Stubbornly, she persisted. “I’m only spoutin’ your theory, my friend; if the facts don’t fit the usual motivations, then attention should be paid. The SOCO people are inclined to blather in their cups—perhaps she said the wrong thing to the wrong person, and this was a containment murder; a murder to contain any further spilling-of-the-beans. It may be useful to take a peek at her recent caseload.”
Acton made no immediate response, and she eyed him, aware that the dead woman was willing to work off the grid for Acton, so to speak, and on at least one occasion had manipulated evidence for him. Hopefully, I am not yet again investigating a murder that my own husband committed, she thought crossly, and briefly toyed with the idea of asking him outright. Instead, she asked, “Was she doing anythin’ for you on the side, Michael?”
He was amused, and glanced at her. “Is that a euphemism?”
“No, it is not.” She was not in a joking mood, a rarity for her.
“No, on both counts.” He paused. “I discouraged any attempts to communicate outside of work, and she was someone who didn’t want to be rebuked.”
No, thought Doyle; she was the type who was content to entertain fantasies, rather than act on them. “Can you put me on the case? I always felt a bit sorry for her, and now I’m sorrier still.”
He met her eye, and Doyle knew exactly what he was thinking. “I’ll be safe as houses, Michael—and I’m dyin’ for a new assignment. I’ll just go ask a few questions, have a look ʼround her flat, and see what there is to see.” Inspired, she added, “I need somethin’ to take my mind off the mornin’ sickness; I’ll feel better if I’m doin’ good works.”
“Right, then. But no heroics.”
“Not to worry; I am in no shape, my friend.”
Acton had to leave after taking a call on some urgent matter, so Doyle rang up DI Chiu with an eye to going out immediately to interview the neighbors—it was important to move quickly, before any leads went cold.
But when she picked up, Chiu was not necessarily pleased to hear that Doyle was to join her team. “The PCs have already done a preliminary, DS Doyle.”
“I know, ma’am, but I knew the victim, and I’d like to lend a hand.” Doyle then played her trump. “DCI Acton is the SIO, and he’s given the go-ahead.”
There was a slight pause. “I will meet you there, then.”
Doyle copied the address, and then immediately called Williams as she made her way up the stairs from the morgue. “Hey.”
“Can’t talk long; I’m heading into the interview room.”
“I’ll make it quick; tell me about DI Chiu.”
“Smart. Doesn’t suffer fools.”
Oh-oh, thought Doyle. “Well, aside from that, why wouldn’t she like me?”
“Not a clue, Kath; maybe she’s territorial, and doesn’t like the Acton connection.”
“There’s not the smallest chance I’d be promoted over her, for heaven’s sake.”
“I’ve got to go—I’ll ring you later.”
“It’s not important, Thomas, I’ll see you tomorrow.” Thoughtfully, Doyle rang off and headed outside, hoping the victim’s flat had been aired out—the scent of decomposition always set her off, nowadays, and she didn’t want to give her husband any excuse to take her off her only remaining case.
4
DS Syed, the Evidence Officer, was conferring with DI Chiu when Doyle arrived at the SOCO’s flat, and so Doyle pulled out her occurrence book and began making notes, whilst they finished up their conversation. The flat was in a respectable building in a quiet area of the city, but the interior was what Doyle had anticipated—cluttered and disorganized; the furniture rather shabby, and the kitchen sink filled with unwashed dishes. As always, Doyle felt a pang of sympathy for the murder victim, who had to suffer not only the indignity of being murdered, but the indignity of having strangers comb through the leftovers of one’s life.
The EO was saying to Chiu, “Nothing that stands out on personal electronics; no dating sites or unusual emails. We’re looking through her mobile records. Not a lot of calls, though, so it shouldn’t take long.”
Thinking of Acton’s theory, Doyle ventured, “Has burglary been ruled out?”
Syed shook his head. “Burglary seems unlikely; there’s no sign of forced entry, and the victim’s wallet was laying on the sofa.”
Chiu took the opportunity to point out in a neutral tone, “You may wish to familiarize yourself with the preliminary report, DS Doyle.”
Feeling herself blush, Doyle explained, “It’s only that DCI Acton wondered if she was struck in the dark, ma’am, and didn’t see it comin’. She was smacked right in the face, but there were no defensive wounds, as though he caught her completely by surprise.”
Chiu considered this theory for a moment, her level gaze surveying the flat, and to her credit, she appeared willing to reassess. “The victim was killed in the spare bedroom—perhaps she heard something, surprised an intruder, he struck her down, and then fled in a panic without stealing anything. It’s possible.”
But the EO was forced to poke a major hole in the working theory. “Remember that he took the victim’s latex gloves with him, on his way out. Doesn’t sound very panicked.”
Doyle knit her brow at this strange little wrinkle. “So it’s true—she was wearin’ latex gloves?”
Syed nodded. “Trace found the powder residue that would be inside the gloves—but nothing else on her hands or under her nails; she was completely clean. Since there were no discarded gloves in the flat, we can presume the gloves were removed post-mortem, and taken away.”
Without a blink, Chiu accepted this rather bizarre fact, and adjusted her theory. “Perhaps she was cleaning when she heard him. Her attacker took the gloves because he was worried that his DNA was on them.”
Doyle reminded her, “There were no signs of a defensive struggle, ma’am.” With a nod, she indicated the messy kitchen. “And it doesn’t much look like she was doin’ the dishes; or cleanin’.”
It seemed clear that Chiu had re-assessed Doyle’s potential contribution to the case, and was now listening to her suggestions with bit more attention. “Yes—that’s true. She must have been wearing gloves for some other reason, then heard the intruder knocking around in the spare room, and gone in to investigate.”
With obvious regret, the EO poked yet another hole in yet another theory. “Then why wouldn’t she have turned on the lights?”
They thought about this puzzle for a moment, and Doyle was forced to concede, “One of these assumptions must be wrong, then. Perhaps we should be lookin’ at it from the other end—circumstantial evidence, instead of forensics. Were all personal papers gathered up?” Doyle was half-dreading that the woman kept an Acton scrapbook; no question she was one of his biggest fans.
Instead, the EO offered up a small smile. “She had your newspaper clipping on her fridge, Officer Doyle.”
No need to ask which one; a few months ago, Doyle had jumped off Greyfriars Bridge into the Thames to save Munoz, her colleague. To her extreme embarrassment, she was now something of a local hero, and recognized by well-wishers nearly everywhere she went. Ironically, the glowing newspaper article posted on the SOCO’s fridge had been written by Kevin Maguire, the vigilante killer who’d just died in custody.
“Not a lot of circumstantial evidence so far,” Chiu continued. “No current or ex-boyfriends, and she hadn’t a lot of money. Has trace come up with anything unusual?”
The EO shook his head. “It’s a tough one for trace; cat hairs and other miscellaneous fibers on everything—it would be a long slog to try to isolate anything of interest, and we wouldn’t know where to start. It’s a shame she was killed with blunt force to the frontal lobe; not much blood spatter.”
The two other detectives nodded at this seemingly callous remark; if a victim bled, it enhanced the chances that they could pick up footprints, or blood transfer fingerprints left behind. Messy murder scenes usually made their work miles easier.
Carefully, Doyle stepped over to look through the door into the spare bedroom, where the body was found, but the room was semi-empty, and held no spare bed. Instead, in one corner was a tall, carpeted cat’s tower. “That’s a bit odd, don’t you think, ma’am? The rest of the place is so cluttered—you’d think the spare room would be packed to the gills.”
“Perhaps the cat wouldn’t have it,” joked the EO.
Doyle smiled. “There’s your suspect, then; the cat. Has he fled the scene?”
“The Animal Care Centre took him to the Metro shelter,” said Chiu, who was not the joking-about type. “The SOCO’s next of kin is her father, who lives in Liverpool. He’s been notified, and will come to identify her this afternoon. I’ll speak with him, to see if he can shed any light.” She shut down her tablet, and nodded to Doyle. “Let’s see if any neighbors are home; someone may have remembered something new, since the time the PCs took their original statements.”
Looking self-conscious, the EO ventured, “Before you leave, do you think I could have a snap, Officer Doyle?”
Well-used to it, Doyle dutifully smiled while the man stood beside her, and held up his mobile to take a photograph. “My daughter will be thrilled—she wants to be a police officer, when she grows up.”
“Well then; that is excellent.” Doyle wondered whether the unborn Mary would also aspire to such a career—although it seemed unlikely that the Honorable Mary Sinclair, daughter of the fourteenth Lord Acton, would be grubbing around, knee-deep in decaying bodies. Reminded, she frowned, slightly. “That’s odd; I don’t smell decomp in here.”
Syed affirmed, “No—the heat was off, and it was cold, so not a lot of decomposition. And she was only here for about twenty hours, after time of death.”
“But—but didn’t the neighbor report the smell of decomp?”
Doyle caught a flash of grudging approval from Chiu, who opened her tablet to re-check her notes. “Yes—the widow next door complained of the smell; a Mrs. Addersley. Let’s go see if she’s home.”
In response to their knock, a well-dressed, middle-aged woman promptly answered the door, and addressed them in a brisk tone. “You are here about the murder, I suppose.”
That’s odd, thought Doyle in surprise; and on two different counts. A bit bemused, she followed Chiu into the woman’s flat, and took a proffered seat on the sofa, her scalp prickling as it did when her intuitive abilities were alerting her to be wary.
The witness didn’t appear threatening, though, as she crossed her hands on her lap, and looked to Chiu with serene coldness, ignoring Doyle as though she weren’t there. Fortyish, thought Doyle, and very well turned-out. She looked like she took good care of her skin, and didn’t go out in the sun, much.
“I understand you contacted the police about your neighbor,” Chiu began.
Addersley nodded. “Yes; I noticed she didn’t leave for work that morning—I always hear the door shut. So I wondered if she was ill, but she didn’t answer the door when I knocked. When she didn’t go to work the next day, I was worried enough to call—she never missed work.”
Mother a’ mercy, thought Doyle as she sat in stupefied astonishment next to Chiu; not a blessed thing the witness had said was true.
Chiu checked her notes, and continued, “I understand you heard an altercation earlier this week. Can you tell us about it?”
Her hands still crossed, the witness answered without hesitation. “Yes; she had a fight with a man a few nights ago—before she was killed. It must have been that man she was dating; he was a rough sort. I heard him threaten her. He was angry that she didn’t want to see him again, and that she wouldn’t let him in.” She paused. “I was going to call the police, but it didn’t sound violent, and I didn’t want to embarrass her. Now, of course, I wish I had.”
“Description?” asked Chiu, her fingers poised. Doyle said nothing, because there had been no such person.
“A dark-haired man; mid-height.” The witness made a vague, apologetic gesture with her graceful hands. “I wish I knew more, but I only got a glimpse.”
“How long were they dating?”
The woman considered. “A few weeks? I’m afraid I cannot be certain, I didn’t want to pry.”
Doyle spoke up. “How long have you lived here, Mrs. Addersley?”
For the first time, the woman’s gaze rested on Doyle. “Three years, Officer Doyle.”
Doyle was surprised into silence; the woman knew her name—even though they’d not been introduced—and aside from that, she didn’t like her very much. Of course, Doyle was recognizable from the bridge-jumping incident—and some people were prejudiced against the Irish—but it seemed more personal than that. Not to mention that the witness continued to lie like the second death.
Doyle could sense that Chiu was impatient with her for interrupting the pertinent line of questioning, and the DI went back to pick up the thread. “During the argument, did you hear her say the man’s name? Or did you notice a car, perhaps?”
“I’m afraid not. If only I’d known—”
Chiu was quick to provide comfort. “You mustn’t feel badly, Mrs. Addersley; hindsight is always perfect, after all. How well did you know the victim—can you give us any insight into her habits?”
“Just to say hello in the hall; she kept to herself, mostly.”
Chiu paused to make a note whilst Doyle sat and stewed, wondering if she should make an attempt to trip up the witness in front of Chiu, or whether she should just button her lip for the present, and then lay the whole before Acton. I’ll speak with Acton—and as soon as I can, she decided. This type of dilemma cropped up from time to time; she couldn’t disclose why she was aware that lies were being told, but the situation required immediate action.
After the witness confessed that she could recall no further details, Chiu stood and handed over her card. “Thank you, Mrs. Addersley; please don’t hesitate to call if you can think of anything else.”
“I will. It is a very tragic situation.” Whilst telling this particular untruth, the woman’s gaze rested for the barest moment on Doyle, who again caught a well-concealed flash of—of what? Anger? Bitterness? Perhaps the woman’s deceased husband had been killed by an Irishman, or something; no mistaking that she was like a shard of frozen ice, under that well-groomed exterior.
Doyle followed Chiu down the hallway, furiously trying to understand why this particular witness had decided that the best course of action was to lie to the police, with the obvious answer being that she was complicit in the crime—after all, the woman had been striving mightily to cast blame elsewhere. It seemed a bit unlikely, though; the widow seemed too refined to be lurking about in the dark, waiting to cosh her neighbor—although any first-year detective could tell you that disputes between neighbors oftentimes erupted into murder.
Her thoughts were interrupted by an elderly man, shuffling toward them from the other direction, as they approached the lift. He carried a satchel over his shoulder, as though he were headed to the grocers, and nodded to them, speaking a little loudly in the manner of someone hard of hearing. “Good thing they got the smell off the carpet, what?”
“What sort of smell?” This seemed of interest, as Doyle was reminded that while there’d not been any decomp to speak of, Mrs. Addersley had reported an unusual smell.
“Eh?” said the gentleman.
“What sort of smell?” Doyle asked again, a bit louder.
“That cleaning smell.” The man made a face, which served to emphasize his deep wrinkles. “Can’t mistake it.”
Doyle and Chiu regarded him for a moment, and Doyle knew they were both trying to decide if he was worth the trouble of questioning—the elderly tended not to be good witnesses. Chiu apparently decided to follow up, and raised her voice. “Can you describe the smell, sir?”
Shaggy white brows were raised while this question was considered, and the man waved a bony, age-spotted hand in a vague gesture. “Oh, you know—chemicals.”
“Bleach?” Doyle prompted, when nothing further seemed to be forthcoming. Perhaps the killer had thought of using bleach to clean up the site—although there’d been no smell of it in the flat.
“No, no—not bleach; the other one, the one that smells sweet. My late wife used it to polish the furniture.” He sighed, his thin chest rising and falling. “Can’t mistake it—it brings back memories.”
A widower, thought Doyle with sympathy—and lonely, poor man. She’d gained the impression that he had no particular errand to run, but instead sought an excuse to come out to speak with them.
“Someone spilled chemicals, here in the hallway?” asked Chiu, her gaze surveying the carpeting.
The man indicated with a crooked finger. “There. Down by the rubbish chute.”
Chiu checked her notes. “You are Mr. Huse? Do you mind if we ask some questions?”
But in the manner of the elderly, Mr. Huse wanted to ask his own questions. “Do they know who killed her, yet? Hard to believe such a thing could happen here—what’s the world coming to?”
But Chiu was not one to wax philosophical. “I am afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss a pending investigation, sir. Have you thought of anything that might be of interest, since your interview?”
The man shifted his feet. “I know she had a cat. A great, grey cat.”
Ah, thought Doyle.
“Yes, she had a cat,” Chiu affirmed with just a hint of impatience. “Did you ever run into her boyfriend, coming in or out?”
But the witness was not going to be led, and continued in his over-loud voice, “Do you know what happened to the cat? Sometimes she’d have me come in and feed it, if she was going to be late. I have a spare key.”
Although it was hard to imagine Mr. Huse hefting a blunt instrument, there was no shirking this very interesting fact, and Chiu’s voice suddenly became even more businesslike, if it was possible. “I understand you were out of town the night of the murder, Mr. Huse. Is there anyone who could verify this?”
He nodded readily. “Oh, yes. Visiting my sister.”
Murder in Containment: A Doyle and Acton Mystery Page 3
