Kill Who You Want

Chapter Five

Plot reminder: The editor of the local newspaper, Harriet Gilchrist, has received a letter from the murderer. Adam Butterfield, who features in this chapter, is the victim's husband.

~~~~~

The nod of the head having been barely perceptible, Larkinson was forced to ask confirmation.

"That a yes, Adam?"

Butterfield was a slumped, unshaven figure there on his parents' settee, the striped pyjamas and woolly cardigan ill-fitting, obviously borrowed make-dos. His gaze was unfocused, elusive, the eyes rimmed a savage shade of red.

"Same colour stationary? Same handwriting?"

The detective constable hunched himself forward in the armchair, swiped the screen of his smartphone which lay on the coffee table between them alongside a hardcover folder.  He showed Butterfield another of the half a dozen shots which had a little earlier been taken at Gilchrist's desk. A slightly different angle. Better light.

Butterfield seemed at first not to have noticed. Not to have heard. Kept his gaze fixed on the falling snow outside the bay window for several moments. Either he didn't understand the significance of this morning's development, Larkinson thought. Or, much more likely, was simply way too mangled up inside to much care.

"Adam, if you could just give it a glance for me please. This is important."

Finally twisting himself back around a little, Butterfield squinted dutifully at the held out screen.

There was another nod. Marginally more definite this time. Then back to the growing blizzard outside. Transfixed, it seemed.

As she'd opened up the front door several minutes earlier, Larkinson had immediately recognised Butterfield's mother as a pharmacist from the shop on the High Street. He wondered if she'd given her son something. Dopamine. Prozac. Christ, who could blame her?

"There's something else I'd like you to look at Adam," he continued, lifting the folder from the coffee table. "We've had the county artist on video call with four of your neighbours. All reported seeing a figure in or near Churchill Avenue around the time of the..." But no, he thought, he'd best rephrase himself. "Around mid-afternoon yesterday." He unclipped the print, spun it round in Butterfield's direction. "Between them, they came up with this."

The depicted face was similar in shape to an inverted egg; at the bottom was a small rounded chin, the jowls then leading upwards to a wide bald dome above. Of the features therein framed, the most striking was the nose. Oversized in all dimensions, the nostrils were hidden behind a bulbous overhang. The face wasn't that of a monster however, the overall impression softened by the high, intelligent forehead, a uniform symmetry. And the eyes, these seemed almost kindly-looking. A delta of lines snaked from each outward corner as if he were prone to smiling a lot. Larkinson wasn't sure what a crazed psychopath should look like exactly, but felt fairly certain that this wasn't it. So much so, in fact, that he was bracing himself for the huge investigative disappointment of a negative response.

It was a surprise therefore when Butterfield became suddenly animated, a primal spark of rage piercing the pharmaceutical haze.

"Yes, that's him. That's the bastard."

*

The wall space beside the CID room whiteboard was now occupied by enlarged photocopies of Larkinson's smartphone shots. Four A3 sheets had been selotaped together, each featuring a successive page from the letter, the slight horizontal shadow across their centres caused by the original folds.