Murder in Just Cause

by Anne Cleeland

  “Do you remember how the drugs were being smuggled, at the course?”

  “The horse syringes,” she said promptly. “Lily wanted to make sure we realized.”

  His hand paused. “Who is Lily?”

  “Never you mind, husband. Stay on-topic, if you please.”

  “The Holy Trinity Clinic was using the same method to distribute illegal drugs, and Brody Peterson was involved in the rig.” He paused. “He was a user, himself.”

  “Oh.” Doyle frowned, knowing that this was not particularly shocking. Due to the nature of the work, it was well-known that LEOs were at risk, particularly because they ran across temptation on a daily basis—hence the need for integrity checks. Although—although it certainly seemed as though there hadn’t been an integrity check where it was most needed, in this case. Mayhap nobody thought that Brody Peterson—the umpteenth generation of honorable Scotland Yard coppers—would warrant one.

  Thinking on this, she clasped her arms around her bent knees. That seemed unlikely—no one escaped integrity checks, and that was why they worked. Aloud, she concluded, “So—there were higher-ups, involved in this rig. That’s why there were no integrity checks, and why they could stage Brody Peterson’s death in such a brazen way. There were higher-ups involved.”

  “The drug-smuggling was a very lucrative enterprise,” was all he offered.

  She turned to him. “Who? Are you goin’ to tell me who’s on the list?”

  “Regretfully, I am not,” he replied. “And we are going off-topic, again.”

  With a mighty effort, Doyle tried to pick up the threads of the conversation. “We were speakin’ of distributin’ the drugs by syringe, which means it only makes sense that the Clinic was involved, too, since the Clinic is like the race-course and has syringes full of drugs lyin’ about—"

  She paused in acute dismay. “Holy Mother of God, Michael. The second kook—the other soldier—spoke of the poisoned inoculations—the ones that killed all those poor children.”

  “Yes.”

  “It all fits. It all fits and it’s so terrible—someone—some poor person at the Clinic didn’t realize that the syringes were a sham—that they were only a means to distribute the drugs. Someone didn’t realize, and used the wrong batch of syringes, and the children all died of an overdose.”

  Gravely, he replied, “So it would seem.”

  Slowly, she shook her head in horror. “Holy Mother, Michael; it makes you sick. Small wonder they were movin’ heaven and earth to try and cover it up.” Thinking this through, she added, “Which also means the investigation into the children’s deaths was a sham. Otherwise it would have been an easy thing, for forensics to see what they’d died of.”

  He made no reply, which was reply enough.

  Into the bleak silence, Doyle decided not to mention how coincidental it was that Tasza had appeared at the coffee-shop to stick a spanner in their interview with the kook’s widow, and then had told them that they were interfering with another operation. To be fair, of course, it could be that MI 5 was truly investigating the rig, but Doyle surmised that Commander Tasza was one of the higher-ups involved in the cover-up operation; it had to be someone powerful, with access to all channels of information.

  So—here was the terrible secret that the copper-side was determined to keep covered-up; Brody Peterson was no hero, but instead he was the worst of the worst. And he made a perfect front-man for the criminal enterprise, since no one would ever think that a Peterson would stoop to being a dirty copper.

  The plan was well-thought out, and rather terrifying in its ruthlessness—no one was going to look very closely at what was in syringes at the vet’s or at the free clinic; after all, they were supposed to contain drugs in the first place.

  Bleakly, she observed, “This is not nuanced a’tall, Michael; this is not somethin’ you can just sweep under the rug.”

  He bent his head. “Regretfully, I will prove you wrong.”

  She lowered her face so that she rested her forehead on her bent knees, and contemplated the dilemma presented; Acton—true to form—would rather keep this public relations disaster private than let the chips fall where they may. She could hardly blame him, this time; she knew first-hand how much the rank-and-file loved their heroes—imagine the blow to morale if it turned out one of their greatest heroes was just exactly the opposite.

  With a sense of acute misery, she asked, “How could they have done it—his brother and sister, I mean? How could they have risked so much—been willin’ to kill people, even—to cover for a dirty copper, just because he was their brother? My mother would say the game wasn’t worth the candle.”

  “On the contrary; to them there is nothing that is worth more.”

  Doyle was reminded of her ghost, who’d just said something similar. “It’s like a cult, is what it is.”

  “No—it is more like a brotherhood. But it transcends life and death, which is only to be expected; life and death are ordinary, everyday events to a police officer.”

  “And to a soldier, too,” she added. “And I suppose we can’t know, because we didn’t have brothers or sisters.”

  He nodded. “I imagine that the siblings thought that with Brody’s staged death, nothing more needed to be done. But then the smuggling rig continued.”

  “And they didn’t dare say anythin’—not after what the people managin’ it had done for Brody. Was Claudia’s husband killed, too? Was he going to grass?”

  “He killed himself, instead. Apparently, he could not live with it.”

  Doyle raised her head. “Then it is like Antigone.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Off-topic,” she apologized. “Never you mind.”

  Acton continued, “Claudia’s husband had a history with the Desk Sergeant; they’d served in Afghanistan, together.”

  “Ah. The penny drops.”

  “Indeed.”

  She took a deep, sad breath. “So; the Desk Sergeant decided that enough was enough and tried to reach out to you, but then the coppers caught wind and started murderin’ everyone who could grass on them. And now they’re all stuck, because they can’t back out without pullin’ the curtain away from the whole horror-show.”

  “I hope to sort it out, with as little damage done as possible,” Acton offered.

  She turned to regard him. “My hat’s off to you, if you can; from where I’m standin’, it’s the next thing to impossible.”

  “I will try to convince both sides that it would be in their best interests to stand down.”

  She sighed, and reached to run a sympathetic hand along his arm. “Bring pressure to bear? Good luck, my friend, there’s nothin’ left to use—they’re all willin’ to kill each other down to the last man.”

  “We shall see,” was all he’d offer, and she had to be content with that.

  Chapter 38

  Doyle reviewed the artwork that had been strategically arranged on the softly-lit gallery wall, standing with her husband and trying to turn her mind from the fact that crossfire could break out at any moment.

  “At least Munoz’s paintin’s look like what they’re supposed to look like, Michael; I’m glad we’re not lookin’ at some splash of color that’s supposed to represent somethin’ meaningful, and then be required to make thoughtful comments.”

  “Your tastes align with mine.”

  She smiled. “Yes—I do like the paintin’s at Trestles, Michael. I especially like the one with all the clouds that’s hangin’ in the dinin’ room; mayhap we should move it up to Edward’s new playroom—I think he would like it.”

  “The Constable goes to the playroom, then,” he agreed, and she had the sense he was amused, for some reason.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Doyle was carefully keeping track of all the various players—understandable, under the circumstances—and duly noted that McShane was wandering about but was keeping well-away from the Petersons, who were stationed at the front doors as they checked the g
uests in.

  Munoz was greeting people as they arrived, with the gallery-owner standing beside her and speaking in glowing tones of her “depth” and “unerring vision.” The man had made a point of loudly calling out to Lord and Lady Acton when they’d arrived, and pretending for the sake of all onlookers that he was well-acquainted with them, as he engaged in friendly conversation for a few minutes, with an assistant taking a quick snap.

  Can’t blame the man, Doyle thought fairly; an Acton-sighting in the wild was a rare occurrence.

  And she was reassured to see that her husband was taking no chances and had his own security in place, what with Williams hovering near the two officers, and Inspector Geary keeping a sharp eye on the guests.

  As she moved with her husband to observe the next painting, Doyle asked in a low voice, “Is there a protocol I should know about, Michael?”

  He replied, “I will attempt to negotiate a cease-fire, and I think you may be helpful, in that aim. I will go speak with James, shortly, and I will ask you to join me. If you would, please watch for my signal.”

  She eyed him sidelong. “You’re not includin’ Claudia?”

  “Claudia appears to be the less reasonable of the two.”

  “Claudia is bent on self-destruction,” Doyle declared, rather sadly. “She’s that Antigone person, and its just a matter of time, I’m afraid.”

  “Then all the more reason to address James,” Acton replied, and Doyle thought she caught a nuance in his words—trust Acton to have a plan. Hopefully, it was a good one.

  They paused before the next painting, and Doyle said, “I should buy one for Reynolds. He was hintin’ that he wants one, and we could give it as a gift for his Confirmation in the Orthodox Church.”

  “Very apt,” her husband agreed.

  “We can’t go wrong with St. Mary, I think, and Munoz does her so well. Do they have the same saints, d’you suppose? I wouldn’t want to cause offense.”

  “I believe they do,” Acton said. “And we will purchase another painting to hang at Trestles. Choose whichever one you’d like.”

  Doyle leaned into his arm fondly. “You’re a good sport, Michael.”

  “She is talented,” he observed.

  Doyle made a wry mouth. “More like she’s conflicted, my friend.” This, because Gabriel was now standing near Munoz, proud and proprietary, whilst Inspector Geary idly walked along the displays, his hands clasped behind his back. Doyle wasn’t fooled, however; beneath the Irishman’s benign demeanor he was all keyed up, and Munoz was carefully not looking his way.

  “I’ll go now—please watch for my signal.”

  “Yes, sir,” she teased. “A shame, it is, that I didn’t think to wear my commendation medals clangin’ around my neck.”

  Acton parted from her, and she casually walked over to congratulate Munoz, who was looking much better in black than even Doyle did, which was no doubt why there were men ready to fight duels wandering around the room.

  “Ho, Munoz. Everythin’ looks crackin’ grand.”

  “Thanks for coming, Doyle,” the Spanish girl replied. Doyle could see that she was nervous, but—being Munoz—she was hiding it behind a confident façade.

  I should work on my own confident façade, thought Doyle; I’ve a feeling I’ll be needing it within the next few minutes. Thus reminded, she positioned herself to watch Acton, who’d managed to draw James Peterson aside.

  Gabriel bowed over Doyle’s hand, in his irreverent way. “Yes; thanks for coming. It never hurts to have the aristocracy show support—it gives the artist quite the cachet.”

  “Of course, it does,” Doyle agreed. “Cachets in spades.”

  Gabriel laughed as though she’d said something funny, but Munoz took Doyle’s arm, and steered her toward a city-scape of London in the rain.

  “We’re goin’ to buy one for Trestles,” Doyle ventured, observing the artwork. “Is this a good one, d’you think?” Since it was one of Munoz’s larger paintings, it seemed appropriate for a great crackin’ barn like Trestles.

  “I suppose. But I wanted to ask you—you haven’t heard from Savoie? I was hoping he might show up.”

  Thank all available saints and angels that he didn’t, Doyle thought; that’s all we needed. “No, Munoz, but it’s to be expected, I think; he’s got to keep a low-profile for a while.”

  The other girl made a sound of frustration. “I wish I knew how to get in touch—I wanted to warn him about something.”

  It suddenly occurred to Doyle that it may be in the House of Acton’s best interests to find out why Munoz thought Savoie needed to be warned, and so she asked, “What is it, Munoz?”

  The girl glanced around them, and then lowered her voice. “I heard some strange rumors about a missing Russian child. I wanted to give him the head’s up—some dodgy characters may be looking for Emile.”

  This information could only fill Doyle with abject dismay, as she was currently housing little Gemma, who was a missing Russian child and who was—coincidentally—a likely candidate for a dodgy-characters search. “Why—what did you hear, Munoz?”

  “It was on the Sir Cavanaugh case. The Council member who’s left the country was a naturalized citizen from Russia—and there’s some wild story about how he’s connected to a royal Russian child, hidden in England.”

  With a mighty effort, Doyle tried to tamp down her extreme dismay at this revelation, and—almost without conscious volition—turned her gaze toward Acton, only to find that he was meeting her eyes from across the room.

  Faith, almost missed my cue, she thought. “All right, Munoz; I’ll make sure to tell you if I hear from Savoie. In fact, let me go mention it to Acton.”

  With no further ado, she sidled through the guests and made her way over to Acton’s side, where he was speaking in quiet tones to James Peterson. It was not a surprise when she sensed that Peterson was utterly miserable, and emanating a bleak fatalism, rather like a cornered animal.

  “Officer Peterson,” Doyle greeted him, in her best imitation of someone who’d a drink named after her at The Bowman.

  “Officer Doyle,” he replied, and she noted that his lip trembled slightly, so that he bit down on it.

  She touched his arm, gently. “I hope you’re listenin’ to the Chief Inspector. He wants you to find a way out of your troubles. We both do.”

  The other man abruptly looked down and away, clearly overwrought, and it appeared Doyle wasn’t the only one who’d noticed, because they were joined rather abruptly by his sister, who took in Acton and Doyle with an accusing glance and then addressed her brother. “What are they saying to you, Jamie?”

  His mouth working, the man lifted his face to hers. “They want an end to it, Clo.”

  Doyle could sense the woman’s extreme dismay as she addressed him sternly. “Say nothing.”

  “It’s too late; they already know.”

  “Jimmy,” she breathed in horror.

  “They already knew,” he repeated, and a muscle in his cheek twitched.

  White-lipped, the woman turned to address Acton. “Then you know that there’s nothing we can do—nothing any of us can do.” Belatedly, she remembered to add, “Sir.”

  “On the contrary,” said Acton. “You’ve only to threaten to expose the rig—and those behind it will disappear.”

  “We should, Clo,” James pleaded. “We should. Otherwise, where does it end?

  In a low, intense voice, Claudia retorted, “It does not end with Brody having his star taken down.”

  Near tears, her brother offered in a broken voice, “But it should, Clo—it should.”

  Doyle noted that several of the guests in the immediate vicinity had turned their heads, no doubt startled that something so laden with emotion could be taking place at a gallery showing in Soho.

  “Perhaps Brody’s role can remain unexamined,” Acton said quietly. “But there are reparations to be made in exchange for this, and you must agree to cooperate.”

  Claudia made
no response, but James grasped this branch like a drowning man. “What do you have in mind, sir?”

  Acton said steadily, “I will launch an investigation into the deaths of the two men who were killed in the cover-up, and determine that the reporting officer was derelict in her duties.”

  Doyle controlled her reaction only with an effort; the reporting officer was Munoz.

  He continued, “She will be reprimanded, and the Met will settle the wrongful death claims so that there is a payout to the surviving relatives.”

  He paused, watching them. “The rig will be rolled up, and no more will be said. But if I do not have your full cooperation, I will recommend that Brody Peterson’s role in the inoculations case be reviewed.” He paused, and then said to Claudia, “And you will relinquish your spouse’s pension, which was acquired under false pretenses.”

  “No,” she said, vehemently shaking her head. “No—I’ll not let them know about Peter. I won’t.”

  “Oh, I think you will,” Acton said, and lifted his gaze to McShane, who came charging forward so as to take a mighty swing at James, breaking the man’s nose in a spatter of blood.

  Utterly shocked, Doyle’s first impulse was to break the two apart, but Acton pulled her back, and as McShane grappled with James, the bystanders quickly moved away, murmuring amongst themselves as they watched the two men fight.

  “Hold on,” Gabriel called out in alarm, as he strode toward the combatants. “Take it outside.”

  But matters went from bad to worse, as Williams called out a warning. “Gun! Gun!”

  A shot rang out, and as could be expected, there was a mass, shrieking exodus toward the exit, whilst Doyle’s husband held her against the wall in a firm grip.

  “Man down!” Munoz called out in alarm, and Doyle turned her horrified gaze to see that Gabriel was half-lying on the ground, holding his lower leg and clenching his teeth in agony.

  “Where’s the gun?” Williams shouted, and then McShane slammed James Peterson against the wall, roughly pinning him so that his bloody face was mashed up against it.

  “Easy, easy—” James gasped.

  “Gun secured,” Geary called out, and stepped forward to pull the smoking weapon out of James’s waistband.