Murder in Just Cause

by Anne Cleeland

  “Sorry—just tryin’ to make a joke,” she soothed, and then wondered why she’d thought of blood-feuds. Were they in the midst of some sort of blood-feud, what with the copper faction so angry, and the army faction so determined? Perhaps the soldiers were all related to one another, like the coppers were, so that it was like that famous story with the two families who hated each other. But no—that one was about lovers, and Doyle had the sense—she’d the sense that here, they were dealing with a rather grim secret—a secret that the army-faction was doing its best to expose to daylight.

  And—even more strange—whatever-this-was, Acton was taking a rather passive role—it wasn’t his doing; instead—as strange as it seemed—he was doing his best to stop the aforesaid exposing-to-daylight.

  She paused with this thought, much struck. In the normal course of events, her wily husband was hip-deep in some scheme to give the justice system a push, and the fair Doyle was always carefully left in the dark, because the man knew that his law-and-order wife would heartily disapprove of whatever he was up to. But this time—this time it was an entirely different kettle of fish. Whatever was going on here—what with the dead kooks, and the mysterious mention of syringes—it didn’t involve Acton’s usual sleight-of-hand, and—perhaps for that reason alone—he’d been reluctant to get involved. Was he on a Code Five order, too? Mayhap he’d been ordered to stand aside, so that Tasza’s covert operation could do its job?

  Never, she thought with complete certainty. Acton did what he wished, and no one knew that fact better than the wife of his bosom. If he was standing back, there was a good reason for it—or not necessarily a good reason, but an Acton-reason.

  And that was the sense she’d got from the start—that first day when they’d been confronted by the dead kook at the projects, whilst the furious brother and sister were standing guard. Acton had almost immediately figured out what it was all about—indeed, he’d admitted as much—but he didn’t want her to catch a whisper of whatever-it-was. He’d been grave, and not at all happy about being pulled-in.

  But nonetheless, he’d immediately scrambled Inspector Geary to act as a bodyguard—a bodyguard who doubled as a lure, too, since the Irishman-from-parts-afar had wandered over to the race course to pose as a dirty cop. And—as a result—the race course rig was now being duly rolled-up, with the dirty coppers who were involved getting their just desserts.

  But despite this, McShane-the-soldier was apparently worried that not enough was being done, and so he’d arranged for a second little holy-show today at the coffee-shop, and had recruited yet another lure to pass on yet another message. And—lest she forget—the fair Tasza had shown up almost immediately, telling them to stand down because they were infringing on a sanctioned operation, and there was no denying that her words had been true.

  So; what was the operation? And—perhaps more importantly—who, exactly, were the villains?

  Since pursuing this particular line of thought made her very uneasy, Doyle embarked on a different one, and concluded that the key to all this must be in the envelope that McShane had passed on to them—especially since Acton had snatched it up immediately, before anyone could lay eyes on its contents. No question that whatever it was, it was white-hot. But the army-contingent had concocted yet another hand-off today, because whatever-it-was they were hoping would happen hadn’t yet happened. “Read the letters,” the pretend-hijab woman had said, not realizing that Munoz had thrown them away.

  Entertaining a multitude of disquieting thoughts—now that the edges of this puzzle were starting to come into focus—Doyle parted from Munoz at the double-doors that led back into headquarters, and decided she’d give her eye-teeth to take a peek at the contents of that manila envelope on the sly.

  She could ask Nazy for access to it, but Doyle had the sneaking suspicion that Nazy was not the sort of person who would withhold such a request from her boss, no matter how much Doyle sweet-talked her. Fortunately, she knew someone who would, and so she paused in the lobby to ring up Williams.

  “Any chance you’re free for a quick brainstorm, Thomas?”

  “I’ve got to finish a report,” he replied, in the manner of someone who was trying to speak on the phone and type something else at the same time. “How about lunch?”

  “No, I’m goin’ home for lunch.” It was on the tip of her tongue to explain a bit further, but then she remembered her paranoia, and decided she wouldn’t say more over the phone. Instead, she said, “It will just take a minute—and anyways, I need your mother’s tapas recipe. Munoz loves them, and so I’m goin’ to surprise her and serve them at the art showin’.”

  Since this sentence made absolutely no sense to anyone who knew her, Williams immediately said, “All right, I’ll dig it up—give me twenty minutes.”

  “That is excellent; I’ll meet you half way, at the canteen.”

  “The coffee’s better at the Deli,” he suggested. “And it’s my turn to pay.”

  So, she thought; Williams is paranoid, too—the canteen was located within the building but the Deli was not; not to mention that Doyle never paid for anything because she always forgot to carry cash.

  “All right; thanks.”

  Doyle made her way out the front lobby doors, and was not at all surprised when Williams caught up to her on the outside pavement within ten minutes, making a show of handing over a folded paper—there were surveillance cameras on the roof, after all.

  “Thanks,” she said easily. “I’ll tie-up me apron, I will, and get to work.”

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  Wary, he was, and small blame to him. Unfortunately, she was about to add to his general level of anxiety. “D’you know what was in the envelope that the witness handed over to us at the Clinic? Aside from the invoices, and such.”

  There was a pause, whilst Williams thought about his answer. “I know what it is supposed to be, but I haven’t seen it myself.”

  She eyed him sidelong. “I think people are killin’ other people over it, and some of those people may be police officers.”

  He showed no surprise at this alarming assessment, and only nodded. “Even more reason why Acton doesn’t want you drawn-in, Kath.”

  “I’m already drawn-in,” she said, thinking of the ghost-kook. “And poor Munoz is that worried.”

  “I think,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “that it will all be resolved sooner rather than later.”

  “No one ever tells me anythin’,” she groused. “I’m always the weak link.”

  “It’s not my call, Kath,” he said firmly.

  “All right then, can you at least tell me who was Special Forces?”

  Glancing at her, he frowned in genuine puzzlement. “Special Forces?”

  “Someone was,” she insisted. “Were any of the Petersons in the army?”

  “No—we looked at their jacket-files, remember?”

  “Oh—right. Except we didn’t look at the dead hero’s file; d’you think he may have been in the army?”

  Williams shrugged. “I doubt it, Kath. People train to be police officers, or they train to be soldiers, and I don’t think there’s a lot of crossover, even though you might think so, at first glance. It calls for a different set of skills, and it doesn’t necessarily attract the same type of person.”

  “In a way, it does, though,” she insisted, thinking of the dead soldier in her dream, and the dead Peterson brother. “They’re brave and they serve the cause—and they’re faithful unto death.” Her scalp prickled, and she knew that she was on the right track.

  With a shrug, he offered, “I suppose you could always ask the Desk Sergeant. He used to be Special Forces, I think, and now he’s involved in a charity that helps find employment for former soldiers. He’d probably know.”

  The strength of her epiphany made Doyle feel almost light-headed for a moment, and she had to clutch at Williams’ sleeve so as to steady herself. There it was—saints and holy angels; there it was, and she’d ro
undly been an idiot for not seeing it sooner.

  “Careful,” he said, cupping her elbow to steady her.

  “Sorry; it’s a clumsy shant, I am.”

  With a mighty effort, she pulled herself together, as they continued on their progress down the pavement. Williams must not know, then. Williams didn’t know, but Acton had known immediately and—now that she knew—it was as plain as plain could be. The Desk Sergeant was at the center of this—this whatever-it-was. After all, the Desk Sergeant was the person who saw who came and went, and he was the one who coordinated the kook-detail assignments. He had a foot in each camp; he’d been a soldier, he knew other former soldiers, and so he must be the one behind this—this deadly-serious passing on of information to Munoz.

  But what was the information, and why was it going to Munoz, who didn’t seem to have the first clue about what was going forward?

  And—even more alarming—after today’s events, one could be forgiven for thinking that his operation was attempting to evade MI 5 detection, which was a hair-raising thought—that the Desk Sergeant was trying to circumvent the counter-terrorism people, which was no easy feat. Not to mention it would put him on the fast-track to being fired in disgrace.

  But no, she reminded herself; no—the Desk Sergeant was not going to be fired in disgrace, and for one simple reason. Acton knew. Acton knew whatever-he-was-up-to, and Acton was not putting a stop to it. Acton had no objection to circumventing MI 5 in this—this whatever-it-was.

  Frowning, she thrust her hands in her coat pockets and contemplated the pavement at her feet. And, you could be forgiven for thinking—and here was a twist to top all twists—that it had been the Desk Sergeant who’d added the fair Doyle to Munoz’s kook-murder assignment—the one Acton thought was meant to be an ambush in the stairwell.

  Upon figuring this out, Acton, however, hadn’t immediately gone back to headquarters and slain the man on the spot; instead, Acton had tacitly allowed the Desk Sergeant’s information-passing operation to go forward—even though it put his wife at risk.

  She lifted her head, suddenly. No—no, that wasn’t true; the fair Doyle wasn’t at risk. Munoz was in danger from the copper-faction, but Doyle wasn’t. And the difference—the difference was that Doyle had a drink named after her at The Bowman. She was a copper-hero, and the coppers weren’t about to shoot her, no matter what.

  That’s why she’d been sent along as an assistant—she’d been a protective shield for Munoz. And—despite having his better half exposed to whatever deadly serious thing this was— Acton had guessed all this, but still had said nothing, instead letting it go on by allowing his unknowing bride to continue to serve as a protective shield, whilst former military people tried—rather desperately—to relay information to Munoz.

  But—why? What was the information, and why had everything been handled in such a roundabout fashion? Could it be they were worried about compromised channels of communication, in the same way Acton was?

  But no—that didn’t make a lot of sense, because Acton had cautioned Doyle about using only their private line well before the ambush day—it had been weeks before, if not months. At the time, she’d assumed that his request was tied up in his strange concern about Edward, but now—now it seemed an amazing coincidence that her husband—who was a wizard at security—was being overly-paranoid, right alongside the kooks who were also being overly-paranoid.

  So—apparently retired army people had taken it upon themselves to expose—what? The drug rig at the race-course, with the dirty coppers? But if that were the case, there was no need for the second staged affair at the coffee shop—the race-course rig had already been rolled up. And there was no need, certainly, to circumvent MI 5’s operation—faith, everyone should have the same goal.

  And why Munoz? It seemed apparent that the letters the first kook had written were an attempt to relay information, but why didn’t he just take the direct route, and ring the girl up? The plan seemed almost comically over-cautious, what with pretending to be kooks on the days that Munoz was slated for kook-duty, and then hoping she’d pay attention to purported love-letters.

  I’m flummoxed, Doyle decided in frustration; some of it makes sense, but most of it doesn’t. Who are the factions, why is everyone so paranoid, and why—for the love o’ Mike—why Munoz?

  She was so deep in thought that she didn’t notice that the Range Rover had pulled up to the curb, until Williams stepped over to open the passenger front door for her.

  Halting, she bent so as to contemplate Acton, where he sat behind the wheel, returning her regard. “You grassed me out,” she accused Williams.

  “Sorry,” Williams said, but he didn’t seem very sorry, as he firmly shut the door behind her.

  Chapter 33

  There’d been no response. He’d have to reconsider tactics.

  As he pulled the car out into traffic, Acton tilted his head in apology. “Williams was operating under strict instructions, I’m afraid.”

  This was not a surprise; Williams had been suspiciously quiet on their walk to the Deli. To show there were no hard feelings, she leaned over to kiss her husband. “I see how it is; I suppose I can’t be thrashed about it, since bein’ outnumbered and outfoxed is my natural state-of-bein’.”

  “It is a delicate situation,” Acton explained. “And therefore, it must be handled carefully. If you said the wrong thing to the wrong person, it may go from delicate to cataclysmic.”

  Doyle considered this. “Is Tasza the wrong person?”

  “One of several, I’m afraid.”

  “How about the Desk Sergeant?”

  There was a small pause. “You are a wonder,” he replied, which was verification enough.

  “How about Claudia Ruppe? Faith, husband; it might be easier to try to guess who is not involved in all this. Although Williams didn’t know about the army angle—I may have stepped in it, by mentionin’ it to him.”

  Acton lifted a philosophical shoulder. “I doubt he would find anything to follow-up, even if he were so inclined.”

  She confessed, “I’m not sure as I know about the army angle, myself.”

  There was a small pause, where she could see he debated how much to tell her.

  To speed things along—she’d a baby she was longing to see, after all—she prompted, “The first kook is dead, by the way.”

  He raised his brows. “Is he? I confess I am not surprised.”

  As her husband was stalling, she prompted again, “So; both of Munoz’s kooks used to be in the army, and both of them were killed for tryin’ to pass information along to her.”

  He tilted his head in polite disagreement. “Not necessarily to her.”

  There was a small silence, whilst she regarded him with deep surprise. “Never say they were barkin’ up the wrong tree?”

  As they stopped for a red light, he glanced over at her. “If you had information about police corruption, and didn’t know who to trust, who would you pass it along to?”

  She stared at him in dawning amazement. “You. You’re the reformer—or at least, that what everyone thinks.” After all, Acton had been instrumental in taking down the Met’s ACC, in spectacular fashion.

  “Indeed.”

  With some wonder, she turned to gaze out the windscreen. “Faith, Michael; if they think you’re some sort of righteous crusader, there’s irony that’s so ironic we’ll have to think of a new word for it.”

  “Nevertheless, I imagine that it was I who was the target.”

  But Doyle could only shake her head in confusion. “Not followin’, Michael. There’s no mistakin’ Munoz for you.”

  Patiently, he explained, “It is generally presumed that you and Munoz are good friends.”

  “We are friends,” Doyle protested, and then added a bit lamely, “In a manner of speakin’.”

  “I imagine the letters contained information that someone wished her to show you, so that you would in turn show it to me. Notice that no messages were sent on ele
ctronic devices, nor were any recordings left over the phone.”

  “Aye, that,” Doyle agreed, her brow knit. “I thought it strange—no one writes letters anymore, especially burn-outs. But why not just drop a word with you, then? Why all this roundabout cloak-and-dagger stuff?”

  “They were stymied because we were on maternity leave, and unreachable.”

  She turned to stare at him. “Saints, that’s right—we were sidelined.” Not to mention that Acton was paralyzed with dread, and unable to leave the flat. And that even under normal circumstances, it was no easy feat to contact Lord and Lady Acton on the sly.

  Doyle decided she’d state the obvious, just to get it out in the open. “They wouldn’t have been so paranoid—these army people—if it weren’t MI 5 they were so afraid of.”

  He stated very calmly, “I would agree with that assessment, but I would appreciate it if you did not mention it to anyone else.”

  A bit taken aback by the enormity of it all—even though she was half-expecting such an answer—Doyle ventured, “Does that mean that MI 5 is involved in the illegal drug scheme?”

  He did not answer the question, but in true Acton-manner, confirmed it in an indirect way. “There is a great deal of money to be made. Unfortunately, departmental budgets have been reduced rather drastically.”

  There was a small pause, whilst she contemplated this information—he was right; it was cataclysmic. “That’s horrid, Michael; they can’t honestly think that the ends justify the means.”

  “I imagine there are some who do, and some who don’t. And remember that many people feel drug use should not be illegal in the first instance.”

  “Those people should spend a day in our shoes, then,” she retorted.

  “A fair point.”

  Reasoning it out, she continued slowly, “So; the Desk Sergeant—who sees and hears a lot of things, and obviously put two-and-two together—was tryin’ to get evidence of—of this copper-approved drug rig through to you, but it wasn’t workin’, and the villains must have twigged onto him. In a panic, the villains are now in the process of putting paid to all potential loose-ends, including poor Munoz, who doesn’t even realize she’s a loose-end.”