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

by Anne Cleeland

  “We’ll see; it was left here in plain sight, so it’s someone who wasn’t worried about being traced. They must not have phoned each other.”

  But this didn’t seem in keeping, and Doyle frowned slightly. “If she opened the door, she must have known who it was—which seems a bit odd, if they’ve never phoned each other.”

  “On the other hand, this is a careful killer, and the mobile was right on the bedside table. I bet we find nothing.”

  Doyle could only agree; a great deal of care had been taken to commit this crime, and there were no signs that would indicate the killer made a panicky exit—which was a shame, as panicky killers usually turned out to be convicted killers.

  While the SOCOs continued their methodical work, she looked around the room, trying to get a sense of the victim. It was not easy; the tiny flat was spare and dingy, with no photos or personal items, only some rather tawdry outfits, stuffed into the small, open closet. “Perhaps the killer is indeed a nurse, Thomas; an OB nurse could have come into contact with all of these victims, and would have known where they lived. The victims would not have been on guard against her, and any phone activity would be through the medical facility, not on a personal mobile.”

  He nodded. “Good points. Which again narrows the field to health care providers who’ve lost a child, recently. It shouldn’t be hard to find a lead, with that profile.”

  Williams signaled to one of the PCs, and the young man approached, his tablet held at the ready, to take instruction. Officer Shandera had volunteered for the assignment, and Doyle surmised that he was angling to be transferred to the CID—he seemed eager to make a good impression.

  At Williams’ nod, the man began his report in a soft accent—West Indies, Doyle guessed. She wasn’t very good at accents, as everyone who wasn’t Irish had a very strange one.

  “It’s a transient building, sir, and the victim hadn’t lived here more than a few months. The landlord said her name was ‘Star’, and that she paid in cash. Her next month’s rent was due, and he was worried that she was going to skip, so he was going to check in with her, today or tomorrow.”

  Although the PC addressed Williams, his gaze strayed briefly to Doyle, as though he couldn’t help himself. He’ll be wanting a snap, she thought with resignation; they always do.

  Williams crossed his arms. “Had she been paying on time, up to now? I wonder why the landlord was worried—why he thought she’d skip out.”

  But the young officer had already wondered the same thing. “Yes sir; I asked him about that, and he said she’d told him she wouldn’t be staying, so he was keeping a close eye on her.”

  “We don’t have a last name?”

  The PC shook his head. “No, sir. It’s the kind of place that’s run on cash, and the landlord said he has an ask-no-questions policy.”

  This was only to be expected, in this part of town, and so Doyle moved on. “Did the neighbors have anythin’ of interest to say?”

  “I’m afraid not, ma’am. The neighbors don’t know much—or else they don’t want to talk to the police. They confirmed she went by the name ‘Star’, and it appears there was no husband or steady boyfriend in the picture, even though there were men, going in and out.”

  Williams turned his head, and reviewed the still form, lying on the bed. “Prostitute.”

  But Doyle was puzzled by his conclusion. “Faith, how could she be a prostitute, if she was so very pregnant?”

  The PC lowered his gaze to the floor, as Williams offered in a neutral tone, “You’d be surprised.”

  Shouldn’t have asked, Doyle thought with a blush; try to stay on-topic, lass. “Little point in checkin’ through her clients, one would think; unlikely a john would want to steal a baby.”

  William nodded. “Yes; let’s not forget that aspect—the fetus. Have you had a chance to put in a call to the local hospitals and shelters, Constable?” Williams asked the question with no real hope; this killer took the newborns for reasons as yet unknown, and was not going to abandon them in some safe place, after going to all this trouble. On the other hand, there was a slim hope that this compassionate killer may have brought in the newborn for medical care, due to health complications.

  “I have checked with two in the immediate neighborhood, sir—nothing as yet. And no one remembers treating a prenatal patient named ‘Star’—or at least, no one that I could find, so far.”

  Williams shrugged, unsurprised. “‘Star’ sounds like an alias, anyway. Let’s show her snap around at all the Metro clinics, and while we’re at it, find out if anyone on staff has lost a baby, recently.”

  Doyle offered thoughtfully, “Holy Trinity Church has a clinic that handles prenatal care and immunizations.” She and Williams exchanged a look; the conspirators in the wide-ranging corruption scandal had been meeting at Holy Trinity Church, so it was already under a cloud of suspicion. That, and the fact that the church had a permanent seat on the now-notorious Health Professions Council. Thus far, however, they’d found nothing to indicate that Holy Trinity was anything other than a convenient place for the villains to meet.

  “There are signs of recent drug use, sir,” the SOCO offered from her position on the floor. “She may have avoided the clinics for that reason.”

  Doyle quirked her mouth. “That’s nothin’ to speak of—it’s a rare patient over there who’s not been dabblin’ in drugs.” Doyle had volunteered for a short stint at the clinic, under best-be-forgotten circumstances.

  The SOCO added, “And I think I’ve detected some latent prints on the blanket, sir. We’ll know within the day.”

  “Excellent—keep me posted.” Williams checked the time on his mobile, and then addressed the hovering PC. “Right, then; if you would, please review the CCTV feed from the street with the landlord. Keep a sharp eye on any non-resident females who enter, and on anyone leaving with a bag or a bundle. And please take the victim’s snap around, to the local shelters and clinics. While you’re there, make some inquiries about any one on staff losing a baby, recently.”

  Doyle interrupted, “If it’s all right with you, sir, let me take Holy Trinity Clinic, when DCI Acton gets here. He knows one of the doctors, and so they may be a little more forthcomin’ with him.”

  There was a small, surprised silence. “DCI Acton is coming here?” asked Williams.

  “I expect him at any moment,” Doyle equivocated. She hadn’t heard from Acton, but she couldn’t very well tell Williams that her husband was going to drop whatever it was he was doing to hotfoot it over to this crime scene, so as to make sure his wife didn’t find out whatever it was he didn’t want her to find out. Thus far, however, she hadn’t sensed anything unusual percolating below the surface; while it was a horrendous crime, it seemed like an ordinary crime scene.

  “Best get started, then,” Williams said briskly to the PC. “Let’s try to get something to go on.”

  “Yes, sir.” But the man didn’t sheath his tablet, and after a moment’s hesitation, asked, “Would you mind if I take a snap, Officer Doyle?”

  “Not at all,” Doyle replied with a bright, artificial smile, and privately hoped she wouldn’t be called upon to recount the bridge-jumping incident, yet again. Earlier in the year, she’d leapt off Greyfriars Bridge to save Munoz, her co-worker, and the local papers had made her into something of a hero. As Doyle was not one who craved the spotlight, this was apparently one of God’s little jokes.

  “Want me to take a snap with the both of you?” Williams offered.

  The young officer gladly handed his tablet to Williams, and then stepped next to Doyle. “I really appreciate it, ma’am—I’ve heard so much about you.”

  So that he wouldn’t think that she considered herself an exalted person, she asked kindly, “Are you thinkin’ you’d like to be a detective? You seem to have a knack for it.”

  The PC smiled with genuine pleasure, as Williams took the picture. “My wife would like me to transfer to the CID—she’s worried patrol work is too da
ngerous.” His eyes strayed over to the still, silent form of the victim. “Our first baby is due in March. I’ve told her not to go anywhere alone.”

  “It’s not as though your wife fits the victim profile,” Williams noted, as he checked the photo. “The victims have all been single, white, and poor.”

  “Maybe—” Doyle paused, trying to pursue an elusive thought. “Maybe this psycho-mother is tryin’ to find a baby that matches herself, or somethin’.”

  With a nod toward the decedent, Williams reminded her of the flaw in this working theory. “But then we’re back to the same question—why would she do it four times?”

  The three of them thought this over in silence for a moment, and then Doyle offered a guess. “She may be disappointed with each replacement baby, and so she keeps tryin’.”

  “What is she doing with the rejects, then?”

  Lifting her palms, Doyle could only admit, “I’ve no idea—it makes no sense. And it makes no sense that this victim would let herself get pregnant in the first place, if she’s doin’ business as a corner girl.”

  Shandera offered, “The landlord says she told him she planned to keep the baby, and that was one of the reasons he was suspicious that she’d take a bunk.”

  Doyle suddenly lifted her head, her scalp prickling as it did when she was making an intuitive connection, and she said to Williams, “Remember the witness we spoke to at the projects—the one who was in the Wexton Prison holdin’ cell? She was single, pregnant, and doin’ drugs.”

  He frowned at her in surprise. “What about her? Do you think she’s at risk?”

  She blew out a frustrated breath, and brushed some stray tendrils of hair away from her face. “I don’t know why. There’s a commonality here, but it’s just out of reach. It has to do with—with how they’re pregnant, even though they shouldn’t be, and—” she paused for a moment, her scalp prickling again, “—and how they’re payin’ the rent on time.”

  At this juncture, one of the PCs who’d been positioned on the cordon appeared in the doorway to announce with suppressed excitement, “DCI Acton has arrived, sir.”

  And Acton, Doyle added silently. It has to do with Acton, too.

  3

  As Acton ducked his head to step in through the doorway, Doyle could feel the ripple of excitement from the SOCO team—Acton had brought down the DCS, after all, and was now seen as a reformer as well as a brilliant crime-solver, all rolled into one handsome package. Ironic, is what it is, thought Doyle, as she met his eyes, and smiled a greeting. He’s not a reformer, not by a long shot—unless you counted bringing down doers-of-shadowy-deeds because they were interfering with your own shadowy deeds; nothing very heroic about that. With a pang, she noted that he was looking a bit haggard, poor man, and so she resolved not to add to his troubles. Well, unless he was murdering people, of course, but she’d cross that bridge when she came to it.

  Acton’s dispassionate gaze reviewed the room. “What is the report?”

  Williams replied, “Preliminaries seem to indicate that this is a related case, sir; the same m.o. And we’ve caught a break—we may have latent prints on the blanket, this time.”

  “There’s a decent chance, sir,” chirped the SOCO, eager to be helpful in front of the illustrious Chief Inspector. “I’ll have the lab run it through the VMD, as soon as possible.”

  “If you would.” Ignoring the protocols, Acton then stepped into the room to crouch down beside the victim, and view her remains with a hooded gaze.

  Doyle offered, “We were just wonderin’ why there’ve been so many victims, sir. Mayhap a psycho-mother is takin’ babies from women who resemble her, or somethin’.”

  He nodded. “Perhaps.”

  Startled, Doyle stared at the back of his head in surprise. Why—why, that’s not it, she thought; that’s not it at all, and he’s relieved that I’m far afield from the truth.

  “More light, please.” Acton signaled to the SOCO to shine a torch onto the wound, and then he carefully examined it.

  Williams offered, “No sign of forced entry, and by all indications, it’s a compassionate killer, so not a professional.”

  But Acton was not willing to concede this point. “Perhaps, perhaps not. The scene is clean, which does point to a professional.”

  Williams nodded, as this was a fair point. Doyle made no comment, as she was aware that her husband was trying to throw them off the scent.

  Acton asked, “Have we done a check-in with the local clinics?”

  “We’ve started. PC Shandon will follow up by showing the victim’s snap around, and asking if there are any women on staff who’ve lost a child, recently.”

  “I’m sorry, sir—it’s PC Shandera.” The poor man had been hovering in the background, clearly torn between interrupting a conversation between his superiors, and having the famed Chief Inspector given the wrong name.

  PC Shandera,” Doyle amended smoothly. “Whose wife is due in March.”

  Acton paused, then turned to address the young officer over his shoulder. “Do you think Santeria is involved, Constable?”

  “I—I don’t know sir.” The man quickly recovered from his surprise at being thus addressed, and thought about it. “I suppose it is possible.”

  “I only ask because I believe there is candle wax on the victim’s abdomen.” Acton then turned his attention to the SOCO.

  “Oh—oh, I haven’t yet tested it, sir,” replied the flustered SOCO. “I will do so straightaway.”

  “There’s no candle in the room,” Acton pointed out. “And the wax dripping is circular in shape.”

  “Inert,” the SOCO affirmed, briskly stepping forward to take a photograph, and thus redeem herself. “Meaning it dripped on her after she was lying down.”

  Acton nodded. “And as the victim didn’t spring up in pain, she was already dead, or at least unconscious, at the time.”

  They all contemplated this strange fact for a moment. “Unlikely the killer was using a candle for light, since it was daytime,” said Williams. “You’re right, sir; it may have been a ritual of some sort.”

  Rising to his feet, Acton turned to address the PC. “I would like you to check into it—discreetly, of course—and pursue any rumors you might hear.”

  “Yes, sir.” Officer Shandera’s manner was serious, but he emanated waves of happiness at having been entrusted with an assignment from such an exalted personage.

  Doyle, by contrast, was not happy at all, and kept her gaze firmly fixed on the floor. Santeria was a primitive religion that was still practiced by some of the immigrants from the West Indies, here in London. A few of its more questionable practitioners would illegally concoct and sell potions, and it was always a thorny sort of case to crack, because those who knew of the crimes were too afraid of the santeros—the witch doctors—to report them to the police. In this case, however, it was also a great, crackin’ red herring; she was certain that Acton was trying to lay a false trail, to lead them away from the real killer—although why he would do such an unthinkable thing was a mystery.

  I hope, she thought with some annoyance, that I’m not dealing with yet another crisis. Christmas is coming, for the love o’ Mike, and I could use a breather.

  Williams’ voice prodded her out of her abstraction. “DS Doyle thought it may be helpful for you to check in with your connections at Holy Trinity Clinic, sir.”

  Acton nodded. “Yes. And we should show the victim’s photograph to the tattoo artists in the area, also. She has a fresh tattoo.”

  “Faith, she wasn’t actin’ like someone who’s pregnant, was she?” Doyle would know, as—although she wasn’t one for tattoos or drugs—she’d been stoically avoiding coffee, which was a misery in and of itself.

  The SOCO shifted to hold her camera under her arm, and contemplate the victim with silent sympathy. “She may not have been a candidate for mother of the year, but she certainly didn’t deserve this.”

  “No,” Doyle agreed, and then frowned, because
there was something here—something in what the SOCO had just said—

  “Let’s bag her, then, and mop up,” Williams directed the team. “Please ring me with anything of interest—prints, or a phone number.”

  Doyle asked Acton, “Do you have a few minutes to head over to the clinic? If Timothy is there, we could ask him if he’s heard about any bereft mothers.” Dr. Timothy McGonigal was an old friend of Acton’s, and volunteered at the church clinic doing surgeries, when he could find the time.

  “Certainly; I am at your disposal.”

  She made a wry mouth, as he took her elbow to steer her away from the others. “That is kind of you, Michael, but you should probably be the one takin’ the lead. After the corruption scandal, you’re the most famous one between us again, and all is as it should be.”

  He let out a long breath, as they headed down the hallway. “I confess I would give a great deal to sink back into obscurity.”

  Doyle refrained from pointing out that he’d never been exactly obscure, and instead reacted with sympathy to the undercurrent in his voice. “I’m that sorry for your troubles, my friend. Is the ACC actually bein’ helpful, for a change, or are they only gettin’ in the way?” The Anti-Corruption Command was famously composed of difficult, nit-picking bureaucrats, and was looked upon with a full measure of scorn by the field officers.

  As they passed under the tape, Acton nodded to the PC who was manning the cordon on the dimly-lit stairwell. “There is a great deal of evidence to sift through, mainly because there are a great many people who are desperate to hold onto their jobs.”

  “No honor among thieves,” she guessed, as she followed him, their footsteps muffled by the threadbare carpeting. “Everyone is fallin’ all over themselves to point the finger at the others, and hang on to their own government pensions.”

  “Something like that. It will be a while before the dust settles; this type of scandal tends to disrupt the entire system, all the way down.”