Murder in All Honour: A Doyle and Acton Mystery (Doyle and Acton Scotland Yard Mysteries)

by Anne Cleeland

  Murder in

  All Honour

  A Doyle and Acton Mystery

  Anne Cleeland

  Copyright © 2017 Anne Cleeland

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1543168620

  ISBN 13: 9781543168624

  For Sr. Eileen McNerney, who saw a need; and for all others like her.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  1

  Truly, it wasn’t shaping up to be much of a Christmas, what with one disaster piling up on top of another, and that ominous feeling telling her that more bad news was just around the corner. And although she’d done her best to ignore that feeling, Detective Sergeant Kathleen Doyle couldn’t seem to shake it, and so when the latest crime report popped up on her screen, she hustled into Detective Inspector Williams’ office to try to inveigle her way into the latest homicide case. For reasons that were as yet unclear, it was important that she do a bit of digging, on this particular case, and with her husband hopefully too busy to notice, a prime opportunity had now presented itself.

  Detective Inspector Williams, who was himself hip-deep in disasters, was packing up as he was speaking on the phone, and so she pantomimed what she hoped was a translatable request that she come along with him to process this latest crime scene.

  “No,” Williams told her bluntly, pausing to cover the receiver with his hand. “Acton would kill me.”

  This was only to be expected, and Doyle attempted to make light of this particular road block, as Williams rang off with the Evidence Officer. “You mustn’t worry, Thomas; I’ll make it right with Acton, and besides, there’s no one else—or no one who would be the least help, anyways. Habib has the mumps, or somethin’, and Gabriel is busy coverin’ the nun-nut case whilst Munoz is out on leave.” Someone had haled off and murdered a nun, which was truly a terrible shame, since nuns were as rare as hen’s teeth, here in the land of the bog-proddies.

  With an air of stoicism, Williams shouldered his rucksack, and made for the door. “Habib is taking a sick day? Really?”

  Inspector Habib was Doyle’s supervisor, and he’d never been observed going home at night, let alone taking a day off, so his absence was a small wonder, in and of itself. “Indeed, he is, and aside from its bein’ a sure sign of the apocalypse—as though we needed any more signs—it also means that you have temporary authority over my assignments. Lucky for you, I’m willin’ to come lend a hand.”

  Without deigning to reply, Williams gave her a look, and exited out into the hallway.

  Hurriedly, Doyle fell into step beside him. “Listen, Thomas; I know, at first blush, it doesn’t seem like a very good idea—”

  “You are pregnant, and we have a psychopath who is stealing fetuses.”

  “Well—well, yes. But—” she tried to decide how to put it into words “—but I do think I need to take a look. It’s one of those things.”

  This gave him pause for a moment, and he was silent as they headed toward the lift. Aside from Acton, Williams was the only person who knew that she had an intuitive gift—perhaps inherited from an Irish ancestor—that gave her occasional leaps of insight into the major crimes they handled, here at Scotland Yard. In particular, she could usually sense who was lying and who was telling the truth—which was a great help, all in all, when one was dealing with world-class liars on a regular basis.

  But in the end, Williams did not buckle—no doubt because he’d been given strict orders by Acton to keep her wrapped in cotton wool, and well-away from this case. “We don’t have a suspect, as yet. As soon as we do, I’ll have you sit in on the interview.”

  “I’d like to see this latest victim,” she insisted stubbornly, squeezing into the lift with him. “I promise you I won’t have the vapors, Thomas.”

  But the wretched man continued to stand firm. “I can’t have you process the scene, Kath; Acton would bust me all the way down to DC. If you would check to see if anyone’s available from DCI Drake’s team though, I’d appreciate it.”

  It had been a forlorn hope in the first place; DI Williams was very much by-the-book, and therefore was not going to countermand an order from Acton, who was his superior officer. Fortunately, whilst Acton was also Doyle’s superior officer, he doubled as her husband, and therefore she’d no such qualms. She promptly rang up Acton on her mobile, which was bad manners in a lift, but Williams was looking to ditch her, and so she’d no choice.

  As always, her husband answered immediately. “Kathleen.”

  “The city is comin’ apart at the seams, and Williams wants me to stay here at headquarters, knittin’ booties.”

  No explanation was needed, as DCI Acton was very quick on the uptake. “I’d rather you did not handle these cases, I’m afraid.”

  With an effort, she reined in her exasperation, and tried to sound like someone who was offering much-needed help, rather than someone who trying to pull a wheedle on her husband. “But there’s no one else left, Michael, what with Habib out sick, and the shake-up, upstairs—it’s all hands to the pump. These psycho-mother cases are a crackin’ public relations nightmare, and we don’t want the public to decide that we’re no better than the last bunch.”

  This in reference to the fact that they were dealing with the aftermath of a huge corruption scandal, whereby dozens of government officials had been arrested in a comprehensive sweep. Unfortunately, the Detective Chief Superintendent—the highest-ranking officer at Scotland Yard—was presently cooling his heels in prison for attempted murder, and so Doyle’s poor husband, along with the limping remnants of the CID brass, were trying to manage the Met’s massive caseload, even though they were extremely short-handed. Their task was further complicated by the fact they were also having to sort through a mountain of evidence for the Anti-Corruption Command, which was helping the prosecution assemble the evidence for the corruption trials. All in all, it had been a thoroughly forgettable few weeks, and all plans for a pleasure trip to Brighton had been regretfully scuttled. Truth to tell, Doyle thought she was lucky that Acton even came home at night—it was that bad.

  Her husband was a renowned Chief Inspector, reclusive and brilliant, who was about to become even more renowned for exposing the corruption scandal. Small pleasure it brought; he couldn’t care less what anyone thought of him—with the notable exception of her fair self—and in the meantime, he was worn to a thread, working ’round the clock. Unfortunately, Do
yle was very uneasy about whatever it was that Acton was up to, in his now-limited spare time. Despite his sterling reputation—and his title—Acton was something of a vigilante, and not above manipulating the evidence, or even committing the occasional murder, if he thought the circumstances called for it. His better half was thus left with the weighty task of trying to save him from himself, which oftentimes required Doyle to exercise her limited abilities for duplicity and guile; the current situation serving as an excellent example.

  “I’ll just work the witnesses,” she assured him. “No muckin’ about in any bloody entrails, I promise.”

  But Acton stood firm. “Please tell Williams I’ll see if I can borrow someone from counter-terrorism.”

  Doyle decided that sounding professional hadn’t been of the least use, and so she changed tactics. “I’m afraid I’m going to insist, my friend. I can pitch a fit, or you can spare me the trouble.”

  Into the silence, she lowered her voice, and added, “It’s one of those feelin’s, Michael.” Her husband was well-aware of her intuitive abilities; after all, it was mostly thanks to her that the blacklegs at the Home Office were now being carted off to prison.

  He relented, as she’d known he would—the poor man had a hard time saying no to his red-headed bride. “By all means, then. But you must stay with Williams—I will have your promise, Kathleen.”

  Much relieved, she was willing to be generous. “Not to worry; I’ll be takin’ no chances. And we’ll enlist a couple of uniforms, too—they can do all the legwork.”

  “Very well. I’m afraid I must go; please have Williams ring me, when he has a chance.”

  “I will.” She paused. “Anything on Elena?”

  “Nothing new, I’m afraid.”

  Williams, who up to now had been ignoring her attempt to pull rank on him, turned to watch her reaction to Acton’s response, and she shook her head at him in the negative. “Keep tryin’, Michael; she’s alive, I’m sure of it.”

  “That is good to know. I must go.”

  With a pang of guilt, she added, “I wouldn’t have insisted about this case, Michael, if I didn’t think it was important. I promise I’ll be careful.”

  “Stay with Williams, is all.”

  Ringing off, she stepped off the lift with Williams, each lost in somber thought. Detective Sergeant Isabel Munoz was one of their colleagues, and her sister had mysteriously disappeared, a few weeks ago. Elena had been working as an intern at the Health Professions Council, but as it turned out, the prestigious council was ground zero for the corruption scandal, with most of its members having direct ties to the dark doings. Elena had disappeared just as the noose was beginning to tighten around some of its members, and it was unclear whether her sister’s connection to Scotland Yard was the reason for her sudden disappearance. The corruption scandal had been financed, in part, by a forced prostitution ring made up of immigrant women, and Doyle didn’t like to think about the waking nightmare that Munoz and her family were going through, trying to find out what had happened to Elena.

  Munoz had been placed on leave, although Doyle knew the CID was monitoring her communications, in the event the girl’s disappearance was indeed connected to the corruption rig, and the kidnappers made an attempt to force Munoz to take some undisclosed action. This seemed unlikely to Doyle, since Munoz was a lowly DS, like Doyle, and thus would have little ability to influence the Anti-Corruption Command’s handling of the corruption trials. Nevertheless, the timing of her sister’s disappearance seemed more than coincidental, and so every precaution was being taken.

  As they walked through the lobby, Doyle was aware that DI Williams was annoyed with her, although the only outward sign was a stiffness in his posture. In an apologetic tone, she offered, “I’m that sorry to be so nettlesome on this, Thomas; I wouldn’t be insistin’ if it wasn’t important.”

  “You shouldn’t talk him around, when you know he’s right. You shouldn’t be anywhere near this case.”

  Annoyed, she held her tongue only with an effort. It must have seemed to Williams that she was being childish and foolhardy, but she couldn’t very well tell him that she was champing to take a look at these psycho-mother cases because she had a niggling suspicion that her husband knew more about them than he was letting on, and her niggling suspicions were usually spot-on. Acton’s dark doings were often a point of contention in their otherwise happy marriage; he saw no reason to comply with the English common law if it meant the villains might go free, or—even more troubling—if the House of Acton might miss an opportunity to improve on its fortunes. Although she was aware he was involved in an illegal guns-smuggling operation, he’d never shared any of the particulars with her—held his cards very close to the vest, did Acton—but she’d gotten glimpses of his underworld connections, and it made her very uneasy; the last needful thing was for the renowned Lord Acton to wind up in the nick, with his pregnant wife on the outside, looking in.

  In fact, the only authority Acton seemed to respect was hers—her husband was obsessively in love with his unlikely bride, with the emphasis on obsessive. Therefore, she’d been trying her best to influence him as best she could, and rein in his more troubling tendencies. Indeed, she was cautiously optimistic that she’d been largely successful; there’d been the occasional lapse, of course—the papers still spoke of the strange disappearance of a certain psychiatrist—but hopefully, Acton was not going about murdering pregnant women. Which left her with the unhappy task of discovering just what it was that he didn’t want her to find out.

  Hard on these unhappy thoughts, Doyle remarked, “Faith, Thomas; it is like the apocalypse. It’s like someone opened the seventh seal around here, what with Elena disappearin’, and nuns and babies bein’ murdered, left and right.”

  Williams tried to find a bright spot. “Well—we don’t really know if the fetuses have been murdered.”

  “Now, there’s cold comfort, my friend.”

  At the lobby doors, they met the uniformed PCs who’d been temporarily enlisted to help with the investigation, and Williams quickly briefed them on the case, as they headed toward the parking garage. A killer had been targeting poor, pregnant women to steal their fetuses—it happened, from time to time, and they taught you at the Crime Academy that it was usually a psychotic mother, trying to replace a dead child. What was odd, in this case, was that it wasn’t just a one-off; there were now four similar cases, if this morning’s report panned out. This raised the more troubling implication that someone was using the fetuses for material gain; in some of the immigrant communities, for instance, superstitions still persisted that parts of a fetus or newborn could be ground up, and ingested for fertility treatments. Or the killer’s nefarious purpose may be a more modern one—the harvesting of stem cells, or organs for sale on the black market. Impossible, to imagine the depravity of someone who would murder a pregnant woman so as to snatch the child from her womb, and despite her brave words to Williams, Doyle hoped she’d not disgrace herself by getting green around the gills, once they arrived at the crime scene.

  Williams finished up his report to the patrol officers, and opened the car door for Doyle. “No decent leads, unfortunately; you’d think with this kind of case, someone would know something.”

  Acton knows something, Doyle thought somberly, as she slid into the seat. But for whatever reason, he’s not saying.

  2

  Doyle stood with Williams in the entry door of the crime scene, wearing paper booties and watching the Scene of Crime Officers—the SOCOs—carefully bag the victim’s hands, although it seemed unlikely they’d find any traces of helpful DNA under her nails. The victim lay prone on her bed as though asleep, her hands folded serenely on her chest.

  “There’s not much blood,” Doyle remarked. She’d been steeling herself for a scene of carnage, but instead it was eerily peaceful—the killer had even tucked a blanket around the body, which was a stroke of luck, because blankets were notorious as evidence-magnets. The SOCOs car
efully lifted it away to reveal a gaping incision, low on the woman’s abdomen.

  Williams nodded. “Whoever the killer is, she’s had some medical training, so we’re taking a look at nurses and physician’s assistants in the area—anyone who’s lost a child recently.”

  Doyle frowned slightly. “Is a psycho-mother still the workin’ theory? It seems a bit too coincidental, Thomas, that she’d have medical trainin’ and that she’d have so many victims, all in a row. Maybe it’s an organs-harvester, after all.”

  But Williams nodded toward the corpse. “Look at her, Kath. The killer has made it as painless as possible. If it were an organs-harvester, he’d just kill her in an alley, and dump the body in the river. And there are no signs of a forced entry, or any defensive wounds. This has all the earmarks of a compassionate killer—a woman.”

  Involuntarily, Doyle grimaced at this contradiction in terms. “Not so very compassionate, surely. Murder is murder, my friend. What’s the cause of death?”

  “Inconclusive as yet, but the others were given GHB to knock them out, and then they were asphyxiated, so it seems likely it was the same for this one.”

  Doyle nodded, craning her neck to see around the SOCO, who’d moved to block her view. “Do we have a time of death?”

  The SOCO answered, “It’s been around twenty hours, ma’am, since the rigor is starting to recede. That would put the TOD at about two o’clock, yesterday.”

  This seemed a little strange, and she glanced up at Williams. “Faith, this happened in broad daylight? And yet no one heard anythin’? Who reported?”

  “Anonymous tip.” He gave her a look.

  She nodded in agreement with the unspoken thought. “The tipster was probably this compassionate killer, not wantin’ to leave this poor girl lyin’ here too long, with all the flies gatherin’.” This only made sense; if a worried employer or friend had been the one to call in, there would have been no reason not to identify themselves, and explain their relationship to the missing woman. “I’ll have the audio people listen to the call, to see if they can pick up somethin’. Is it too soon to know if there is anythin’ of interest in her mobile?”