Kill Who You Want

Chapter Three

Plot reminder: Dr Catherine Butterfield, eight months pregnant, has been found brutally murdered in her own kitchen. Her husband Adam described to DS Wye how some weeks earlier a stranger had handed him a letter as he'd left for work.

~~~~~

Tuesday, February 13th

The following dawn crashlanded suddenly and with great force. Kubič counted less than four hours sleep, a fact evident in the grey, raddled face which peered mournfully back at him from the bathroom mirror. A dazed peek around the kitchenette revealed cornflakes but no milk, a couple of stale slices of bread for toasting but no butter.

The café it was then; it had become something of a habit of late. Whilst most other divorced men he knew - and as a police officer he was acquainted with quite a few - were prone to undernourished gauntness, he himself seemed to be going in completely the opposite direction.

Betty's Buns was conveniently located a little further down the same sidestreet which the station car park backed onto. Cotton doilies and vases of plastic flowers did little to brighten or refine. The place was what it was: the dark refuge of the breakfasting dispossessed. Bachelors, widowers, out-of-towners forced by some misfortune to pass through. Men - yes, the clientele was almost invariably male. Everything - the cutlery, table surfaces, laminated menu cards - seemed covered in a thin film of grease.

Betty, the eponymous proprietor, had the kind of girth which suggested a fondness for her own wares. Her mood was sombre that morning, the usual early-morning chirpiness replaced by a taut brow, the merest forced flicker of a smile as she set the inspector's bacon bun down before him.

"I know it's not christian and all that, but ask me, things like what's happened with that poor expectant mother, they should bring back the death penalty."

As he set to work with the ketchup dispenser, Kubič found himself battling with his own previously held liberal sensibilities. It was a battle soon cut short however by the buzz of his mobile. Detective Chief Superintendent Baines, his voice coming like a thunderclap down the line from County HQ.

"Utter nonsense!"

Never one to beat much around the bush, this was the senior officer's somewhat blunt opinion of the threatening letter scenario.

"My sergeant seems convinced of it," Kubič assured him.

"Ah yes, our recent transfer from the valleys, am I right?" The attempt at a Welsh accent in fact sounded more Scottish or perhaps north-eastern. "The girl's barely out of nappies inspector!"

If for the soon-to-be retired Baines late-twenties equated to barely out of nappies, at 46 Kubič could only suppose he was considered still a callow adolescent. Just as the young tended to overstate the frailty of their elders, so the over-sixties were prone to exaggerating the inexperience of the generations which had succeeded them.

"Now you listen to me Kubič. One way or another, the husband's behind this. I'll have you a pound to a penny on it. All this threatening letter business is just a way of deflecting attention away from himself. Like as not, he found out the baby wasn't his."

Kubič took a first ketchup-oozing bite of his bun, wiped the corners of his mouth with a paper napkin. "Forensics'll be running a paternity test," he informed his superior, through sloshing molars. "Should have the results later today."

He himself doubted that it would prove negative. Apart from anything else, they'd found nothing which could be deemed in any way eyebrow-raising on the victim's smartphone. Message threads, email history and photo gallery had all been checked. Though the contacts list featured a number of male names, and though all of these would need to be clearly identified and officially approached, the fact Catherine Butterfield had had male friends and acquaintances was hardly in itself cause to suspect marital infidelity. The techno bods would delve further of course, take a look too at both the laptop and fixed station which had been present in the house, but he wasn't holding his breath.