Murder in Misdirection

by Anne Cleeland

A trace of constraint could be discerned in his manner, and she reached to touch his hand sympathetically. “Amen, Thomas—and then you can get back to doin’ what you do best, which is muckin’ about, knee-deep in corpses.”

  He smiled. “Now, there’s a pretty picture. But unfortunately, I don’t think this firestorm is going away anytime soon—if nothing else, we’ll be feeling the effects left by the vacancies in the command hierarchy.”

  She made a disapproving face. “You sound like Acton—he hates all the disruption that will be wrought upon our poor system, and he hates the bad PR for the department, too. I think if it were up to him, everyone in the corruption cases would be quietly fired, and we’d move on. Least said, soonest mended.”

  “I think that’s probably true.”

  She eyed him with a touch of exasperation. “We have to see that justice is done, Thomas—no matter who, and no matter the consequences. And the public has to see it, too.” She’d always suspected that Williams was of the same bent as Acton, which was not much of a surprise, all in all. They liked their justice swift and rough, and the criminal justice system was anything but.

  Seeing that he was politely refraining from comment, she insisted, “No matter the direction it takes us, and no matter the cost, Thomas.”

  “If you say so,” he teased, and tapped his cup to hers in a mock-toast. “These trials are taking up a huge part of the budget,

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  though. No raises this year, and the public doesn’t think we’re worth it, in the first place.”

  “Oh—sorry; that’s heapin’ misery upon misery.” Suddenly struck by this thought, Doyle paused. “You know—that’s a good question, come to think of it. What’s happened to all the money?” Williams raised his brows. “What’s happened to what

  money?”

  “All the money from the corruption rig; remember? There must be tons of it—what with the sex slavery, and the blackmail, and such. They were passin’ along fat envelopes of cash at Holy Trinity Church, remember? We caught them red-handed.”

  “I don’t know. I’m no longer on that case.”

  This was said in a neutral tone, because the worthy DI Williams had been caught up in the web, and so she hurriedly changed the subject. “Have you heard anythin’ about Morgan Percy’s murder? Is there a whisper of a clue, yet?”

  “Not that I’ve heard.”

  She gave him a knowing look. “It has to be connected—to the corruption rig, I mean. She knew too much, and tended to switch sides, dependin’ on who seemed the best bet at any particular moment.”

  Stiffly, he offered, “I didn’t kill her, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  Aghast, she leaned in, and took his hand in hers. “Of course, you didn’t. For heaven’s sake, Thomas; it’s only me—don’t be so bristly, if you please. You know I tend to blurt out things, willy-nilly, and if you’re goin’ to have hurt feelin’s every time it happens, you’re goin’ to wind up like Elijah at the broom-bush.”

  “Can’t have that.” He smiled, and relaxed a bit. “Sorry. I guess I’m a little sensitive, right now.”

  She leaned back, relieved because she’d indeed been probing him, and he’d told the truth when he’d said he hadn’t killed Percy—let it be said that she could wrangle a misdirection

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  play herself, when it was needful. “Confess; you’ve no idea who Elijah is.”

  “I’ll do you one better; I’ve no idea what a broom-bush is.” She laughed, and he chuckled in return, and they sat in

  companionable silence for a few minutes, sipping the coffee. Better, she thought, idly looking out the window. But he’s still a bit wound-up. Unfortunately, I’ve got to undo all my good works, and wind him right back up again.

  Casually, she asked, “D’you know anythin’ about Gemma’s real mother? I’d feel a bit foolish, askin’ Mary about it.”

  Immediately, he was wary again, and small blame to him, since it was a touchy subject. Williams’s interest had been caught by Mary-the-nanny, until the mysterious death of her husband cast a cloud over this promising-but-forbidden romance. Paradoxically, now that Mary was an eligible widow, Williams had turned gun-shy—although that was probably a poor turn of phrase, in light of the situation.

  “No; I don’t think Mary’s ever mentioned Gemma’s real mother.”

  Doyle fingered her cup. “Well, Acton’s wonderin’, and I suppose it would be a good thing to find out—since both her parents are dead, she may be entitled to benefits, or somethin’. Mary’s a little short on money, I think.”

  Williams gave her a look. “On the other hand, you’ve got to be careful. You don’t want to be forced to send her to some shady relatives, since Mary doesn’t have much of a claim.”

  Doyle nodded thoughtfully. “I suppose that’s possible— although they should have come forward before now, if they exist. After all, Gemma’s such a sweet little thing—never a moment’s trouble.”

  He smiled. “Not like Emile?”

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  Doyle lifted her head, and declared, “It’s exhaustin’, is what it is, and I don’t know how the human race survives this whole procreation business.”

  He chuckled. “I think boys are a little harder to handle than girls. I have some younger cousins, and I’ll be happy to take him to the zoo with them, if you’d like.”

  “You’d do that?” she asked in surprise. “Willingly?” “I would. I was a little boy myself, once.”

  “Oh—that would be grand, Thomas. Run him like a racehorse, will you? I’d love to see what it looks like when the wretched boyo’s tired.”

  Smiling into his coffee, Williams said, “I’ll set it up.”

  With a pang of guilt, Doyle offered, “I know I sound like an archwife, and it’s not as though I don’t like him, Thomas. I’m just not used to always havin’ people underfoot.”

  “No need to explain, Kath.”

  She smiled, suddenly. “Although I do have a bit of a break today—Lizzie Mathis took Emile to visit Savoie.”

  Astonished, he raised his brows and couldn’t help laughing. “Did she? Now, there’s something I’d pay good money to see.”

  Doyle could only agree. “It boggles the mind. Do you know why Acton’s sendin’ her, of all people? I think he must be hatchin’ some plot, and I’m not sure I even want to know the particulars.”

  Sobering, Williams examined his hands, on the table. “No. I’m not privy.”

  But Doyle wasn’t having it, and scolded, “Oh, spare me your hurt feelin’s, Thomas. You can’t be the one waltzin’ in to talk to Savoie—you’re a copper. And besides, you can’t blame Acton for puttin’ you in his black book.” As a result of Williams near-brush with the corruption rig, he’d got himself into a spot of trouble with Acton, and was now suffering the consequences.

  He raised his eyes to hers. “Does he ever say anything?”

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  “I’ll not be grassin’ on my own husband, Thomas, and anyways, you know he never tells anyone anythin’—which is probably just as well, all in all. But if you’re lookin’ for a project that doesn’t involve noisy little boys, I could use your help, this very mornin’.”

  He smiled. “Say the word, Kath.”

  “Well, there’s a couple who’ve come to my priest, because they don’t think their son committed suicide—they think he was murdered, instead. I’m to meet with them this mornin’, and I’d appreciate it if you’d have a listen-in, to see what you think.”

  “Is there a case on file?” Williams was wary for good reason; it was important that they respect the hierarchy, and work only on the cases assigned to them. The Met didn’t need officers meddling in each other’s cases, and second-guessing.

  “No—at least, Father John says they’ve already decided it’s a suicide. But I’m curious to hear what the parents have to say, because the v
ictim worked in the financial district, and was accused of embezzlin’ funds.”

  This garnered his interest, as she knew it would. Williams was working on a series of complex embezzlement cases and making little headway, thus far. “So—you’re wondering if the suicide was actually a misdirection murder?”

  “Somethin’ like that.” She played her trump. “Father John says there’s a photo that shows a bloodstain on the floor, beneath the weapon.”

  Williams cocked his head. “Let’s go, then. Maybe you can solve another one, while you’re sidelined.”

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” she cautioned, as he helped her rise. “We can’t be seein’ misdirection murders pop up behind every bush.”

  “Behind every broom-bush,” he corrected her.

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  Chapter 6

  Good; Williams had given her a lift to the church.

  She shouldn’t be alone, now that she was so close to term.

  D oyle was sitting in Father John’s office with Williams and the grief-stricken couple, who were trying to convince those listening that their son would not have committed

  suicide, and therefore deserved absolution, and a proper burial. The man and the woman were middle-aged and upper class—as Holy Trinity parishioners were wont to be—and they’d brought along a small folder that contained a copy of the police report. An aura of grief hovered around them, and Doyle gritted her teeth against the raw misery—she’d felt that way when her mother died, and the memory was not a good one.

  The dead man’s father continued, “Father Gregory has his hands full, what with the terrible fire, and so we were hoping—” His wife offered, “Father John mentioned that Lord Acton

  might have a chance to bring the matter before the bishop—” “We’d want to keep it quiet, of course—”

  “If it looks like it’s murder,” Doyle interrupted gently, “we’d have to open a case—we can’t allow a murderer to get off. And you’d want justice for your son, wouldn’t you?”

  There was a small moment of profound silence.

  “Of course,” the father agreed, with little conviction.

  Father John had his own perspective on these matters, and offered, “And if there is enough evidence to open a case, surely it’s much more likely that the bishop will allow absolution immediately.”

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  “There’s that,” the father agreed tentatively, and glanced at his wife, who was clenching her hands rather tightly. “But we were hoping—I know it’s not the proper thing, but we were hoping that Lord Acton could put in a good word with the bishop, so that we could have a funeral mass next week.” He paused, and then added heavily, “It would mean a lot to us.”

  His wife reached to take her husband’s hand. “He was a good boy; despite—despite what the police say. And he had a lot to live for, no matter the trouble he may have been in—we would have paid for a good lawyer, after all. And he had a new girlfriend—a lovely girl; he was so proud.”

  Williams, who’d been listening without comment, spoke up. “Is the girlfriend’s information in the file?”

  The woman knit her brow. “Oh—oh, I don’t know. Tasza, her name was—we met her, the other day; we all met for drinks.”

  “Have you heard from her, since his death?”

  The decedent’s parents were apparently oblivious to the implication behind Williams’ questions, and the mother shook her head. “No, but they hadn’t been dating very long—it was early days.” She paused. “He was a good boy—a little shy, and— and foolish, sometimes.” Overcome, she bent her head, and pressed a handkerchief to her eyes as Father John gave Doyle the high sign that they should leave the grieving couple alone with him.

  “I’ll put it before the Chief Inspector,” Doyle assured them gently as she rose. “I’m truly sorry for your loss.”

  Williams followed her out, and they walked down the quiet hallway for a few paces, neither making a comment until he broke the silence. “They know something.”

  “Indeed, they do,” Doyle agreed thoughtfully. “And they’re very much afraid of whatever it is. So—they know why he was murdered, and they don’t want it to get out. On the other hand,

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  suicide denies him absolution, and if they can show he was murdered, he’s back in God’s good graces—not to mention they’re no longer shamed, before their friends. It’s a thorny dilemma—small wonder they’re so upset.”

  Williams, who wasn’t a believer, could only shake his head in confusion as he held the door for her. “Isn’t this a moot point? Wouldn’t God already know that he didn’t kill himself?”

  Doyle sighed, and wandered over to sit on the wrought-iron bench that was situated outside the church’s side door. “Aye— but it would be a comfort to these people if God’s earthly representative verified that fact—and they’re bearin’ a heavy load of shame, themselves. I know it sounds a bit strange to someone not steeped in it, but suicide is a mortal sin. Your life belongs to God, and you’re supposed to accept what he’s planned—lumps and all— and not decide that you’d rather not bear it. It’s a shameful thing, to commit suicide.”

  Williams stood before her with his hands on his hips, reviewing the lichen-covered stone wall. “Especially if you do it because you’re worried about getting caught for stealing.”

  She quirked her mouth in acknowledgement. “Another mortal sin, while we’re countin’. His parents seemed to concede that he was committin’ the crime, did you notice?”

  “I did. And the mother had a very nice diamond bracelet.” Doyle glanced up in surprise. “Oh—did she? You’ve sharp

  eyes, Thomas Williams. Ill-gotten goods, d’you think?”

  “I’ll wager it would cost as much as a new automobile.” “Saints—that much?” asked Doyle, who wouldn’t know.

  “That’s interestin’. And another interestin’ thing is they didn’t approach Father Gregory about this—which is odd, regardless of the fire.”

  They were silent for a moment, thinking over this point. Williams ventured, “Priest shopping? They think your priest is a softer touch?”

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  But Doyle shook her head slightly. “That’s not how it works—your parish is your parish, and your priest is your priest.” Almost reluctantly, she lifted her gaze to meet his. “But recall that Holy Trinity was a meetin’ place for all the villains in the corruption rig.”

  Williams tilted his head in implied skepticism. “So, your working theory is they dare not approach their own priest, because he may fear exposure, himself? Do you really think he’s a player?”

  Conceding that this seemed doubtful, Doyle leaned back, and blew a tendril of hair off her forehead. “I don’t know what I think. But on the other hand, if you didn’t notice who signed off on the suicide report, I’ll wash my hands of you, DI Williams.”

  “I noticed,” he replied, and offered nothing more.

  The report had been signed by Chief Inspector Drake, who was Acton’s equivalent at the CID, although he operated under a different Operational Command Unit. That DCI Drake had been hip-deep in the corruption rig was inarguable—mainly because he’d been photographed meeting with the other villains at the aforesaid Holy Trinity Church, now reduced to a pile of rubble.

  However, it was unclear whether Drake was a willing participant, or whether he’d been blackmailed into compliance by the other players—and to be fair, there was much that was blackmail-worthy in Drake’s past. But Drake hadn’t been prosecuted along with all the others, and since Acton had never said anything to her about it, Doyle concluded that Acton wanted to protect Drake for some reason—which was not surprising, in that Acton tended to substitute his own judgment in the place of twelve fair-minded jurors.

  And not to mention he’d hate any further disruption to their already-beleaguered department—and if Doyle remembered her evil schemes correctl
y, Drake was being blackmailed over a love affair, and so perhaps he wasn’t quite as black-hearted as the

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  other co-conspirators. Still and all, Drake’s signature on the suicide report was another reason she was rapidly coming to the conclusion that she should lay the whole before her better half.

  Williams interrupted her thoughts. “What’s the protocol?” With a sigh, she gathered her feet beneath her, and made