own. He reached across to the mini fridge pulled out a carton of organic lactose-free milk. He added a drop to Love's mug and a splash in his own and made a mental note to bring in some rice milk. He stirred the contents and placed the spoon to one side to be washed up later. He joined Love at the window and handed him his mug.

'Looks harmless from up here, doesn't it,' he said taking a sip of his tea.

'Cheers,' Love said. He took his mug and nodded. 'Sure does.' He took a sip. Grateful for the hot liquid. It tasted good and it hit the spot.

Love taking time out to drink tea like a proper Brit.

No one back in New York would ever believe it.

Love's thoughts went back to their earlier meeting with Monica's co-workers and boss. He liked them. He reckoned Monica fit in well there. They had a good team going and now one of them was gone. Forever. But replaceable. They'd no doubt find someone else who can dress well, be polite, competent and efficient. Be part of their family but happy to leave it behind at the office when the door closes at the end of the day.

Suddenly, he remembered something. What with the results of the Nicéphore test and the subsequent visit with Julie Cooper, it had escaped his mind.

Stuart's telephone rang. He strode over to his desk, picked it up. He laughed. Ran off some figures. Listened for a moment then spoke some more.

Love's thoughts stayed with him. He loped over and placed his mug of tea on the desk. Reaching into his jacket pocket from the back of his chair he retrieved the bunch of cards and letters he'd lifted from Monica's office.

He pulled his chair out and sat down.

He took the first envelope, opened it and closed it. It was a letter from a charity thanking Monica for her recent contribution and now thanks to her quite a number of cats would have a safe place to stay and food to eat for the next six months. Cats! She could have at least made it a dog home. Battersea for starters.

They had cats and dogs.

He opened another envelope. A company that sold office supplies was expanding and wanted to ensure Monica knew all about it. He took a sip of tea. He looked over at Stuart making notes on his computer. Phone balanced on his shoulder whilst typing away like his fingers were flying over the keyboard. Last time Love had tried that the phone had slipped from his shoulder and knocked over his tea where it ended up all over the floor. Julie, who was in the office at the time and being partial to tea, ambled over from her spot by the window to lick it up with gusto before it disappeared into the carpet.

Love pulled another envelope. Handwritten. He checked the postmark. It read 20 October 2012. He pulled out the contents. It was a card. On the front of the card was a picture, a colourful sketch showing a room in an elegant-looking house in which sat a greyhound looking equally elegant and right at home. Love approved of this one. It featured a dog so one up for whomever sent this. He opened it.

Inside was scribbled a message.

I'd have died of boredom if it hadn't been for you! Thanks for all your lovely gifts. Hope to be off these crutches very soon. Love S.

Love looked up. Once again he thanked that gut feeling, that innate sense, call it what you will. He looked over at Stuart who was still busy typing.

Stuart glanced up. Said something into the receiver and ended the call.

'What is it?' he said. 'What have you found?'

Love smiled. 'Something that's possibly leading us right back to the hospital.'

'You're joking. Something concrete?' Stuart said. He got up and walked over to Love. Love handed him the card. Stuart glanced down and read the contents.

'I don't know, mate,' Love said, staring past Stuart at the traffic in the distance. 'But I reckon it could be at that.'

Chapter Twenty-One

'Who on earth is "S"?'

Love got up and walked over to the window, shoved his hands in his pockets, and said, 'I have no answer to that, mate.'

'Great!' Stuart stared at the card in his hand. 'We now have a tentative connection that ties Monica in with the hospital but it's taken away because the person, as of yet unknown, didn't give their bloody name.' He glanced up at Love. 'Stacy?'

'From the office?'

'Yes.'

'Doubtful for two reasons,' Love said. He walked back to his desk, picked up his baseball and rolled it around in both hands. 'Her handwriting doesn't match and she shows no physical signs of having had her leg in a cast.' He replaced the ball on his desk turned slightly in his chair and from his jacket pocket pulled out his mobile. 'And that reminds me,' he said.

'What's that?'

'I took a couple of photos in Monica's office.'

'Something interesting?'

'Not sure.' Love shrugged his shoulders. 'Someone had crossed something out and I thought perhaps...'

'The crosses might match?'

Love punched a couple of buttons on his mobile, swore silently, and was about to give up when the picture scrolled into view. He peered at it and shook his head. 'We'll load these up on to the computer simply to rule them out but looking closer at them they don't look much like the ones made by our man.'

'So we have no leads as of yet.'

'Yet,' Love repeated. 'As for the moment,' he said, and nodded towards Stuart's computer. 'Continue with the security tapes?'

'These tapes are so corrupt we're having difficulty distinguishing one person from the next,' Stuart said. He walked back to his own desk and sat down. He dropped the card, picked up his pen and chucked it across his desk. He sat back in his chair exposing his snugly-fitting Antony Morato shirt. Pale blue. The jacket to his suit placed on the back of the chair. He ran his hand through his silky black hair. A few strands flopped forward over one eye. 'What are the odds on that?'

Love said nothing. He was back on track. He'd lost that momentary feeling of floundering about. Going back and forth. Chasing after his own tail. Now, he felt he'd got something to bite into again. And he was going with it.

'Can you make anything out, anything at all?'

Stuart beckoned him over to his desk. 'Come and see for yourself,' he said. He leant forward and punched a couple of keys.

Love stood up, ambled over to Stuart's desk and leant down to peer at the screen.

'This is the only available footage we have of the entrance. Over there,' he paused to point to the left-hand side of the screen, 'is the gift shop. You can just about make it out.'

Love watched as a group of hazy figures walked in and milled about. The tape showed others walking out of the entrance except it looked like they were all battling a ferocious snowstorm. 'Look,' Love said. 'It clears up for a second.'

'Yeah, it does that now and then,' Stuart said. His hand poised over his mouse. 'It doesn't give us much though just grainy shots of feet mostly.'

Love stood up straight. 'Perhaps that's all we need.'

'Feet?'

'No,' Love said. 'Shoes. Let's see if we can identify, or at the very least, narrow it down to matching what Monica was wearing on her feet.'

'But we have no idea what she was wearing or if she was even there!'

'Trust me,' Love said. 'We have an inventory of her shoes and boots.'

Stuart shook his head. 'Hang on, hang on, let's think this through.' He tapped a few keys and an inventory list scrolled up on his screen. 'This is what the PCs pulled from her house.' He tapped a few more keys and clicked his mouse once. 'And this by the side of it here is the list of her clothes she was wearing at the time of her death.' He looked up at Love. 'This might work if we concentrate on one thing.'

'Which is?'

'Going by the weather, her sense of style, I would narrow it down to her wearing one particular pair of shoes.'

'And those would be?'

'These Liberty ankle boots.'

'The same ones she was wearing at the time of death?'

'Exactly. They are warm, comfortable, stylish, and I would say it's a good chance she wore them a lot in and out of office hours. I think it's a good place to start.'

Love hesitated. Were they chasing their own tail? Love had no idea but his gut told him to stay with it no matter how tenuous the connection.

'Let's do it.'

14:07 hours

'Talk about a needle,' Stuart said.

He got up from his desk and walked over to the window stretching his arms high in the air. He rested them on the small of his back turned to Love and grinned. 'What a way to make a living.'

Love hit a button on the video recorder hooked up to his monitor and the tape paused. 'Comes down to good old-fashioned plodding,' he said, and grinned in return. 'It usually does.'

'You hate technology that much?'

'Stuart, man, it's a means to an end but give me older techniques over these fancy pancy M-CADDs, iPads, you pads whatever any day of the week!'

Stuart laughed. 'You're only five years older than me yet you're like fifty.'

'I know.' Love was still grinning. 'Ain't it great!'

'What's great is that it makes us a decent team.'

'Yep! Just like yin and yang.'

'Who is who?'

'I couldn't say,' Love said, and laughed loudly.

Despite both he and Stuart going through reels of tape back and forth, again and again, for over two and a half hours until Love thought his head would explode, it was the most relaxed he'd felt in days. He'd managed to get through the rest of the morning and into the afternoon without having a certain doctor intrude into his thoughts.

And for that he was grateful. He didn't want to go down that road. Belle was a one-time thing only which had turned out to be a colossal mistake.

An aberration on his part.

Sure, Julie Cooper was attractive, he could really fancy her, but she looked like the serious type and he wasn't going to go there. It wouldn't be fair to him or her.

'Got to go out,' Love said suddenly.

Stuart looked up from filling the kettle at the round glass sink. 'Need me to come?'

Love pushed his chair out from behind him and stood up. He leant down to grab his jacket from the back of his chair. 'No, I've just got...' he stopped, peered closer and stared. 'I don't believe it.'

Stuart turned off the tap, plugged in the kettle, switched it on and walked over to stand by the side of Love. He looked at him. 'What is it?' He looked at the screen. 'Bloody hell!'

Love grinned and turned to Stuart. 'There they are.'

'I want them to be hers, Love.'

'It's a good start.'

'Can't deny that,' Stuart said, standing up straight. He continued to stare at the paused shot on Love's computer. It was a photo of a pair of Liberty ankle boots exactly the same as the ones Monica owned. 'I want them to be hers and it's a good chance they are.'

'They are pretty exclusive, expensive, not the sort of thing everyone would be wearing,' Love said. 'Your words, mate.'

'Okay! Let's go with it and see where it takes us.'

'My sentiments exactly.'

'Where were you going just now?' Stuart said as he walked back to stand by the sideboard. He watched as a thin trickle of steam rose from the kettle.

'To check on Julie.' Love sat down again and reached towards his phone. 'I'll give Mrs Burton a call,' he said, punched in a number and after a few rings spoke to his neighbour.

Mrs Burton assured Love it would be no problem taking Julie out. She loved Julie as if she were her own and that she was thinking of going out for a walk herself anyway.

Love replaced the receiver and stared at the grainy shot on his screen. Definitely a pair of Liberty tan Eska suede ankle boots just entering the picture. He played the tape and it went blank. He rewound it and played it again. Still nothing. He performed the same procedure ending in the same result.

He looked up at Stuart who had approached and was standing by the side of Love's chair holding a mug of tea. He placed it down on the coaster on Love's desk. Love reached across absent-mindedly and took a sip. 'Shit!'

Stuart baulked and grinned. 'I beg your pardon!'

'Not the tea, mate, thanks by the way, it's this tape.'

'Hang on a minute I have an idea.' Stuart placed his mug down on top of a notepad, leant forward and on Love's keyboard he tapped a few keys. The tape shuddered. He rotated the mouse and clicked it a couple of times. The tape staggered back and then forward when suddenly it cleared and the pair of shoes came into view.

'How did you do that?'

Stuart looked at Love. 'Do you really want to know?'

'No, but keep doing it.'

The two detectives watched as the pair of feet entered the hospital, paused, before turning left towards the gift shop. Suddenly the tape turned into an instant snowstorm.

'Did you notice that?' Love said.

'You mean the flash of a pair of shoes to the right of her?'

'Yeah, the toe of a pair of shoes to the right of her which could or could not mean if this is Monica then she had someone with her.'

'What do you want to do?'

'Definitely find out who "S" is.'

'Any ideas?'

Love thought back to the card he'd pulled from Monica's office. It was stylish. The handwriting was stylish. He pushed back his chair. He walked over and grabbed the card from where it was still lying on Stuart's desk. He gazed down at it. Definitely stylish, elegant, as was the handwriting. What did it add up to? He walked back to his desk and handed it to Stuart.

'What do you see?'

Stuart examined the card. 'I'd say it's from a woman. She has style, possibly is wealthy or comfortable. Knows quality. Appreciates it. She's confident. Independent.'

Love reached for the phone. He picked it up and stopped. 'What's the number for Taylor and Goodwin, mate?'

Stuart tossed the card down, strode over to his jacket pulled his mobile and relayed a number. Love punched it in. The telephone at the other end was answered almost immediately. Love greeted Stacy then asked to speak to Ben Taylor.

'Ben, it's Love,' he said. 'You mentioned earlier that both you and your wife will miss Monica. What's your wife got to do with Monica?'

'They were friends.'

'They were friends?' Love repeated. 'Good friends?'

'Well, they didn't exactly socialise out of hours.'

'Okay,' Love said. 'But good enough say for Monica to visit Sheila in hospital?'

'How on earth did you know Sheila had been in hospital?'

Love grinned. 'I didn't until now.'

'Yes, I believe she did visit Sheila a couple of times or so.'

'And which hospital was that, Mr Taylor, Ben?' he said. 'Which hospital?'

'It was the one just down the road from here.'

'And the name of the hospital, please.'

'St Katherine's.'

The two men spoke some more and a moment later Love ended the phone call. He turned to Stuart. 'Did you get all that?'

14:15 hours

'How did Chris miss this? She cross-checked the names from Monica's work and dance class with those at the hospital and came up empty,' Stuart said to Love as he stepped forward and pressed the button for the lift.

The lift pinged, the doors opened, and the two men stepped in.

A woman was already in the lift along with two men. Love recognised one of the men and greeted him. They spoke together, talked about Love's Volvo. He asked when Love was going to replace it. Or at least get the heating repaired.

Stuart smiled.

A moment later the lift arrived at their floor. Love and Stuart stepped out into the corridor. They were on their way to Fitch's laboratory in the basement.

For two reasons.

To view the results of the Nicéphore test and to talk with Chris who happened to be in the lab at this moment. Chris was a fellow Charlie's Angel. The one whose body looked like Sophia Loren not Ray Winstone. And the same one who was cross-checking names of Monica's known associates with those at the hospital.

Dedicated to her job, Welsh, attractive. Great singer.

Love waited until they were alone in the corridor and standing outside the lab before he spoke. 'Have no answer to that,' Love said. 'Let's see what she has to say.'

They knocked, opened the door and went inside. Fitch turned from his bench that ran along the length of one wall. By the side of him sat a computer. His screensaver was up. It gurgled and bubbled. It was the only sound to be heard. Stuart glanced over at the PC. Relaxing. Attractive. Fishes swimming in a turquoise paradise.

'Hello, it's the terrible twins,' he said, and grinned. 'Good timing I've just got back myself. Come here to see the results of the Nicéphore test?'

'Hi, Fitch,' Love said. 'Sure thing but first we'd like a word with Chris.'

Chris looked up from where she was standing with a file in her hands. She was checking the contents against the iPad on the desk next to her.

'Hello, gentlemen, what's up?' She smiled her friendly smile.

Chris had a face that could launch a thousand ships and bring down an assailant without blinking. Cool. Detached. Single. Thirty-seven. Black hair. Short with a heavy fringe framing large green eyes. Currently going out with an accountant.

She and Love had flirted with the idea of flirting with each other when she'd first come to work for the Branch soon after his own arrival. Like two cats weighing each other up before going in for the possible kill. Or passion. Nothing happened. No spark. Nothing there. They became friends. Purely platonic. To Love, Chris Evans was one of the guys. To Chris, Love was one of the girls.

She was good at her job. Her area of expertise lay in finding and locating missing persons. Tying-up ends between individuals no matter how vague. Finding that connection. Chris was the operative who had discovered the existence and location of Ashley.

Which made it all the more bizarre why she hadn't connected Ben Taylor's wife with Monica.

'Hi, Chris,' Love said. He stepped towards her. He smiled. 'How's it going?'

'If you mean personally then I can't complain,' she said. She looked from Love to Stuart. 'Hello, Stu, all right?'

Stuart nodded. 'Chris, we need to check something with you.'

'And if you mean how's it going on the case,' she placed the file down on the desk and shrugged. 'It's going. Not ideal but I'm spreading the net. Going back further.'

'It would appear Ben Taylor's wife was at St Katherine's.'

Her green eyes narrowed. Like a cat, Love thought. If she had a tail it would be swishing right now. Alert. Ready to pounce. 'When?' She practically hissed.

'Two weeks ago.'

'She was in hospital for nearly a week,' Stuart said.

'Can't be,' Chris said. 'I'd have picked it up.'

'I got confirmation from her husband, Chris,' Love said.

'And when was this again?'

'Just over two and a half weeks ago,' Love said.

'And for how long?' Chris asked. She was pacing up and down. Small steps. Thinking. Working out what went wrong. 'How long!'

'Five days,' Love said. He shoved both hands in his pockets. 'How did you miss it, Chris?'

Chris stopped pacing and glared at Love. 'I never miss, Love,' she said. 'Don't worry I'll get to the bottom of it.'

Stuart looked over at Fitch. He was arranging the results of the Nicéphore test on one of the tables. He reached above and turned a spotlight on.

'Nothing came up on the hospital records under Sheila Taylor,' Chris said. She'd started pacing again. Thinking.

'Chris, I got confirmation from Ben Taylor that Monica went to visit Sheila but he doesn't know how many times or if anyone went with her.'

'You mean anyone from the office because that would be easy enough to check.'

'We're on it,' Love said. 'I mean anyone outside the office.'

'Timmy still doesn't remember anything,' Stuart said. 'His mind's a blank for the last couple of weeks and he has only intermittent memories prior to that.'

'He doesn't remember ever going to St Katherine's before now,' Love said. He ran his hand through his hair. He gazed at Chris. She stared back at him. Dark green eyes on blue.

'Okay, how are you doing on the security tapes?' she asked Stuart.

Stuart thought of the box-load of security tapes that had been dropped off at his office. The remainder had been given to Chris and another of the CA team.

'Not good although we might have a lead,' he paused, thinking of the shot showing the Liberty boots, 'one of the cameras broke down which leaves us with only partial coverage, I'm still working my way through them.'

'But this is the first definite tie-in we have of Monica being connected to the hospital,' Love said.

'Except you haven't confirmed it and I haven't found any evidence that Sheila was there,' Chris said.

Love walked over to John's desk. 'Fitch, can I use your phone?'

'Of course,' John said.

'What is it, Love?' said Stuart.

'I have an idea,' Love said. 'Damn it what is that number of the lawyers, Stuart?'

'Hang on.' Stuart reached into his jacket pocket pulled out his Nokia pressed a button and a moment later relayed a set of numbers. Love dialled for an outside line and punched them in.

A moment later, the telephone at the other end was answered. Love greeted Stacy and asked to speak to Ben Taylor. She put him through.

'Ben, it's Love, again,' he said. 'Your wife, you said she has a business?' He paused as Ben spoke. 'Hang on, Ben, I'm putting this on speakerphone, er... the hands-free option,' he said. He glanced at the phone and then up at Stuart. 'Mate?' Stuart stepped forward pressed a couple of buttons, replaced the receiver. 'Ben, are you there?'

'Yes, I'm here.'

'What's the name of your wife's business?'

'Marcus Interior Design.'

'And that's because your wife...'

'Uses her maiden name,' finished Chris. She snapped her fingers turned to John, and said. 'Be back ASAP, Fitch, got to follow-up on this.'

Love smiled. 'Because your wife uses her maiden name.'

'Yes, that's right,' Ben said. 'Sorry, I thought you knew.'

* * *

'Hey,' Love said. 'This Nicéphore test is something else.'

'Amazing,' Stuart said.

'It is remarkable,' John said. 'As you can see here,' he pointed to the close-up of Carol's stomach to where the mutilations had been made. 'Right, here, here and here, you can see quite clearly the faintest of scars.' He stepped back and ran his hand through his monochrome beard. 'That's the difference. That's what I couldn't put my finger on,' he said.

'Exactly,' Love said peering at the photos.

Large shots. Leaving nothing to the imagination. It was like Carol was there in front of him. As a living, breathing body. He could see everything yet so much more than the naked eye. He thought back to when he and Stuart had checked the post-mortem photographs in screening. He'd picked it up there. But this, this brought it to life.

This confirmed their suspicions.

'So, are we talking about a set of cuts made by two different persons?' Love said.

John nodded. 'Absolutely,' he said. 'This test proves the cuts were made by two different hands.'

'And two different tools,' Stuart said, and leant forward to look closely at the faint scars almost hidden by the more aggressive cuts on top.

'No doubt about it,' John said.

Love stepped back and breathed heavily. 'So,' he said. 'It still leaves us with an open question.'

'Which is?' John asked.

'Was Carol having an affair and if so, with whom?'

'That's two,' John said, and smiled.

Love and Stuart had left John's office and were walking side by side along the corridor in the basement.

The corridors were all alike and decorated in the same style as the other floors with their coconut matting in dark beige and white walls, except for one thing. The basement, and all the floors below accessible only to the highest MI6 operatives, had no large green tinted windows. No terrific views over London.

Suddenly, Love stopped. 'How are we doing with interviewing the students in Carol's English class?'

A woman brushed past. 'Sorry,' she said, and smiled. Her smile said she was anything but sorry. Her gaze lingered on Love just that little too longer than necessary. Her grey woollen pencil skirt screamed Burberry. Black patent high-heeled court shoes. Stuart peered closer, Clarks? Her cashmere top, Stuart was still deciding when Love spoke.

'Who's that?'

'Investigations are showing that Carol didn't socialise with any of the other students or if she did they're not talking and if not then we have to ask - why not!' he said, then added, 'interested?' He watched the woman until she disappeared into an office down the hall. 'Not bad, early forties, long, blonde wavy hair, well dressed although...,' he paused and looked back at Love. 'I know her and she's not your type.'

'Do you see her outside office hours?' Love asked.

'No, certainly not.'

'Is there anyone you do see outside office hours,' Love said. He smiled. 'Other than me.'

Stuart tilted his head to one side. 'Okay, Love, I'll go along with this.' He glanced at the floor and pursed his lips. 'Actually there are only a couple of operatives I see occasionally on a social basis. What are you getting at?' He looked at Love.

'People just don't socialise anymore.' He continued to walk with Stuart stepping along beside him. They passed a colourful print on the wall. Framed. Signed by an artist no one knew but recognised his work. 'Monica didn't meet up with her co-workers in fact she didn't have any real friends outside of work hours.'

'And she and Ashley weren't particularly close.'

'Don't people meet up for a friendly beer after work anymore?'

Stuart laughed. 'Love! You're a great one to talk. I mean, that is rich coming from you.'

'Point taken,' Love said, and grinned. As they approached the lift they stepped inside and the doors closed. 'Except, Monica knew someone possibly well enough to see him out of work hours. She wasn't scared. No one heard, or remembers hearing any screams, apart from Timmy's, and that was after the event.'

The lift hummed as it transported them upstairs. It stopped at level three and a man in jeans and leather jacket stepped inside. A moment later it stopped at level seven, a gentle ping followed by the doors swiftly opening. Love and Stuart stepped from the chrome and mirrored lift with its three-inch thick dark brown carpet and walked along the corridor until they arrived at their office.

'And Carol definitely knew two persons,' Stuart said as he punched the numbers on the keypad by their office door. He pushed the door open, the wooden blinds swung out into the room settling back against the smoked-glass window a moment later. He moved over to his desk. Put his hands in his trouser pockets. 'One of those was on an intimate basis as we now know.'

Love ambled over to the window. His favourite spot. He looked out. A black BMW 7 Series cruised by on the bridge below although it could have been a 5 Series. It was followed by a Mercedes, he wasn't sure which one. They all looked alike these days. Nothing to distinguish the various types of models.

And that's another thing, he thought, too many models. Why do we need so many different models in one range? Even up to the nineties it was possible to distinguish between a 3 or 5 or 7 Series unlike today when you have literally to go up to the car and read it on the actual vehicle but only if they've bothered to put it there in the first place.

'Love?' Stuart spoke quietly. His hair fell in front of his eye. Handsome. Sexy. Stuart, one half of an excellent pair of detectives. Dedicated. Hard-working. Enthusiastic. All the qualities Love exemplified. They were so alike except for two things. Stuart was happily married and he wasn't afraid to embrace his emotions. 'Love?'

Love turned round and looked at Stuart. 'Someone had to be doing it if Butterfield's telling the truth.' He turned back to look out the window. He lifted his hand and placed the palm against the cold glass. His blue eyes narrowed as he looked into the distance. Trees. London architecture. Elizabethan and older. Georgian and Victorian sitting by 21st century. History. London was so much about the past. It lived, breathed its heritage. Filth and beauty combined.

'Don't say it, Love, it's not true. Don't say it!'

'I feel like we're going round in circles.'

Stuart pointed at Love as he walked over to join him at the window. 'What are you talking about? It looks like Monica was at the hospital after all, it's our first break! It could be the link we were waiting for.' He stood by the side of Love, breathing heavily. He placed both hands on his hips as if to make his point.

Love smiled. 'Then what?'

'What do you mean by that?'

'Think of all the people she could have met at the hospital, Stuart.' Love turned from the window and strode over to his desk. He pulled out his chair, sat down. Ran his hand through his hair and loosened his tie. 'It could be any number of persons it could be anyone from a doctor to a visitor.'

Stuart stood in front of the window, he stared down at Love. 'I seem to recall we already had this conversation, partner.'

'My point exactly,' Love almost spat out with disgust. This case was tying him up in knots.

'Yes, except this time we have a lead. Let's just concentrate on finding out if and how often Monica visited Sheila Marcus at the hospital and...' he paused before adding in a quiet tone, 'well, let's just see what Sheila has to say and go from there. Okay?'

Love leant back and stretched one leg. He slid his hand into his front trouser pocket and retrieved a piece of paper. He glanced down at the information given to him from his earlier telephone call with Ben Taylor.

'Okay, mate, let's see what Sheila Marcus has to say.'

'Ms Marcus? My name is Detective Dick Love, I'm working on the Monica Dixon case and I wonder if I can ask you a couple of questions.'

'Certainly, Detective Love, ask away.'

Love shifted the receiver to his other ear. 'I understand you knew the deceased, can you confirm that?'

'I liked her a lot,' Sheila said. 'We got along well together but we didn't socialise.'

'Any reason for that?'

'I'm the wife of the boss for one thing and secondly I'm kept pretty busy with my interior design business.'

'I understand you were recently a patient at St Katherine's?'

'Oh! Don't remind me,' she said. 'I hate hospitals!'

'You and a million others,' Love said, and smiled. 'Ms Marcus, did Monica visit you in the hospital?'

'Yes, about three times during the five days I was stuck there, bless her,' she said. 'All thanks to a broken ankle which had turned septic hence my longer stay.'

'Did she come with anyone?'

'Only Timmy.'

'Did you see her talk to anyone whilst visiting you there?'

'No, I don't remember her talking to a soul. She'd come during the evening stay for about half an hour to forty-five minutes then leave.'

'She didn't even talk to any staff?'

'You mean like doctors and nurses?'

'Anyone,' Love said. 'Please think hard, Ms Marcus, it's very important.'

'I'm sorry, Detective Love, not that I can recall.'

'What about Timmy did he talk to anyone?'

'No, he'd sit quietly in the room reading his comic or playing with his little toy aeroplane that Monica had got for him,' Sheila said. 'Great little boy, no trouble at all,' she added. 'Unlike some of the monsters you see running about screaming the place down.'

Love smiled. 'What about the gifts you spoke of in your "thank you" card?'

'Gifts? Oh, those,' she said, and chuckled softly. 'She brought me something different each visit.'

'Like what?'

'Nothing out of the ordinary but they were extremely appreciated.'

'Such as?' Love asked again.

'Well, one time she brought me a magazine, a bar of chocolate, and a crossword puzzle book.'

'Go on.'

'Let me think... oh yes, she gave me a small bunch of flowers, two more magazines and a tiny basket of soaps that were shaped like flowers.'

Love scribbled something down. He looked over at Stuart who was still standing by the window. Listening. Waiting. 'Anything else?'

'A paperback it was a light-hearted romance, and a pack of cigarettes.'

'Cigarettes?'

'Yes, terrible habit I know but I mentioned how I'd run out and was climbing the walls without them and so on her next visit she bought me some.'

'That was quite generous of her,' Love said.

'I know! But she was such a sweetie she'd help a total stranger.'

Love thought of something. It was just an idea. 'You mentioned that Monica had gotten Timmy a toy airplane.'

'Yes, that's right.'

'Do you know if she bought it from the same place she got your gifts from?'

'Yes, indeed.'

'How do you know?'

'I mentioned to Monica how pretty the gifts looked all wrapped up in that crinkly cellophane and Monica told me how Timmy had been worried they'd put his toy plane in there by mistake.' She chuckled softly, and added, 'Monica said it was a real treasure trove of a place.'

'And that was where, Ms Marcus?'

'The shop in the hospital.'

'So it looks like she did talk to someone at the hospital after all,' Stuart said. 'The assistant at the shop for starters.'

Love said nothing. He was back on track. He'd lost that momentary feeling of floundering about. Going back and forth. Chasing after his own tail. Now, he felt he'd got something to bite into again. And he was going with it. He stood up and grabbed his jacket.

'Time we went back there, Stuart,' he said. He patted his pockets found they were empty, pulled open a drawer and retrieved a packet of mints. He shoved them into his jacket.

Stuart had already put on his jacket and was reaching for his cashmere. 'Fancy a present, Love?'

Love grinned. 'Yes, I do, and I know just the place...' he paused. 'Stuart, the feet on the tape...'

'I'm with you,' Stuart said. 'Let me ring Chris.' He grabbed his mobile from the top of his desk and punched one key. 'Chris, it's Stuart.' He listened. 'No, I'm not lazy I'm on my way out,' he said, and smiled. He left the office behind Love who closed the door and secured it behind them. 'We've found a pair of feet on the security tapes which could be Monica's but we need to verify a pair of shoes next to her. They could belong to Timmy. I need you to check that... yes, the ones I was researching. I've digitalised them so it's no problem. You can access them directly from my PC on to yours using STSKH along with that little gadget Love says looks like a Yarrah dog biscuit.' Stuart glanced at Love and grinned.

Love reached out with his hand, and said, 'Let me talk to Chris.'

Stuart handed Love his mobile. 'Chris, do me a favour and look through those storage boxes of Monica's.'

He was referring to the storage boxes the constables had retrieved from her house. A stack of them had been discovered in her small neat office in what used to be a bedroom. Different types. Colours. Some were covered in fabric. Bright swirling patterns. Others were more conservative, simple plain cardboard. A couple were brown faux leather.

'See if you can find any shopping receipts for the week Sheila Marcus was in hospital.'

'I have them in front of me and already going through them, Love,' she said. 'But some of the receipts are pretty hard to read you know how the roll gets when it's running out.'

'Pink, striped and faded,' Love said. The two men strolled round the corner to the lifts. 'And see if you can find any similar receipts in Carol Butterfield's belongings.'

'Carol Butterfield, got it,' she said. 'Looking for that connection?'

'It's hell of a long shot and even if she did shop there it's unlikely Butterfield will still have the receipts,' he paused, 'but go through what you have and then check with Mr Butterfield if you come up with nothing.'

'Monica's will be quick but Carol's will take time but whatever I find I'll send a copy to both of your M-CADDs.'

'Oh, wonderful,' Love said. He thanked Chris and gave the phone back to Stuart.

They were standing in front of the lift. Love pressed the button and a moment later it arrived. That reminded him. He needed to make a call of his own. Julie would need taking out again in a couple of hours and Love wasn't sure if he'd get back in time. Stuart ended his call and two minutes after that they were heading out of the Embankment en route to St Katharine's.

'Could have taken my car,' Love said.

'I couldn't stand another ride in the freezer,' Stuart said. 'Besides, it's my turn.'

'Yeah, sorry, mate, must get that fixed.' Love looked ahead. 'Is Chris all right going with the shoes?'

'She's going to strand the tape, enhance it with a pixel...'

'Glad to hear it, mate!'

Stuart grinned. 'I think we've had a lucky break.'

They passed a couple of women. Walking along. Wrapped up against the cold. Jeans. Jumpers. Furry boots on their feet. 'And I reckon you're right,' Love said. He eyed the M-CADD. 'What's your new code, mate?'

It was common practise to change the personal identification code on the M-CADD on a weekly basis, for security reasons.

'I don't have mine on me,' Love said as they came to a stop at a set of traffic lights.

Stuart hesitated. 'It's 007,' he said, glancing at Love.

Love shook his head and grinned. 'Really? Oh no, that's too easy a target.' He punched in the phone number for Mrs Burton. 'I'm not even going to go there I'm saying nothing at all,' he said, and grinned. 'Mrs Burton, hi, it's Love here.'

Chapter Twenty-Two

15:00 hours

He was in his late fifties.

He had brown eyes, neither large or small, and his hair was short. Brown curls sprinkled with grey. He wasn't particularly good-looking or unattractive.

Simply average.

A face in a crowd. Instantly forgettable apart from his cheekbones. So pronounced you could sharpen a knife on them.

Love and Stuart watched as he moved about the shop. He wore a pair of black jeans and a grey cashmere crew-neck jumper. Stuart gazed at him. Summoning the man up. The clothes certainly weren't cheap but not at the highest end of the range either.

'What do you think?' Love said.

Stuart tilted his head to one side. 'I reckon we're looking at a man who is controlled, possibly cold, neat, and likes to be surrounded by nice things. He appreciates quality clothes and wears them well.' He glanced down at the man's feet. 'Hard to say from here where his shoes are from but I would guess you wouldn't get much change from £150.00.'

'He doesn't mind spending money on his gear.'

'No,' Stuart said. 'He'll pay and be happy to do so.'

The shop wasn't at its busiest and for that, Love and Stuart were thankful. They stepped over the threshold and walked across to one of the shelves stocking a variety of toys. Amongst the die-cast metal toys were some that looked like they were made in China. Cheap but fun. Inexpensive pieces of plastic to make your stay in hospital just that little bit more pleasant and forgettable.

Stuart reached forward and took from the shelf a Corgi Toys red tractor. As he gazed down at it resting in his hand, he said, 'I remember playing with my older brother's Corgi and Dinky Toys and of course his Lesney Matchbox cars and boats.'

'I've heard of them,' Love said.

'They were all great,' Stuart said. 'Dinky's Ed Straker's car from the series UFO.'

'Yeah, cool series.'

'He amassed quite a collection by the time I came along twelve years later. Not ostentatiously large but select.' Stuart smiled. 'I remember he had a white Police Mini Cooper,' he paused momentarily, 'oh yes, and a Thunderbird 2 from the series Thunderbirds.' He placed the tractor back on the shelf next to a Moshi Monsters Bus. 'This Moshi bus is one of Shannon's favourites along with her Corgi Toys emergency services pack.' He looked at Love. 'She diversifies.'

'Good for her,' mumbled Love.

'And this is another favourite this Breyer Saddle Up Eva doll,' he said. He picked up the palomino standing next to the doll and chuckled softly. 'Especially the horse,' he added as he replaced it on the shelf.

They continued down the entire aisle passing the whole series of the Moshi Monsters die-cast 2D pin badges along with a decent selection of Airfix military aircraft kits. Something for all children to suit all ages, tastes and pockets.

They turned the corner. Music drifted over the shopper's heads as a handful of relatives, friends and parents strolled past an impressive display of fresh flowers, a variety of chocolates, a selection of pretty toiletries.

The two men continued, turned the corner and came back to the entrance. A large display of books, newspapers and magazines lined the stands along with a variety of cigarettes and sweets. The man with the peppered curly hair was standing behind the till.

'Can I help you?'

His voice and mannerisms were familiar. Love pulled his wallet out, opened it and flashed his badge. 'DCA Love and this is DCA Le Fanu.'

Stuart flashed his badge. 'We're looking into the recent abduction and murder of a woman whom we believe was a customer of this shop,' he said. 'Are we addressing the owner?'

The man smiled. Fine lines crinkled at the corners of his eyes. An average face granted but pleasant. 'You are indeed,' he said.

'And you are?' Love said.

'My name is Robert Pfeiffer.'

'Mr Pfeiffer, sir, I'd like to show you a photograph of the victim,' Love said. He pulled out a colour snap. It was a recent photograph taken of Monica in the back garden of her home in Exford Road, Lee. An attractive 1930s semi-detached house with mock-Tudor frontage so prevalent of the art deco period. The picture showed an attractive woman. Happy. Smiling. He handed it to Pfeiffer. 'Do you recognise her?'

The man took the photo and gazed down at it. 'Pretty girl,' he murmured. He shook his head and handed it back. 'Sorry, I don't recall seeing her.'

'She would have been here during the week Monday, 15 October, sometime during the evening,' Stuart said.

'No, sorry,' the man replied. He looked at Love, and said. 'Are you sure she shopped here?'

'Yes, we have some receipts,' Stuart said, and pulled out a sheet of A4 on which were copies of six different receipts. No names of the shops or items simply a few codes, the amount, the total amount and the date. Chris had sent it through on the M-CADD just as they were pulling into St Katherine's. He handed it to Pfeiffer. 'Do you recognise any of these?'

Pfeiffer took the paper from Stuart's hand and looked closely at it. 'Bit difficult to read some of these,' he said.

'Sorry about that but that's the state they were received in,' Love said.

'This isn't mine,' he said, pointing to one. 'And neither is this or that one.' He looked up at Stuart and then Love. 'But the other three look like mine.'

'Can you tell me what the items were for?' Love said.

'Yes, certainly, this one is for flowers, cigarettes, paperback, toy aeroplane.'

Stuart gazed up at the model aeroplanes sitting on a shelf. Spitfires, Concorde, and dangling from the ceiling like they were coming in to attack were Messerschmitts Me 109 and the Me 262. 'I like your aeroplanes,' he said. 'Interesting choice.'

Robert Pfeiffer followed Stuart's gaze. 'Thank you,' he said. 'Good, aren't they? My son's choice actually.'

'Really?'

'They're a good seller.'

'Which models?'

'All of them.'

Love glanced at Stuart just as a woman with white hair dressed in a woollen overcoat, pushed past him. She looked up at Love. 'Excuse me, but are you going to be much longer, dearie?'

'Please, go ahead,' Love said. He stepped to one side.

Mr Pfeiffer took the woman's items, rang them up on the till, she handed over a five-pound note, he gave her some change. He placed the items in a paper bag. She took it, smiled up at Love.

'Thanks, love, you're a good boy.'

'My pleasure, ma'am,' Love said, and grinned. It was long time since he'd been called a boy.

'Look,' Mr Pfeiffer said. 'Let me get my son out to man the front.' He edged his way out from behind the till, gave the sheet of receipts back to Stuart, and said, 'He's in the back doing some stocktaking it won't take a minute.'

He strode through the shop opened a door which had "Private" written on it and a moment later returned with a younger version of himself following right behind.

'DCA Love, DCA Le Fanu, this is my son, Heinrich.'

Love took the hand being offered to him. 'I believe we've already met,' he said.

Heinrich gazed at Love with no sign of recognition. He glanced at Stuart then back at Love. Suddenly, he smiled. 'Oh yes, from earlier today, I remember.'

'We'd like to ask you some questions if we may,' Stuart said as he shook Heinrich's hand. He noticed he was wearing a different outfit. 'I see you've changed clothes from this morning.'

Heinrich looked momentarily surprised. He glanced down at his jeans and smiled. 'Wow! How observant of you. Yes, I spilt some washing-up water on them so I went home and changed.'

'And where is home?' Love asked.

'Mill Hill,' Heinrich said. 'I share a house.'

'My house actually,' Mr Pfeiffer said. He smiled. 'Heinrich made a couple of the rooms into his own space. They were just sitting empty so Heinrich did them up and made them his own.'

'Nice idea,' Stuart said.

'Yes, we thought so.'

Love watched as Heinrich shoved his hands in his pockets. He had shoulder-length, wavy brown hair not as curly as his father's, and a pair of brown eyes. He smoothed down his blue jeans. He was neat. Possibly obsessive. Going home because of some washing-up water? What had he done - bathe in it?

Stuart handed Heinrich the photo of Monica. 'By the way, I hope you don't mind my asking but Heinrich Pfeiffer sounds like a typical German name,' he said, and smiled. 'My name is Irish and I get asked all the time where in Ireland I'm from but I was actually born in Oxford although strictly speaking I'm half Irish.'

Heinrich smiled. 'That's all right, Detective, my father and I were both born in London but my grandfather and his forebears are from Hamburg.'

'And you're named after your grandfather?' Love asked.

'Yes, he was a pilot during the war,' Heinrich said. 'In 1945 he was shot down and wounded over Redhill where he baled out and was captured.' He shrugged. 'Then after the war he just stayed on in England.'

'Nice place,' Stuart said.

'Redhill?' Heinrich asked.

'Hamburg,' he said, and pointed to the photo in Heinrich's hand. 'Do you remember this woman?'

He looked down at the picture. No emotion crossed his face. He returned it almost immediately. 'Should I?'

'She was in your shop during the week 15 October on three separate occasions,' Stuart said. 'We've asked your father but he doesn't recall seeing her.'

'No, I'm sorry I can't help you but I don't recognise her.' He licked his lips.

Stuart stared at him. He was young, early twenties, average height, good-looking. Neat. Presentable.

Stuart handed Heinrich the sheet of receipts. 'Your father has identified these three receipts as yours,' he said, pointing to the sheet. 'Do you recall seeing the victim on either of these dates?'

Heinrich gazed down at the sheet before handing it back to Stuart. 'No, sorry, still doesn't ring a bell.'

'Do you recognise her son?' Stuart pulled out a recent school photo of Timmy.

Heinrich took it and looked down at the face of the young boy. His father leant towards it to get a better look. 'Nice-looking boy,' he said.

Love smiled. 'Do you recognise him?'

'Sorry,' Mr Pfeiffer said. 'No, I don't, Heinrich, do you?'

Heinrich smiled and shook his head. 'Sorry, I don't.'

'Do you have any other staff working here, Mr Pfeiffer?' Love asked.

'Yes, we have two others. Their names are Anna Brown and Susan Marshall.'

'And is either one here today?'

'No, Detective Love, Susan works only on weekends in the morning from nine o'clock when we open to twelve o'clock and from two o'clock until we close.'

'And Anna Brown?'

'Anna comes in every day during the week from two o'clock until closing but today she's coming in later,' he paused, 'she's running an errand for me.'

'And when is that?' Stuart asked.

Mr Pfeiffer looked questioningly at Stuart.

'What time do you close?'

'We close every evening at seven o'clock.'

'Close for lunch at all?' Stuart said.

'Yes, every day, from twelve o'clock to two but mostly I stay on the premises.'

'Not your busiest time?' Love said.

'No, not many visitors and the staff usually gravitate to the cafeteria.'

'Good employees?' asked Stuart.

'Yes, most trustworthy.' Robert Pfeiffer nodded. 'I can rely on Anna or Susan to open up or lock the shop if I'm not here although that's not very often.'

'I'd like to talk to Anna can you give me her address, please.'

Mr Pfeiffer shrugged. 'Of course I will but it won't help.'

'Why is that?' Stuart said.

'She wasn't working that week.'

'Really?'

'She was on holiday.'

'You didn't get anyone else in to cover for her?' Love asked.

'No, it was just my son and me.'

'I imagine it was pretty hectic just the two of you here.'

'It had its moments,' Mr Pfeiffer said, and chuckled. 'But we managed.'

'So,' Love said. 'It's possible that you simply don't remember the victim or her son because you were so busy?'

'What other reason would there be?' Mr Pfeiffer said. He looked puzzled.

Love watched as Stuart slipped the photos inside his pocket. He turned back to face the two men. Watching. Waiting. 'None whatsoever, Mr Pfeiffer, that's it exactly. You don't remember because you were busy.'

A man coughed. He was standing in front of the till waiting to be served.

'Excuse me,' Heinrich said. 'Someone needs serving.'

'I'm sorry I don't know what else I can tell you,' Mr Pfeiffer said. He smiled at Love and Stuart.

Love smiled back. 'We thank you for your time, Mr Pfeiffer.' He zipped up his Donegal, ready to leave. 'There is one other thing,' he said.

'Yes?'

'Were you and your son here at the shop on Monday, October 29th?'

'This Monday just gone?' Mr Pfeiffer said. He rubbed his chin. 'Monday... well, I was here all day from about half past eight in the morning until closing.'

'And your son?' Stuart said. He was pulling on his gloves.

'He was here too apart from when he checked on the flower order first thing.'

'When was that exactly?' Love asked.

'I'm sorry but I don't understand.' He looked puzzled. 'Why are you asking about this Monday just gone, Detective, I thought the woman you're investigating came in here over two weeks ago?'

Love looked at Stuart. Stuart winked in return, and said, 'These really are some of the most beautiful flowers I've ever seen.' He strolled over to where a chrome bucket full of orange and yellow roses took centre stage. 'You don't have a ban on the giving of flowers in this hospital then,' said Stuart glancing at the man standing behind him.

'Because of the alleged connection with the MRSA bug? Happily, no,' Mr Pfeiffer said. 'The cleaning staff and medical personnel here carry out their jobs thoroughly and properly and the hospital is run by a body who appreciates that.'

'You have a good eye for quality.'

'Thank you,' Mr Pfeiffer said, and walked over to join Stuart. He bent down and gently touched one of the rose petals. 'We're very happy with our supplier.'

'Local?' Stuart asked.

'Not far, actually, a firm five minutes down the road from where we live.'

'And look at this,' Stuart said as he pointed to a posy of large lilac flowers with a scarlet stigma. 'A perfect example of crocus longiflorus.'

Mr Pfeiffer stared at Stuart and smiled. 'You know your flora, Detective Le Fanu,' he said. 'I'm impressed.'

'I've been known to dabble,' Stuart said. He bent down and smelt the flower. 'The fragrance is incredible.' He stood up and turned to Mr Pfeiffer. 'I would say you're the one who knows his flowers, Mr Pfeiffer.'

'I do my best.'

'Do they deliver every day it looks like they do.'

'Yes or else we pick up.'

'Do you manage to get fresh flowers straight after the weekend as I imagine that can be a problem in some areas.'

'They've never let us down,' said Mr Pfeiffer. He raised his eyes and added, 'Which is more than I can say for our van.'

'Why, what happened?'

'Just as I was turning into Landor Road the van broke down.'

'When was this?' Stuart said.

'This Monday just gone,' Mr Pfeiffer said. 'It just died on me.'

'But you and Heinrich managed to get it going again?' Stuart said.

'I couldn't,' Mr Pfeiffer said. 'I'm hopeless with anything mechanical.'

'Same with me, petrol and water I can just about manage,' Stuart said, and laughed. 'And Heinrich too?'

'He wasn't with me unfortunately.'

'That was unfortunate as I imagine normally he comes in with you?'

'Normally, yes, he drives in with me.'

'That's handy you can share the driving,' Stuart said.

'No.' He shook his head. 'Heinrich doesn't like driving the van for one thing he finds it too antiquated.' He laughed. 'The gears are erratic and hard to handle. I can drive the thing but I can't repair it when it breaks down.'

'Well, sounds like you make a good team,' Stuart said.

'Yes,' Mr Pfeiffer said, and smiled. 'Anyway, he had a few errands to run so he made his way in under his own steam.'

Love turned his attention to a woman as she picked up a magazine. She flicked through it before replacing it on the shelf. Music from a popular radio station played in the background. A love song from the seventies. Easy listening music. He continued to watch the customers in the shop until finally he said, 'And what time was that exactly, Mr Pfeiffer?'

Mr Pfeiffer walked the few steps back over to where Love was standing at the end of the counter. 'I can't say for sure but it must have been around quarter to nine or thereabouts perhaps a bit later.' He gazed at Love. 'I went into the back just as the nine o'clock news came on and Heinrich was busy in the kitchenette area making chamomile tea.'

'Perhaps he'd just arrived,' Love said.

Robert Pfeiffer shook his head. 'No, he'd been there a little while besides I noticed a couple of cigarette butts in the ashtray,' Pfeiffer said, and grimaced. 'Horrible habit but luckily he's a very light smoker and doesn't often indulge.'

Love smiled. 'Indeed. But how can you be so sure?'

'Sorry?'

'That the cigarettes had just been smoked or perhaps someone else had smoked them.'

'Oh! Well, the other staff members aren't smokers and they weren't even here,' he said. 'Besides, one was still burning in the ashtray and I personally ensure the ashtray is clean and emptied before I leave every evening fire risk and all that.'

Stuart joined the two men. He glanced at Heinrich who was busy serving a customer. 'Really?'

'Nothing serious with the van, I hope,' Love said.

'No, Heinrich managed to get it going again.'

Love smiled. He said quietly, 'That was a piece of luck.'

Mr Pfeiffer smiled. 'And it was also lucky we were having a quiet morning here in the shop.'

'Yes,' Love said. 'I'd say lucky all round.'

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?

* * *

'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 with 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.'

Chapter Twenty-Four

16:45 hours

'Mr Pfeiffer, sir, how are you?'

Robert Pfeiffer looked at the two gentlemen standing before him. One was good-looking and dark-haired the other good-looking and blond and awfully like Robert Redford. He hadn't noticed that before.

Mr Pfeiffer smiled. 'You mean since the couple of hours or thereabouts since you've been gone?'

'Have a few more questions.' Love looked round the shop. It was fairly busy. 'Sorry to interrupt with your duties,' he said pointing to the jigsaw Mr Pfeiffer held in his hand.

'That's all right,' Mr Pfeiffer said. 'Just stocking some shelves.'

'Is Heinrich about?' Love asked.

'He's in the stockroom.'

'Nice bike parked round the back, is it his?' Stuart said.

'You mean the black Yamaha?'

'Yes, that's the one.'

'My twenty-first birthday present to him,' he said. 'Although I suppose I should say it's from us both.' He placed the jigsaw puzzle on the shelf and bent down and retrieved another from the large cardboard box in front of him.

'Both?'

'From my wife and me,' he said over his shoulder.

'Your wife doesn't work in the shop?' Stuart said, glancing about. Anna Brown, Mr Pfeiffer's weekly staff had since arrived and was serving behind the till.

'My wife? Heavens no,' Mr Pfeiffer said, and laughed. 'You wouldn't catch Jill serving in here.'

'Something against shop work?' Love said.

'She feels her talents are better needed elsewhere but don't tell her I said so.'

Love smiled. 'Is she at home?'

Mr Pfeiffer glanced at his wrist. 'At this time I would say she's doing her good work down at the Legion right now dispensing good advice and coffee to those who care to listen. She has her timetable and she sticks to it and she expects all within her life to do the same.'

'She's a charity worker?' Stuart said.

'Yes, she helps others "less fortunate than us" but honestly I don't see what good having coffee mornings, lunches and evenings, and speaking at the local WI really does.'

'I get the feeling you don't take her charity work very seriously,' Stuart said.

Mr Pfeiffer turned round to face Stuart and Love. A jigsaw of a country scene in four hundred pieces in his hand. 'Her heart is in the right place and she means well... but... how can I put it?'

'You humour her.'

'I suppose I do.'

'Why is that?'

'Look, what is this all about? Asking questions about my relationship with my wife.'

Love smiled. 'We're just doing our job, Mr Pfeiffer, no matter how insignificant it may seem to you, it's how we work.'

Stuart picked up one of the toy cars. 'This looks fun,' he said. 'I bet they're a good seller.'

Robert Pfeiffer took it from Stuart's hand and placed it back on the shelf. 'Yes, they are, now if there is nothing else.'

'But there is,' Love said. 'Would you please get your son, Mr Pfeiffer, we'd like a word with him.'

Mr Pfeiffer opened his mouth to protest then thought better of it. He didn't want to make a scene in his shop. 'Anna,' he called. 'I'm just escorting these two gentlemen through to the stockroom I'll be back in a minute.' He looked from Love to Stuart. 'If you'd care to follow me?'

Mr Pfeiffer led the two detectives to the end of the aisle, turned right, passed by a woman who couldn't make up her mind between a toy soldier and a Lego airline pilot, and through the door into the back. He opened it, stepped inside. 'Heinrich?'

A figure dressed impeccably in his white polo neck jumper and faded blue jeans which Stuart was now even more convinced had been ironed, turned round from where he was standing making notes on his iPad.

Stuart grinned. 'How does that work out for you?'

Heinrich glanced at the gadget in his hand. 'Fine, if you know what you're doing.' He looked at Love.

'Hello, Heinrich, we'd like to ask you a few questions if we may.'

'Well, I'll leave you to it I'm out the front if you need me,' Mr Pfeiffer said. He turned and left the room. Love wasn't sure to whom he was addressing.

'Nice bike you have,' Stuart said.

'Yes, I got it for my twenty-first birthday.'

'And when was that?' Love asked.

'July.'

'I imagine the insurance is pretty hefty.'

Heinrich turned his gaze on Stuart. 'My parents help me out with it.'

'Pretty fast bike,' Stuart said.

'It can be.'

'Like my wife's Mini Cooper, it's very quick.' Stuart stared at the younger man. 'From a stationary position at least.'

'Where were you on Monday, October 29th between the hours of 08:15 and 08:50?' Love said.

Stuart reached into his pocket and flipped open his black leather notepad. He pulled out his Montblanc and waited.

Heinrich shifted his gaze from Stuart to Love. 'When?'

'Monday, 29 October,' Love said again.

'I was putting in an order of flowers.'

'Couldn't that have been done telephonically?'

'No, Detective Love, I had to see the actual blooms to ensure they were up to standard.'

'But I understood your supplier never lets you down.'

Heinrich shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He looked relaxed. 'It doesn't hurt to practise perfection.'

'Absolutely nothing wrong with aiming high,' Stuart said. 'Is that what your mother taught you, Heinrich?' It was a long shot but he thought he'd give it a try.

Heinrich stared at Stuart. His face completely blank. His eyes showed no emotion. He didn't even blink. 'My mother is a perfectionist and she's a great woman.' Charming words but somehow the way they were delivered belied their meaning.

Love glanced at Stuart as he scribbled something on his notepad. 'But it must be hard to continuously live up to,' he said. 'I mean, I imagine it's pretty tough trying to live your life by someone else's rules.'

A faint flush began to creep into Heinrich's cheeks. 'She was a disciplinarian when I was a child growing up because she believes children shouldn't be spoilt. They shouldn't get everything they want just because they ask for it.'

'Oh, I agree totally,' Stuart said. 'I have a six-year-old and she's already learnt that everything in this world is not here for her taking.'

Heinrich smiled. 'I see you understand, Detective Le Fanu.'

'I do understand, and I also understand that the way discipline is dispensed is also important. My wife and I, my wife especially, happen to be firm, Heinrich, but we're fair.'

'Does that sound like your upbringing?' Love said.

'It does,' Heinrich said.

'And I also understand that some individuals will take offence at the slightest given thing.' Stuart looked up from his notepad. 'And bear a grudge for years and years until one day... they just snap.'

Heinrich looked down at the iPad in his hand. Suddenly, he smiled. 'You wanted to know where I was on Monday morning?'

'If you wouldn't mind,' Love said.

'After the florists I made my way here. I took my time, running the bike in, until I got to work.'

'At what time?'

'Still well before nine o'clock,' he said.

'The name of the florist?' Stuart said.

'Fleurs in Brent Cross.'

Stuart glanced at Love. 'I use a good farm shop in Kensington Church Street just round the corner from where I live.'

Heinrich stared at Stuart.

'How much before?' said Love.

Heinrich slowly turned his attention to Love. 'I can't say exactly but it must have been around quarter to nine.'

'We can always check the security cameras if you're unsure of the time,' Love said. He thought of the snowstorm back at the office but Heinrich wasn't to know that, besides, they might get lucky.

'Wouldn't do you any good,' Heinrich said. He punched a few keys on his iPad, waited a moment then looked up. 'I came in through the back entrance over there,' he inclined his head to the back of the shop. Love and Stuart both looked over to gaze upon a sturdy-looking steel door. 'We don't have a security camera out the back or inside the shop only security mirrors.'

'No security via the hospital?' asked Stuart.

'The shop is independent of the hospital, actually, a shop was established here first and the hospital followed. This is private ground and nothing to do with the hospital per se. That's why we can get away with selling a small selection of cigarettes. The medical personnel are our best customers.' Heinrich smiled. 'Hypocrisy,' he said. 'Don't you hate it?'

Love dropped his gaze. His mind was working overtime. 'Do you have a camera?'

'Do I have a camera?' Heinrich said. 'Not that I see how this is relevant but no, I do not have a camera.'

'Do you like taking photographs?' Stuart said. 'Perhaps with your mobile?'

'No more than anyone else. Why?'

Stuart smiled, snapped shut his notepad, slipped it and his pen back in his pocket, and said, 'No reason, Heinrich.'

Love stared at Stuart. He turned to Heinrich. 'Thanks for your time and sorry to have bothered you.'

'It's no bother,' Heinrich said courteously. He walked over to the door which led back into the shop pulled it open and waited.

'There is one last thing,' Love said. 'Do you have your grandfather's pistol?'

Heinrich smiled. 'Certainly not, Detective, that would be illegal.'

Love walked over to where Heinrich was standing. 'Only if it works or is used as a weapon,' he said stepping into the shop.

'Thank you,' Stuart said as he walked past Heinrich.

Love turned briefly and nodded.

The door was closed firmly behind them.

'What now, talk to the mother?'

Love and Stuart were walking back to Stuart's Jaguar in the car park. They'd taken another look at Heinrich's bike just to see if it had any distinguishing features that would make it stand out from the crowd.

Anything at all.

It had none.

'I'm not bloody well in the mood,' Stuart said. He pulled up the collar of his overcoat against the brisk wind that had started up. He hated the wind. It seemed to go right through him chilling his body to the bone. He shoved his hands in his pockets even though he was wearing gloves. 'That was just one bloody disaster, Love, we've got nothing on him, he knows it, he's laughing at us and there's nothing we can do.'

'You baited him,' Love said. 'What was that all about?'

'I could see we were getting nowhere so yes, I baited him. To draw him out. To make him slip up. The bastard,' he added under his breath.

'Good move on your part but could be dangerous,' Love said. He pulled the zip on his Donegal. Christ but was it ever cold. Maybe it was time to get his Reefer jacket out after all.

Stuart stopped dead in his tracks. 'I'm well aware of what it means and we're not going to get anywhere if we dance and sidestep our way round him.'

'Shannon still with her grandmother?'

'All this week and from today possibly longer.'

'What about Emma?'

'She's on her way home right now and that's where I'm going after I drop you off back at DSBD to pick up your car,' he said. He pulled out his hands and removed his gloves, dropped one, picked it up, got his keys from his pocket aimed it at the shiny black sleek-looking Jag in front of them, pressed a button, the car beeped then clunked delicately.

He pulled open the door and jumped in. Love did the same.

'But I don't mind the slight detour if you want to go straight home and check on Julie. You haven't managed to see her all day.'

'I'll do that,' Love said. 'Thanks, mate, and perhaps you can pick me up... what, an hour later to come back to the office?'

Stuart turned his head as he negotiated his car out of the parking space. He switched the paddle shift into "D" touched the pedal the car purred and it rolled forward. He glanced at the clock on the dashboard.

'I'm not sure if I am coming back, Love, not if my wife is going to check in at an hotel.'

He pronounced 'hotel' the French way with a silent H.

'Sure, I understand.'

'Who knows when I'll get to see her again because I can't visit her once she's there,' he said as he looked both ways. It was clear and he pulled out into Landor Road. 'It'll be too dangerous.'

'You're right.' Love looked straight ahead as Stuart maneuvered the vehicle. A moment later, he pressed a silver button and a blast of lukewarm air filled the car. Love pinched the bridge of his nose. 'You'd better drop me off back at HQ so I can pick up my car.'

'Absolutely, no problem.'

'We've got nothing on him, Stuart, and we're not even sure at this point in time if he's our man.'

Stuart slowed down, he indicated left and came to a stop at the traffic lights. He turned into Stockwell Road a moment later. 'I know that, Love, that's why I had to bait him.'

'We'll get a couple of DCs to cover your house perhaps he'll slip up and we can catch him.'

'I'd appreciate that on a personal level as I'll still be living there.'

'Let's hope it works,' Love said. 'For the moment it's all we've got.' He looked out the side window. People were battling against the wind and losing by the looks of it. They looked frozen. Love rubbed his hands together grateful for the warm comforting heat of the car. He turned to glance at Stuart. 'Forget about the car and drop me home.'

'What's up?' Stuart half turned to Love before facing forward again.

'I'm going to put a call through and get the heating fixed on my Volvo.' As he spoke he pulled out his mobile and pressed a number.

A second later, he was asking to be put through to Motorpool. It rang and a moment after that, a voice came on the phone.

'Hello?'

'Jim? It's Love.'

'Hello there you old Yank, still driving that heap on wheels?'

'Still driving it,' Love said, and smiled. 'That's why I'm calling. Can you get one of your guys to fix the heating on it?'

'When by?'

'Tomorrow, if possible.'

'Yeah, that shouldn't be a problem.'

'It's unlocked and parked in the underground in DSBD's parking area.'

'Consider it done.'

'Thanks, Jim, appreciate it.' Love ended the call and sat still for a moment. He tapped his mobile on his knee when finally he turned to look at Stuart. 'What about interviewing his mother as soon as possible?'

Stuart shook his head. 'I see that we have no choice,' he said. 'She might give us something.'

'Let's set that up for tomorrow morning. Catch her first thing before she goes out doing her good deeds,' Love said.

He had no idea what kind of woman to expect. Some type of control freak to hear her son and husband talk. He was ready for just about anything.

Thirty-one minutes later, they'd got caught in a bit of rush hour traffic in Whitehall, Stuart was pulling up outside Love's elegant but somewhat scruffy apartment in Gaisford Street. 'I've always liked this area,' Stuart said.

'Yeah, it's a good place to live has a real village atmosphere thing going on,' Love said. He unbuckled his seat belt. 'And it's a dog lover's paradise.'

'Most important,' Stuart said, and smiled.

'You better believe it,' Love said as he got out of the car.

Stuart pressed a button and the passenger window smoothly disappeared into the door. 'Do you want me to pick you up tomorrow morning?'

Love looked over the top of Stuart's car. He saw a neighbour walking her dog and no doubt on her way to Rochester Terrace Gardens. She saw Love and waved. Love smiled and nodded in return. He bent down to speak through the open window. 'Yeah, all right, mate, make it eight o'clock and we'll go straight to see Mrs Pfeiffer.'

'Yeah, why not,' said Stuart. 'No doubt Mrs Starchy Knickers would have already put in half a day's work by that time.' He grinned.

'Starchy Knickers?' Love said, smiling. 'Well, if her husband and son leave home around that time to get to work for half past eight,' he paused as if going through the forty-odd minute journey in his mind, 'actually it would be earlier and if she's as dedicated or despotic as we've been led to believe.'

'I'm with you there, Love. I'll see what information I can put together on her later tonight.'

'Just look after Emma and do what you have to do.' He stepped away from the car, waved once, turned round and disappeared inside the building.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Day Six

Saturday, 3 November 2012

08:00 hours

Stuart ran up the few stone steps, rang one of the four bells, and stood back.

A disembodied voice came over the intercom. 'Hi, mate, be right there.'

He looked about him. At eight o'clock on a Saturday morning the road was already coming to life. Deliveries were being made at the pub down the road on the corner. Nice place. Couple of nice pubs round here. Not a traditional sort of pub but friendly all the same. The type who welcomed dogs which isn't as common as one might think.

What pub wouldn't welcome a dog, Stuart mused. Pubs and dogs go together for Christ's sake. Thank goodness there were still some places run by individuals who had the intelligence and compassion to appreciate that.

Stuart shoved his hands into the pockets of his cashmere overcoat and hopped from one foot to the other, his thoughts drifting back to the night before.

He'd driven straight home to find Emma already packing. He'd put a call through to her on the way. Emma had been understanding and cool about the whole thing.

She appreciated how these things worked.

She'd taken with her mostly clothes, toiletries, a few books, both recreational and law, and her PC. She said everything else she needed was at her office. Stuart told her she'd be under personal escort every step of the way when she did go into work and anywhere else for that matter.

Her firm, going since 1920, was a well established and highly respected body of lawyers situated in the heart of the City.

As she bent over her open suitcase, slipping inside it a white silk blouse, Emma quipped it was like going on holiday.

Almost, Stuart had quipped back. Except this time she would be flying solo.

She cried a little. Stuart comforted her. He pushed her long, dark brown hair from her face and kissed her cheekbones, her mouth. She'd looked at him with tears in her brown almond-shaped eyes, shook her head and said she'd be all right. They simply held each other for what seemed like hours but was in fact only minutes.

And then they left.

As Stuart drove away, Emma turned one last time to look at the pretty town house she'd shared for the past eight years with the handsome man sitting next to her. He looked in control. Confident. Inside it was eating him up. She knew that. She didn't say anything. Neither did he. He didn't have to.

He'd driven a few miles into the City to a five-star hotel where he knew she'd be safe and well taken care of. She'd sign in under a nom de plume and from that moment on would have no contact with either Stuart or Shannon. Except through a third party. It would be too risky any other way. Emma was not about to risk her life or even that of Shannon's and Stuart's just for the sake of a few moments personal contact.

The hotel was close to her office. She assured Stuart she'd be fine. They held each other one last time and he was gone.

'Ready?' The voice from behind him gave Stuart a start. He whipped round to see Love smiling at him as he pulled the glossy blue door shut and jogged down the steps in front.

The polished brass letter box flap snapped open and shut. It made a sharp ringing sound behind him.

'All right?' Love said as he reached the front path where Stuart was standing, waiting.

'All right,' Stuart said, and smiled. He looked tired but in control. 'So far so good.'

Love nodded, strolled along the path to the wrought iron gate and swung it open. Stuart fell in step behind him. 'It won't be for long, mate.'

Stuart pointed his keys at the Jag, pushed once and the car beeped. 'Right,' he said. 'Let's go and meet Mrs Pfeiffer.'

Love opened the door and eased himself into the beige leather upholstery. The car was still warm. He thought of his Volvo and wondered if Motorpool had fixed the heating. 'Did you manage to get any background on her?'

Stuart indicated with his head to the back seat. He strapped on his seat belt. 'It's back there,' he said, 'what there is,' he added.

'Why?' Love said as he reached behind him to retrieve a thin file. He flipped it open then put it on his lap buckled his seat belt and opened the file for the second time. 'Not much to download?'

'Couldn't get too much apart from her age, she's fifty-five by the way, tireless charity worker, member of the Women's Institute, but we know that already.'

'The local WI, right?'

'Yes, local in the NW area,' Stuart said. He drove on past the Lion & Unicorn swung the car round in Hammond Street and back down to the end of Gaisford Street where it led into Kentish Town Road. 'There appears to be three close to her home but Burnt Oak is the one she attends,' he added. He waited as a sudden stream of traffic passed by on both sides of the road.

'Clear my way,' Love said. Stuart glanced in Love's direction then once more on his side touched the accelerator and with a guttural purr zoomed across the road. Love skimmed through the file. 'Born in north London, married Robert Pfeiffer twenty-five years ago, one son, Heinrich.'

'All sounds innocuous, doesn't it?'

The lights turned green as their car approached, Stuart bore right, touched the accelerator and purred into Fortress Road.

Love lowered the file he held in his hands and stared straight ahead. 'Yes,' he said quietly. 'It does at that.'

Twenty-two minutes later they were turning left from Pursley Road into Featherstone Road.

Stuart cruised along as they searched for the house.

Love checked the number in the file and glanced out of his side window. 'There it is, on the left,' he said a moment later.

Stuart pumped the brake, pulled up, stopped, switched the paddle into "P" pulled on the handbrake and turned off the car. The only sound to be heard was the car settling down.

The two men climbed from the vehicle and stood looking at the property.

Built in the 1960s the house appeared to be a neat semi-detached property with a small mature garden to the front. Love glanced about him. It was a tidy, suburban area. The surrounding properties were a mixture of 1930s deco-style semi-detached houses so prevalent of the times, sitting side by side with tidy little 1950s bungalows.

It was quiet.

Only the distant hum of traffic and birdsong peppered the air. They walked down the brick driveway passing a silver-coloured A-Class Mercedes on the way and came to the front door.

Love reached out and rang the bell.

The door swung open almost immediately. 'Well!' she said. 'Had I known I was being visited by two good-looking young men I'd have made sure I was properly dressed.'

Her hair was strawberry-blonde. It was thick and wavy and sat about her shoulders like a fluffy, unkempt cloud. Her eyes, large, intelligent and smiling were blue-green in colour framed by thick, jet black eyelashes.

Although Love would later insist her eyes had been blue whilst Stuart would be equally determined they were green.

And her cheekbones were even more pronounced than her husband's. At least they now knew from where Heinrich got his good looks.

A line creased Love's forehead as he said, 'Mrs Pfeiffer?'

'Yes,' she said, and smiled. 'How can I help you?'

She pulled the belt of her dressing gown into a knot. The satin and silk coffee-coloured robe highlighted her small waist, long legs and large breasts. Real too, reckoned Love, as his glance flickered over her body. Pleasing to the eye and the antithesis of what he and Stuart were expecting.

Starchy Knickers! Really?

He pulled out his wallet flipped it open, and said, 'Excuse me, ma'am, I'm Detective Dick Love and this is Detective Stuart Le Fanu.'

'Good morning,' Stuart said, and smiled. He held his ID for her to see before replacing it inside his pocket. He had trouble tearing his gaze away. 'We'd like to ask you a few questions do you mind if we...'

'But of course,' she said, and stood back to allow the two men to step inside closing the door firmly behind them. 'Do come in out of the cold.' She smiled at them both before walking on ahead.

The hall was medium in length and fairly narrow. She turned right at the end and entered into a spacious lounge. It had one large window looking out on to the front garden, the road beyond, and where Stuart's car was parked. At the other end was a large open-plan dining room with French doors that opened directly on to a mature garden about one hundred feet in length. It was an attractive space with evergreen trees, bushes and a green lawn.

To the left of the dining room was the kitchen. It had recently been modernised and extended resulting in a large, stylish kitchen area full of wooden cupboards, granite workbenches, and a Butler's sink.

Love and Stuart looked round appreciatively. The furnishings weren't exactly of antique standard but there were some nice pieces. Quality. G Plan and Cargo resulting in retro mixed in with newer stuff. The colour scheme was burnt orange on the walls offset with tasteful pale green and turquoise furnishings. It worked.

'Charming house you have here, Mrs Pfeiffer,' Stuart said. 'Have you lived here long?'

'Why, thank you and yes, about fifteen years,' she said. 'Henry was just a boy of six.'

'Henry?'

Mrs Pfeiffer looked directly at Love. 'I mean Heinrich,' she said. 'He insists on being called by the German version although I must admit I prefer Henry. But what's a mother to do!' She laughed and pushed back her hair with nails the colour of coral.

'Mrs Pfeiffer...'

'Oh, please, call me Jill,' she said, as she sat down, beckoning to the two men to do the same.

'Thank you,' Love said as he lowered himself on to a pale green leather couch. Stuart shrugged off his coat laid it on the back and sat down on the other end.

'Oh, I'm so sorry, can I get you both a coffee?' She jumped up. 'I have some brewing.'

Her dressing gown momentarily flew open showing off a tanned shapely leg. On her feet she wore a pair of sheepskin Ugg boots. The woman was full of contradictions. She rushed into the kitchen not bothering to wait for an answer.

'Make yourselves at home I'll just be a moment,' she called out from the other room.

The two men rose from their seats and were sitting back down when Love turned his head to look at Stuart who was gazing ahead of him like he'd been hit in the head.

'Mate, are you speechless?'

Stuart slowly turned his head to look at Love, and grinned. 'She's amazing,' he said.

'In another time and another place,' Love said smiling, before adding, 'Here let me help.' He jumped up as Jill entered the room carrying a tray of mugs, milk, coffee, sugar and spoons.

Stuart half rose from his seat before settling down again. Chivalry was not all together dead and buried despite the evidence of many. And despite what women say. Many a woman prefers a man with good manners as opposed to having none at all.

'Thank you,' Jill said as she handed Love the tray.

He placed it down on the coffee table that sat in between the two chairs and the couch.

Jill smiled brightly as she perched daintily on the edge of one of the chairs. She picked up the coffee pot held it in mid-air, and said, 'Black or white?'

'I'll take mine white with two sugars,' Love said.

'I'll have mine black with no sugar,' Stuart said.

Jill started to pour the coffee into one mug then stopped. 'I've forgotten the stevia,' she said. 'Would you prefer stevia instead, Mr Le Fanu?'

Stuart smiled as he sat back and crossed his legs. 'That would be great, thank you very much.'

'Give me a sec,' she said, and jumped up again. 'Please don't get up,' she shouted back over her shoulder almost immediately. The gown went flying again, brown shapely leg, Ugg boot. A moment later, she was back.

'Here we go,' she said, smiling at Stuart.

She placed a small plastic bottle on the tray inside of which was a colourless liquid. She picked up the coffee pot and poured coffee into three mugs. Retro-style with a delicate green leaves print. She added milk and two sugars in one and passed it to Love. He thanked her and she turned her attention to Stuart.

'Just one small squirt?' she said, referring to the stevia.

Stuart laughed. 'Just one tiny squirt and that'll be fine,' he said. 'Thank you very much. Nice coffee set by the way.'

'Thank you, it's from Heal's,' she said as she poured herself a cup. Squirted in a drop of stevia stirred it briefly and sat back in the chair hugging her mug. 'It's from their MissPrint Woodland pattern.'

It was like sitting with a couple of chums over morning coffee. Love had to remind himself why they were there. 'Jill,' he said putting his mug down on a coaster on the table. 'We're trying to put a profile together of all the persons Monica Dixon, who was recently abducted and killed and is our latest victim, may have come into contact with.'

'All right,' she said. 'How can I help you?'

Stuart emptied half of his mug and placed it down on the tray. 'That was delicious, Jill, thank you,' he said. 'Much needed on an early and cold morning such as this.'

Jill smiled and took a delicate sip. She shook her head, pursed her full lips together and blew in the mug. It made tiny ripples across the surface. 'Ooh, that's better,' she said taking another sip. 'Would you like a top-up, Mr Le Fanu?'

'No, I'm fine, thank you,' he glanced at Love. 'Jill, I understand your son helps at the shop?'

'Yes, he's undecided as to what he wants to do but for now it suits him to work there.'

'It appears your husband or son served Monica in their shop,' said Love.

'Have you asked them?'

'We have,' Love said. 'But they don't recall having met her.' He fished inside his pocket and pulled out two photos. He half stood and handed them to Jill. 'This is a recent photo of Monica and one of her son, Timmy.'

She nodded. 'Nice-looking people but I wouldn't have met them I don't serve in the shop.'

'Yes, we realise that, but what we're hoping is that perhaps your husband or son spoke of them.'

'You mean mentioned them in passing?'

'Yes, that's right,' Love said.

Jill sat back and crossed her legs. She took a sip of her hot drink and stared hard over the top of Stuart's head. 'Sometimes they talk about their customers, you know, if something amusing or unusual happened, but I honestly don't remember them talking about either of these two.'

'It would have been recent sometime in the past two weeks,' Stuart said.

She shook her head and her curls bobbed about and fell gracefully against her cheeks. 'I'm sorry I honestly don't recall a thing,' she said. 'Mind you, Heinrich isn't always the most communicative and Robert... are you sure I can't get you another cup, Mr Le Fanu?'

Stuart glanced at Love. He got the message loud and clear. 'Actually, I will have another, thanks, Jill.'

'Same as before?' she said, as she began to pour.

'Same as before.'

She squirted a drop of stevia, stirred it, and handed the drink to Stuart with a smile. 'There we are.'

She looked over at Love. 'And you Mr Love, are you ready for another cup?' She held the coffee pot in her hand as she peered over at Love's mug. Seeing it was nearly empty she half rose from her seat and leant forward to top-up his mug, giving an unashamed view of her ample breasts underneath her coffee-coloured silky gown. 'Help yourself to sugar and milk.'

'Thank you,' Love said. He determined the woman wasn't consciously flirting. He reckoned she didn't even realise how sensual she was. She was completely natural. A genuine person. And he liked her. 'I take it your son doesn't discuss his day with you much?'

She gave a small laugh. 'We don't seem to be able to communicate much at all these days,' she said. 'But I have my charity work.'

'Everyone needs to feel wanted,' Stuart said.

'Yes, yes they do.'

'Does Heinrich go out much?' Love said.

'A fair amount I suppose with his friends from school and college.'

'What did he study?'

'Computing technology and IT,' she said. 'Something I know little about I'm afraid.' She laughed. It was an attractive sound, deep and husky. 'I daresay you'd know a lot more about that sort of thing, Mr Love.'

'I wouldn't count on it,' Stuart said, glanced at Love and chuckled.

Love smiled. 'That's a neat motorbike you and your husband gave Heinrich for his birthday.'

'Well, he'd wanted one for ages and finally I relented after having persuaded my husband.'

'Really? I got the impression it was more your husband's idea.' Love placed his mug down on the coaster stood up and removed his Donegal.

'Goodness me, no! He's extremely strict but it always seems to fall to me to actually carry out the discipline.' She sipped at her drink. 'Heinrich isn't spoilt, I don't believe in spoiling a child, but he certainly didn't go without much when he was young.'

'I know it's a hard line to get right,' Stuart said.

Jill nodded. 'When he was about thirteen or fourteen he wanted a keyboard. It wasn't even his birthday or Christmas he just wanted me to buy him these keyboards and I refused. Naturally.'

'Naturally,' Love said. 'And how did he take it?'

'Badly!' She shook her head at the memory of it. 'It chills me still to think of it.'

'Children are their own people we aren't their puppeteers,' Stuart said.

'We weren't planning on having any children but then I accidentally fell pregnant with Heinrich and so I took it like I take everything in life methodically and philosophically and just got on with it.' She smiled. 'I determined to love the child to the best of my ability, to look after him, feed him, keep him warm, guide him, do my best,' she added quietly.

'Can't ask anymore than that,' said Stuart.

'But somewhere along the line I realised here was a person I didn't even know.' She looked at Love and Stuart. Her large blue-green eyes were bright, sparkling from unshed tears. 'He's a stranger to me.' She glanced down and placed her mug down on the coaster. 'And that goes for...' She looked up and spoke quietly but firmly. 'I'm looking into getting a separation.'

'I'm sorry,' Love said.

She snapped her attention to Love, and laughed. 'Don't be sorry, Mr Love, be happy. I still have a lot of life and living left in me and I'm going to make sure I get on with it.'

'Under your own steam or with someone who appreciates you,' Stuart said gently.

Jill turned to stare at Stuart. 'That's it exactly, Mr Le Fanu, you've got it in one.'

Love and Stuart looked at the lady sitting in front of them. A sensuous woman who by nature was a happy woman, full of contradictions, but a decent sort, and slowly, day by day, she was dying inside.

'Jill, if there's anything you can think of anything at all please don't hesitate to contact me,' Stuart said. He reached into his pocket snapped open a silver card case and proffered his business cards. 'It has my mobile number on it,' he said. 'You can ring day or night.'

She took a card and held it tightly in her hand. She looked at him and smiled. 'I won't forget, Mr Le Fanu.'

Love watched the exchange. He stood up, reached behind into his back pocket, retrieved his wallet and leant over to pass his own card. 'Same goes for me, Jill.'

Jill took the card, held them both tightly in her hand, and said, 'I know what you're doing and I appreciate it.'

'Doing?' Love said. 'We're just doing our job, Jill.' He smiled. 'Thanks for the coffee.'

'I'll see you out,' she said. She stood up, walked down the hallway and opened the front door. A rush of cold air whooshed into the warm house. 'Drive carefully there might be ice on the roads.'

Love and Stuart edged past her. Once outside they turned round to face the woman. Stuart had already put his coat on inside the house. Love was still shrugging into his Donegal. He had deliberated that morning before Stuart arrived to collect him, as to whether he should wear his Reefer jacket but decided against it at the last minute. He reckoned it still wasn't quite cold enough. He determined there had to be snow on the ground after all and also determined he'd be adamant about that.

Stuart flicked his fringe back, stamped his feet, and smiled. 'Don't get cold, Jill.'

'I won't.'

'When you think there's nothing to be bothered about there usually is,' he said. He nodded to the cards she still held tightly in her grasp. 'Keep them close to hand.'

'I will,' she said, and laughed. 'I sound like a robot.'

'That's something you're certainly not,' Love said. 'Goodbye, Jill, take care.'

'See you.' She smiled her charming smile and closed the door. The two men turned round, strolled down the drive, Stuart held out his key, pressed it, the car beeped, the doors clunked politely, they got in and drove away.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Forty-nine minutes later, the two detectives were walking into the reception area of MI6.

On their return journey, Stuart had turned left out of Featherstone Road instead of right. The slightly longer and aesthetically pleasing route afforded the added advantage of coming up against less traffic.

Love had got Stuart to stop at Holders Hill Circus. He wanted to pick up some fresh food for Julie and as an afterthought some for himself as well. A couple of minutes later, Love was sprinting back to the car to where Stuart was waiting. The Jag was running over with the heaters going full blast. It sounded like a big cat purring.

'Did you find anything out?' Stuart said.

'Yeah,' Love said. 'They sell kangaroo meat.' He shook his head. 'I mean, kangaroo meat? Who in the hell eats kangaroo meat?'

Stuart smiled. 'Apart from myself not you I take it.' He switched the control to "D" took off the handbrake checked for traffic and pulled out.

Love grunted. 'Okay, I like chicken and a bit of steak now and then, bit of corned beef, but I don't go in for this "exotic" meat crap.'

'I'm with you there,' Stuart said. 'Apart from health issues I don't see the point in introducing even more animals to breed, slaughter. Haven't we enough already?'

'My point and we're getting off the point,' Love said. 'They know Jill Pfeiffer, said she was pleasant, they like her, know her husband not so well. He wasn't so approachable according to one.'

'And the son?'

'Just that they see him riding by on his bike.'

'That's it?'

'Except that Jill happened to mention that Heinrich gets his absolute love of motorbikes from his dad.'

'What! And he had to be persuaded to buy one for his son?'

'Yep,' said Love as they motored along Holders Hill Road. A pleasant residential area with its eclectic mix of architecture. 'This case just gets weirder the more we learn.'

Moments later, the car was crossing over Great North Way into Parson Street.

Stuart gestured with a nod of his head, and said, 'Fleurs isn't far from here,' he paused, 'shall we check on Heinrich's story whilst we're in the area it'll save us coming back later.'

Love glanced out his side window and then at Stuart. 'I reckon we should, partner, seeing as we'll be passing it in a couple of minutes.'

* * *

Love flashed his identification to Geoff who was on duty. 'Hi, Geoff, how are you?'

'Not so bad, Love, and yourself?'

'Yeah, you know how it is,' he said, and smiled. 'Did going to the gym help you sleep any better?'

'No, it bloody didn't!' Geoff said, pointing to his leg. 'Pulled a muscle in my right calf and the pain's been keeping me awake ever since.'

'Try something less stressful like reading a book.'

'When I can't sleep I always read a book or a magazine,' Stuart said. 'It always helps me to get off.'

'Magazines help me to get off,' Love said, and grinned. If Stuart but only knew how ironic he was being right now, Love thought. Or was it a double entendre? Hell! Was it just plain crude?

'Does that work for you then?'

Love thought of his Frederick Forsyth and John le Carré sitting on his bedside table and more pertinently his copy of Playboy hanging about in the drawer. 'Yes, it can help.'

Stuart smiled and flashed his ID. 'Or how about trying some melatonin?'

'What's that when it's at home?'

'Natural sleep medication works in rhythm with your body,' Stuart said. 'You can get it online.'

'Melo what?' Geoff said, picking up a pen and reaching across the long reception desk for a notepad.

'Melatonin.'

'Thanks, Stuart, I'll give it a shot,' Geoff said. He waved to them as they strolled over the marble floor to await the lift.

'What do you think?'

'I don't think we were consciously misled,' Stuart said. 'Not too sure about the husband.'

'But the son's a different matter,' Love said.

'Interesting. To paint a picture of your wife, or mother, and she happens to be the antithesis of that very picture.'

'I like Jill Pfeiffer,' Stuart said. 'A lot.'

'I feel the same,' Love said. 'I just hope she won't need to call us.'

The lift arrived. It pinged gently, the doors opened and Love didn't move. 'I'm going to check on my car whilst I'm here,' he said. 'You go on up.'

'All right, partner.'

'See you in a minute.'

Still holding his paper bag full of food, Love turned round and headed for a door at the end of reception next to the entrance for the underground car park. On the door was a sign saying "Motorpool".

Love swiped his ID and glanced up at the security camera above. Seconds later, the door opened. Love stepped inside and looked round.

The area was large and warm. The heating had kicked in and was working like a dream.

About half a dozen cars were being worked on. A few of them elevated having radar controls attached. The place smelt of coffee, oil, plastic and expensive gadgets. It looked like an upmarket garage.

Love wandered over to a corner of the space behind which was a large and comfortable glass partitioned office. He knocked briefly and went inside. Two wooden desks one on each side of the room sat facing inwards. In the space between were two sofas, a couple of coffee tables, a hot and cold drinks machine, magazines and a selection of newspapers scattered on the two tables placed in the middle.

It was like being at the dentist.

Leafy green plants were dotted about the place. A radio was playing quietly in the background. Soothing music. Big bands and easy listening. The sort of music Love preferred to listen to if and when he ever found the time.

He smiled at the young woman sitting behind one of the desks. She'd looked up questioningly as Love entered the office. He nodded in the direction of the other desk to where a man was sitting rifling through some logbooks.

She smiled and nodded in return and went back to her computer.

'Hi, Jim,' Love said.

'I know it's in this lot somewhere.' The man looked up. 'Love! How are you, you old Yank!'

Love smiled. He never tired of hearing that although Jim was the only one who said it and he could live with that. It was their thing just a bit of harmless fun. And the PC brigade who thought otherwise, mused Love, could do the other.

'Yeah, I'm doing all right. And you?'

'I've got four cars coming in this afternoon cos they need...' he paused as he looked first left then right, 'to get "fixed up" and I know you know what I mean.'

'I do know what you mean,' Love said, and grinned.

'So if you'd left it any later I wouldn't have been able to accommodate you.'

'Working good now though, is it?'

'All shipshape and Bristol fashion, mate, works like a dream.'

'Thanks, Jim, I owe you one.'

'Just chalk it up with the others.' Jim chuckled, and went back to his logbooks.

Love turned to leave. 'I'll do that,' he said, and walked back over to the door. He reckoned he'd be back nearer Christmas with a bottle of the finest scotch money could buy tucked safely under his arm.

'Good news, mate!'

Love strode into the office. On his way back he'd checked on the heater and having got a blast of warm air full in his face determined Stuart would be the one who'd be most pleased. 'No more rides in the cold.'

Stuart looked up from the file he was reading. 'Glad to hear it!'

'Thanks, mate.' Love gratefully spied the hot mug of tea sitting by his computer. His nerves wouldn't take any more coffee. He dumped the paper carrier bag on the top of his desk, shrugged off his Donegal placed it on the back of his chair and ran his hands through his blond thatch. The thick layered fringe settled back down over his forehead almost immediately. 'What we got?'

'Chris dropped by,' Stuart said. 'No luck with those additional shoes on the security tape.'

'Really?' Love stood still with both hands placed on his hips. 'So she can't determine if the shoes belong to Timmy or not meaning we're not one hundred per cent certain the other shoes belong to Monica.'

'No, all we have is theory and your gut and no definitive proof of anything.'

'Except Monica did have those receipts in her possession and Sheila Marcus says Monica did visit the shop.'

'It's still circumstantial evidence.'

'Yeah, I know, plus Fleurs in Brent Cross checked out,' Love said.

'Were you expecting it not to?'

'I guess, yeah, sort of but we discovered for ourselves Heinrich left Fleurs a few minutes after the eight o'clock news. They reckoned it was... four past eight?'

'Which cuts it all extremely fine, doesn't it.'

'From Fleurs to the hospital it would take anywhere between thirty-three and thirty-seven minutes.'

'And that's not counting the time it took to detour to Primrose Hill and abduct and kill Monica which in total would take... what? About an hour?' Stuart said. 'Yet his father said he was in the shop between quarter and ten to nine.'

'What did he do? Teleport himself like something out of Star Trek?' Love raised his hand and wiped it back and forth on his chin. The fine layer of bristle made a faint rasping noise.

And that was another thing. He'd forgotten to buy a new pack of disposable razors. He may as well have shaved with a blunt pair of scissors when he got up this morning. And he was concerned about Julie. She was lumbering about like she had the world on her shoulders. She was due to drop her litter any day now and Love was beginning to act like the expectant father. No one back in New York would believe it.

'I'm still going with it.'

'I agree,' Stuart said. 'Your intuition has never let us down yet.'

'It's not just that, mate,' Love said as he picked up his mug. 'We've got nothing else.' Love took a mouthful of hot liquid and set his mug back down on the desk. At least he'd slept well the night before. That made a change. And no dreams of a certain attractive lady doctor either although he wasn't sure if he was glad about that or not.

And that bothered him.

Stuart glanced at the file in front of him. 'Heard anything on Carol's fellow students at the college in Golders Green?'

Love shook his head. 'They're still checking on that,' he said. He threw back his mug and drained it.

'Crikey, Love, what do you have an asbestos mouth?'

Love grinned. 'You know me, mate, all or nothing.' He bit his bottom lip. 'The students are coming up clean and anyway...'

'Anyway?'

'I don't think we're going to find a connection there.' He picked up the bag strolled over to the fridge and deposited it inside.

'So,' Stuart said, looking at the black dial of his Bell & Ross. Beautiful piece of craftsmanship costing around £3,700.00. And worth every penny. 'What now?'

Stuart had been awake since five o'clock that morning.

He'd lain in his bedroom of his two bedroom town house in W8. A pretty black and white cottage he and Emma had purchased when they got married. They bought a property with an extra bedroom 'just in case' and 'just in case' happened along two years later in the shape of Shannon.

Not exactly planned but welcomed nonetheless. An intelligent child, quiet, a little shy, who had both her mother and father's looks.

Stuart lay listening to the distant sounds of a fox. A vixen. It has a most distinctive cry. No surprise there. Foxes in London were a common sight unlike in the country where due to a perverse twist of nature they were less prevalent, at least to public eyes.

He folded one bare arm under his head and stared at nothing. Looking but not seeing. Thinking. The bedroom was decorated in soothing colours, yellow and white, bamboo and rattan with a touch of deep mahogany. The thick carpet was pure wool and the colour of milky coffee.

The property featured a pretty wooden terrace to the back of the house coming off the kitchen/reception room, a balcony to the front, and an integral garage where Emma kept her other baby, a 1992 British racing green Mini Cooper with a white roof and thick white stripes running down the bonnet and thinner ones along the side.

Next to the main bedroom was the bathroom and opposite that was Shannon's room. Directly underneath was an open-plan medium-sized kitchen, long and narrow in shape, decorated in white offset with glossy red and Bristol blue tiles and utensils sitting alongside a bright yellow fridge.

Leading directly off the kitchen area was a large reception room decorated in cream and browns, antiques that had been passed down from Stuart's family, the odd piece from Cargo such as a yellow throw on the back of the subtly patterned cream and brown linen couch along with a variety of cushions in all sizes and fabrics including smaller items Stuart and Emma had bought together over the years.

Huge earthenware pots and vases were scattered about the wooden floor inside of which sat large bright yellow sunflowers standing proud and defiant. Made from silk, never to die.

On the matt white and alternative sand-coloured walls was a selection of mirrors bought from the shop on the corner. Alongside hung an array of large abstract prints. Some of the works were by well-known artists, others were copies. Bought simply because they were liked and they looked good.

On the floor below in the small hallway next to the staircase was a cloakroom and shower and on the other side, a large living area. Its decorative fireplace was its main feature along with a charming and pretty enclosed patio area. The room was more formal than the one upstairs and was decorated with the couple's more priceless antiques and rugs along with the odd piece of Worcester and Derby ware.

The house was a comfortable and pretty home in an affluent part of Kensington.

But right now, all Stuart could think about was his wife. Shannon, he knew, would be fine with her grandmother. It meant her possibly missing school but as she was only six years old he could live with that. Besides, her grandmother was a retired teacher and she'd see that Shannon wouldn't be missing out on any learning whilst she was away. Much to Shannon's delight as already she was showing signs of being a studious little girl.

'Now?' Love said. 'Now I think it's time we went back to St Katherine's and had a word with our esteemed surgeon.'

'Looking for Carol's connection and her lover?' Stuart said. 'That's supposing she had one.'

'That, I am.' Love grinned and grabbed his jacket. Stuart smiled, pushed back his chair, threw on his coat.

Four minutes later, they were coasting down Albert Embankment discussing the merits of a car with a working heater.

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 quite 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.'

Chapter Twenty-Eight

10:55 hours

'Let's confirm Sullivan's whereabouts for the day Carol was killed,' Love said. 'And also what his movements were on the day Monica was killed.'

'Already on it,' Stuart said. He pulled out his mobile and pressed a button. 'Chris, it's me.' He paused. 'Fine and you?'

Love glanced over. Really, these Brits could be so polite it was infuriating.

'Listen, I need you to check the hospital records for a surgeon under the name of James Sullivan, he's known as Mr.' He listened. 'Yes, the same one, white alpine BMW,' he paused momentarily. 'See what his movements were on the day of Carol and Monica's abduction and murders... yeah, on our way back. Cheers.' Stuart turned to Love. 'She said to say hello.'

'She would,' Love muttered, and smiled. His mind went back to the interview with James Sullivan. At least now they'd determined Carol was having an affair and with whom. And it explained the faint crosses on her stomach. Sullivan wasn't at present a prime suspect but still his movements needed to be verified.

'That,' Stuart said. 'That was embarrassing.'

'Yeah, it sure wasn't my favourite interview.'

'Nice crutch to have on hand.'

'What's that?'

'The XO cognac.'

Love glanced at Stuart. 'You don't indulge?'

'We do sometimes on special occasions but it's not something we chuck down our necks on an every day basis.' Stuart looked ahead as the traffic lights turned to red and Love pumped the brakes. 'It's a quality item with a price to match.'

'Go on then enlighten me.' Love smiled.

'On average you won't get much change from £118.00 a bottle.'

'Really?'

'It's worth every penny, Love, we are talking a top quality cognac that's aged using specific ingredients.'

'Sure, I guess, when you put it like that.'

'For a quality cognac that's an extremely reasonable price,' Stuart said. 'Admittedly I indulge on occasion but I don't go mad and fritter my money away on expendables such as costly alcohol and eating out at the most expensive restaurants all the time.'

'Sure, I know.' Love nodded. 'Or costly cars.'

'Exactly. But, mate, don't get me started. I refuse to pay top price for a brand-new car that in two years time will be worth half or less than half its original cost. I just don't see the point.'

'I hear you, mate,' Love said.

'Although Jags hold their price at least the XF range does, more than, let's say BMW for instance, I still absolutely refuse on principle to pay £36,000.00 or thereabouts for a car.' He laughed. 'I mean, for a car? It's crazy!'

'It sure is handy knowing someone in the trade.'

'You're not kidding. When I can pick up the same model only a year or two old from my mate in Thatcham at an extremely decent price, four thousand pounds less than half the original price, I'd be crazy not to.'

'Yeah, makes total sense.'

'I'll introduce you to him anytime,' Stuart said. 'He's fair and reliable.'

'Thanks, mate, but my old girl will see me through a few more winters yet.'

Stuart rubbed his hands together. 'Let's hope, besides, I like her a lot better since you got the heating repaired.'

'She suits me.'

'And there's something in particular I like about Jags.'

'What's that?'

'They're known worldwide as the quintessential British automobile.'

'Really?'

'Absolutely,' Stuart said. 'It's bloody hard to buy anything British these days so the least I can do is support our car industry.'

As Love changed gear he glanced at Stuart. 'Listen, mate, would it matter if they weren't British?'

Stuart shook his head. 'Of course not, it's just a huge bonus that they are.'

Love flicked his indicator to turn left into MI6. 'Well, in that case, I know something about Jaguars.'

Stuart smiled. 'Sounds ominous. What is it?'

'You might not like it.'

'Go on.'

Love grabbed his small remote resting in between the two front seats, pressed a button, the tall steel gate slid open. He cruised round to the back where he and Stuart swiped their IDs. A few moments later, the gate slid open and he drove straight into the underground car park. Love found a spot and pulled in. He pushed the gearstick into neutral, pulled on the handbrake, turned off the ignition followed by the heater. He had to get used to turning off that damn heater. He unsnapped his seat belt and opened his door. Just as he jumped out, he said, 'I think it was in the nineties that Jaguar was taken over by Ford.'

'What!'

Love shook his head. 'I'm sorry, mate, but Jaguar cars are owned by Ford.'

Stuart got out of Love's Volvo in slow motion. 'I can't believe it, I just don't believe it, is nothing sacred anymore. Is nothing British anymore?' He looked over at Love. 'Please tell me you jest.'

Love smiled. He was well aware of Stuart's feelings towards Ford motor cars. 'Mate, I could be wrong you know cars aren't my deal.'

'But Ford? Anyone but Ford,' he groaned.

'She's still the same car.'

Stuart stared hard at Love. They were standing next to a parked Mini about four years old. 'I've got to look into this,' he said. 'And take them as another example,' he said, pointing to the little car. 'Owned by BMW and the price goes up thousands. It used to be an affordable car that stretched across all classes. That was the beauty of it.'

'Come on,' Love said. 'I wish we had some of that fancy brandy upstairs you look like you could do with some.'

'Ford? Really? I mean, Ford?'

Love laughed. All the way up in the lift he'd listened to Stuart bemoaning the fact that Jaguar had been acquired by Ford.

'I'm making you a strong, sweet cup of tea,' Love said. 'I reckon you need one.' He punched the keypad and pushed open the door. Stuart trailed in behind him.

Love walked over to his desk and shrugged off his Donegal.

Stuart didn't appear to hear as he removed his coat and put it on the back of his chair where it fell to the ground. As if in a daze, he bent down, retrieved it and hung it on the clothes rack. Suddenly he snapped back to attention.

'I am on the case,' he said. 'Don't think this ends here.' He sat down in front of his computer clicked on a couple of icons and whisked his mouse into action like he was on fire.

Love strolled over to the kettle, shook it, stepped over to the beautiful glass bowl sink, filled the kettle, he switched it on. As he stood waiting for it to boil he half wished he hadn't said anything. Wow! Stuart was taking this bad. Curious, he pondered. The kettle boiled, he poured water into two mugs, dunked the tea bags, added sugar in one stevia in the other and lactose-free milk in both as Stuart still needed to bring in some rice milk. On his way back to his desk, Love stopped by the side of Stuart and placed a mug of tea down next to an open file.

Stuart was busy scrolling eyes fixed to his monitor, concentration creasing his brow, when a moment later, he shouted, 'You have to see this, Love.'

Love looked over from his desk. 'What is it?'

Stuart looked up. 'I need fortification.' He took a sip of his tea. 'Thanks, hits the spot.'

Love walked round to peer at Stuart's screen. 'What is it?'

'I'm going to have to dump her in the Thames or scrap her and possibly me along with it, I mean, think about,' he said, and looked up at Love. He waited. On his monitor was one word.

Love laughed, and said, 'Bastard! You're the wanker, you idiot!' He walked back to his desk still chuckling. 'I knew it!'

'Oh, I had you going for a bit admit it,' Stuart said, smiling broadly. 'Actually, since 2008 Jaguar has been owned by a company based in India.'

'Really?'

'Really! Although the cars are still made in Britain, and are known as a British car, the company is owned by Tata Motors and what with our history and links with the country I'm delighted,' said Stuart. 'I reckon it works out well for both countries,' he added, and grinned.

'I'll get you back,' Love said.

Love was still smiling as he took a sip of tea. He glanced towards the window. He thought of James Sullivan. So cool, in control, and underneath it all was this sexual pervert. Well, Love considered him to be a bit of a pervert, no doubt there would be plenty who would disagree.

Pain and pleasure the two sides of the same coin? Maybe, but Love liked his pleasure pure. And uncomplicated.

'Can't arrest a man for performing consensual sadism,' he said. 'He hasn't broken any laws.'

'No, he hasn't.' Stuart flicked his mouse and scrolled down. He took a sip of his tea and stared at the screen. 'At least now we have a definitive answer as to how and why the fine lines came to be on Carol's body.' He glanced at Love.

Love turned to look back at Stuart. 'So why is it that I'm not jumping for joy?' His mobile phone rang. He pulled it from his jacket and flicked it open.

On the other end was Chris Evans.

The information she gave him was exactly what he'd been expecting. He should be glad. Glad he'd found the reason for the faint crosses on Carol's body and glad he'd discovered the identity of the person executing them.

So what was troubling him?

He needed a cigarette. He pulled open his drawer and extracted a pack. He opened it and flipped one into his mouth. He searched for his lighter, found it, lit his cigarette inhaled deeply and walked over to the window. He opened it wide and exhaled. He watched the tendrils of the blue-grey smoke as they escaped into the air.

Where did it leave them? They had nothing concrete. Sullivan was a connection but he wasn't the assailant. He knew that. He knew that even before Chris got back to tell him that Sullivan was in the clear. So, he checked out, Love pondered.

And if Sullivan's actions had been verified and Butterfield was no longer a suspect, where did it leave them?

Forty minutes later, Love chucked his pen down on his desk and looked at his Timex.

'Look, it's coming up to a quarter to twelve I'm going to shoot off home and take care of Julie,' he said. 'Feed her, take her out.'

'Yeah, of course,' Stuart said. He pushed his hair back off his face. 'I'll see you later.'

'You getting any lunch?'

Stuart automatically glanced at the clock on his PC. 'Hadn't thought about it to be honest.'

'I'll probably get a sandwich or a quick bite from the pub on the corner.' Love shrugged on his Donegal found his keys and shoved his cigarettes into his pocket. 'Want to come?'

'It's tempting, nice place the Lion & Unicorn but I'll pass.'

'On to something?'

Stuart leant back in his seat. 'Not really, just going through what we've got.'

'Well, if you change your mind. I'll drop off Sullivan's tiepin on the way down.'

'All right,' Stuart said. 'I'll make a start on the report for Sir Charles,' he said.

'Here,' Love said. He walked over to one of the brown filing cabinets opened a drawer and pulled out a green folder. To the side of the cabinets were three smaller bright red filing cabinets. Like tiny pillar boxes. He turned to face Stuart. 'This is what I've got so far.'

Stuart took the folder from Love and flicked it open. 'That's great, Love, I'll put the rest together and get it up to him.'

As an afterthought Love stepped over to the fridge. Made his way over to the door, pulled it open.

'Okay, mate, later.'

And he was gone.

12:08 hours

Forty-five seconds after leaving MI6, Love was turning left on to Lambeth Bridge.

Twenty-three minutes after that he was opening his front door. He stepped into a partial open-plan hallway and walked straight through the archway into the lounge.

Julie, who'd already heard him coming up the stairs, was waiting in the middle of the decent-sized room. On seeing Love, she rose to her feet and waddled over to greet him. Her joy extending to her stump of a tail as it wagged from side to side.

'Hello, sweetheart,' Love said. He bent down to tickle her ear. 'You hungry?' He rose a moment later and shrugged off his Donegal. He chucked it on the back of the sofa.

The room was tidy, warm and comfortable and he was tempted to flop down into one of the armchairs but instead strode into the kitchen. He opened the fridge, placed inside it the paper bag full of fresh meat, pulled out a tin of dog food, grabbed Julie's bowl from off the floor and into it he spooned some food.

'Here we go,' he said as he placed it back down on her mat in front of the French window. The flat had twin French windows to the front of the property one in the kitchen the other in the lounge with a wrought iron balcony connecting the two. 'Eat this and then we'll take you out.'

Julie, who'd followed Love into the kitchen, waddled over to her bowl sniffed it and tucked in. Love smiled as he watched her then turned round, shook the kettle and switched it on. He grabbed a mug from the white stained pine cupboard above, spooned in some instant coffee, wasn't in the mood to percolate any, one spoon of sugar, he thought he'd try to cut down or maybe one day he'd even try some of this stevia stuff, and strolled back into the lounge.

The large French window let in a lot of light. Even on overcast days the flat was bright never dark or dull. He slumped down on to the two-seater Chesterfield. It was about twelve years old, upholstered in an attractive creamy beige material with a slightly raised pattern, purchased from Argos. Although Cargo sold the exact same couch at the time but not at the same price. Same couch different price.

The two armchairs either side of the couch were cream linen upholstered Edwardian Chesterfields with a deep buttoned oversized back and sides with bleached oak legs on brass castors, and were extremely comfortable. It felt like you were being hugged when you sat down in them.

Not that Love would ever admit to needing or wanting a hug. Except perhaps from Julie. The canine, not the other. Although, a hug from that particular direction wouldn't be totally abhorrent, he reckoned.

He shook his head.

He was fed up.

Why, he had no idea. He leant over grabbed his jacket and removed his cigarettes. The noises from the kitchen indicated Julie was still eating. Just time to have a cigarette before taking her out.

He flicked his old brass lighter, the flame glowed red, he put it to the tip of his cigarette then snapped it shut whilst inhaling deeply. He felt the smoke push its way deep into his lungs. It gave him a buzz and took him somewhere he wasn't altogether sure he wanted to be. He leant forward and rested his cigarette in a large seventies clear glass ashtray. The kettle clicked at that moment as he knew it would. He got up and made his coffee.

Love strolled back into the lounge placed his mug down on one of the rattan coasters stacked on the coffee table and walked over to the French window. He opened it slightly just enough to allow his cigarette smoke to escape. He wondered if Stuart was finding the time to eat. Love's thoughts went to the pub on the corner. He decided he'd gone off the idea of going out. He wasn't feeling sociable enough. A sandwich would have to do him. He'd got some cold chicken in the fridge from when he'd bought a cooked chicken two days ago. Two days ago was when he'd had that damn dream about Doctor Cooper albeit brief. And another one later that night or the following morning to be exact.

And did that have to pop into his head right now?

'Damn!' he said. He strode back to the couch, grabbed his mug, nearly spilling it on the table, and took a sip. Well aware he was going over his quota for the day but he felt he needed the inspiration. Coffee and nicotine, addictive drugs and ones he enjoyed. In moderation. Too much of a good thing or a so-called good thing is bad for you. He knew that.

Love's thoughts went over the investigation. Where did it all lead? Monica and Carol knew their assailant. They both knew the man well enough for him to know of their movements. And still the hospital was the link.

He was sure of it. It had to be! There was nothing else to link the two women.

At least, not so far.

He still had this Stonehead character from Cornwall to interview. His gut told him that character was hiding something but what exactly at this stage he had no idea.

Love rubbed his forehead. He had a headache. He knew he should eat something. He put his mug down and went into the kitchen. He opened the fridge, pulled out a plate on which was half a cooked chicken covered in cling film. He grabbed a tub of margarine which he balanced on top before placing both items down on the speckled grey and white granite worktop.

He rinsed his hands under the hot tap patted them dry on a hand towel, took a plate from the rack above, a knife from a drawer in front of him and made himself a sandwich. Had to be without mayonnaise but he could live with that. The chicken was organic, juicy and flavoured with herbs and garlic.

It didn't need mayonnaise.

He grabbed a piece of kitchen roll and returned to the lounge where he sat back down on the Chesterfield. He leant forward stubbed out his cigarette took one look at his sandwich and took a bite.

The room didn't have many personal touches apart from a couple of framed photographs, one of Love as a professional baseball player, a team photograph, and one of him and his parents taken soon after he became a detective. There was a large antique bookcase full of books which Love was determined to work his way through. Books he'd picked up along the way from local street markets and second-hand bookshops.

A couple of pottery vases, tasteful but empty, a large old Indian rug covered most of the Victorian wooden floorboards, now faded and giving only a taste of the bright red tones with hints of peacock blues and saffron yellows it once boasted. A couple of large framed prints Love had bought locally covered the white walls depicting colourful wooden fishing boats and a pale blue sea. The large antique gild-edged mirror over the faux fireplace and mantelpiece was the centre point of the room.

The television, which still hadn't been taken in to be repaired or at least to see if it could be repaired, stood in one corner of the room alongside a music centre. The centre was from the early nineties just as records were going out and CDs were coming in and happily this particular stereo incorporated both a turntable and a CD player along with a tape recorder and a radio. And it still worked. To the side of it a modest supply of records, tapes and a few CDs sat on a small white shelf unit.

A small Victorian pedestal desk in walnut with decorative brass handles and a tooled green leather writing top sat to one side. On top of which was a selection of papers, folders, pens - all chewed, bills, letters some unopened, a newspaper three days old, an ashtray and Love's personal computer which didn't get switched on very often. In front of the desk sat a chair Love had picked up at an antique shop in Devon. A late 19th century swivel desk chair in walnut with brass castors and replacement brass studded green leather hide seat and a vast improvement on the antique elm stickback dining chair that had once sat there but now occupied a corner in his bedroom.

A couple of reproduction red leather-topped round wine tables, a couple of lamps in sandy matt yellow, and a mixed supply of cushions completed the furnishings. Apart from Julie's deep wicker basket inside of which was Julie's princess pink and purple dog bed to give extra comfort and security.

Inside Love's bedroom was a wooden-framed double bed, two Victorian chest of drawers painted white, and a large built-in mirrored wardrobe that ran along one wall.

The room was decorated with orange accessories and soft furnishings, a chocolate-coloured thick wool carpet, deep chocolate browns offset with cream. It was like living in a choc ice was Love's thought when he first saw it but he'd long since got used to it. He couldn't imagine it any other way. The walls had been painted about thirty years earlier in a glossy vanilla shade and Love saw no reason to change it.

Any of it.

It worked for him.

Fifteen minutes later, Love took Julie out for her walk in Rochester Terrace Gardens.

Julie on the end of a lead in one hand; plastic bag, gloves and kitchen roll in the other.

He bumped into the lady from the bank who was out walking Jake. She waved and her empty plastic bag fluttered in the breeze. He greeted her, asked how she was, and called out to Jake who in turn came bounding up to greet him and Julie. Following a quick nose to tail sniffing, he turned to Love planted both paws on Love's chest and panted happily in the direction of Love's face. Love took a step back due to the sheer weight of the dog. He laughed. He liked Jake and if he did turn out to be the father of Julie's puppies he wouldn't mind in the least. They'd be beautiful, nice-natured and very much wanted.

He asked the woman if she'd ever thought of having another dog. She'd replied she hadn't but sensed there was an ulterior motive to Love's question. Love explained his suspicions to which she apologised profusely and offered her help in any way possible. Love laughed and said to wait until they were born then they'd know for sure. He found out her name was Esther Olsen and that she lived in nearby Caversham Road in a house just along from the Poundstretcher shop. They were formally introduced, she took Love's phone number, Love took hers and went on his way.

Having settled Julie back home, Love grabbed his cigarettes, and a new packet of mints from the kitchen, told Julie to be a good girl, walked through the archway into the hall opened his front door stepped into the Victorian-tiled landing and closed the door firmly behind him.

Once outside he aimed his keys at the Volvo parked just down the road from his flat, pressed them once the car beeped the doors clunked open, he got in, and twenty-three minutes later was driving into the MI6 underground car park.

At least Love's mood had improved.

Seeing Julie, Jake, and his new friend, Esther Olsen, had cheered him up. He no longer felt fed up. He felt inspired. Frustrated possibly but inspired nonetheless. He'd had a good lunch. Granted it was only a sandwich but it was delicious and it had hit the spot and his headache had gone.

Love parked the car and went straight in to see Fitch. He stepped from the empty lift strolled round the corner to the lab, knocked once and went inside.

Fitch looked up from the table next to his desk where he was dissecting something that had once belonged in a human body. 'Hello, Love, you here for the tiepin results?'

'Fitch,' Love said, staring at the specimen on the tray. 'I don't even want to know where that came from and yes, if they're ready, I just called in on the off chance.'

'They're done.' Fitch rolled his surgical gloves off with a snap and disposed of them in the small Union Jack Brabantia retro pedal bin at his side. The lid closed silently as Fitch took a step towards his desk.

'It's as Sullivan said.' He picked up a plastic evidence bag inside of which was the gold tiepin. 'This matches the scratches on Carol Butterfield and tests show her fingerprints on the tiepin along with those belonging to another having ruled out yours and Stuart's.' Fitch looked up. 'Am I right in saying they would belong to Sullivan?'

Love stared at the tiepin in Fitch's hand. 'You would be right.'

'Do you want me to run a DNA test?'

Love pondered the question. 'No, Fitch, not for the moment.'

'Well, at least that's one mystery solved,' Fitch said.

He passed the bag to Love who put it in his jacket pocket. He'd get that back to Sullivan probably later today or first thing tomorrow. He had to go back to the hospital. His gut told him to go back but apart from Heinrich he had no specific reason to go there again. And for all he knew the assailant could be planning his number three victim right this minute. He had to talk to the one person who could help him pin it down. He needed to talk to Julie Cooper. The thought of calling her made his stomach flip. Damn the woman!

He smiled at Fitch. 'Thanks, mate, appreciate it.'

'Don't mention it,' Fitch said. 'Just doing my job.' He grinned and went back to his specimen. He pulled open a drawer grabbed a pair of surgical gloves and slipped them on. As he was about to make an incision Love left the room. He'd got what he came for.

Love let himself into his light and spacious office to discover it empty.

He glanced at Stuart's desk. No note. He glanced at his own desk. No note there either. He pulled out his mobile and checked for messages. None. He laid the phone down on his desk. Shrugging off his Donegal he glanced out the window. It was busy. Traffic was heavy.

Smoke was in the air from exhaust fumes and nearby chimneys. Individuals were hurrying along. Some going to lunch. Some coming back from lunch. Some meeting their lovers for an illicit lunch. He thought of Carol and Derek Butterfield. He pressed the button on his computer. It whirred and stuttered into action. Take your time, Love thought, so much for technology. Finally he was in and staring at the cat prancing about like it had just awoken. He hovered his mouse over the icon for emails. It told him he had a new email. He directed his mouse and clicked it.

The inbox page scrolled into view. It was a message from Stuart.

Love grinned. 'Wanker!'

He opened the email. Have gone to lunch after all. If you're back in time, see you downstairs in the canteen. And have dropped off report with the commander. And congratulations on reading this - you're getting better!

Love looked at the watch on his wrist. It was ten after one. It was tempting but checking the time the email was sent he figured Stuart would soon be back. Time enough for a quick cigarette.

He strolled over to the window and cranked it open. Walked back to his Donegal and retrieved his pack.

A moment later he was standing at the window staring at the snake of traffic going over Vauxhall Bridge through his wisps of smoke. Doctor Cooper. He'd call her now. Maybe catch her coming off lunch. Maybe she'd be more receptive. He walked over to his desk picked up his mobile walked back to the window and with his cigarette in his hand he punched in her number. He now knew it by heart.

Did that mean something?

A moment later, it was answered.

'Doctor Cooper.'

'It's Love, how are you?'

She paused. 'I'm aware it's you, Love, I have caller ID.'

'That does surprise me,' he said.

'Because I listed your number.'

'I'm honoured.'

'Don't be,' she said. 'Have you ever thought it's a good way of weeding out unwelcome calls.'

'Ouch! Your tongue can be razor-sharp, Doctor Cooper, at least where I'm concerned.'

'Was there something you wanted, Detective Love?'

'Oh, lady, you are one cool customer.'

'What on earth is that supposed to mean?'

Love took a drag of his cigarette. As he spoke wisps of smoke escaped his mouth. 'It means either you can't stand the sight of me and this is for real or secretly you fancy me.'

'There's another option.'

'And that is?'

'You mean absolutely nothing to me but I do it to get a rise.'

Love laughed. 'Not buying that one, Doc, not from you.' He turned as the door buzzed, clicked and opened. He waved a hand in greeting to Stuart. Stuart grinned in return. 'That's too psycho and not your style at all.'

'Are you sure about that?'

'I'm pretty sure and that's what I need to talk to you about.'

'I'm not coming over to your house again at the crack of dawn.'

'I'm not asking,' he said.

'Well, that's all right then,' she said quietly. 'How's Julie by the way?'

'As well as can be expected,' he said, and laughed. 'But waddling like a duck. Thanks for asking.'

'So how can I help?'

'The assailant is, as we discussed, a Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde character.' He knelt down and with his left hand stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray he'd placed on the floor. He exhaled the last of the smoke out through the open window. 'Appears perfectly normal until something or someone sets him or her off.'

'That's right,' Julie said. She got up out of her chair to walk about her office. 'And it needn't be at the person his anger is directed but...'

'Projected emotions,' Love said. 'I remember.'

'When I was at your flat the other day do you remember I had to make a phone call?'

Love thought back to when she made her apologies and slipped out to the balcony. Yes, he remembered. 'I do.'

'Well, that phone call was to a patient of mine. I'm treating him for that exact thing.'

'Really? Anyone I should know about?'

Julie smiled. 'No, Love, he's not your man.'

'How can you be so sure?'

'He has a form of agoraphobia and can only go out when someone goes with him.'

'Really?'

'Yes, really. Anyway, his emotion, in his case, is sadness not anger, and is directed at anyone who reminds him of his sister.'

'He gets sad with other women just because they remind him of his sister?'

'That's about it,' she said. 'And with therapy I'm treating him to control these emotions and understand them.'

'Okay, Doc, that's interesting but what's your point?'

'My point is it's not just women who set him off.'

Love furrowed his brow. 'You mean a man could remind him of his sister and get him going so to speak?'

'Exactly! Your assailant might be taking his anger out on women but deep down it might be a man he's angry with.'

'This gets more complicated as it goes on.'

Julie laughed. 'It's not that bad but it can be frustrating I appreciate that.'

Love sighed. 'Doctor Cooper, I owe you one.'

'Not necessary,' she said. 'Glad to have helped.'

'Can I ask something else?'

'Certainly.'

'What favour did you owe James Sullivan?'

'What!'

'During our interview, Sullivan mentioned you owed him a favour and I was just curious what...'

'And what business is it of yours!'

'Now listen, Doctor Cooper, Julie, I'm sorry I didn't mean to tread on your toes.'

'This is exactly what I'm talking about.'

'What!'

'You! You are uncouth and infuriating, you see ulterior motives where there are none you suspect everyone...'

'Well, that is my job...'

'To blazes with your job and to blazes with you!'

'Hey, lady, I'm sorry if I...'

'Please think twice before you contact me again.'

Love stood motionless as the line went dead in his ear. That went well. He closed his mobile and held it in his hand.

Stuart looked over from where he was leaning against his desk. His arms crossed in front of him. His top button undone his paisley tie loosened. He looked the image of a male model casual but smart.

'What was that about?'

'Julie Cooper and her touchiness.'

'Have you been rubbing her up the wrong way again?' he said, and smiled.

'Me?' Love chucked his mobile down on his desk and ran his hand through his blond hair. It flopped down over his forehead. His blue eyes showed his emotions and right now he was angry. 'Her more like.' He leant down on the top of his desk with both hands palm down. He looked dangerous and extremely attractive. 'What is it with that bloody woman?'

'What did you say,' Stuart said. 'I heard something about the favour she owed...'

'Exactly! That's all I was asking about. The favour she owed Sullivan.'

'Why?'

'Why what?'

'Why did you want to know?'

Love was breathing heavily. He stood up and walked back to the window. 'No reason.'

'Love, why?'

He shoved his hands inside both trouser pockets. His body language indicated he was calming down. 'I wanted to find out if they were seeing each other.'

'You want to know if she's going out with Sullivan?'

'Yes.'

'And this would be because?'

Love didn't know the answer to that. He wasn't sure himself. But ever since Stuart made that remark about the pair of them cooking up this electricity he wondered if he should explore it further. Especially if the dreams were anything to go by not that he was about to tell Stuart that, he pondered, I mean, really?

'I like her.'

'Then tell her, you idiot.'

Love turned from the window and smiled. 'I can't, mate, it's too late.'

Stuart got up from his desk and walked over to a filing cabinet. He opened it, skimmed through the contents found what he was looking for, retrieved it and closed the drawer. 'It's never too late.'

Love walked back to his desk pulled out his chair and sat down. 'Where Julie Cooper is concerned it is too late.' He picked up his baseball and rolled it around on his desk. 'I should have kept things on a business level it's my mistake,' he said. 'But it won't happen again.'

'Love...'

'At least I learnt something interesting.'

'And?'

'It would appear our assailant's anger might not be directed at a woman but at a man.'

'Is that so?'

'Yeah, and who does that put you in mind of?'

Stuart smiled. 'Heinrich Pfeiffer.'

'Exactly,' he said. 'How many DCs are surveying your house?'

'Two as requested and at all times,' Stuart said. 'I have the finest from Belgravia Police Station working in shifts.'

'Good,' Love said. 'Well, let's hope he pays you a visit real soon because right now that's all we've got.'

'What if he doesn't take the bait?' Stuart had just got off the phone with one of the surveillance team.

Stuart's morning post had been delivered and that was all the action his house, so far, had seen. Although the immediate area was busy enough.

Rabbit Row was a small road just off Kensington Mall. It merged with West Mall to form an L-shape and was comprised of a row of a few businesses and predominantly residential properties. Traffic coming and going was commonplace.

The detective constables or DCs continued to patrol the area, quietly and unobserved. They knew who and what to look out for. And so far there had been no unaccounted black FZ8s.

Love looked up from his computer. He'd been scrolling through some files, trying to put together pieces of the jigsaw that didn't quite fit. He leant back in his leather swivel chair. It creaked a little. He was glad of the respite. Computers! And as for that darn cat it was smiling at him again. Damn thing.

'Then we go back and bait him again.'

'What if we're barking up the wrong tree?'

'We're not.'

'How can you be so sure?'

Love held both hands up in the air. He smiled. 'Mate, I'm never completely sure not until the end.'

Stuart smiled in return. 'Yeah, well, let's just hope this end has a happy ending.'

Love couldn't agree more. He sure hoped so. Stuart's family was at stake. Women everywhere were at stake as long as the assailant was out and about and free to choose his third victim.

'Did you ask the commander if we could tail Heinrich?'

'I did. He wouldn't allow it. Not enough to go on he said, although he did say it was appropriate to have my house under twenty-four-hour surveillance. He approved of us trying to draw him out, if indeed he is our assailant.' He ran his hand through his hair back and forth as if that would help him find the answer. 'If only we had something concrete to pin on the man or at least something that would give us the green light to have him followed.'

'I'm looking through these files,' Love said, nodding to his screen. 'For about the tenth time now to see if we've missed anything but so far I'm coming up blank.' He turned to stare out the window. He had a great view over London even from his chair. 'I know there's something here I'm missing that I can't quite put my finger on.'

'Get back into his shoes, Love, that's the only way.'

Love narrowed his eyes as his mind went over his theories, the bike, the anonymity, it all added up except for one thing.

The time.

'Okay, let's say it took between thirteen and fifteen minutes to abduct and kill Monica. I've walked through it and that's the time I come up with. That's how long it would have taken me,' he added.

'And I take it that's the least amount of time.'

'Yeah, that's right, quick and controlled,' he said. 'And if I took back roads accelerated where I knew there weren't any speed cameras or blended in with other bikers to remain anonymous even if I was spotted or caught on camera it still doesn't leave me enough time.'

'Because Mr Pfeiffer said Heinrich arrived at the shop at around quarter to nine maybe a bit later.' Stuart pushed his chair back and stood up. He put one hand in his pocket and began to pace about the room. 'But what if he's wrong?'

'Meaning?'

'Meaning, Heinrich didn't get there at quarter or ten to nine at all but at five to nine or even nine o'clock.' He pushed his hair back with his free hand. 'Those few minutes would make it plausible.'

'On a fast bike, taking short cuts, it would be possible,' Love said. 'He could knock off five whole minutes.' His glance fell on the cigarette butts in the ashtray. To look at them you wouldn't know if they'd been smoked recently or a while ago. He looked at Stuart. 'His dad said he'd been there at least ten minutes because of the fresh cigarette butts in the ashtray.'

'Where are you going with this, Love?'

'Perhaps that's what Heinrich wanted him to think.'

'You mean he planted it as some sort of alibi.'

'Could be.' Love narrowed his eyes in concentration. 'He said Heinrich was a light smoker and yet he'd supposedly already had two cigarettes even before a hot drink? Think about it Stuart.'

'Okay, you know what this means?'

'What?'

'We're still no further forward than we were ten minutes ago.'

'I disagree,' Love said. 'What this does is confirm my theory.' He picked up his baseball and chucked it at Stuart. Stuart caught it firmly with his free hand. 'Impressive! It gives strength to my theory which leaves just one thing.'

'To prove it?'

'Exactly!'

'How about checking traffic cameras along the route from Fleurs to the dance studio or at least the nearby car park, Gloucester Avenue and then on to the hospital?'

'Mate! We're talking an almost impossible task,' Love said. 'But then again if he doesn't make his move soon I reckon we're not going to have much choice even if it is nigh impossible.'

'Because we don't know the exact routes he took.'

'That's part of it. He'll be practically invisible and he'll have made sure his number plate is obscured, that sort of thing.' Love stirred his tea and placed the spoon down on top of a melamine tray sitting on the sideboard. 'He's not going to make it easy for us.' He picked up his mug. 'Sure you don't want one?'

'No, thanks.'

'I guess all we can do is wait.'

'Yeah, I guess,' Stuart said. He only wished he knew for how long. 'To hell with this, Love, I'm going home.'

'How come?'

Stuart glanced at his Bell & Ross. 'Look, it's ten to three if I leave now I can work from home for the rest of the afternoon.'

'I hear you, mate, and it's a good idea,' Love said. 'But being on the spot isn't going to make him come any faster, if at all, and the DCs on duty know to contact you immediately if he shows up.'

'I know, I know, it's just that I want to wrap this up.'

'Look.' Love walked back to his desk, placed his mug down and took a couple of steps towards Stuart who was already shrugging on his coat. 'Why don't I follow you in the car...'

'You don't have to do that.'

'Why not! Two heads are better than one plus you promised me a home cooked meal, remember?'

Stuart smiled. 'I remember,' he said. 'Yeah, that would be good.'

Love walked back to his desk took another mouthful of tea. 'That's even too hot for me to finish.' He reached over to his computer turned it off grabbed his Donegal and slipped it on. He grinned at Stuart. 'Right! The first thing you can do is make me a cup of tea.'

'No problem.' Stuart patted his pockets and pulled out his gloves. He slipped them on. 'Sure you don't want to come with me in the car?'

'No, mate, this way I can slip home later and see to Julie.'

'She's due very soon, isn't she?'

'Looks like she's about to pop any time now,' Love said. 'I know I can call Mrs Burton but I'd sooner see to her myself.'

'You are one dedicated father-to-be.' Stuart grinned as they walked over to the door. He stepped in front of Love and pulled it open.

Love grabbed the door as he followed Stuart out of the office. He closed it firmly behind him tapping in the code. 'Being the father of baby canines I can handle but any other kind...'

'Forget it?'

'You said it.'

Stuart nodded to an operative from MI6. Jason. Thirty-four years old. One of the best. He was so cool, calculated and determinedly single he made Love look like a needy teddy bear. Jason nodded back. Looking good in designer jeans and a cashmere polo neck. Licensed to kill. The closest thing to James Bond MI6 could offer.

'Seeing Jason made me think of something,' Stuart said.

'What's that?' Love stepped forward and pressed the button for the lift.

'Do you have your weapon on you?'

Love turned to look at Stuart. 'Expecting trouble?'

'Whoever our man is - he's also armed.'

Love shook his head. 'It's under lock and key back at the apartment.'

The lift arrived with its gentle ping and the doors silently and swiftly opened. Love and Stuart stood to one side as two female operatives and three males stepped out. They stepped inside the plush interior and Stuart pressed the button for the ground floor.

'Do you want to pick it up and bring it along with you,' Stuart said. 'To my place, I mean.'

Love thought about it. If their assailant was Heinrich, would he show up at Stuart's house and would it be tonight? He had no way of knowing. It was a ridiculous situation. They were grasping at straws. Hanging on to theories. What would Heinrich expect to achieve by going there? It didn't make much sense but then again, murder never did.

'I'll pack.'

Stuart nodded. They didn't speak again. A moment later they were stepping out of the lift and on their way through the door and to their respective vehicles. Love looked over at Stuart. He smiled. Stuart raised his hand as if in greeting. Neither knew how the evening would turn out.

And if truth be told, neither of them much wanted to know.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

15:20 hours

The sun was shining, it was mild out. The birds were singing.

You could hear them over the traffic and noise of the City. Love could have simply been out for a drive or going about on a task. It wasn't the obvious atmosphere in which to catch a killer and possibly be killed in the process.

He drove straight home. Twenty-two minutes later, he was parking the car in leafy Gaisford Street in between his local pub on the corner and his flat. A few people were out enjoying the sudden change in the weather. Happy faces. Meeting friends for coffee, shopping or going for a late lunch. A drink.

He was glad he no longer partook. Alcohol kills your senses, makes you less aware and more of a target. It eats your brain cells. He didn't need that.

In New York he went through a period in his life when he was hitting the whisky. Hard. It wasn't a good time. Work was getting to him, crime, corruption, it was like a sieve. As fast as he was getting crime off the streets it was being replaced. He felt useless, his life was going nowhere. He got his wake-up call when he saw a reflection of what he was fast becoming. He saw what others were seeing only too clearly. And he didn't like it. He knew he had to stop or else he'd die, and so he quit.

Just like that.

From one day to the next and he's never looked back.

He was in great shape apart from the sporadic and not so sporadic smoking. His head was where he wanted it to be. He had a great dog, a decent place to live and a job he could really get his teeth into. And one that he was good at, very good, along with a partner for whom he would gladly stop a bullet.

But no permanent woman. Not now, not for years. And that was okay too. He kept his emotions in check. He wouldn't get too involved. It wasn't him. Take it or leave it. And it wasn't that he was shallow, he wasn't shallow at all.

He was the opposite.

He cared too deeply not that anyone would ever see that side of him.

Love put his key in the lock, opened the door and smiled at the surprise on Julie's face. Can dogs look surprised, he pondered, well, checking out the expression on Julie's face right now, they sure can!

'Hi, pregnant one,' he said.

He strolled over to her basket where she was enjoying the sun streaming in through the French window. As Love bent down to stroke the dog a handful of tiny dust particles danced in the stream of light.

She was happy to see Love.

He would take her out before going on to Stuart's. It made sense whilst he was here. He stood up and glanced round the flat. Nice place, comfortable, warm. The sun playing with the faded colours on the Indian rug giving hints of the brilliance they once exuded. It brought to life the aged honey tones of the surrounding wooden floorboards.

But Love had a job to do. 'Come on, Julie, let's go outside quickly,' he said.

He'd take her down the stairs and out to the front of the property to where a small courtyard made up of grass and concrete was situated. Love took Julie there on the odd occasion when time was short. He'd promptly clean up after her if necessary before settling her down. He'd go back upstairs into his bedroom, walk over to his wardrobe, slide open the door and reach to the back of the shelf. He'd open his portable safe and remove its contents. He'd strap on his holster. It would feel strange. He didn't get to wear it that often. And for that he was thankful. He'd put his jacket back on, weapon concealed, additional bullets in his pocket, and he would leave.

Thinking only of the job in hand.

No room for distractions.

Love took the scenic route to Stuart's house via the Serpentine. It meant he'd spend three to four minutes longer in the car but this was no problem for the detective. The route, which he often took when driving to Stuart's, was more aesthetically pleasing, his blood pressure stayed at a reasonable level, but not only that, it meant he would be facing in the right direction enabling him to park exactly where he'd planned which wouldn't have been possible going via Notting Hill Gate with all the one-way systems.

Twenty-four minutes later, Love was directing his Volvo down Palace Gardens Terrace.

He cruised down the tree-lined road. It was full of parked cars which presented no problem for Love. He drove to the end, pulled over to the right and came to a stop outside the church and in front of a line of parking spaces for hired cycles. He pushed the gear into neutral pulled on his handbrake, turned the key, released his seat belt and reached across to his glove compartment. The gun pressed sharply into the side of his chest.

He pulled out a small printed card stamped with an authorisation which read "Official Police Business" and shoved it into the front of his windscreen.

A traffic warden had already spied Love and was making her way to his Volvo. He got out, beeped his car, walked over to her and flashed his badge. She looked momentarily surprised before continuing on her way. There was a car a few yards down the road whose time had expired on the meter. It would be her next stop.

Love waited for a bus to pass before sprinting across the road and turning left into West Mall taking the slightly longer way round to Stuart's house. He wanted to take a look at the businesses in Stuart's road. He looked around him as he walked past a row of parked cars on his right belonging to employees and visitors associated with the offices beyond. Moments later, he turned the corner into Rabbit Row. He glanced inside the garage as he walked by, knocked on the glossy black double glass-fronted door, careful not to step in the path of a passing vehicle. He turned his head to watch it drive by. It was a dark blue Volkswagen.

A moment later, the door opened.

Stuart smiled and stepped back. 'Come in, partner.'

Love nodded and walked into the cosy entrance hall. 'Hi, mate,' he said.

'Did you see them?' Stuart closed the door and locked it behind him. He gestured for Love to go upstairs.

Love spoke as he bounded up the wooden half-spiral staircase that led to the reception room above. 'I did. You wouldn't know they were there if you didn't know they were there.' He smiled. His footsteps echoed on the oak floorboards silencing suddenly as he stepped on to a large, pale yellow linen rug.

'They're good,' Stuart said coming up behind Love.

The two undercover DCs on duty could easily pass as a resident simply out doing some shopping or going about their business.

Love turned to look at his partner.

He'd changed out of his Hugo Boss suit. He was wearing a white and blue baseball shirt that moulded to his lean torso, an old pair of Lee jeans, faded and frayed a little in places, and on his feet, acting like slippers, a pair of thick white socks.

Stuart ran his hand through his hair. 'You should have seen who they replaced.' He smiled. 'Two blokes who were acting as telephone repair men. Brilliant!'

Love shrugged off his Donegal. The gun visible in stark contrast to the white of his shirt. He hadn't thought to change. He loosened his tie, removed it and undid the first two top buttons. His Burberry skinny fit black chinos perfectly highlighting his long and shapely, muscular legs.

He glanced round the room. The only view on this floor to the front of the property and the road beneath was accessed via the kitchen from the window above the sink. It was the only visible point apart from the balcony area which was out of the question for obvious reasons.

It had to look like Emma was home and home alone.

It explained why Stuart had opened the garage doors to allow anyone, someone in particular, a good view of her car and hopefully to arrive at the conclusion, albeit incorrect, she was indeed at home.

'Would you like a drink?' Stuart asked, and started to walk silently through into the kitchen.

Love followed. He stepped on to the rust-coloured coir runner that ran the length of the kitchen. He smiled at the sight of the chrome and red leather bar stool pulled up against the sink. And to one side sitting on top of the Indian walnut worktop a mug and a plate of half-eaten sandwiches. Stuart's vigil.

'Something from the fridge or would you prefer a hot drink?'

'To tell you the truth I could eat something,' Love said. He strolled over to the sink and peered down at the street below. As he stretched forward he spied one of the DCs strolling past followed by a white car and a small white van. He turned back and perched on the stool.

Stuart opened the door to the bright yellow fridge. 'Sandwich do you?'

'Sandwich would be fine, mate, whatever you've got.'

A moment later, Stuart pulled out a tub of margarine, a loaf of organic granary bread, some fresh organic lettuce in a Tupperware box, organic spring onions, fresh parsley and a bowl of succulent fresh prawns. He balanced the lot in front of his chest as he turned round and placed them on the smooth, dark, solid wood counter. 'Will this do?'

Love smiled. 'A sandwich at your house is always a feast, mate,' he said. 'That'll do very nicely.'

Stuart reached to the shelf above and pulled down a plate from its rack. 'Mayonnaise?'

'Yeah, thanks.' That's what I keep forgetting, Love thought. Next time he passed by his local shop he would drop in for mayonnaise, milk, cigarettes and the latest Playboy... he pondered for a moment, he was sure there was something else.

Stuart turned round to the fridge and retrieved a jar of mayonnaise. He turned back to the counter opened a drawer and took out a knife.

'How's Julie?'

Love lifted one leg to rest on the bottom rung of the stool. 'She's fine. Fat. Any day now.'

'Decided what you're going to do with the puppies once they are born?'

Love turned to look out the window. He'd heard a vehicle going by. It was a van, probably to do with the cluster of offices and what looked like a small industrial place on the corner. He turned back just as Stuart placed a plate to the side of him on which was presented a delicious-looking sandwich.

'Thanks, mate,' he said, and picked up one half. 'Yeah, I have actually.' He looked at the sandwich in his hand and took a bite. Razors! That was the other thing.

Stuart skidded over to the kitchen roll dispenser, pulled off a sheet and handed it to Love.

Love took it wiped his hand and mouth, and said, 'I reckon I know exactly what I'm going to do with them.'

'That's good,' Stuart said. He reached past Love and grabbed his mug. He knocked back the contents and grimaced. 'God, that was disgusting. Cold tea.'

Love chuckled as he tucked into his sandwich. It was good. It hit the spot.

Stuart grabbed the blue handle of his stainless steel Oisillon kettle by Alessi, rattled it, switched on the gas on the cooker, placed the kettle on the flame. As he stood waiting for it to boil he glanced down at the hem of his baseball shirt that fell just past his crotch.

'I'm almost afraid to ask,' Love said. He gazed at Stuart's profile with a furrow in his brow his sandwich halfway to his mouth. 'But what are you doing?'

Stuart turned to face Love just as he pulled free with a final jerk of his hand a single piece of thread. 'Loose cotton hanging down,' he said, and smiled. 'Do you want a cup of tea?'

'Yeah, thanks, mate.'

Stuart opened a cupboard pulled out a pottery mug decorated in bright splashes of colour and placed it down on the counter. He fished in his back pocket and pulled out his mobile. He glanced at it before pressing a key.

'Anything?' he said a moment later. He paused as he listened to the reply. His head on one side, hair hanging over one eye, mobile in between his chin and shoulder as he poured the boiling water into a teapot. A bright and wonderfully garish Unikko teapot by Marimekko with huge red and orange flowers on a white background with a natural wooden handle. He replaced the lid and turned round to lean against the counter. 'How many times?' He paused. 'No, I don't think so but exercise caution, yeah, thanks, mate.'

Love watched as Stuart replaced his phone in his back pocket. 'Problems?'

Stuart shook his head as he poured tea first into a yellow and lime mug then his blue one. Matching mugs. A garish flower pattern on both, Unikko by Marimekko. Same as the teapot. The collection of enamelled tableware was fun, stylish, bright, quality items, and reasonably expensive but not outrageously so. A single mug cost £12.40. There was far more expensive crockery available but in some cases you'd be paying for the name and not necessarily quality.

Something Stuart refused to embrace.

'Dave's seen a black bike go round twice now in the past thirty minutes.'

'Really? Where exactly?'

'He comes from Palace Gardens Terrace turns left into Kensington Mall then right into Rabbit Row and West Mall.' Stuart walked over to the window and peered outside. 'A perfect circle.'

'Could they get the make or plate number?'

'No, it was going too fast. A flash and it was gone.'

No activity was going on outside apart from the firm down the road to the right. A few men were outside talking, some were getting into their vehicles. As Stuart looked on he noticed a white van pull out and drive by. He watched it for as long as he was able then turned back to making the tea.

A moment later, he handed Love the bright yellow mug.

Love reached out and took it gratefully. 'Thanks,' he said. 'Good sandwich by the way.'

Stuart smiled. 'That's all right,' he said. 'Anytime.' He leant back on the wooden counter.

'Do you want your seat back?'

'No, I'm all right for the moment besides I can always bring in the other one.'

'Then we can both sit up here like a pair of old women putting the world to right over their cups of tea.'

Stuart grinned. 'Sorry, did you want to go into the lounge...'

'No, mate, I'm fine here.' He nodded to the deep red Brabantia bin in the corner. It was like the one Fitch had in his lab. 'Am I right in saying Fitch's Union Jack trash can has something to do with you?'

Stuart grinned. 'Guilty.'

'Well it certainly brightens up his lab and that's not a bad thing.'

'A little light-heartedness never hurts.' Stuart picked up his mug took a sip of tea and replaced it on the counter. He glanced at the clock on the wall. Steel, round, silently ticking. It read ten past four.

Love gazed at his partner, and said, 'Where is it?'

Stuart looked over with a question in his green eyes. A second later, he said. 'It's next door.' He gestured with his head. 'Fully loaded, safety on and ready for action.'

Love stretched his back and flexed his shoulders. He might no longer be used to wearing a holster but it certainly gave him a feeling of security. A necessary evil. 'You think he'll show?'

'Maybe he already has.'

'The black bike?'

'Perhaps,' Stuart said. He crossed his arms as a chill ran through his entire body. The house was well heated, it was warm, but Stuart was cold. 'I'm just going upstairs to get a jumper.'

He walked from the kitchen into the lounge and over to the staircase that led to the two bedrooms and bathroom above. He bounded up the stairs two at a time.

On the upper level he paused to look out of the window but he was too high up to see the road below. He continued up the stairs into the small hallway and entered his bedroom. He walked over to the rattan chest of drawers standing next to the mahogany free-standing double wardrobe and pulled open the third drawer down.

Inside was a supply of neatly folded jumpers. Cashmere. Pure wool. A couple of nylon and wool mix. He pulled out a dark beige-coloured fisherman's rib shawl neck jumper, advertised as Irish coffee and cream fleck. Unlike Love's Donegal, this jumper was one hundred per cent Donegal tweed wool sent directly from Donegal itself.

Pure quality at a very reasonable price, extremely warm, and Stuart didn't mind the Irish connection either.

He grasped it, pulled it on and was about to go back downstairs when he hesitated, padded over next to the wardrobe and pulled on a pair of old tan cowboy boots he'd had for about fifteen years.

He stood up and looked round the room. A moment later, he left.

By the time Stuart returned downstairs, Love had wandered into the lounge or reception area as it was sometimes known by, and was sitting on the edge of the large cream and brown linen-covered couch.

His yellow mug on a coaster on the bamboo and glass coffee table in front of him. He looked up as Stuart walked into the room. His boots making a clacking sound on the wooden floorboards.

'Looks like you're planning on going out,' he said.

Stuart smiled. He walked over to a side table and switched on a lamp. Its soft glow spread over the room. 'Just on alert,' he said. 'And talking of which.' He walked over to an antique cabinet opened a drawer and pulled out his handgun.

A Walther PPS by Fabryka developed by the German company Carl Walther GmbH Sportwaffen specifically for plain clothes law enforcement personnel and standard issue for DCA personnel.

'I normally keep it upstairs in a hidden and locked compartment in the bathroom but brought it down just before you got here.' He placed it carefully down on the table lifted his arms and with one swift movement removed his jumper. He reached over to the armchair where he'd dropped his leather holster he'd pulled from his wardrobe just before coming back downstairs. He slid it on, added the gun, his jumper on top. He flicked back his hair with his hand. 'Ready and waiting.'

Love smiled. He glanced at his Timex. 'It's getting close to twenty-five past four.' He picked up his mug saw it was empty and replaced it on the table. 'It'll be getting dark soon. What do you reckon - advantage or disadvantage?'

Stuart shoved his hands into his jean pockets. 'Can go either way... shit! This thing is uncomfortable.' He shrugged his shoulders back in an effort to make the holster less restrictive. It didn't work.

Love laughed. 'You realise we're a pair of wussies, mate! I'm telling you, the guys back in New York wouldn't believe it.'

Stuart chuckled. 'Bring it on, Love, I'll go to sleep in this thing if I have to.'

'As long as we get a result, right?'

'As long as we get our man,' Stuart said. 'We usually do.'

Love sat back and crossed his leg at a right angle. 'I can hear a question in that statement, listen, Stuart, if we...' Love tailed-off as Stuart's mobile began to ring.

Stuart pulled his hands free and whipped his mobile from his back pocket before it could ring a second time. 'Yes?' He listened for a moment, then said, 'Hold on I'm putting this on speaker.' He walked over to the coffee table and placed the phone down on the glass top.

'The bike came back a third time.'

'Was it him?'

'No,' Dave's voice came over the speaker. 'We got a better look this time. It wasn't even the right make of bike.'

'Sure it wasn't him?'

'Quite sure.'

'Where are you?'

'At the entrance of Rabbit Row just walking past a hairdressers.'

Stuart thought for a moment. 'It'll be getting dark soon perhaps he's waiting for the cover of darkness.'

'Could be.'

Love unfolded his legs and leant forward. 'What sort of traffic has there been since you've been on duty?'

'I'd say the usual,' Dave said. 'Vehicles belonging to residents, employees down the road and round the corner, plus there have been quite a few visitors.'

'It's the visitors that interest me,' Love said. 'Any deliveries?'

'Quite a few coming and going all the time.' His voice broke off as he looked down the road. 'I can see a van pulling up at the end of the road now.'

'But no other motorbikes.'

'A few but they've been the wrong type entirely.'

'Okay, Dave, thanks a lot,' Stuart said. 'Talk to you soon.' He leant over and disconnected the call. He left his phone where it was. 'What do you think?'

'He could be waiting for the cover of darkness,' Love said. He stared ahead of him. His lips hardly moving as he spoke quietly almost to himself.

'Go on,' Stuart said. He knew that look. Love was going somewhere only he could go. To that creepy place in his head that took him into the assailant's mind. No one else could do this and to be honest - not many wanted to.

'He could be waiting for the cover of darkness,' Love said again. 'The cover of darkness, to disguise himself, it's all about disguise... to blend in.' He broke off, still staring ahead at nothing, at something. 'The black bike, his bike, darkness, in the dark, blending in, one of a crowd, not standing out.' He paused momentarily. 'Unexpected, disguised and unexpected and the best disguise for that would be...' He looked up at Stuart. 'Shit!'

'What! Love, what is it?'

Love jumped up from the couch and grabbed his Donegal. 'The bastard's been here all along.'

'What!'

'Stuart, he's been here all along and he's here right now.' Love threw on his jacket pulled his gun and released the safety catch. He thrust it back under his jacket strode over to the staircase, and said, 'He's outside right now.'

Stuart snatched his mobile from the table and thrust it into the front pocket of his jeans. 'Tell me on our way out,' he muttered as he sprinted over to join Love.

They took the stairs two at a time, swiftly and silently, reached the front door and stopped. Stuart looked at Love, nodded, unlocked the catch and slowly pulled the door open.

Love edged forward flattening himself against the side of the brick wall belonging to the garage. It protruded slightly to the front of the house. It gave him perfect cover. He was able to see both ways down the road and as far as the road to the right was concerned, without being spotted.

Left was clear.

He saw Dave and shook his head. He gestured with his hand for him to be on red alert. Dave nodded once, turned round, pulled his mobile and rapidly spoke into it.

Stuart stepped forward. He lifted his jumper, pulled out his weapon, took off the safety catch and held the gun in his hand. Firmly but gently and in control. He edged his way along the wall. 'Okay, partner, where is he?' He spoke quietly.

Love took a step forward turned his head right and looked down the road. Sure enough there it was. He couldn't help but let a smile of satisfaction pass over his lips. He pulled back behind the brick wall.

'I have confirmation,' he said. 'Pfeiffer is staking out the place from his vehicle.' He looked at Stuart. 'Mate, he's in the white van.'

Chapter Thirty

Suddenly it all made sense.

Stuart gazed at Love as he recalled the nondescript white van passing by. How many times was it? Two? Three? Four?

'That clever little bastard,' he said. 'That was sneaky.'

Love was breathing heavily. 'Yeah, sure was.'

'Can't trust those Germans,' he muttered in a good imitation of Captain George Mainwaring. 'Sneaky to the bloody end.'

Love couldn't help but laugh out loud. He was a fan of the sitcom Dad's Army especially the actor Arthur Lowe who played the part of the incredibly pompous but endearingly patriotic character so well. 'You wanker!'

Suddenly the moment was gone.

'Now what?' Stuart said. 'We've got him but he has to make the first move.' He flicked his hair back as he glanced down at the gun in his hand. 'We have to continue to bait him.'

Love licked his lips. He looked up at the sky. Dusk had fallen. It would be their cover. It would work for them. 'Okay,' he said. 'Let's continue to draw him out.' He spoke quietly and quickly. 'Have you got the keys to Emma's car?'

'In my pocket,' Stuart replied. 'I carry her spare.'

'Okay, keep your head down, go round the corner, get in the car and start her up.'

Stuart saw where this was going. He nodded, flicked the safety catch back on, lifted his jumper slipped his gun into its holster. 'I'll pull up close to the house.'

'I'll sneak in. He won't see me from where he's parked.'

'Meanwhile I'll jump out, close the front door, drive off.'

Love smiled. 'And our friend will follow.'

Stuart ran his hands through his hair in an effort to obscure his face. 'Wish me luck.'

Love smiled. 'Luck.'

Stuart crouched down to make himself look smaller, kept his face hidden from view, took a breath, dashed out and directly into the garage on the other side of the brick wall. The sounds of a car door being opened and slammed shut came from within.

A moment later, it fired up.

Slowly, the little car rolled out of the garage only to pull off the road right outside the house. Hidden from view, Love was able to make a dash for the car, open the door to the passenger's side and jump in. He crouched down half on the floor half on the seat.

Stuart, who'd found a headscarf in the glove compartment and had tied it loosely around his head, jumped out of the car grabbed a shopping bag that was just inside the entrance hall closed the front door behind him and jumped back into his seat.

It had to look authentic. There had to be a reason for the car to have pulled over and stop.

Keeping his head down he slammed his door dropped the gear into first and released the handbrake.

He glimpsed in the rear-view mirror to see the van slowly making its way towards them.

'We have lift-off,' he said.

'Good. Do you know where you're going?'

Stuart thought for a moment. 'I have a place in mind.'

'Please tell me it's not far from here because my nuts are already being crunched as I speak.'

'Here.' Stuart smiled as he leant over to one side reached into his front pocket and pulled his mobile. He pressed a button and placed it on the seat next to him. 'Talk to Dave and tell him to keep his distance.'

Stuart had already spied the undercover DC and his partner hovering in their unmarked Range Rover on Kensington Mall close to the entrance of Rabbit Row.

Love picked up the phone, it rang for the second time, was answered, he passed on the message, it was quick but it was painful. Love wasn't built for Minis.

'Emma couldn't be fond of, I don't know, a Saab or something, anything has to be bigger than a Mini.'

Stuart was concentrating on the game in hand. Slowly he made his way to the end of Rabbit Row. He looked at Dave but didn't make eye contact. He glimpsed again in his rear-view mirror. Heinrich was still slowly making his way towards them. Stuart adjusted the pretty silk scarf covering his head and neck. He looked left waited for a van and a string of vehicles to pass, ensured there was enough room for him and Pfeiffer to pull out safely before turning right into Kensington Mall.

He glanced up at the sky, twiddled the controls on the steering wheel before leaning forward to fumble with the switches on the dashboard.

Not that he had many to choose from.

'Hardly any switches and I can't find the lights! Where are the bloody lights?' Suddenly the road in front became weakly illuminated in the rapidly approaching dusk. 'Finally.' He glimpsed down at Love, he chuckled. 'You know, it could have been a Smart car.'

'Good point,' Love muttered, and grinned to himself. Now he knew what it felt like to be a human paper clip. Paper clip! And now he's thinking of that stupid icon from his PC and although the cat is a vast improvement as reassuringly annoying as it is they could have made it a dog!

Stuart pumped the little brake pedal and as an afterthought the clutch as the car leapt forward like a grasshopper. He paused briefly at the zebra crossing as he bore left into Kensington Church Street.

'How's the traffic?' Love asked from the general vicinity of Stuart's knees.

'Heavy,' Stuart said. He glanced in the rear-view mirror. 'And we still have company a car but one behind us.' He slipped smoothly into third gear.

'Better,' Love remarked. 'How often do you drive this thing?'

Stuart chuckled. 'Try never!'

'Great, really had to hear that.'

Stuart continued to concentrate on the traffic ahead and Pfeiffer behind. He slowed down as the car in front of him stopped briefly at another zebra crossing. He checked his rear-view. Pfeiffer was still behind about twenty feet back, his white van visible in the soft light of dusk. Stuart played with the pedals and shifted into first gear.

'I never thought I'd say this but I actually miss my paddle controls.' He drove on. The pavements were fairly busy with individuals taking advantage of the sales a few of the shops were offering and doing a spot of early Christmas shopping, regular shopping, or simply getting from A to B.

He passed Berkeley Gardens on his left and another zebra crossing. He'd never before realised how many there were.

He continued to drive on. 'Any minute now,' he muttered to Love, 'just a little longer.' The traffic cleared in front, Stuart touched the accelerator and the car shot forward. He heard a bump from the passenger side. He grinned. 'You all right, partner?'

A moment later, a muffled voice said, 'I'll live.'

The car gave another spurt as Stuart shifted into third gear. He wanted to put some space between them and Heinrich.

'Love, in a second I'm going to turn off the main road and stop the car.' He glanced to check for any pedestrians. The immediate area was clear. 'Then we run like the clappers, get out of sight, and await our friend.'

'Got it.'

'You ready?'

'With pleasure, mate.'

Stuart checked in front of him one last time then checked the rear-view mirror. Heinrich was three cars behind. He flicked his indicator down, hit the accelerator and yanked the wheel hard left into a small dead-end road called Melon Place. He stopped halfway down on the left. He slammed on the brakes, yanked the handbrake, grabbed the key from its ignition, opened his door and shouted, 'Run!'

Love was already halfway out the car. The two men sprinted to the end of the road ducked to their right behind the corner of a slightly protruding building offering them coverage, and waited.

The only sound to be heard was their heavy breathing.

They stood waiting, watching, when a few seconds later a white van approached the entrance to the road. It slowed right down and turned in, stopping outside the entrance to a shop which specialised in selling rare books.

The van door opened.

It creaked.

Slowly, Heinrich got out. He blended well into the deepening dusk in his black polo neck jumper, black jeans and black hoodie. He glanced round before pulling up the hood over his head and well down over his face.

He closed his door quietly. He placed both hands in his coat pockets, strolled silently over to the Mini, bent down to peer in through the driver's side window. Seeing the car was empty he tried the door.

It opened and he leant inside.

Love and Stuart were still watching from their hiding place at the end of the road. Slowly, Love pulled his gun slipped off the safety catch and replaced the weapon in his holster. Stuart lifted his jumper and performed the same action.

They didn't know what to expect.

The man wasn't just a criminal he was quite possibly insane. He could open fire on them. He could take a passing pedestrian as a hostage.

The situation needed to be handled with care.

Anything could happen.

They didn't know what to expect but they were prepared.

Love turned to look at Stuart. He nodded and whispered one word, 'Now.'

The two men came out from behind the brick wall and began to walk towards Heinrich. They were a few yards away when Heinrich suddenly pulled backwards out of the car.

His left hand concealed in his pocket. He stood facing Love and Stuart.

'Where is she?'

The two men stopped. 'Where's who?' Stuart said.

Heinrich slammed the door of the Mini. He took a step forward, his hand still in his jacket pocket.

'That bitch you're married to, I followed her here...' he broke off as he spied the pretty floral scarf lying in the road. It had fallen from Stuart's head when he and Love had made their mad dash from the car to their hiding place behind the wall.

Heinrich stared at it for a moment before slowly lifting his gaze. 'You tricked me, you bastards!'

He pushed his left hand forward and up. A clicking noise filled the air and a shot rang out. Stuart fell backwards, his body smashing down hard on to the ground beneath him.

Love pulled out his gun, dropped to his knees and fired a shot in return. Heinrich threw himself down on the ground to roll behind the Mini. The bullet missed him by a hair.

Love glanced down at Stuart. 'Talk to me, Stuart.'

'I'm all right,' he said. 'Go get him.'

Love's full attention snapped back to where Heinrich was hiding. His eyes trained on the back of the Mini. His arm holding the gun outstretched in front of him he half rose and took a step forward.

Slowly, Stuart sat up and staggered to his feet. The bullet had grazed the top of his right shoulder leaving a trail of blood, a few layers of missing skin and a jumper that was fast unravelling. Shaken, but now in control, he pulled his gun took a step forward and joined his partner.

At that exact moment, a door to their left suddenly flew wide open. The door was the side entrance belonging to a large antiques shop on the corner. A group of about six men and women stepped out into the road talking and laughing and at first didn't see Stuart or Love.

Suddenly, a scream filled the air.

'We're the police,' Love shouted. 'Get out of the way and go back inside right now.' The woman continued to scream whilst pointing her finger at Love. 'Lady, would you stop that goddamn awful noise and all of you get out of the way!'

The woman ceased her screaming but the group stayed where they were, milling about, everyone talking at once, and standing directly in the path of Heinrich and the two detectives.

The woman started screaming again when she spied the blood on Stuart's shoulder.

Heinrich stood up from behind the Mini.

Love shouted for everyone to get down and aimed his weapon. The woman continued to scream lost her balance and fell to the ground. Heinrich, taking advantage of the moment, turned round and ran the few steps back to his van.

Love held his gun aloft and pushed his way past the bodies. Some were still standing, a couple now lying prostrate on the ground. He lowered his weapon and pointed it at Heinrich, felt his finger squeeze the trigger, didn't take the shot. There were too many pedestrians and too many vehicles about and if he happened to shoot a passer-by it wouldn't look good on his work record. 'Shit!' He lowered his weapon and started to run over to the van.

Heinrich had already pulled open the door and jumped in and a second later was reversing on to the road behind him.

Love came to a stop midway. He hesitated for a second before turning round to witness Stuart reversing the Mini precariously towards him. A high-pitched screech filled the air as the little car tore backwards to where Love was standing near to the entrance of Melon Place.

Stuart leant over and opened the passenger door. He swore loudly as it pulled on his wound. 'Get in,' he shouted.

Love sprinted the couple of steps over to the car threw himself inside slammed the door and whipped round in his seat. 'He's heading towards the High Street.' As he clicked the safety and thrust his weapon back into its holster he glanced at Stuart, and said, 'What about the screamer and her friends?'

Stuart, sitting in a half-twisted position was looking out through the rear window, his hand gripping the back of Love's seat as he maneuvered and reversed the little car towards Kensington Church Street. He hit the brakes and winced as he spun into a right angle in front of the book shop stopping two feet short of a woman pedestrian.

She glared at him with disbelief all over her face.

He grinned and mouthed 'sorry' turned round in his seat to face the front, slammed the gear into first, released the clutch and with a huge spurt the car shot forward off the pavement and on to the road narrowly missing a taxi on its rear left.

'Unless he turns off at Vicarage Gate.' Stuart winced as he yanked the wheel round to overtake a bus. 'Can you see him? Love searched the traffic ahead. 'Can you see him?'

'Got him!' Love said as he shifted in his seat to get a better look. 'He's going straight he's about four cars in front.'

'I told them to stay put,' Stuart said belatedly as he pressed hard on the accelerator and the car screamed as if in protest. 'Christ!' A BMW in front suddenly slowed right down.

Stuart slammed his foot down hard on the brake. The car staggered violently. Love was thrown forward in his seat, took a side glance at Stuart, whipped his seat belt on just as the car bunny-hopped one more time and stalled.

Stuart slammed the wheel with the palm of his hand. 'Oh, I don't f...'

At that moment a taxi from behind blasted his horn. He had a fare in the back seat of his cab that he had to get somewhere in a hurry and he didn't have time for a couple of jokers to mess about having a laugh in their racing green Mini.

'...ing believe this,' Stuart cried. He pressed down hard on the clutch, the gear in first, turned the key and got her going again. 'Can you still see him?'

'I have him in view,' Love said. 'It looks like he's still going straight.' He reached down to a small open compartment in front of the gearstick. Space enough for a couple of small items. He grabbed Stuart's mobile. 'What number?'

'One.'

Love pressed the key. It rang once and was answered. 'Where are you?'

'On Kensington Church Street,' came the reply.

'Do you have us or the assailant in sight?'

'We have you in sight, just spotted, when you pulled out to overtake the bus.'

Love grinned. Yes, that was a hair-raising moment. If he didn't gleefully strangle Stuart when this was all over he was sure Emma would.

'Okay stay with us and call in for backup,' he said.

The car lurched as Stuart changed gear. He pressed the right stick to activate the horn at an oncoming vehicle but instead accidentally activated the windscreen washer.

'Between us we'll try and cut him off.'

'Will do.'

'Cheers, Dave.' Love turned questioningly to face Stuart as water squirted all over the windscreen.

'Don't say anything,' Stuart said. He flicked the stick and the windscreen wipers sprang into action. 'First the clutch and now I can't find the blasted hooter.'

Love chuckled. 'Try the other stick.'

Stuart pressed hard and winced. The action caused a bolt of pain to shoot right across his chest before ending up at his wound. He opened his mouth to mutter something but it was obscured by a funny high-pitched sound as the Mini's little hooter finally blasted into action.

It's the same with dogs.

The larger variety of dog always has a low-pitched bark with plenty of bass whereas the smaller a dog gets the higher in pitch their bark goes. A chihuahua could happily yap along with the Bee Gees.

'Madam, please hurry out of the way!' Stuart shoved his head through the open window to shout at a woman crossing the road on the zebra crossing in front.

She was in her mid-seventies, well dressed, chatting to a friend, taking her time and she took no notice of Stuart.

He leant on the horn again and gestured with his left hand.

The two women stopped and stared at Stuart. One of them continued on her way the other one walked to the front of the car.

'Young man,' she said. 'How dare you honk your hooter at me when I have every right to be here.'

Stuart searched ahead. The white van was now about six cars in front. He watched as it came up behind a double-decker bus. He tilted his head out of the window. 'I apologise, madam, but this is urgent police business now kindly step aside at once.'

'Police business?' She looked questioningly at the Mini. 'Forgive me but this hardly looks like a police car. You don't even have any flashing lights!' She folded her arms in front of her. 'I'm not going anywhere until you apologise and then I want to take down your names and details and furthermore...'

'To hell with this,' Love said. He snapped off his seat belt opened the door strode over to the woman put his arms round her waist lifted her bodily off the ground and placed her squarely on the pavement off to the side. 'Thank you, ma'am,' he said, grinned, ran back to the car got in, they drove off.

'Feisty old bag,' Stuart muttered, then smiled. He did admire her spirit. He searched the cars in front. The white van was still in view. 'We're gaining on him no thanks to Miss Marple.'

'Stay with him, mate.'

'Oh bloody hell!'

'What is it?' Love desperately looked about him as his hand reached to the inside of his jacket.

'I don't believe it,' Stuart muttered under his breath. 'He's ruined my jumper.' He took his left hand momentarily off the steering wheel to flick the fraying pieces of wool. 'I love this jumper.'

'Mate, I thought it was serious.'

'Like this isn't serious?' Stuart said mockingly, and grinned.

The traffic in front slowed down to a crawl. Stuart glanced in his rear-view and started to overtake the line of assorted vehicles. The car screeched as he pumped first the accelerator and then the brakes to swerve out of the path of an oncoming van bearing down upon them. He pulled in dangerously close to the side of the car he was attempting to overtake.

Love glanced out of his side window to see an astonished face staring back at him.

The van thundered on by, the driver shaking his fist. Stuart pulled back out, pressed hard on his horn, couldn't leave it alone now he'd found it, and revved and pushed his way forward until they were just three cars behind.

'Can you see Dave and Paul?' Stuart said.

Love swivelled in his seat. He searched the long line of vehicles behind them. He turned back to face the front. 'Negative.'

'Damn! He's turned off into Holland Street,' Stuart cried. In preparation he hit the indicator to turn right.

'Quick, don't lose him,' Love said, reaching out in front to grasp the dashboard.

Stuart slammed his foot on the brake pedal once again forgetting the clutch. The car bunny-hopped twice and died. It simply sat at a right angle in the middle of the road. And considering they were causing a hold-up in both directions the other drivers were remarkably polite refraining from any verbal abuse or blasts on their car horns.

They were more amused than anything else.

'Bloody hell,' Stuart cried.

He pushed the clutch, turned the key, it fired up, he let off the clutch hit the accelerator, turned the wheel right, winced as a sharp pain shot through his shoulder, the car leapt forward slamming the two men back into their seats with a g-force seen only in space travel.

He tore down Holland Street in hot pursuit of Heinrich who'd rounded the bend in the road and was already close to approaching The Elephant & Castle pub.

Delightful properties. Affluent area. Beautiful architecture, predominantly early Victorian and Georgian. A smattering of shops and art galleries added variety and interest to the pretty tree-lined road.

Not that Stuart or Love had time to appreciate any of that right now.

Stuart continued to race down the narrow one-way road at an incredible pace gripping the steering wheel in both hands as he negotiated the car past the intermittent line of parked vehicles.

Love, meanwhile, was still gripping the dashboard in front of him once he'd realised it was the best way to stop being yanked forward, thrown backwards, or from bouncing off the side of his door.

The car momentarily slowed down as they approached a side street, Stuart's foot hovering over the brake pedal just in case he had to make an emergency stop, his eyes searching for any unsuspecting traffic pulling out. Seeing the coast was clear he'd once again slam his foot down hard on the accelerator resulting in the car vroom, vrooming its way down the entire road.

Fast, slow, fast, speeding up. Like a waltz gone wrong.

'I see him,' Love said, and pointed.

Stuart nodded. 'Got him.'

'Watch the dog!' Love suddenly cried indicating to a little white Scottie dog appearing in the doorway of a jeweller's shop.

'Got it,' Stuart muttered as he swerved to the right narrowly missing a young tree. Love glanced behind. 'It's all right he's on his leash, his lead... and he's sitting down.'

'Okay, no flattened Scotties today.' Stuart grinned. Suddenly, he cried out. 'I don't believe it!'

'What?'

'The silly bastard has only gone straight across Hornton Street and down a one-way road.'

Stuart approached the crossroads and slammed on the brakes. He watched in disbelief as Heinrich tore across to the other side and the continuation of Holland Street except it was a no entry road and oncoming traffic was already bearing down on him.

The two men watched as the van careered to the left and mounted the pavement. As soon as a scooter and a dark green economy car passed by he pulled off the pavement with a loud thump and tore off down the road.

Stuart slammed the gear into first, flew across the road, the car screeching like a bird going after its prey.

'Watch it!' Love shouted as a yellow vintage 911 Porsche appeared in front of them. He hooted his horn. A sophisticated sound filled the air. He snapped his headlights on beam and flashed Stuart and Love repeatedly.

Stuart did the same as Heinrich. He quickly mounted the pavement cruised along until the Porsche had safely passed, yanked the steering wheel to the right and the car back on to the road. He sped along finally catching up with the white van.

'We're nearly on him.'

'Careful,' Love said. He stared ahead as the van neared the end of Holland Street. Thankfully, he surmised. Suddenly the road came to an intersection. Four roads spread out before them. Granted two of these were no entry not like that would stop Heinrich. 'Which one is he going to take?'

Stuart was approaching closer and closer coming up behind the van. He came to a screeching halt behind Heinrich just as the van started off again. At first it looked like Heinrich was going to turn left down a no entry road as he bore in that direction when suddenly he turned a sharp right and drove a tight circle right back into Holland Street.

He sped past the Mini staring straight ahead.

'Son of a bitch!' Love turned as he watched the van disappear down the road behind him.

Stuart let his foot off the brake, the car shot forward, he spun it round on two wheels leaving half the tyre tread behind on the road and was on Heinrich's heels in seconds flat.

'Where is he going?' Stuart pushed the gear into second, missed, the car belched and protested, he tried again and got it. 'I mean, it's not like he can get away.'

'It doesn't stop him from trying,' Love said, as the car sped down the same road they'd been driving on only seconds before.

Moments later, the two vehicles approached the crossroads. Heinrich turned left into Horton Street not bothering to wait for any traffic. Stuart screeched to a halt. He glanced left to observe a silver-grey Yaris making its way down the road. Stuart pulled out and pushed his horn. The road was two-way but was only slightly wider than Holland Street making it a tight squeeze for vehicles to pass one another.

The Yaris slammed on his brakes and pulled in behind a parked car. Stuart revved his way forward. The little car screaming as he pushed the clutch and gearstick into second.

The van had made good progress and was disappearing into the distance.

'What do they do - run that thing on Concorde fuel?'

Love chuckled. He was carefully watching the van's movements. He glanced up at the sky. Soon it would be fairly dark.

'We'll be all right if he stays within well lit areas.' Not long now and the van could easily disappear into the dark of the night. 'He's turning right,' Love shouted, and pointed ahead of him.

Stuart swerved and missed an oncoming Audi by mounting the pavement before clunking his way back on to the road. 'I could get used to this.' He chuckled and snapped on the indicator but turned the windscreen wipers on instead. 'Oh, bugger it!' He turned them off yanked the wheel hard right into Campden Grove narrowly missing a psychedelic-coloured Smart car parked on the corner.

He sped down the road, gripping the wheel, lips pursed in concentration. Moments later, they came to the end of Campden Grove as it met with Kensington Church Street.

'He's having a laugh,' Stuart said. He momentarily relaxed his grip as he looked about him. 'He's only gone and ended back at Melon Place.'

Love looked across the road and to his left. Sure enough there it was. The road where they'd set off from.

'What is he doing?' Love looked back to observe Heinrich nudging his way into the road. A plethora of car horns filled the air like an orchestra warming up.

'This is coming to an end right now,' Stuart said.

He touched the accelerator and the car spurted forward right into the path of a taxi who was equally determined to get to where he needed to go. The taxi slammed on his brakes and came to an abrupt halt. He was completely stationary apart from his hand repeatedly making rude gestures in between leaning down hard on the hooter.

Stuart continued to push his way forward until he was alongside Heinrich. Love looked out of his side window and straight into the younger man's face. Inches separated the two vehicles. He grabbed the sporty chrome handle that operated the window, his arm going round and round, up and down, until finally it was open.

'Pull over, Heinrich, pull over now,' he shouted.

Heinrich ignored him. He simply looked straight ahead.

'Pull over,' he shouted again.

Heinrich continued to drive with Stuart keeping up with him right by his side.

Suddenly, he slammed on the brakes turned a sharp left into Vicarage Gate and accelerated. Stuart hit the brake pedal and yanked the steering wheel in the same direction. On the left, a maroon-coloured Peugeot had parked momentarily in the horseshoe-shaped driveway of Winchester Court, an attractive block of art deco-style flats.

Heinrich thought the vehicle was pulling out and swerved sharply to avoid him. He lost control of his van narrowly missing a BMW Mini parked opposite. He skidded over to the other side to where a house on the corner of Vicarage Gate was undergoing some renovations. The van was going too fast, he was driving recklessly, he smashed head first into the skip parked on the road to the side of the property, bounced off, skidded round in a tight half circle and ended up facing in the opposite direction.

His car horn went off as his head fell forward and stayed there.

Chapter Thirty-One

16:35 hours

Stuart and Love pulled off to the side of the road and came to a stop in the other entrance to Winchester Court.

Love snapped off his seat belt, opened the door and was out of the car and round to the front of the Mini the same time as Stuart ended his call and was easing himself from his seat.

Suddenly, the horn stopped.

Love looked at Stuart, nodded, reached for his gun and pulled it from its holster. Stuart lifted his jumper and eased his gun out. The safety catches were flicked off. Together they approached the van.

An uneasy quiet settled around them.

The front of the vehicle was pretty much buckled. It was a mess. Stuart's eyes flickered towards the driver's seat. His gun held steady in front of him he ducked and sprinted to the rear of the vehicle. Love was already approaching from behind the van on the driver's side and slowly making his way to the front. The two men edged their way alongside the vehicle, arriving at the same time.

Stuart looked over the roof at Love who nodded.

'One, two, three,' Love whispered.

A moment later, both men with eyes trained on the driver's seat suddenly whipped round, guns pointing directly at Heinrich.

'Drop it,' Stuart said through the open window.

The windscreen and side windows were shattered. Glass littered the seat in front. Blood spattered the interior of the van. Stuart didn't take his eyes off the old German army pistol Heinrich held in his lap. Love nudged the driver's door with his foot and the remaining fragments of glass fell to the ground. He cocked his gun three feet from Heinrich's head.

'You heard the man,' he said. 'Drop it or I'll shoot.'

'Go ahead,' he said. 'You'll be doing me a favour.'

'Drop the weapon now,' Stuart said. 'You shot me once don't think you're getting another chance.'

Heinrich smiled. 'It's not you I want to shoot,' he said.

Love and Stuart momentarily exchanged glances. As he continued to stare at Heinrich, Love inclined his head to the left. Stuart got the message and began to edge his way to the back of the van. His gun trained on Heinrich's head the whole time. He had a clean shot. He would pull the trigger if he had to.

Heinrich laughed then winced. 'I think my legs are broken,' he said. 'Shouldn't you call for an ambulance or did you fine and efficient detectives do it already?'

'Drop the gun.' Love moved a fraction closer.

'Enjoy the chase?'

'Drop it.'

'I don't think so,' he said, and lifted his left arm.

Love squeezed, his gun fired, and it was over.

Stuart gazed down at Heinrich. 'We weren't about to let you take a third life even if it was your own.'

'I wanted to die in glory.'

Stuart shook his head and winced as a sharp pain shot down his entire arm. The ambulance's siren could already be heard in the distance along with a plethora of police vehicles racing to the scene.

Following Stuart's call, Dave and Paul pulled into Vicarage Gate two minutes later and were now standing either side of the van guarding Heinrich.

Not that he was going anywhere fast. Two broken legs and a fractured pelvis would make sure of that along with a sprained wrist sustained when Love shot the pistol from his hand.

Love gazed down at the old Luftwaffe pistol inside the plastic evidence bag and at the fresh nick on the tip of the barrel where his bullet had clipped it. He handed it to Dave, looked over at Stuart who was now leaning against the Mini, his legs crossed, holding his right arm.

Love walked over to him and smiled. 'All right, mate?'

Stuart nodded. 'Couldn't be better, partner.' He chuckled. 'I certainly got this little thing to go some, didn't I?'

Love laughed. They sure had. He glanced back at the van. Yeah, Heinrich sure had tried to lead them a merry dance but he'd failed.

When Love shot the gun out of Heinrich's hand Stuart had stepped forward flung open the door and retrieved the pistol. The bullet from Love's gun embedded in the side panel of the passenger door.

At the same time, Love yanked open Heinrich's door and despite Heinrich's protests had searched both the van and Heinrich. No other weapons were found. Love didn't expect them to find any if he was being honest. He'd gazed down at Heinrich, his gun still trained on him, and asked why he'd done it.

Heinrich had laughed and said nothing.

A moment later a cacophony of sirens announced the arrival of the ambulance and four police cars. They'd be needing more than that, Love figured. Crowds were already gathering to get a better look. He scanned the cars as the vehicles approached the crime scene. He found who he was looking for, murmured to Stuart he'd be right back, and ambled on over to have a word with the individual.

Stuart pushed himself away from the car as an Emergency Transport Attendant, an ETA, approached him.

'Looks like you need some attention yourself there,' the ETA said.

Stuart glanced down at his shoulder. 'It's just a scratch.'

'Well, let's just take a quick look anyway,' he said, and pulled open the loose threads on Stuart's jumper. He slipped a pair of scissors from his pocket and snipped at Stuart's baseball shirt underneath. As he peeled it away he apologised where the blood had already dried and the shirt was stuck fast to the wound.

'I'm more concerned about my jumper,' Stuart said, and chuckled. 'Ouch!'

'Sorry. Right, I'll just clean it up with some disinfectant.' He took a closer look. 'There we go.' He bent down to retrieve a small padded bandage from his kit. 'You're right, it's nothing too serious, no stitches needed but you'll be very sore for a few days.'

'Great.'

'Although as far as grazes go it is a nasty one,' he said as he stood up. 'The bullet sliced off a nice little top layer of flesh,' he said. 'You're lucky it just missed the bone.'

'Thanks,' Stuart said as he glanced at the snowy white mound on his shoulder. 'This'll put my Hugo Boss out of shape not to mention my cashmere.' He looked at the ETA, his hair flopping over his eye. 'Best leave it off for the next few days, what do you think?'

'I think that's best,' the ETA said, and grinned. 'Try and keep your arm as immobile as possible at least for the next few days.' He grabbed his kit and glanced behind him. 'Right then! I'd better go and help the others.'

As he began to make his way over, Stuart called out, 'Thanks again.'

He turned back, and said, 'Don't mention it.'

A few minutes later, Love ambled back over to where Stuart was once again leaning against the Mini. As he approached the car he turned briefly to watch the scene unfolding in front of them. He glanced at Stuart who was looking pale and shattered.

'Get in mate, I've briefed Wanjohi, we're done here.' He pulled open the driver's door and eased his frame into the seat. 'And this time I'm driving.'

Stuart walked round to the passenger's side and slid into the car. He glanced over at Love, and grinned. 'I was hoping you'd say that.'

On the way out of there they stopped at Melon Place. Love pulled off into the first parking space on the corner of Gloucester Walk before sprinting across the road. Three police cars, two unmarked, had arrived two minutes earlier and were already cordoning off the area, the FST preparing to hunt for the spent bullets.

Whilst Stuart waited in the car, huddled over the heater, Love pointed out the general areas in which they should first conduct their search, had a quick word with the officer in charge, wished them luck and sprinted back to his partner.

'Here you are, mate.' He handed Stuart Emma's scarf. Some thoughtful person had picked it up from the street and hung it on the wrought iron fence belonging to one of the residential properties situated there.

Stuart smiled as he gazed at the multi-coloured floral silk creation held in his hand. Slightly crumpled but would soon be put right. Just like him. 'Thanks, partner.'

Love turned to look at his friend. Shock was now setting in and Stuart was visibly shaking.

'Right, mate!' he said. 'I'm taking you straight home where I'm going to give you a very large brandy and a very sweet, strong cup of tea...'

'No, I'm all right, really.'

'Really? Stop talking and listen to me.' He fired up the car. Shoved the gear in first looked right over his shoulder and then in front, made a perfect U-turn paused to let a double-decker bus and three cars go by, and shot across the road into Vicarage Gardens.

Love's whole frame appeared to fill the space in the car. He figured he would feel like a sardine in a tin but surprisingly he had more room in which to manoeuvre and operate the pedals than he gave the car credit for, although, it was still a snug fit.

'I want to see Emma,' Stuart said.

'Okay, I can go and get her and pick her up, Shannon too if you like.' Love slowed the car and changed down a gear as he approached a parked lorry in front of him. He waited for the oncoming Mercedes to drive past, he pulled out overtook the lorry and continued down the pretty tree-lined road.

'No, I thought I'd join Emma at the hotel.'

'Yeah, good idea,' Love said. 'Let the hotel look after you.'

'Shannon is more than happy to be with her grandma,' he said. 'She loves staying with her.' He flexed his shoulder at the pain that was now throbbing like a beating drum. 'I thought we could pick her up tomorrow morning go home and have brunch together. But as for now, I'd just like to be on my own with my wife.'

Love nodded, and said quietly, 'Of course, mate, I can appreciate that. I hear you.' Goodness knows he would do the same. Stuart had been through a lot. He needed to recharge his batteries and reconnect himself. 'Don't bother coming into the office tomorrow I can handle it.'

Stuart smiled. 'We'll see.'

The car revved loudly as Love hit the accelerator and then the brakes, turned left sharply where the road led into Palace Gardens Terrace. Nothing was said as he bummed down the road, passing his Volvo on the right. He stopped to let the traffic go turned left at The Mall Tavern and five seconds after that was turning right into Rabbit Row. The little car zoomed down the road echoing briefly in between the tall buildings.

A moment later, Love pulled up outside Stuart's house. The garage doors open just as they'd left them. Love hesitated, then said, 'I'm not even going to try it, mate!'

'What's that?'

'Reversing this in.'

'Not even a Mini?'

'Yeah,' Love said, and grinned. 'And your point?'

Stuart chuckled quietly. 'Just drive in nose first that'll be fine.'

'That,' Love said. 'I can do no problem.' He swung the car out to the left turned right and drove straight into the narrow garage. He shoved the gear into neutral, pulled on the little handbrake, turned the key in its ignition. A pulsating silence settled around them. He eased himself from the car. 'Hang on, mate, I'll give you a hand.'

'No, I'm all right.' Stuart had managed to open the door and get out by himself.

Together they shuffled along past the car and to the front of the garage. Love looked over to the other side of the road. Opposite was a small courtyard belonging to a block of flats and offices. He glanced at Stuart who was holding his hand out for the keys.

'You can reverse out in a straight line and on to the courtyard,' Stuart said. 'Should give you plenty of room to botch it up!'

'Wanker!' Love said, and grinned. 'No, I'll do it.' He held the small bunch of keys in his hand. 'Which one is it?'

'That one,' Stuart said, pointing to a Yale key.

Love slipped the key in the lock, opened the door, they let themselves in, closed the door and walked upstairs.

Chapter Thirty-Two

'It seems like hours.'

'What does?'

'Cheers, partner.' Stuart gratefully took the balloon-shaped glass of brandy. He put the glass to his mouth, took a large sip. The smooth dark amber-coloured liquid trickled down his throat spreading a quality fire into every fibre of his body. He leant his head back on the sofa. Exhausted. Spent. 'Since we were last here. It seems like hours.'

Love glanced at his Timex. 'It's only been about fifty-five minutes,' he said. He stood in front of Stuart. His legs slightly apart. Like he was still full of energy, action and ready to jump into whatever situation would come next. 'Right!' He clapped his hands and rubbed them together. 'Whilst you're enjoying that Hennessy point me in the direction of your painkillers.'

Stuart nodded towards the kitchen. 'In there first cupboard on the left. Top shelf.'

'Okay, I'll be back in a couple of minutes.' He strode off towards the kitchen crossing the yellow rug. 'Don't go anywhere,' he tossed back over his shoulder.

Stuart smiled. 'As if.'

Love filled the kettle, lit the gas, placed it on top of the blue flame, grabbed their two mugs from earlier, rinsed them under the hot tap, opened a cupboard and closed it again. Wrong one. Opened the cupboard next to it, retrieved a new box of teabags, opened the box, took out two teabags dropped one in each mug and waited.

He thought of Jill Pfeiffer. He wondered if he should go round there but it wasn't his place. Besides, she'd be on her way to the hospital by now. He glanced again at his watch. It was coming up to twenty past five. Heinrich could already be in theatre. He needed to talk to the young man. He had to know how he'd done it and why.

And Stuart needed to know. Especially Stuart. It looked like Emma had been targeted as number three after all. That was a potentially dangerous game they'd played, dangerous but controlled. Emma had been in no real personal danger, she'd been safe.

Stuart wouldn't have engineered it otherwise.

But sometimes, just sometimes, they had to take that extra step. It was part of the job. If you can't stand the heat - get out of the kitchen? Isn't that what they say? If they weren't prepared to go that extra mile then it was time to get out. Emma knew the risks when she'd married Stuart.

She was intelligent, she knew how it worked. Her father had been high up in the police force. It ran in the family.

She was used to it.

Still, Love sure was glad it was all over. All it needed now was to dot the things and cross the others, however that saying went. The kettle started to whistle sounding like a little bird shrilling hence its fledgling whistle top. The steam started to collect under the ceiling making hot, damp little clouds. Love leant over, turned off the gas, grabbed the kettle and poured water into the two mugs. He turned to the other side of the kitchen opened the cupboard and retrieved a box of Disprin from the top shelf, next to which he spied a small glass bottle containing mandarin, green organic oil. He grabbed it, closed the cupboard.

He dunked the tea bags, squeezed them hard against the side of the spoon, added the sugar and stevia, a drop of rice milk in the blue mug, regular organic lactose-free in the yellow, grabbed the red-coloured Unikko matching tray and walked back into the lounge.

Stuart had moved from the couch. He was standing in front of the door that led to the terrace outside. He was staring through the glass. He turned when Love walked back into the room. Love glanced over at him as he placed the tray down on the coffee table.

'All right, mate?'

'Yeah,' Stuart said. 'Feeling a lot better, thanks, just a bit sore.'

Love picked up the little bottle he'd taken from the kitchen cupboard. 'What's this for?'

Stuart glanced over and squinted. 'Oh, that! Yes, very good stuff, we get it from Scotland,' he explained. 'It's a natural aid for digestion, calms the intestines, and nerves too especially from shock or grief.' He held out his hand. 'I should take a drop now.'

Love handed him the bottle. 'Does it work?'

'Certainly,' he said. 'One time I had the most awful diarrhoea, I mean, you could have ploughed half of Hertfordshire with what I was producing,' he said, and chuckled. 'Who needs cows.'

Love stared at Stuart with a wry expression on his face. 'Really?'

'Love, you should have been there.'

'No, I don't think so, and mate, too much information.'

Stuart grinned. 'Anyway, yeah, this stuff from... who is it?' He paused as he read the label. 'Aromantic, it helped, it did.'

Love picked up the blue mug, took a couple of steps towards Stuart and placed it on an occasional table to the side of him. His face had lost its deathly white pallor and some colour had crept back into his cheeks. Probably courtesy of the brandy, Love grinned to himself, but if it did the job.

'Here,' he said, handing him the Disprins. 'These should help too.'

Stuart smiled as he took the box, opened it, and extracted a sheet of silver foil. He tore it open. According to the instructions you were supposed to push the tablet through the foil and out the other side. Not that it ever worked, at least where Stuart was concerned. Sticking to his tried and trusted method he extracted two tablets, put one in his mouth, blew on his tea, took a swig, shook his head as the liquid carried the tablet down his throat.

Love grabbed his tea from the tray and sat down on one of the armchairs. He took a sip. It hit the spot.

'You want any help packing an overnight bag?'

Stuart shook his head. 'Not bothering to take anything,' he said.

'Not even a toothbrush?' Love smiled.

'Maybe just a toothbrush,' Stuart said, and grinned. He took the second tablet and another swig of tea. 'I'll be like Jack Reacher,' he quipped.

'Really!' Love said, and laughed. 'Sure, mate, you could pass for twins.'

'I'll get anything I need from the hotel shop or get something sent in.' Stuart strolled over to the couch and sat down. 'But right now all I need is Emma.'

'Right!' Love drained his mug, got up, held his free hand towards Stuart. 'Finished?' Stuart lifted the mug to his mouth and emptied it. 'Thanks, Love, that was good.'

'Welcome, mate.' He took the mug and placed them both on the tray. He walked back to the kitchen, turned on the hot tap, squirted some grapefruit & green tea Ecover washing-up liquid on to a sponge, washed the two mugs set them upside down on the draining board, washed the spoon, dried his hands, walked back to the lounge.

'Grab your toothbrush and let's go.'

Ten minutes later, the two men were ready to leave. Stuart was carrying a small black leather toilet bag inside of which was literally just his toothbrush until at the last minute he grabbed the box of Disprin from the coffee table and chucked it inside.

Love had to help him out of his jumper and baseball shirt and into a soft white cotton T-shirt of which he had half a dozen to use as nightwear bought for half price at £19.95 from Charles Tyrwhitt.

On top of that he chose something easy to wear something he could manage by himself, which he did. A pure lambswool zipped cardigan in charcoal marl from La Redoute with a high collar and ribbed-edging.

The two men walked back downstairs, Love grabbed his tie from the back of the sofa from earlier, shrugged into his Donegal, rolled up the tie put it in his pocket and they were ready to leave.

Love locked the front door behind them, kept hold of the keys. The cold slapped them in the face. Stuart staggered a little and grinned. 'Feel good, Love.'

'I bet you do, mate, nothing to do with the brandy of course.'

'Of course,' he said.

Love grinned in return, walked into the garage, and slipped inside the car just as Stuart eased himself down on to his seat. The two doors shut with a bang echoing somewhat in the small confines of the garage. Love put the key in the ignition, fired her up, flicked on the lights, pushed the gear into reverse, let the handbrake off and drove out of the garage in a perfect straight line. He pushed the gear into first turned right and they were off.

Maybe there is something to driving a small car after all, he determined, and said, 'Which hotel, mate?'

'The Savoy, please, James,' Stuart replied, pointing straight ahead with his good arm.

Love drove to the end of the road, indicated right and right again into Kensington Church Street. The traffic lights were green and he turned right into Notting Hill Gate. 'Is this the right way?'

Stuart who had been resting his eyes sat upright took a look round him, and said, 'No, turn right here into Kensington Palace Gardens.'

'Where we just came out of?'

'That's about it,' he said, and laughed. 'It would appear it's the day for going round in circles.'

Love checked over his shoulder, got in lane, indicated right, waited behind a green TR7, the road became clear, he went, Love went.

'Okay, mate, now where?'

'Go with the road and then bear left back into Kensington Church Street, keep going, until we hit Kensington High Street and I'll tell you from there.'

Twenty-two minutes later, following a couple of slight detours due to Stuart nodding off and Love taking a wrong turn in Piccadilly, Love zoomed into the forecourt of the Savoy and pulled up outside the main entrance.

He turned to face Stuart. 'I'll take the car back if I can find my way, pick up my Volvo, come back here and drop the keys off.'

Stuart smiled. 'Love, you are a number one bloke.'

Love grinned. 'Is that good?'

'Yeah, mate, it's not bad.' Stuart opened the door, leather toilet bag in hand, walked up to the revolving doors, was met by a porter, thanked him and waved him away. I mean, all he had was a toilet bag and that he could manage even with an iffy arm. He turned round, and called out, 'I'll see you tomorrow round lunchtime.'

'Go to Emma and have a good night,' Love replied. He shoved the gear into first, hit the accelerator, and was gone.

Considering the Mini had been driven like the clappers, it had been revved, pushed and something approaching abuse all within an inch of its life, it looked remarkably in good shape.

Not a scratch on it.

Although the engine and gears might want an overhaul after today, Love determined, good car, it had done well.

He closed the garage doors, locked them, and walked to his own vehicle parked just round the corner. He pointed his key, the car beeped, the Volvo clunked its familiar sound. He pulled open the door and got in.

Lots of room, Love remembered that.

He fired her up, pushed the gear into first, everything familiar and where it should be ready to drive back to the Savoy to drop off Stuart's keys. Familiar maybe and extremely thankful for it, yet, he mused, not quite so exciting.

But he could live with that.

Chapter Thirty-Three

What seemed like fifty hours later, Love finally pulled into Gaisford Street.

His mind was already beginning to work overtime.

All the questions he wanted to ask Heinrich the following day were flicking through his mind like a... just like a... he shook his head. He couldn't think of a suitable simile not that he was bothered.

He had more important things on his mind to care about.

He swung over to a free space on the opposite side to his flat. He got out of the car, he looked down, pointed the key, the car bleeped and clunked. He glanced up. A couple further down the road on the corner had caught his attention. They were chatting together, laughing, crossing the road possibly to go into the Lion & Unicorn. Friendly sort. The pub and the couple. Love knew the young man and woman on nodding and brief exchange terms.

He looked up at his flat. A breeze rustled in the trees. The sound of traffic filtered through to where he was standing. He glanced at his Timex. The luminescent hands read 18:53 hours. Julie would need taking out. And he needed a strong drink, the company of a good woman and a cigarette.

Isn't this where he came in?

He'd settle for a strong cup of tea, the company of a good dog and as for the cigarette? That was the one thing he could accommodate.

He crossed the road and walked down the path, opened the main door, flicked the light switch and proceeded up the stairs. The bulb's soft glow gave the hallway and staircase an old romantic glow. Ghosts of the past. Shabbily chic but gentile. It was quiet. The only sound was Love taking the stairs two at a time. He reached his landing and walked across the beautiful old Victorian tiles. He approached his door, key in his hand.

And that's when he sensed it.

Something was wrong.

He acknowledged an unknown energy and his gut wrenched. This wasn't how he'd left his apartment earlier that afternoon. Something was different. He felt it with every fibre of his being.

Slowly, he pushed his hand inside his jacket, pulled out his gun, flicked the safety catch, put the key in the lock and turned it, pushed the door open. He waited and listened. He slipped inside keeping his back against the wall as he edged towards the archway into the living area.

He heard a muffled noise. His hand reached round the corner he flicked the light switch on the wall ducked down and rolled into the room ending up with his back against the sofa. He swung round, gun pointing in front of him. He cleared the room and the kitchen beyond.

He rose to his feet, edged along until he came to the door of the bathroom nudged it open gun at the ready, cleared it, which left only his bedroom.

He pushed the door open with his foot, flicked the light switch, rolled into the room, quick as a flash he dropped to his knees pointing his gun into the face of a dog looking very satisfied with herself.

There in front of him was Julie. And she wasn't alone. Love looked on in astonishment. He couldn't believe his eyes. Wriggling and pushing with their paws to get to the milk bar were three tiny tan and black puppies.

He stood up, flicked the safety catch, walked over to the wardrobe and stowed his gun. He shrugged off his holster, chucked it on the chair and walked back to Julie.

'You, madam, are one amazing dog.'

He grinned as he gazed down at the fat bundles, squeaking and making that endearing noise only puppies seem able to do. He sat down carefully on the edge of his bed. 'Is this your way of giving me an early Christmas present?' he said. 'Giving birth on my bed?'

He laughed as he stroked her soft head. She moved her paw in Love's direction. He picked it up and held it in his hand. 'Aren't you a clever girl?' He glanced at the blood and afterbirth covering his brown faux fur throw. He was philosophical about it. He guessed Julie had got herself a new bedcover along with three new puppies.

'Just don't expect me to use your pink duvet thing in return,' he said, and smiled. 'It's not my colour.'

Love stroked her head and watched as the three figures pushed with their paws against Julie's tummy like they were kneading bread.

He could already tell they had their mother's distinctive good looks and markings in the shape of her face and tan-coloured coat. And he couldn't help but laugh out loud at the telltale black markings, snub noses, and indications of what would eventually be large feet such as those belonging to a Rottweiler.

Good old Jake, now there's a surprise.

Well, he guessed he'd put a call through to Esther and if not this evening time enough tomorrow or even Monday.

He took another peep at the puppies lying on his bed. Julie had produced two bitches and a dog which left him with one dilemma.

Which one did he get to keep, if any?

He figured the sensible thing to do would be to keep a close eye on the situation and check out if any of them seemed to favour either him or Julie or if Julie herself showed a preference, although, as he stroked the soft silky back of one of the bitches he reckoned he'd already made up his mind.

'Come on, Julie,' he said.

At the sound of her name, Julie lifted her handsome head from her prostrate position on the bed.

'I know you don't want to leave your puppies but you have to go outside and do your business.'

She flopped her head back down on the bed with a sigh.

'Come on, girl,' Love said. 'We'll be quick.'

She didn't move. Loyal mother to the end. Love smiled as he leant over and gently pulled a puppy away from its milk bar. It gave a loud squeal of protest causing Julie to whip her head round in alarm.

'It's all right, girl, no need to panic.' The puppy started to whimper, Julie whimpered in return, and Love simply groaned.

He placed the little creature to one side where it began to scramble blindly wriggling away with its legs outstretched like it was swimming underwater. Gently he pulled the next one, hugged it close to his body, grabbed "Mark Spitz" and strode into the lounge where with infinite care he placed them both down on Julie's princess bed cover.

He ran back to collect the third puppy only to find Julie standing on his bed sniffing the air and looking most concerned. He grabbed the protesting creature, told Julie to get down which she did, pulled the throw from his bed, ran back into the lounge, faux fur throw under one arm puppy under the other and promptly deposited the dog on the head of Cinderella.

He then strode into the bathroom where he removed the afterbirth, mopped up the small amount of blood, folded the throw in half so the clean side was face up and hurried back into the lounge to where Julie was about to settle down on her bed.

'Not so fast,' Love murmured as he whipped up all three puppies in his arms placed them on the floor where Julie began to lick them, arranged the throw on Julie's bed and deposited the puppies on top. They appeared to settle down once they smelt their familiar scent on the cover.

'Right,' he said to Julie. 'Now it's your turn.'

Love walked into the hall grabbed Julie's lead from where it was hanging by the front door, jingled it, which usually resulted in Julie running round the corner on two legs eagerly awaiting her walk. Nothing happened. Love popped his head round the corner to see Julie looking back at him.

Love nodded, walked over to her, picked her up, walked to the front door and opened it, placed her down on the landing outside, attached her lead, picked her up again and walked with her in his arms down the stairs and outside.

'Now,' he said. 'We walk, we'll make it a quick one to the corner, do our business, and the sooner we do that the quicker we can get back to the puppies.' He grinned down at her and ruffled her ear. 'All right, sweetheart?'

Julie appeared to understand when a moment later she positively ran down the road where Gaisford met with Hammond, on the corner of which a convenient tree with a surrounding dirt area sufficed for Julie to do what she had to do. Love took Julie there on the odd occasion when she needed to stretch her legs but time was short. Love cleared it up and a minute later they were walking back up the stairs and into the flat. Love bent down to let Julie off the lead. She almost catapulted to the other side of the room to where her puppies were waiting.

Moments later, she snuggled down. She was happy, the puppies were happy, and Love was exhausted. He figured chasing criminals was far less tiring than looking after newborn puppies and their assertive mother.

Love spooned some meat into Julie's bowl gave her some fresh water and looked about him.

She'd get round to eating something later, he reckoned, and if not, to tempt her he'd cook that fresh meat he'd bought earlier.

He ran his hands through his dark blond hair and sighed. He could do with a shower. He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. It read 19:32 hours. He walked back into his bedroom. In one swift movement he knelt down, his hands reaching for the laces of his chukka boots, a great pair of shoes, Anatomic & Co from Arthur Knight, costing £114.95. A pair of stylish and fashionable shoes that would last for years. Super quality and elegant footwear with a flexible rubber gel insert and antibacterial sheepskin lining - all handcrafted by experts.

They could have been made with Love, or Stuart, in mind.

Perfect for the man doing a lot of walking, tracking, chasing criminals, chasing puppies, on his feet a lot, but didn't like to compromise on style or quality.

He whipped off his black socks, one hundred per cent cotton. He undid the tiny black cufflink-like buttons, lifted his arms and leant over, his muscles rippling as he pulled off his M&S pure cotton shirt with double cuff and threw it in the wicker wash basket tucked away in the corner of his room.

His hands moved down to his waist where he undid the button, pulled down the zip, and slid out of his black cotton twill skinny fit chino trousers. Quality, sexy, Burberry at £150.00. He folded them and laid them on the back of the chair.

Standing only in his underpants he walked to the window, reached up and closed the wooden venetian blind. He turned round placed his hands on his hips gripped the waistband tightly in his fingers and peeled off his snug-fitting black Doreanse boxer briefs in a cotton modal-mix, smooth, stretchy and soft, plush double layered pouch, velvety interior seams, an elasticated waistband with Doreanse in oversize written in grey. He eased them down over his crotch, his muscular thighs, knees and finally his ankles. Picked them up and threw them in the basket with one swift movement. He strolled naked over to the other side of the room, shrugged into a dark blue towelling bathrobe hanging on the back of his door, slipped on a pair of Muppet slippers complete with a picture of Animal with the caption above his wild-looking face saying "100% ANIMAL".

Last year's Christmas present from Fitch. In return, Love had given him a copy of The Decameron by Giovanni Boccaccio.

He padded silently into the lounge and through into the kitchen. Flicked the switch for the kettle, reached in his pocket pulled out a pack of cigarettes, put one in his mouth, grabbed a box of matches from the other pocket, struck the match, the flame fired and he held it to his face, the glow from the fire echoing and dancing in his dark blue eyes, inhaled deeply, shook the match.

As Love waited for the kettle to boil he leant against the worktop smoking his cigarette. Thinking, contemplating. He took another drag. He pulled the smoke deep into his lungs held it there letting it escape in wisps and swirls from his nose. He opened his mouth, exhaled the rest and at that moment, his telephone rang. Love strode into the lounge and over to his desk.

'Dick Love.'

'Love,' said a well spoken voice.

'Yes, sir,' Love said. He leant forward, placed his cigarette in the blue pottery ashtray in front of him. 'I take it you've heard?'

'I have indeed,' Sir George replied. 'Good work, Love.'

'Thank you, sir, but it was a team effort.'

'I appreciate that,' he said. 'I tried ringing Le Fanu but there was no answer from either his home phone or mobile.'

'No, I imagine there wouldn't be,' Love said. He explained what had occurred and that hopefully Stuart was now being well taken care of courtesy of the Savoy.

'I see,' Sir Charles said. 'I don't expect to see him tomorrow would you pass that on.'

'I'd be happy to but I doubt he'll take any notice.' Love smiled. 'I did call you right after the event but your wife said you were out at Sunninghill,' he paused, 'get a good round in, sir?'

'One of the best,' he said. 'Good day had by all, I'd say.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Keep me posted, Love.'

'No problem, sir, thank you for calling.'

The line went dead as Love still held the receiver. He smiled as he replaced it on the chalk white base, picked up his cigarette, walked back into the kitchen and made himself a strong cup of coffee.

He was celebrating.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Day Seven

Sunday, 4 November 2012

07:15 hours

Love slept soundly that night.

For five hours straight. He didn't even dream, although, Love knew that wasn't factually correct. Everyone dreams but not everyone remembers them on waking.

He threw back the duvet and sat momentarily on the edge of the bed before standing up, shoved his feet into his Muppet slippers and shuffled over to the door where he grabbed his bathrobe and strolled through into the lounge. He flicked the light switch and a soft glow spread over the room. Not even a glimmer of a certain curly-haired doctor had drifted into his subconsciousness to play havoc with his emotions and for that he wasn't sure if he was relieved or not.

He walked straight over to Julie's bed. The puppies were feeding, noisily sucking like it was their last meal, funny little sounds emerging from their bodies as they pushed, wriggled and waggled against Julie's warm body. The boxer greeted Love as he approached. He knelt down and stroked her ear.

'Hello, old girl,' he said. 'Looks like you're tied up for the minute.' He smiled at her as she gazed up at him with her dark brown eyes before turning her attention back to her brood. 'When you're finished here it'll be your turn.'

Love straightened up and looked out the window. At quarter past seven in the morning the world was already waking up outside. The birds could be heard chirping away in amongst the sounds of cars coughing reluctantly into life - at least the older ones with their plumes of exhaust smoke belching from their backsides indicating it was a chilly start to the day.

Love turned from the window and walked into the kitchen. He flicked the lights then the switch on the kettle and glanced down at Julie's bowl. It was empty. Finally. Love was glad and relieved to see that. When he'd gone to bed earlier that morning Julie hadn't touched her meal. He scooped up her two bowls put them in the stainless steel sink, squirted some Ecozone washing-up liquid into them, turned on the hot water tap. He grabbed her sponge from under the sink and gave them a good clean. He took her spoon from its container by the cupboard, opened the fridge, removed a can of lamb chunks in gravy and spooned some into her bowl.

Not too much, little and often was the way to go. Love totally understood that right now Julie had to be tempted to eat and this was the best way to go. And he reckoned he'd better pass that on to Mrs Burton as he filled Julie's water bowl with fresh water before placing it next to her food bowl.

He'd rung his neighbour the night before. He deliberated when he'd seen the time. He apologised for the lateness of the hour to which she assured him it was no problem at all. Mrs Burton was ecstatic to hear the good news and immediately came rushing down to meet the puppies. One minute later, Love opened the door to his neighbour dressed in brushed cotton pyjamas, cashmere dressing gown, and a pair of fluffy slippers on her feet and standing somewhat bashfully on his doorstep.

She stayed for half an hour declaring she'd never seen such beautiful puppies. The woman was biased. She adored Julie, but Love could appreciate that. Where Julie was concerned, he was biased himself.

Love got to work by 08:45 hours.

His morning had been spent performing the same procedure as the night before at least where Julie was concerned.

Having to pick her up in his arms, physically pulling her away from her puppies, down the stairs and outside and back again in double time. He hadn't had a cigarette. Although he was cutting down, smoking less than half when he did light up. He'd had a coffee, had performed his press-ups, got washed and dressed, dropped in on Mrs Burton who couldn't wait to undertake her neighbourly duties, got in the car and driven to work.

The building was fairly busy with operatives from MI6 and DSBD going about their business. It was about right for a Sunday morning. Love nodded and waved to Geoff who was on duty flashed his ID and ambled over to the lift. He pressed the button. The first thing he would do, no, make that the second, he determined, the first thing would be to light a cigarette, the second thing would be to make a cup of tea and the third would be to contact the hospital.

He had a vested interest in a certain patient.

He wondered what kind of night he'd had and if he was in much pain from the previous day's operation on his pelvis and legs. Probably not, Love reckoned, he'd be doped up to his eyeballs, somewhat unfortunately.

The lift came to a gentle stop, it pinged, the doors slid silently open and Love stepped out. He walked along, his shoes making no sounds on the dark beige coconut matting that lined the hall, arrived at his door, touched the keys on the pad, the door buzzed, clicked, it opened, he went inside.

A few minutes later, he grabbed his tea, strong and sweet, walked over to his desk and sat down. He took a mouthful of his drink, replaced the mug on a notepad, half turned in his chair, reached into his pocket and pulled out his cigarettes. He flicked one into his mouth straight from the pack. Instead of reaching into his other pocket for his brass lighter he opened his drawer extracted a bright blue plastic disposable lighter, flicked it once, held it in front of the tip and inhaled, deeply. He placed the cigarette in the glass ashtray, grabbed the receiver from his phone, flicked open a file, checked the number and dialled.

A moment later, he was speaking to the doctor who'd operated on Heinrich. Love was told that Heinrich was doing well, still under sedation but would be able to answer questions by early afternoon. Love thanked him, disconnected the call, picked up his cigarette, took a long drag. He stubbed it out, took a swig of his tea, turned a couple of pages in the file found what he was looking for, leant forward, unconscious to the fact how it made his shirt outline perfectly his muscular torso, and dialled.

It was answered after four rings.

'Hello.'

'Mrs Pfeiffer, Jill, it's DCA Love here.'

'Mr Love, yes, hello, I recognise your voice.'

'I just called to see how... to see how you are, how you're coping.'

There was a moment before she spoke. 'I'm in shock.'

'That,' he said, 'I can understand and appreciate, ma'am.'

'I seem to be running on adrenalin right now,' she said, and laughed, quietly. 'If I smoked, I would be doing so.'

Love heard that. 'I'm sorry, Jill.'

'Nothing to be sorry about, Mr Love,' she said. 'You were only doing your job, you got a very sick person off the street, and that's what's important,' she paused momentarily, 'unfortunately, that person happens to be my son.'

'How's Mr Pfeiffer?'

'Not saying much,' she said. 'I think he'll probably wash his hands of the whole affair.'

'And you, what are you going to do?'

'My plans I spoke of are still going to go ahead,' she said, referring to her proposed separation. 'More so than ever now.'

'And Heinrich?'

'It's too soon to assess his mental state but the doctor treating him intimated he could end up at Broadmoor,' she said. 'Do you know the place?'

'Yes, I know the place,' Love said, familiar with the high-security psychiatric hospital based in Crowthorne, Berkshire. He thought for a moment over what she'd said. 'What's the name of the doctor in charge of Heinrich's assessment?'

'Doctor Julie Cooper.' He already knew the answer before it came. 'She seems very nice, competent.'

'Yes,' Love said, and smiled. 'We've met.'

'It's in their hands now they are the experts, not I. I'll be there for him, Mr Love, but in the background, not actively.'

Love recalled the hostility and rejection Jill had said Heinrich had shown towards her. 'I understand completely,' he said. 'I'll be dropping by later to interview him.'

'Yes, of course,' she said, and smiled. 'Thank you for ringing.'

'Goodbye, Jill, take care of yourself.'

'I will, Mr Love,' she said quietly but firmly. 'I am.'

Love reached forward, replaced the receiver and ended the call. Well, that was one tough cookie, he thought. And just as well, she was going to need all her strength to get through this.

He picked up his mug, put it to his mouth, emptied the contents, replaced it on the desk. He closed the file, pulled another out from underneath the pile and made two more telephone calls. The first had been to Ashley Dixon. She was fine, all things considered, doing her best by Timmy, who, although his memory was still impaired would be going home later that day. She was quietly pleased to hear that the assailant had been caught although she didn't say too much about it.

And Love could understand that.

The second telephone call had been to Derek Butterfield. He sounded resigned on hearing the news and he sounded less angry, less guilty than he had a week ago. He and Linda Moody were going to come clean about their relationship. She was going to leave her husband and move in with Derek and his two sons. Love wished the man luck with that, and also in finding a new job.

He leant back in his old leather chair. It creaked slightly. He stared over at the window and the view beyond. The sky had turned grey. It looked like it wanted to rain but it could just as easily snow. He wondered how Julie and the puppies were doing. He'd been concerned about Mrs Burton having to carry the boxer in case the dog continued to refuse to budge when it came to taking her outside but Mrs Burton assured Love it would be no problem. She explained to Love how she and her husband could easily manage between them.

Julie really could do no wrong in her eyes. It would be no guess as to where one of the puppies would probably be going.

Love smiled. Not too far away.

Chapter Thirty-Five

He glanced at the Timex on his wrist.

It read 09:15 hours.

He grabbed his cigarettes and lighter and got up from his desk. A moment later he was tapping on the office door belonging to Chris Evans and Michael Kozlowski.

Equally large, contemporary, and just as airy as his and Stuart's.

Chris looked up from where she was kneeling on the floor packing up the hospital surveillance tapes. She grinned, walked over to the door and let Love in.

Love nodded to Michael then glanced back at the box of tapes. 'Packing it all up?'

'No, I'm praying for guidance.'

Love looked at her. 'Is that the famous British irony or just plain sarcasm?'

Michael Kozlowski spoke from where he was sitting at his desk. 'Be glad you don't have to listen to it all day like I do.' He ducked as Chris pretended to throw a tape in his direction.

Still smiling, Chris said, 'Well done to you and Stu.'

Love shook his head. 'It was a team effort, Chris.' He pulled out his pack of cigarettes and lighter from his trouser pocket. 'Do you mind?' He knew she was trying to quit.

'Not in the slightest,' she said.

Love looked at Michael who shook his head. 'Go ahead, Love, I'd join you but I just put one out myself.'

'So did I,' Love said, and smiled. 'But I'm only smoking half or less.' He bent his head, lit his cigarette, put the lighter back in his pocket, inhaled deeply, walked over to the open window and blew the smoke out. He glanced down at the telltale remains of ash on the window sill outside. He turned, and said, 'Thanks, guys, for all your help.'

'Just doing our job,' Michael said in that understated British way.

'That's all right,' Chris said. 'Glad he's been apprehended.'

'Yeah, well, couldn't do it without you or Fitch.'

'That's what we're all about,' Michael said. He tapped a file sitting on his desk, and said, 'Are you still interviewing Sven Stonehead on Tuesday or is that now academic?'

Love was in the middle of blowing a lungful of smoke out the window. He turned back sharply. 'Christ! I'd forgotten all about him.'

Michael chuckled. 'It's just that this investigation I'm conducting is turning up some very interesting facts.'

'Really? Such as?'

'Well, for one, tell me how a director of a private charity reliant on donated funds who is neither financially independent or has recently won the lottery and is on a fair but modest wage can afford a brand-new Jaguar.'

Love raised his eyebrow. 'Offhand, I can't.'

'And that's not all,' Michael said. 'Our friend, who incidentally was born in Stockholm to an English father and Swedish mother...'

'Explains the name,' Chris said, glanced up and smiled from where she was still kneeling on the floor.

'It would appear that he's not alone in all this.'

'Outside assistance or internal?'

'Both.' Michael stood up and walked over to join Love. 'It would appear the charity is always being taken to court for one thing or another and they actually have a law firm commissioned on a full-time basis.' He shook his head. 'That is not normal.'

'And?'

'The director and boss of this law outfit is also a long-term friend of Stonehead's, I mean, they are really chummy.' He looked forward and stared out the window. 'And he drives a brand-new Audi.'

'Well,' Love said, thinking of Stuart's theory and grinned. So much for a Ford Ka and a Jaguar to boot! 'That is interesting.'

'Yep, I've been doing a little digging with the help of certain individuals whom shall remain nameless,' he said, and smiled. That's for certain. Michael brought with him a wealth of experience and a network of valuable contacts. 'And it would appear the fraud squad has shown some interest.'

Love thought back to his earlier conversation with Stonehead. 'The man rubbed me up the wrong way.'

'I know the type you mean,' Michael said. 'Creepy.' He shuddered. 'Not to mention rude.'

'That's about it.'

'Funny how things turn out,' he said, gazing into the distance.

'Well,' Love said, took one last drag, walked over to Michael's desk where he stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. 'Good luck to you with that although I'm not sorry I no longer have to bother with him.'

Michael turned from the window, and smiled. 'No doubt they'll wriggle their way out of it like they do everything else but not before they've had the wind blown up them.'

'Good! Blow hard,' he said, and grinned.

'There,' Chris said. She stood up, brushing her knees. 'All done. I'll drop them off this afternoon.'

Love thought about his upcoming interview with Heinrich. 'I'll take them.'

'Are you sure, I mean it's no trouble.'

'Yeah, I have to go there anyway,' he said. 'It's no problem.'

'Well, thank you, kind sir,' Chris said, and smiled. She bent down, picked up the box, handed it to Love.

'See you later,' Love said.

Michael nodded and smiled. Chris walked Love over to the door. She pulled it open, paused. 'See you later, handsome.'

'Don't even go there, sweetheart, I'll tell your accountant.'

Chris grinned. 'Spoilsport.'

Love smiled as he walked from the room and into the corridor, rounded the corner, and back to his office.

Love reached into his desk, he pulled out a small plastic evidence bag inside of which was James Sullivan's gold eagle head tiepin.

Love figured he'd return it to him after dropping off the tapes. He wondered if he'd bump into Julie Cooper. He figured there would be no avoiding it.

Would he want to? Avoid her? Not really. He liked the woman, damn it!

He half turned and placed the bag in his jacket hanging on the back of his chair. Following a moment's mental preparation in anticipation of what was coming next, he leant forward pressed the button on his computer and waited. Listening to it whirring into life, any second now he'd see that... yes, there it was, scratching itself! Excellent improvement on that stupid paper clip, but, for the hundredth time, Love reckoned they could have at least made it a dog. Love's little foible out the way, he reached forward to the keyboard and began to type out the report.

He and Stuart had been making notes as they went along so it was just left to Love to fill in yesterday's pursuit and eventual arrest and tie up any loose ends. Two hours and fifteen minutes later, Love shoved his chair back. It rolled silently on the carpet. He pushed one hand through his feathered fringe causing it to flatten on to his head before springing forward again a moment later, strolled over to the window and looked out. He raised both hands and leant them against the steel frame. He was spent. Exhausted but satisfied. It had been an interesting week. But it was all in a day's work. He couldn't imagine doing anything else. He wasn't interested in doing anything else. His talents lay here and he'd keep going until they retired him or he got killed.

Whichever option came first.

He wondered how Stuart was doing. He reckoned he'd be seeing his partner just before twelve o'clock. No amount of castigating from Love or anyone else would convince the man to stay away.

Stuart was just as dedicated to the job as Love.

* * *

Love continued to stand and stare out the window, hands shoved casually in his chino pockets.

Tiny flakes of snow gently touched the glass in front of him melting almost immediately, leaving snaking little rivers in their wake.

Traffic on the bridge appeared to be congested due to a car breaking down. From where Love was standing he could see the flashing lights of the roadside car recovery service. And the familiar lights from the local police.

He was glad enough to be indoors at least for the moment. He checked the time. His stomach was intimating that finding his way to the canteen should be next on his list.

He turned from the window.

Nine and a half minutes later, Love was strolling into the familiar sights, sounds and smells of the MI6 canteen. He glanced with some surprise at the stained pine panels on the wall on which the staff had strung strands of silver tinsel and a bunch of Christmas baubles hung at varying lengths. The wall looked like a sheet of music covered in musical notes.

Love reckoned they were a little early but decided better early than not at all. And in one corner stood a large Christmas tree complete with decorations and presents underneath, all fake of course, he figured, and if not, someone was in for a jolly time.

The radio was playing in the background the atmosphere was congenial and as tempting as the pork chops, roast potatoes and stuffing was, Love decided against a hot meal in favour of a ready-made sandwich.

He stood for a moment deciding on roast beef and wholegrain mustard or chicken and salad. In the end he picked up both kinds grabbed a bottle of water then put it back. He'd just as soon have a hot cup of tea in his office. He got in line, paid for his lunch and left. He stepped into the lift, was transported upstairs, stepped out, greeted a woman from accounts. Nice legs. Those were her thoughts on the subject. Tapped his keypad pushed the door open and strolled into his office.

Five minutes later, just as he was finishing his roast beef on brown bread, the door buzzed, clicked, opened and in walked Stuart.

Chapter Thirty-Six

11:57 hours

Love looked at his partner standing in the doorway. He was grinning and looking a lot better than when Love had seen him the day before.

Love picked up his paper serviette, wiped his mouth, pushed his chair back, stood up, and said, 'Kettle's just boiled, mate, can I make you a cup of tea?'

'Yes, thanks, that would hit the spot, Love, it's freezing out there.'

Stuart walked over to the large radiator sitting underneath one of the windows and leant up against it. A moment later, he peeled off his black leather gloves reached up with his left arm and proceeded to unwind a long, red and grey hand knitted scarf from about his neck. 'It's starting to snow although it's more like sleet.'

'I know.' Love glanced over from where he was pouring water into a mug. 'How's the arm?'

Stuart winced as he got the last of the scarf off. He held it loosely in his hand and the scarf dangled all the way down to the ground. 'Much better, bit sore,' he said. 'Had a good night though, I slept forever.' He smiled. 'And it was good to be with Emma.'

'Did a PC pick you up?'

'Yeah, picked us both up from the hotel,' he said. 'Then we went on to collect Shannon who was sorry to leave as she and her grandmother had made plans to go on a nature hunt.' He flicked the hair out of his eye and grinned. 'We told her she could do it next time she visits, nature wasn't going anywhere,' he paused, 'at least not in the next two weeks. Then we had brunch together at home and here I am.'

'Ready and raring to go,' Love said. He walked over and balanced Stuart's tea on top of the radiator.

'Cheers, partner,' Stuart said. 'Yeah, something like that.'

'Well, let's have our drink and then I reckon we can make tracks.'

Stuart carefully picked up the mug with his good arm, took a sip. 'Absolutely, priorities.'

Love smiled. 'I was told I couldn't talk to Heinrich until the afternoon.'

'Who's his attending physician?'

Love walked over to his desk and picked up his mug. He ran off the name of the doctor who'd operated on him.

'And who's in charge of his mental assessment?'

Love took a sip, looked at Stuart and raised his eyebrow. 'I'll give you one good guess.'

Stuart looked back at Love. He said nothing but inside he was grinning.

Forty-five minutes later, the two detectives were turning into the car park of St Katherine's.

Love reckoned he'd seen enough of this place to last him a lifetime but in his line of work that wasn't about to happen.

He parked the car, climbed out, opened the back door, pulled out the two boxes of surveillance tapes, glanced over at Stuart.

He was wearing his scarf, his lambswool zipped cardigan from La Redoute, and underneath a navy NZA brushed cotton tartan shirt he picked up from House of Fraser for £30.00, two and a half times less its original price. It was large, loose, comfortable, and a personal favourite. On his legs he wore a different pair of slim jeans although these too looked like old favourites faded almost to the point of being bleached. The outfit was topped off with the cowboy boots he'd worn the day before. He looked like a model lumberjack.

Love too had decided at the last minute to dress down. He wore a pair of skinny fit jeans, dark grey, about five years old, his usual white sartorial pure cotton plain shirt, no tie, the Donegal jacket and a pair of black cowboy boots. To the observer he looked casual yet stylish and sexy.

'Any thoughts as to which one you'll keep?'

On the short drive over, Love had brought Stuart up to date with the previous day's events. Julie and her puppies.

'Not yet, mate,' he said. 'I'm waiting to see which direction it will take me.'

'We'll have to come round and see them.'

'Anytime, mate.'

'What about names?' Stuart said.

They were approaching the glass sliding doors to the main entrance. As the doors opened they stepped inside. The two men automatically glanced over to their left. Mr Pfeiffer was going about his business as usual. He made eye contact before looking away in a hurry.

'It confirms what his wife said,' remarked Love.

'How is she?'

'About what you'd expect.'

They strolled along the corridor, took a right, walked along until they came to a door marked "Security".

Stuart knocked once, the door opened.

'DCA Love and DCA Le Fanu,' Love said. He handed the boxes over to the uniformed guard standing in the entrance. 'We're returning your security tapes.'

'Oh, yeah, right, mate!' he said. He turned round, placed the boxes on a desk, rummaged through. 'Be with you in a sec.' He moved his mouse, clicked on a file, opened it, skimmed through its contents, turned back, and said, 'Right, that all looks in order.'

'Thanks,' Love said. He remained where he was standing looking at the guard. 'Shouldn't I be getting a receipt or something?'

'If you wouldn't mind,' the guard said. He turned back to his PC, pressed the print button and a moment later two sheets shot out of the printer which along with a pen, he passed to Love.

'Just put your moniker there on the dotted line on both pages and we're all square.'

Love hesitated. 'Excuse me?'

'He means sign for it,' Stuart said, and smiled.

'Really?' Love stepped forward, leant over the desk, scribbled his signature and took his copy. He stood up, folding the A4 sheet in half, and placed it inside his pocket.

'Thank you, gentlemen.'

'Thanks,' Love said. And they left.

The two men strolled along the corridor passing the wounded, the bereaved, the bleeding and the joyful until they came to the lift. Love stepped forward and pressed the button for the top floor.

'What were you saying about names?'

Stuart was looking down as slowly he peeled off his gloves. 'Thought of any names yet?'

'I'd like to have the name start with the letter "J",' Love said.

Stuart smiled. 'Keeping it in the family like Julie and Jake.'

'Exactly! So far, if I keep a girl, I'm thinking of Jessica Julie or Jasmine Julie, JJ for short, but the boy is more difficult.'

The lift arrived, the two men stood to one side as two women and three men got on, Love and Stuart followed, Love pressed the button, stepped back against the side of the lift and waited. He looked over at Stuart.

'I can imagine,' Stuart said. He folded his gloves pushing one each into the front pockets of his jeans. 'I mean, you couldn't call your dog John. "Hey, John!" It just doesn't fit right, too human. Or Jerry. "Jerr-rryyy..." you'd end up sounding like Margo Leadbetter from The Good Life.'

One of the women laughed out loud, a couple of the men chuckled, the others smiled broadly and Stuart grinned.

'I'm not wrong, am I?' he said.

Love grinned in return. 'Mate, you are so not wrong,' he said. 'I can well do without that as much as I enjoy the series.'

Love was familiar with the seventies sitcom. Stuart had introduced him to the finer points of British humour along with Dad's Army soon after they had become friends and partners four and a half years earlier.

The lift stopped, it pinged politely, the doors opened, two men and a woman stepped out. The doors closed and the lift continued on its way. 'And like you said, John is somehow too human.'

The remaining man spoke up from the front. 'You go around calling out "Hey, John!" makes you think of Del Boy!'

The group erupted in fits of laughter as the lift arrived at their floor, the doors opened, they stepped out.

Suddenly, Love felt compelled to look over to his side. Still smiling broadly he turned his head. She was wearing a dusty pink Tweed skirt, a tight-fitting lilac angora jumper, high-heeled shiny grey leather boots, her doctor's white coat casually placed over one arm, and one very angry expression on her face.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Love ambled over to where she was standing by reception. Phones were ringing, doctors and nurses were being paged, individuals rushing by.

'Hello, Doctor Cooper and how are...'

'I see you're taking this as one big joke.'

Love raised his eyes to heaven and shoved one hand on his hip. He leant towards her. 'Oh, lady, you are so off the wall.'

'Spare me your American adages, Detective Love,' she said. 'I'm not in the mood.'

'What!' He ran his other hand through his feathered blond fringe. 'You are unbelievable.'

She glanced away, slipped her coat off her arm and started to put it on. Love went to help but she stepped to one side. 'I can manage, thank you.'

Love shook his head. He turned as Stuart slowly approached from behind.

'Good afternoon, Doctor Cooper.'

Julie Cooper glanced at Stuart. 'Good afternoon, Detective Le Fanu.'

'Look lady, whatever it is you have against me I suggest you get it out of your system once and for all,' Love said.

His blue eyes echoed the anger he was now feeling and experiencing. He was breathing hard, his chest moving noticeably. He took a step towards her, his face inches from her own.

For a moment, she was speechless. As she stared back into Love's face she wondered, ridiculously, what it would be like to be kissed by him. Now. Angry. Would that anger translate itself into high intensity passion? Her lips parted, she glanced at his mouth. She swallowed hard, looked back into his eyes.

What in God's name was she thinking?

'Detective Love,' she said. 'There is nothing to expunge from my system, as you put it, to do with you or otherwise.'

'Really? Then why the anger, the attitude?' he said. He searched her face for a clue. She couldn't answer that truthfully. She didn't know the answer herself. 'Get over it, lady, let me do my job and I'll leave you to get on with yours, please!'

'I'd simply appreciate it if you would show some decorum,' she said, and turned on her heel. She started to walk off, stopped, looked over her shoulder, and said, 'I take it you do know what that means.'

Stuart looked at Love, and grinned. 'Don't worry about it, partner, if you don't, I do.'

Love shook his head. He stared after the figure retreating down the hall. 'Come on,' he said. 'The sooner we get this over with the better.'

Stuart nodded and the two men continued to walk down the corridor, they rounded a corner and carried on until they arrived at a private room. Outside sat a police constable.

'All right?' Stuart said.

The PC nodded. He said, 'All quiet, sir, he's pretty much sedated.'

Stuart smiled.

Love stepped forward, he put his hand on the door handle, pushed it down, the door opened and the two gentlemen stepped into the room of Heinrich Pfeiffer.

* * *

Love walked over to the end of the bed.

He looked down at Heinrich's face. His eyes were closed. His wrist was bandaged where Love had shot the pistol from out of his hand. His two legs were heavily encased in plaster of Paris and were slightly elevated. A wire apparatus covered his pelvis.

Stuart walked over to a chair sitting off to one side of the bed next to which was a small table. He removed his scarf, laid it on the back of the chair, pushed his hand into his jeans back pocket and retrieved his leather notepad and Montblanc. He reached into the front pockets of his jeans he removed his gloves. He reached over with his right arm and with infinite care from his shirt pocket Stuart removed his Marantz PMD660. He winced slightly as he touched a button on the portable recorder, spoke into it, laid it down on the table. He was full of Disprin and mandarin organic oil but still the pain was intense enough to break through even that combined barrier of relief.

'Heinrich,' Love said. No answer. Not even a flicker of an eyelid. He glanced back at Stuart who pulled out the chair, sat down, and waited. 'Heinrich,' Love said again. 'It's Detective Love and Detective Le Fanu. We need to talk to you.'

Suddenly, the door opened and Doctor Cooper walked in. Her eyes flickered to Stuart then Love. She turned her attention to Heinrich. Walking over to his bed, she lifted his wrist, the un-bandaged one, took his pulse, turned to Love. 'I'll give you five minutes if he awakens within the next two,' she said. 'I can't have you bothering my patient.'

Love stared at Doctor Cooper. He glanced back at Stuart, and said, 'Excuse me, mate.'

He stepped over to where she was standing, grabbed her by the waist, whipped her round to face him, yanked her towards him, their bodies touching, he stared down at her, and said, 'Now listen here, you don't tell me when and for how long I can talk to my prisoner.'

'How dare you! Who do you...'

'Listen to me, lady, I'm only going to say this once. I dare to because I'm doing my job and although he may be your patient he is my prisoner,' he said. 'He's a killer, lady, a psychotic killer, and I'm tired of pussyfooting around you or anybody else who is thinking of getting in the way of me and my partner doing our job.'

She gazed up at him not saying a word.

'Stuart and I are going to interview this individual if we have to wake him up by emptying a bucket of cold water in his face in order to do so.' He released her and she staggered back. 'You got it?'

She continued to stare at Love, didn't say a word, stepped past him and quietly left the room.

Stuart let a low whistle. 'Oh, boy! Either that did the trick or two minutes from now we are going to get a visit from someone from very high-up.'

Love shook his head. 'Bring it on,' he said. 'I'm sick of this bullshit, mate, this ends now.' He took a step closer to Heinrich, tapped his good arm, and said in a loud voice. 'Heinrich Pfeiffer, kindly open your eyes, we'd like to talk to you.'

'Throw a bucket of cold water in my face, would you?'

Stuart slowly rose from his chair as Love continued to glare down at Heinrich.

'Now that's not a very nice thing to do.' Heinrich opened his eyes and grinned.

Love smiled in return. 'You might fool the doctors, Heinrich, but I knew you were faking.'

'Oh, ein wenig klever heute, ja?'

Love turned to Stuart, a frown creasing his forehead. 'What did he say?'

'He said, aren't you the clever one.'

Love turned back to Heinrich. 'Kindly keep it in English, Heinrich.'

'Ich glaube du bist gar nicht so klug wie du aussiehst,' he said, and laughed.

Love looked at Stuart. 'Well?'

'He reckons you're not that smart after all.'

Love hesitated, shook his head. 'Ugly language German. I speak English...'

'That's debatable,' Stuart interrupted.

'Wanker! And I speak some Spanish but never got on with German.'

'No problem at all,' Stuart said, and smiled. 'I took German and French A Level at school.'

'What!' Love grinned. 'No Latin?' Love was well aware of the British school system.

'Well, I didn't like to say, I did take Latin but in GCSE only.'

'I thought you wanted to talk to me,' Heinrich said.

Love guessed that would work. He guessed Heinrich didn't like to be ignored. He glanced at Stuart who smiled and nodded before sitting back down again. 'What's the point, Heinrich, if you're just going to play games,' Love said.

'Ask me something.'

'Why?'

'Why what? Why ask me something, why I did it, why I chose those women?'

'Yeah,' Love said. 'All of the above.' At that moment the door opened. Without turning round Love barked one word. 'Out!' The door quickly closed and the person retreated without a word. He continued to stare down at Heinrich. 'Let's start with why you did it.'

Heinrich smiled. 'These women, they think they are good mothers but they are pathetic, all of them.'

'What makes them pathetic?' Love said.

Heinrich turned his head to look at the ceiling. 'They think they can tell the child what to do, do this, do that, when he should be free to do as he pleases.'

'That's their job, Heinrich,' Love said. 'That's what responsible parents do.'

Stuart paused from writing, looked up briefly, and said, 'Like your parents, Heinrich.'

A faint stain spread over Heinrich's face. 'My father is a bastard and my mother is a bitch,' he said. 'Ich habe nur einen richtigen Vater.'

Stuart started to translate but was interrupted by Love. 'It's all right, mate, I actually got that,' he said. 'And who might that be, Heinrich?'

Heinrich smiled. 'Who do you think?'

'Tell me anyway.'

'Adolf Hitler, of course.'

Stuart looked up from where he was making notes. Love took a step back. 'Okay, and tell me, what did Monica and Carol do that you believe was so heinous?'

'They were both in my shop with their children, shopping, buying some things, the child, he asked for a toy, the other boy asked for some more chocolate, but the women refused.' Hate filled his voice. 'They were firm, strict, they were controlling. The child should be free to have what he wants.'

Love glanced at Stuart. 'And that was it?'

'Isn't that enough!'

Love said nothing. The only sound to be heard was Stuart writing on his pad. The interview was being recorded by his state-of-the-art piece of equipment but still he liked to make notes, as a backup procedure.

'Why the crosses?' Stuart said.

Heinrich said nothing but simply stared up at the ceiling. Finally, he said in a quiet voice, 'They were my kisses. Es war aus Liebe. I was leaving my mark, an artist, like Picasso.'

Love looked at Stuart. 'He said he did it for love.'

'Really? Funny way of showing it,' Love said. He turned away from the bed, took a couple of steps, ran his hand through his hair, and stared out the window.

A view vastly different to the one back at his office. He narrowed his eyes as he gazed at the mass of parked vehicles, people coming and going, a woman searching through her handbag, for her car keys? A moment later, she pulled out a bunch and smiled in triumph, put the key in the door, pulled it open, jumped in and seconds later drove away.

It looked like the wind had picked up.

The younger trees were bending and swaying first one way then the other like they were listening to a song no one else could hear.

Like Heinrich.

What tune did he dance to that no one else could hear?

'You used your bike,' Love said, quietly, without turning round. 'You chatted with Monica and Carol and got to know them both well enough to learn of their individual schedules. Carol, when she was at the hospital with Stephen and afterwards when she was visiting patients,' he paused, 'and Monica, you met her when she and Timmy were visiting a friend.'

He turned round and looked at Heinrich. 'Right?'

Heinrich smiled. 'Please go on, Detective Love, I am so fond of fairy tales.'

'You searched, you found your locations picked a day went ahead on your bike, quick, anonymous.' He started to walk back towards the bed. 'You waited. They each arrived on the chosen day, you approached them, threatened them with your grandfather's gun, got them to go where you wanted them to go, do what you wanted them to do.'

By now he was standing close to Heinrich. He leant towards him, his face inches away. He spoke quietly. Stuart glanced over. He hoped the recorder would pick it up, yeah, course it would, this little piece of technology might be expensive but it was quality.

'You marked them, with your kisses, you shot them, your work was done. You got on your bike and resumed normal life like nothing had occurred.' Love continued to stare at Heinrich. 'Isn't that what happened?'

Heinrich stared back. He opened his mouth and slowly, he started to laugh. It was, in essence, the laugh of a mad person. Love straightened up, looked at Stuart and walked from the room.

Moments later, the door opened and Stuart stepped over to where Love was pacing outside in the corridor. 'You all right, partner?'

Love paused and glanced at Stuart. He smiled. 'Yeah, I'm okay, mate.'

'Shall I take over?'

'No, we're nearly done,' he said. 'Let's wrap this one up and get the hell out of here.' He nodded to the PC who'd been watching the exchange with interest. He nodded back.

Stuart opened the door and together the two detectives went back inside.

Heinrich had stopped laughing and was watching Love with a curious interest. His eyes followed him as he entered the room.

'What, no more questions or should I say no more fairy tales?'

Love turned to look at the man lying in the bed. 'We're about done here, Heinrich, then we'll leave you alone. You'll eventually be transferred to your new abode where you'll no doubt get a whole lot more questions and fairy tales that will make this look like child's play.'

A cold glint came into Heinrich's eyes. He turned to look at Stuart who was standing by the door. The recorder was still running. 'Your bitch was next.'

Stuart smiled. 'No, Heinrich, you stood no chance,' he said. 'You never did.'

'No matter,' he said. 'There are always others. You know, I had number three already planned but I broke it off at the last minute to rid the world of your wife instead. You should be honoured.'

'Funny,' Stuart said. 'That's not the word I'd use but I'm happy to hear we saved a life.'

'What did you use, Heinrich? To make the crosses, what instrument did you use?' Love slid his fingertips into both pockets of his jeans and waited. He was confident they'd got everything else right but still they had no idea as to what weapon Heinrich had used to make the crosses on Carol and Monica's bodies. 'Come on, Heinrich, you have us all stumped, don't you want to enlighten we fools?'

'It's very simple,' he said. 'I have my grandfather to thank for that.'

'How so?' said Stuart.

'I used his paratrooper's knife,' he said. 'A WWII Luftwaffe Fallschirmjäger-Messer a beautiful knife with a gravity-propelled locking blade and a wooden handle.'

'It wouldn't be sharp enough, not a penknife,' Stuart said. He gazed at the prostrate figure. 'You had it professionally sharpened until it was as sharp as a scalpel.'

'Clever man, perhaps you should be a detective.' Heinrich had shut his eyes, a smile playing about his face. 'It is so sharp it can cut in two a hair falling on its exposed blade.' He snapped open his eyes.

'Where is it?' Love said. 'Where did you leave it?' The weapon hadn't been found on Heinrich or in the van. 'Where did you stash it, Heinrich?'

Heinrich looked over at Stuart, and grinned. 'You know, gaining access to those little old Minis is not so difficult especially when there are so many people coming and going enabling you to blend in with the crowd.' His face turned blank. 'And especially when they are left unlocked.'

'It's in my wife's car?'

'Why ask me? You have all the answers or so you think,' Heinrich said.

'Yes, we do, just about,' he said. 'You went to the farm shop just round the corner from my house, asked about me, they were completely obliging.' Stuart flicked his head and his fringe feathered out across his forehead. 'Exactly as I'd prepped them,' he paused, 'I made it easy for you.'

'Easy? You did nothing to make my work easy! My work takes skill, it is pure perfection, now kindly leave me in peace both of you,' he said in a rush. 'I need to plan for my next assignment.' He stared first at Stuart then Love with cold soulless eyes. No humanity in them, no spark, like the eye of a dead shark.

Stuart walked over to the table, picked up his recorder, spoke softly into it, pressed a button and turned it off. He grabbed his pen, notepad, his scarf, took one last look at Heinrich lying in bed, and left.

Love stared at Heinrich, hoping he would be locked away for a very long time, if not the rest of his life. He grasped the door handle, paused momentarily, closed the door firmly behind him.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

13:20 hours

'I can't believe it,' Stuart said. 'To think we were driving all over London with his knife in the car the whole time.'

'Clever, really.'

'Yes, very clever,' Stuart said. 'And delighted to see my plan worked out as anticipated.' He began to wrap the long red and grey scarf round his neck. 'And hoped,' he added.

'I just have to drop this tiepin off at Sullivan's office and then we'll go back to your place.'

'Actually,' Stuart said, as he reached into the back and front pockets of his jeans and shirt replacing his pen, notepad and recorder. 'That went better than I expected.'

'Yeah, me too,' Love said. The thoughts he had running through his head pushed themselves to the front.

Now the interview was over he had only one person on his mind.

Should he go and seek her out? Damn the woman! Christ, when she'd been standing inches away from him and he could smell her perfume, subtle, musky, he'd just wanted to kiss her until her head was spinning. And then when he'd grabbed her round the waist, that small waist! Damn! He couldn't leave things as they were, he had to go and make amends.

'Stuart?'

'Yeah, partner?'

'Here.' He handed him the keys to the Volvo. 'You go on, get the heater working and wait for me I'll just be a couple of minutes.'

Stuart grinned. 'A certain lady doctor, Love?'

Love shook his head and shoved his fingertips into his jeans. 'If it kills me, mate, which it probably will.'

Stuart turned to walk to the lifts whilst Love decided to take the stairs. It was only a couple of flights down to Sullivan's office and Julie's. He had no idea what to say to her. He could start by apologising but boy oh boy!

Did that dame ever rattle him?

His steps echoed as he ran down the staircase, came to the third floor, pulled open the heavy fire door and stepped out into the corridor. He strolled along until he came to James Sullivan's office, knocked, went in, no receptionist and no sign of Mr Sullivan. He stepped back out into the corridor. Julie Cooper's office was just a few doors away. He ran his hand through his blond fringe, took a deep breath, and a few moments later was knocking on her door.

'Come in.'

Love turned the handle, popped his head round the door. 'I come in peace.'

Doctor Cooper was sitting at her desk. She'd been writing some notes on an A4 notebook, looked up at the sound of Love's voice, blushed, shut the book and put down her pen.

'Want to throw me around some more, Detective Love?'

'Can I come in?'

'Please,' she said, indicating to the chairs in front of her desk. 'Why not?'

'I just want to apologise for earlier,' he said. He walked over to her desk, he stood looking down at her. Her hair was all tousled like she'd been running her fingers through it. She looked messy and very cute. Love imagined that's how she would look in bed after... he interrupted his thoughts, and coughed. 'I didn't mean anything by it but...'

'But I was asserting my authority which clashed with your own and you didn't like it.'

'Excuse me?'

She stood up and walked round the desk to face Love. 'We clash, Detective Love, you are somewhat opinionated and want to get the job done to the best of your ability and I am exactly the same.'

'Opinionated?' he repeated, and grinned.

She took a step closer, and smiled. 'Absolutely.' Her body inches from his. 'And I'm sorry if I was rude earlier.'

Damn the woman! She was turning him inside out. Love stared down at her face. Not conventionally pretty but the end result was certainly attractive. She was standing so close to him he could see the gold flecks in her eyes. On her eyelids she wore a soft dove grey smudge. It was frosted and some of the glitter had fallen on to her cheeks causing them to sparkle and shimmer. His gaze flickered over her lips covered in a pinkish-purple lipgloss. Her mouth parted and the tip of her tongue ran slowly over her bottom lip. Christ! He wanted to grab her in his arms and kiss her senseless. Keep things professional, he told himself, don't even go there, not on the job.

'I see that Mr Sullivan isn't in his office.'

'No, that's right, but I'll be seeing him soon.'

'Oh, really?'

'Yes, why?'

'I have something that belongs to him I just wanted to return it.'

'You can give it to me and I can pass it on.'

'He's on duty later?'

'Well, not really, he's coming in to meet me for a meal and...'

'To meet you!' Love took a step backwards.

'Yes, we're going to have something to eat.'

The news shocked him like he'd been hit by a bus. 'I didn't realise you and he were so close.'

Julie Cooper frowned. 'What business is it of yours?'

Love turned to leave. 'I guess none, Doctor Cooper, excuse me.' He hesitated, turned back, fished inside his pocket, brought out the small plastic bag containing Sullivan's tiepin. 'Here,' he said, as he handed her the package. 'If you wouldn't mind perhaps you can pass this on after all.'

'Yes, I'll do that.'

'Would you please sign a receipt for it,' he said. 'I like to keep things professional and do the job properly.'

She leant over her desk, scribbled something down on a pad, tore off the sheet and handed it to Love. 'Implying I don't?' Her eyes were sparking.

He shook his head. 'Lady, how you want to interpret that is entirely up to you,' he said. 'But it sure looks like we have nothing but misinterpretations and misunderstandings going on between us.'

'I couldn't agree more,' she said.

'Well,' he said, and strode over to the door and pulled it open. He paused with his hand on the handle. 'At least we agree on one thing.' He walked out closing the door firmly behind him.

He was so exasperated he nearly walked straight into the man coming out the lift.

'Why, Detective Love, how are you?'

Love looked into the face of James Sullivan. He inclined his head. 'Mr Sullivan, how are you?'

'Fine, thank you,' he said, and smiled. 'Did you want to see me?'

'Yes, actually, I did,' Love said. 'To return your tiepin but I left it with Doctor Cooper.'

'Thank you.'

'I hope that's all right as she mentioned she was seeing you later.'

'Yes, that's quite all right,' he said. 'A few of us are meeting up at the hospital cafeteria for a late lunch.'

'Really?'

'Yes, we try to get together at least once a month to catch up and talk about cases over a leisurely meal.'

Suddenly, Love's mood lifted. What he wanted to do was to go rushing back into Julie's office sweep her off her feet and kiss her until she was dizzy. Instead he smiled, shook Sullivan's hand, and said, 'Have a good day, sir, goodbye.'

'Goodbye.'

* * *

Love flung open his door.

A whoosh of cold air filled the car causing Stuart to groan. 'Oh, thank you very much, Love, just as I'd finally got this thing warmed up.'

Love grinned. 'Sorry about that.' He nodded to Stuart's scarf. 'If ever you get time to make another perhaps you could knit one for my mother.'

Love was well aware of Stuart's creative hobby.

Stuart found it calming, he was good at it, it helped him to think, and he was man enough not to care what others thought.

'With pleasure but with our workload it will probably be ready in time for next Christmas as opposed to this one,' he said, and smiled. 'Just get enough wool in and I'll make a start on it when I can.'

'Brilliant, mate.' He snapped on his seat belt, he pushed the gear into reverse, took the handbrake off, hit the accelerator and drove out of the space. He turned sharply, pushed the gear into first, cruised out of the car park and on to Landor Road.

Stuart looked on as a motorbike pulled out in front causing Love to slam his foot down hard on the brake. He waited for the retort but it didn't happen. He glanced at Love. 'I take it the meeting with Julie Cooper was a successful one?'

Love grinned as he pushed the gear into first. 'Actually,' he said, glancing in his rear-view mirror, 'it was a washout.'

'Then why the good mood?'

'Something I thought to be a certain situation turned out not to be the case at all.'

'Are you purposely talking in riddles or am I supposed to guess to what you are referring exactly?'

'Well, in a nutshell...'

'Nutshells are good, give me the nutshell version.'

'I thought Julie was dating Sullivan but it turns out she's not.'

Stuart watched the cars slow down as they pulled up at a set of traffic lights. Not so busy at this time, early Sunday afternoon, although it would pick up again later. He was glad to be going home and staying in for the evening. It had been a busy week and his shoulder was throbbing.

'You honestly thought Julie Cooper was going out with James Sullivan?'

Love stole a quick glance at Stuart. 'Yeah, why?'

'Love, your gut is way off where Julie Cooper is concerned.'

'Really?'

'What do you mean "really"! Of course it is, for goodness sake, he's not her type.'

The traffic lights turned green, already in first, Love let off the clutch touched the accelerator and the car nudged forward. 'Then what is her type?' Half afraid to hear the answer.

'You are,' Stuart said before adding, 'you wanker!'

Twenty minutes later, Love was turning right into Notting Hill Gate right again into Palace Gardens Terrace and right into West Mall.

He drove to the end turning left into Rabbit Row and a moment later came to a stop half on the road and half on the pavement just before Stuart's house and garage. He pushed the gear into neutral, yanked on the handbrake and turned the key. The car settled around them.

'Are you coming in?' Stuart asked.

Love shook his head. 'No, mate, not this time.' He leant over towards Stuart, opened the glovebox and pulled out a plastic evidence bag and a pair of plastic gloves. 'Here,' he said. 'We'll need these.'

'Are you sure?'

Love glanced at Stuart. 'About this?' He held up the bag and gloves.

Stuart smiled. 'No, about coming in, Emma would love to see you.'

'Yeah, and me her but not today, let's get this case wrapped up, you go inside and relax and I can go home and do the same with the puppies.' He grinned. 'Or at least as much as one can with three newborn puppies and a stubborn mother.'

They opened their doors and got out of the car at the same time. Stuart fished in his front pocket of his jeans for his keys. He went through them until he came to the key for the garage. He pushed it in the lock, turned the handle, the door opened. He flicked on the light switch. He looked at Love. 'I'm afraid I can't do much searching with one arm.'

Love looked at the little car. He walked round to the back. 'No sweat, mate, let's try the trunk first.'

'The boot? Certainly, but any particular reason?'

'Yeah, it's a smaller space than inside the car...'

'So if it's not in there we haven't wasted too much time looking,' Stuart said.

'Exactly,' Love said, and smiled.

Stuart edged his way round the car until he was standing next to Love. He leant forward turned the handle and the boot sprung open. Meanwhile, Love was peeling on his surgical gloves. He peered into the interior. Inside was a blanket, a pair of Wellington boots belonging to Shannon, a plastic can for petrol, some oil but no WWII Luftwaffe flick knife.

'Have a feel just inside round the corners,' Stuart said.

Love bent down, felt along the rim, pressing gently when suddenly he pulled back. 'I think we've got something.'

He reached in carefully and a moment later was holding the wooden-handled knife in his fingers. They both stared at it. Love fished out the bag from his pocket, tried to shake it open, couldn't manage it, Stuart grabbed it with his good hand, opened it, and Love dropped the knife inside, zipped the bag shut.

'Right,' Stuart said. 'I'll put this under lock and key and first thing tomorrow morning I'll drop it off with Fitch.'

'Last bit of evidence,' Love said.

Stuart looked down at the knife in his hand. 'Last piece of the missing jigsaw.' A car shot by outside, the soft thump of its stereo diminishing as it screeched to a halt before continuing on its way only to be swallowed up in the London traffic. 'I'll get the interview transcribed and that'll be that.'

Love smiled. 'Case closed, mate.'

Stuart nodded, and said, 'Case closed, partner.'

Stuart edged his way past the Mini and on to the road outside. Love followed, peeling of his gloves. Stuart reached with his good arm, turned off the light, closed the door, locked it. He looked over at Love.

'Give Julie and pups a big hug.'

Love grinned. 'That I will.'

Stuart flicked his hair out of his eye, the model detective. 'See you tomorrow,' he said. 'And don't worry about Julie, the two-legged kind, I mean.'

Love grinned, turned on his heel and began to walk back to his car. 'Yeah, yeah,' he said. 'Whatever will be, I know!' He pulled open his door and climbed in. Whatever, he pondered, whatever that will be.

He turned the key, pushed the gear into first, looked over his right shoulder, pulled off the pavement with a clunk, and was gone.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Twenty-eight minutes later, Love was turning the key in his lock, opening his front door with one hand, plastic shopping bag in the other.

He'd driven back home via Notting Hill Gate, had stopped off at a couple of his local shops on the way to buy a jar of mayonnaise, milk, cigarettes and the latest copy of Playboy if they still had any copies left, which they did, and then as an afterthought went back for a packet of razors.

He closed the door walked through the archway into the lounge and dumped the bag on the couch. He strolled over to Julie's bed. She looked up sleepily but glad to see Love.

'All right, girl?' he said. He bent down to tickle her ear. All three puppies were fast asleep. Two of them were twitching their legs pedalling away on an invisible bicycle, and the third, Love reckoned it was the boy, was snoring softly. 'I'll just let Mrs Burton know I'm back,' he said.

Moments later, he was knocking on his neighbour's front door where Love was informed that Julie had just returned from 'doing her business' as Mrs Burton put it.

'She's no trouble, Mr Love, you know how fond both my husband and I are of Julie.'

'I do, Mrs B, you are like an aunt to her.'

Mrs Burton grinned. 'You know, my husband and I were talking, and if there's any chance of having one of the puppies, do you think you would consider us?'

'I'd be delighted,' Love said. 'But I thought you weren't in a hurry to get another.'

Love was only too aware of the pain they'd felt at the loss of their dog the year before. They'd taken Sheba to the vet when a lump had been discovered. It turned out to be a tumour. Two weeks later, the little spaniel was dead.

She shook her head. Her shoulder-length brown hair with its silver threads shimmered in the light. 'We weren't planning on getting another just yet but I say you can't plan these things.'

'I know what you mean.'

'It's like fate, Julie having these pups, if there's any chance...'

'Mrs Burton, I'd be delighted if you took one of the puppies and so would Julie,' he said. 'It would be like keeping it in the family.'

Mrs Burton grinned, blushed, and touched Love gently on the arm. 'Thank you, Mr Love.'

'I'll see you later,' Love said. She shut the door as he walked across the landing with its elegant scruffy antique rug, over to the staircase, and back downstairs to his flat.

He strolled over to the couch, picked up his bag of shopping, walked into the kitchen, opened the fridge, grabbed the mayonnaise and milk and placed them inside. He took the cigarettes through into the lounge where he dropped them on to the coffee table, walked back into the hall and through to his bedroom where he chucked the magazine on his white Victorian chest of drawers. He kicked off his cowboy boots, shrugged off his Donegal, and a moment later was shuffling back into the lounge in his Muppet slippers.

He was going to relax. He had plans to cook something light, like an omelette, and perhaps finish off the roast chicken which reminded him he'd left behind his chicken salad sandwich at the office. He sure hoped it wouldn't go off overnight in the warmth of the room. Well, if it did, too bad, his fault.

He walked over to a table lamp, switched it on, glanced over at Julie who was now fast asleep and scuffed his way into the kitchen. He glanced down at her food bowl. Good, he determined, she'd eaten her breakfast, and no doubt Mrs Burton had given her a couple of Yarrah dog biscuits at lunchtime. He sure was glad Mrs B wanted one of the pups. He reckoned it would be a good thing for all concerned.

He made himself a pot of tea, placed it on a bamboo tray along with a mug, the rest of the opened carton of milk, the sugar bowl, a spoon, plate, and a box of Bakewell Tarts, snatched a sheet of kitchen roll and took the whole lot into the lounge. He sat down on the couch with a sigh, lit up a cigarette, stretched his long legs out under the table, and leant his head back against the cream-coloured material.

The only sounds to be heard were the distant buzz of traffic, the odd car passing by under his window, and the birdsong.

It had surprised him when he first came to London how well you could hear the birds singing. It was almost like living in the country.

One more thing to do, no, he remonstrated with himself, make that three.

He got up, walked back into the hall to where Mrs Burton had placed his daily newspaper on the elegant Regency hall table, grabbed it, walked into his bedroom and retrieved his mobile phone from his jacket. Back in the lounge he turned on the television, swore silently under his breath before turning it off again. He stepped over to his stereo and pressed the "play" button on the tape recorder. Soothing sounds of James Last would hit the spot. He was feeling mellow and he wanted to hold on to that.

He strolled back over to the couch, poured his tea, and relaxed. The room had a soft glow about it. It was grey outside, the trees were rustling in the slight breeze, spots of snow reached out with their icy fingertips to make pretty patterns on his French window.

Inside the flat it was warm and cosy. Love thought of the puppies. He'd already decided to keep one of the girls, the one with a funny little black and tan splodge on her foot. She seemed to be the one who stayed closest to Julie. He reckoned the other girl could go to Mrs Burton.

And as for the boy?

Love knew exactly to whom the little dog would go. A little boy should have a dog to grow up with and Timmy would fit the bill perfectly. Love smiled. He would check with Ashley first but hopefully in ten weeks time that cute little dog snoring his head off would be galloping about in his new back yard with his new best friend.

Love glanced up at the clock on the mantelpiece. It read 15:05 hours. The third thing he wanted to do could wait a couple of minutes. He wasn't one hundred per cent sure if he was doing the right thing but figured he would give it a shot.

To hell with it! What did he have to lose?

He leant forward, his muscles rippling under his close-fitting shirt, stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray on the table in front of him and grabbed his mobile. Flicked it open, pressed in a number, it rang, his stomach flipped.

'Hello?'

'Look, I'm sorry about earlier, I...'

'Haven't we had this conversation before, Detective Love?'

That damn woman needled him, she got under his skin and damned if he knew what it all meant. But there was one sure way to find out once and for all. And now it looked like she wasn't going to give him an easy ride. 'You're going to make this difficult for me I can tell.'

'Give me one good reason as to why I should make it easy.'

'Christ, lady, you are so infuriating.'

'Isn't that my line?'

Love muttered something. 'Well?'

'Well what?'

'I asked where you live.'

'Why on earth do you want to know?'

'Just tell me, woman, for God's sake!'

'Why should I?'

'Listen, lady, I'm trying to ask you out on a date.'

'And this is your best technique?' she said.

'Where you're concerned, lady, all my techniques go right out of the window.'

'I'm busy, Detective Love,' she said. 'I don't get a lot of time to go out on dates as you put it.'

'Same here so we're perfectly matched.' Love laughed. 'So? What about it? Where do you live, Doctor Cooper?'

'Here at the hospital.'

'At the hospital?' he repeated. 'How does that work?'

'They have a few studio flats available for senior staff.'

'And how come?'

'How come I'm here?'

'That's about it.'

'I was in the middle of buying a property it fell through I had nowhere else to go.'

'So, you're homeless?'

'Not strictly speaking but if you put it like that.'

'Had any luck finding another place?'

'Yes and no. I'm looking at a couple of properties tomorrow evening.'

'What time?'

'I'm sorry?'

'What time are you meeting the agent?'

'At six o'clock.'

'Fine! You should be through by seven I'll pick you up at the hospital.'

'But I never said I'd go out with you!'

Love laughed. 'Lady, you never said you wouldn't.'

'Detective Love, you really are one of the most uncouth and...'

'Doctor Cooper,' Love said, and grinned. 'Isn't this where we came in?'

Yeah, he'd definitely take that woman out on a date if it was the last thing he did. He smiled as he closed his mobile and sat back. Christ! Make it the second last thing. His thoughts strayed to the solitary item sitting on top of a bright red filing cabinet back at his office. He was going to water that sorry-ass spider plant if it was the last thing... suddenly his mobile rang.

He picked it up, flipped it open. 'Love DCA.'

'Make it eight o'clock and we'll eat at my place.'

He looked up. 'Really?' That was unexpected.

'Yes,' she said. He could tell she was smiling. 'Really!' Love seemed to hit the right buttons even if they weren't on the same wavelength. She liked him despite herself and she liked his home full of contrasts, old and new, and so reminiscent of him.

And she loved his dog!

Julie Cooper decided she'd enjoy exploring a relationship with this Robert Redford lookalike, this gruff but sensitive lumbering blond bear of a man from New York. Although her career came first, she'd make time for this, it might be fun, interesting, she thought, whatever happens.

She held her breath as she waited for Love's reply.

Suddenly, the buzzer to Love's front door burst into life. Still holding the phone to his ear, Love got up, walked over to the French window and looked out. Down below in the road was parked a panda car, a PC standing by the driver's door.

Love strode back into the hallway, buzzed the switch and opened his front door.

Love dated for good company, good sex, to be good friends, nothing more. He couldn't be tied down. His career came first and Doctor Julie Cooper would be no exception. He thought of his nocturnal dreams and the way they sparked off each other.

It might be fun, even though they weren't on the same wavelength, interesting, Love thought, whatever happens.

He paused before answering. 'I'll be there,' he said, and smiled.

Stuart walked in and watched as Love snapped shut his mobile.

'Hello, partner,' he said. 'We're needed.'

'Really!'

'Really!' Stuart grinned.

'Where?'

'I got a call from HQ requesting our presence at this address,' he said, passing a slip of paper over to Love. 'Nice slippers by the way.'

Love took the note in his hand, glanced at it, shoved it into the front pocket of his chinos. He looked at Stuart, and grinned. 'Give me a second to change and call on Mrs Burton and mate...'

'Yes, Love?'

'You can tell me all about it on the way.'

The End

