Doyle said fairly, “Can’t be blamin’ her; I rather admire him, myself.”
“Yes; well, she was a bit—immature, I suppose, despite the type of work we do.”
“Can you ask around for me? Find out if she had any secrets, or dropped any hints? I think it’s important.”
“Will do.”
After she rang off, Doyle turned to ask the dead girl’s father, “Are there any other relatives your daughter may have spoken to about this—about her secret project? Or can you name any of her close friends?”
But he continued uncooperative, and shrugged without even looking up from his task. “No. Her mum’s dead, and she kept to herself, as far as I know.”
Like me, thought Doyle—except in my case a certain chief inspector swooped in to save me from myself; it’s a shame no one did the same for her. “Keep writing,” she directed. “Lord what’s-his-name is comin’, and he’ll be wantin’ to ask you a few questions.”
14
Two hours later, Doyle was in the SOCO’s spare room, trying to make her case to Chiu and Syed while Acton listened without comment. It was not necessarily going well, but as she was the bridge-jumper, and married to a peer of the realm who appeared to find her credible, they were careful not to express open doubt. The cat carrier was now situated on the kitchen counter, with its occupant still yowling in protest at his involuntary confinement.
Doyle explained rather lamely, “The victim’s father said she wouldn’t let him go inside—said she was workin’ on a project that she didn’t want anyone to see. They were arguin’ in the hallway about it.”
“It weren’t a big deal,” the man called out defensively, from his position at the kitchen table. “A little brangle—not that loud.”
“That’s enough from you,” said Acton in a tone that brooked no argument, and Doyle noted that both the man and the cat went silent.
The building’s manager offered, “The argument was loud enough that Mrs. Addersley heard it—she rang me up.” The manager was a rather vacuous young man who was related to the building’s owner, and Doyle surmised that he was probably a shirt-tail relative who needed a little help in keeping body and soul together. He was not very bright, but appeared very interested in the dramatic events unfolding in the formerly quiet residential building, his mouth slightly agape, as he watched from his post at the door. “Do you mind if I feed the cat?”
“Please do so,” said Acton, and the young man rummaged in a cupboard until he found a tin of cat food.
Trying to keep her report going, despite these various interruptions, Doyle persisted, “Yesterday, Mr. Huse was speakin’ loudly in the hallway because he was hard of hearin’. He told me that he’d been given a key to take care of the cat—meanin’ he announced to anyone listenin’ that he’d been into the victim’s flat, and knew what was inside.” She made a gesture that encompassed their surroundings. “And the spare room looks to me like it shouldn’t be empty, as compared to the rest of the flat.”
Arms crossed, Acton bowed his head. “So you believe the killer heard the SOCO’s argument with her father, and as a result, killed her. The killer removed the incriminating evidence, then heard Huse speaking with you, and—realizing that he was a witness as to whatever was in the flat, murdered him in turn.”
“I—I suppose so,” Doyle faltered, realizing this did not sound very plausible. “Or the killer found out about the project some other way. But I can’t think it’s a coincidence that Mr. Huse is now dead.”
“He was pretty old,” the manager offered doubtfully.
“So it was the same killer for both, and your theory points to one of the neighbors?” Chiu’s voice held a hint of skepticism. “It seems strange that the SOCO would be working up a case without reporting it to the Met—a case against a neighbor on her own floor.”
“It does seem a bit strange,” Doyle agreed, wishing she had better answers—truly, it didn’t make a lot of sense. “Perhaps we should speak to Mrs. Addersley again.” Doyle met Acton’s eye to remind him that the woman had lied to the police.
“An unlikely suspect,” Acton pointed out reasonably. “She is the one who alerted the manager about the argument, and then alerted the police about the possible murder.”
“And she’s pretty old, too,” the manager chimed in, as he tentatively stroked the cat.
Both Chiu and Doyle turned to stare at him. “How old is she?” asked Chiu. “How old is Mrs. Addersley?”
The manager made a face indicating great thought, then guessed, “Seventy? Eighty?”
Doyle looked at Acton. “The woman we interviewed wasn’t much over forty.”
Acton straightened up. “Then I suggest we go speak with her.”
“You can’t speak to her,” the manager advised. “She left me a note saying she’d gone to visit her son in the Cotswolds. Not sure when she’d be back.” He paused, because the law enforcement personnel had all stopped to stare at him, yet again.
“Is that so?” asked Acton. “Do you have an address?”
Sorry to disappoint, the young man shook his head. “No, sir—no address.”
“Do you have a photo of the woman?”
Again, he shook his head with regret. “No, sir—no photo.”
“Well then; I imagine you have a key?”
“Can we do that?” the manager asked doubtfully. “Just go in?”
“Indeed we can,” said Acton, and made a gesture indicating they were to go next door.
As he went through his keys, the young man explained apologetically, “It’s only that Mrs. Addersley is the nervous type—she tends to complain. But if it’s the police—”
Reminded, Doyle asked, “She also complained about the smell in the hallway—did you know about it?”
“Oh, sure.” He knocked loudly on Mrs. Addersley’s door. “It was nasty. Someone must have spilled, when they were using the rubbish chute—I had to have the carpet cleaned.”
“What did it smell like?” Doyle persisted. “Bleach?”
“No—kind of like scented candles, or something.” The man inserted his key to open the door.
Acton indicated that the manager was to stay back, and the others carefully stepped into the empty flat. It looked the same as it had when Doyle had been there last—very neat, with porcelain bric-a-brac on shelves and tabletops.
“No photos on display,” observed Acton, who pulled a pair of gloves from Doyle’s rucksack. “Let’s look for some.”
Doyle offered, “I think the smell in the hallway was connected to the murder, but I’m not sure how. The neighbors noticed it only after the estimated time of death.” She paused, thinking about it. “I assumed it was bleach, to scrub the site, but Mr. Huse said no—he said it was sweet, and reminded him of his late wife. He said she used something similar to polish the furniture.”
This remark had a profound effect on Acton, who stilled, and then slowly straightened up. “A darkroom. It was benzene; the SOCO must have had a darkroom in the spare room.”
“A darkroom?” exclaimed the EO, his brows raised in surprise. “No one has a darkroom for photography anymore, everything is digital.”
“Not,” said Acton slowly, “if you wanted to ensure that no one else would see what you were developing.” In a brisk tone, he began giving orders. “I’ll want this flat processed, and let’s take a look at the late Mr. Huse—see if there’s anything suspicious about his death. I’ll want someone to contact the rubbish contractor, to see if we can trace the dump site; we’ll want to see if any photographic prints were disposed of, or negatives of the prints.” He paused, thinking. “Let’s look through the victim’s records and receipts, find out where she bought her photography equipment—she may have spoken of her project to fellow enthusiasts.” He glanced at Chiu. “We’ve already looked through her media?”
“Yes, sir,” said Chiu, typing quickly on her mobile.
“There was a pad of paper in the flat,” Doyle offered. “There may be markin’s on
it.”
“Bag it, please,” said Acton. “We’ll send out an All Ports Warning on the false Mrs. Addersley; if nothing else, we can bring her in, and hold her on obstruction of justice.”
Chiu was typing furiously with her thumbs. “Description is fortyish, Caucasian, about one-thirty pounds, five foot four; dark hair, dark eyes. Well-groomed.”
“She seemed very refined; she had beautifully manicured nails,” Doyle offered. Doyle bit her own nails to the quick, and so she always noticed. “And lovely earrin’s.”
She caught a flare of impatience from Chiu. “Can you add anything to the physical description, DS Doyle?”
“Tell me about the earrings,” said Acton.
Oh-oh, thought Doyle; I am slated to receive some lovely earrings from my over-fond spouse who is always looking for an excuse to give me something expensive. “They were that blue stone, that lapil—”
“Lapis?” asked Chiu impatiently.
“Why, that sounds like the lady from the council,” ventured the manager. “I asked her about her earrings—thought my mum would like some.”
Into the sudden silence, Acton tilted his head in invitation. “Tell us, if you would, about the lady from the council.”
The young man shifted his feet, made uncomfortable by the attention. “She came by—oh, maybe a week ago. The council was looking for flats to place prison parolees. I told her we didn’t have any vacancies—not that I’d put any parolees here, Mrs. Addersley would never let me hear the end of it.”
“What did the woman look like?” Chiu asked him briskly. “Did she leave a card?”
But Doyle was distracted by the sudden flare of emotion she was picking up from her usually emotionless husband, who had pulled out his own mobile, and was scrolling with his thumb. He paused, and showed the other man a photo of a dark-haired woman. “Is this she?”
“Why—why yes,” the man replied in surprise. “That’s the lady from the council.”
Silence reigned, and Doyle finally couldn’t contain herself. “Who is it, then?”
“The missing prison matron,” said Acton.
15
Acton was on the phone at the SOCO’s flat, trying to track down the waste management supervisor who would know the dump site location for the rubbish from the building. Doyle listened from the kitchen table, and decided he was a very patient man; she’d be threatening arrest if she’d been shunted about as much as he had.
Syed and the SOCO team had been combing through Mrs. Addersley’s flat next door, and Doyle was hoping they could head for home soon—she was that tired, what with splicing together two apparently unrelated murder cases—three, if you threw in poor Mr. Huse. A good day’s work, if she did say so herself.
The SOCO’s father had been released, and the place was now blessedly silent, because the manager had asked shyly if he could keep the cat. Doyle was more than happy to let him take the wretched creature, being as she’d didn’t know if she had the wherewithal to take it back to an uncertain fate at the animal shelter. All in all, a very lucky animal.
So that she wouldn’t forget, whilst she waited for Acton to finish up, she ran a background check on Morgan-Percy-of-the-untruths, and her deceased mentor, Mr. Moran. Percy had dabbled in activism at university—she was worried about animal testing, it seemed—but didn’t have an arrest record. She’d done well at university, and volunteered with various organizations designed to provide legal representation to the poor. After graduation, she’d then been offered the prized position as a junior barrister in Moran’s chambers. Doyle wondered if the girl was related to Moran in some way—she’d had a sense that there was something along those lines—but she found no indication. All in all, very routine.
Doyle then checked for articles about Moran’s recent death. Again, nothing startling; he had a chronic heart condition—probably aggravated by alcohol abuse—and had died of a heart attack, although the particulars were not disclosed. Many in the legal community had attended his funeral; he was well-respected, and had been a fixture at the Crown Court for many years.
She stared at the screen, deep in thought, and then realized that the screen reflected Acton, standing behind her. She smiled at the reflection.
“I didn’t want to interrupt,” he said. “You’ve done exceptional work today.”
“It’s a case-breaker, I am.” She turned to face him. “How goes the rubbish?”
“I don’t have high hopes; I imagine any prints or negatives were carefully destroyed, and the darkroom equipment was then pitched down the chute. I’ll have a team out to the refuse site at first light, to have a look.”
“Don’t send poor Williams, please; he’s already havin’ a bad week.”
“Oh? How so?”
Belatedly, Doyle realized she may have to omit certain details from her recital. “He interviewed Morgan Percy this mornin’—she wanted to speak to him away from chambers. She thinks Moran and Colcombe may have been involved in the corruption scandal, and she added the new judge—Judge Whitteside—but she wasn’t tellin’ the truth on a couple of points, Michael.” Doyle frowned, remembering. “She lied when she said that Moran’s death was not suspicious or unusual. And also when she said there was no indication that others from the chambers were involved in the scandal.”
This caught his interest, and he leaned against the table and crossed his arms. “So she was either involved herself—which seems unlikely, as she is a junior—or is covering for someone.”
She sighed. “Yes, I suppose so.”
He raised his brows, reading her tone. “You don’t think so?”
“No—I imagine that’s the case. It’s just a shame; she seems a decent sort. She fancies Williams.”
He considered this for a silent moment. “Is the attraction mutual?”
This was a surprise, that Acton could be sidetracked by Williams’s love life, such as it was. Carefully, she offered, “He’s not one to say, but I think there is somethin’—please don’t mention it; I shouldn’t be tellin’ tales.”
Absently, he gazed out the windows—it was starting to rain again, and because he did not immediately comment, she prompted, “Did you already know Moran’s chambers were involved in the corruption scheme?”
He brought his attention back to her, and gave her one of his patented non-answers. “I’ll look into it; say nothing, if you would.”
“I would,” she agreed. “I also ran the program you suggested, to compare unexpected acquittals by gender—no easy task, my friend, especially when the suspect’s name is foreign, and I haven’t a clue about the gender. It turns out that Colcombe had a much higher-than-average record of female acquittals.”
Acton nodded as though he was expecting this. “Were the females usually foreigners?”
She gave him a look. “All right then; I’ll run it.” She had a sneaking suspicion that Acton was giving her busy-work, and so asked, “What is the workin’ theory, if I may be askin’?”
He replied evenly, “I believe the prison corruption scandal is also a sex scandal.”
She stared at him for a moment, remembering what Williams had implied. “The immigrant sex slavery ring? That’s connected to this?”
“I would not be surprised.”
“And who is it who’s havin’ sex?” Doyle was at sea.
“We shall see,” was all he would say.
“I’m not goin’ to keep breakin’ all your cases for you if you keep me in the dark, Michael,” she replied crossly. “Honestly.”
In a conciliatory gesture, he placed a hand on her shoulder and gently squeezed. “I am sorry, Kathleen. I don’t like this case, and I don’t like your dreams.”
But she reminded him, “The dreams aren’t really nightmares, Michael—they’re more puzzlin’, than anythin’.”
“They’re a little ominous, you must admit.”
Doyle found this unfair, but knew they’d be no budging Acton if he was worried about her safety, and so she tried a different tack. �
��Well—can you at least tell me how the prison matron is connected to this case? D’you think she coshed the SOCO, because she realized the SOCO was workin’ on the secret photographs, whatever they were?”
“We can’t yet be certain that the matron was the SOCO’s killer.”
Doyle eyed him, as this remark seemed to be a bit too cautious, even for Acton. “If she’s killin’ all the neighbors, and leadin’ the police astray, it does seem likely, my friend.”
“That is precisely the point; the matron has gone to bold lengths, and taken great pains to contain the fallout—to cover up the original reason for the murder. Yet, if she is indeed carrying out these containment murders, why did she miss the main chance?”
Doyle knit her brow, not quite following, and he patiently explained, “The darkroom threatened exposure of the incriminating prints, so it disappeared without a trace. The real Mrs. Addersley, who was worried for some undisclosed reason, also disappeared without a trace. Mr. Huse knew of the darkroom, and so he was also killed—although his death would have been overlooked, but for you.”
“And the cat,” she added fairly.
“And the cat.” He met her eyes. “So there was a very thorough cover-up to avoid any trace of the SOCO’s secret project, except for one thing.”
The light dawned, and Doyle saw what he meant. “The SOCO’s body was left in her flat, plain as day.” She frowned. “So someone else killed the SOCO, and the matron came in to scrub the scene?”
“Perhaps. Or another possible explanation is that the body was deliberately left to send a message—as a warning to another player.”
She thought about this for a minute. “The SOCO’s body was left to make sure that the others who are bein’ coerced by these villains don’t get any heroic ideas—is that what you mean?”
“Yes—something like that. In any event, little more can be accomplished tonight, so let’s head home, and find you something for dinner.”
Murder in Containment: A Doyle and Acton Mystery Page 9
