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

by Anne Cleeland

  “I haven’t yet met one,” Acton noted, and turned his wrist to glance at his watch.

  “Are you meetin’ with the Anti-Corruption Command?”

  “Yes, along with what’s left of the brass. I’ll try to wrap it up before four, though; I am scheduled to meet with Father John today.”

  Acton was taking religious instruction at Doyle’s parish church, but Doyle had no illusions; Acton was not a religious man, and was doing it to please her. She was indeed pleased by this show of devotion, and was privately crossing her fingers that all would go forward as planned—she wondered a bit nervously if Acton had yet to make a full confession to the good father.

  Reminded, she warned, “You’d best be checkin’ with Father first; they may be schedulin’ another prayer vigil for the psycho-mother’s latest victim.” The church had held three previous services, praying for the soul of the poor mother, and for the health and safety of the missing baby. “With any luck, this will be the last victim—they have a latent print, this time, and if she’s a medical professional, her prints will be in the system.”

  Although she was casually looking out the window, in truth she was listening carefully to her husband’s response. She was not to get one, however.

  “Are you feeling well? Should we stop for something to eat?”

  She quirked her mouth, and turned to tease him. “Faith, Michael; is your stock so high that you can keep both the ACC and the brass waitin’?”

  “They can wait. Mainly, they are trying to decide who to go after, hard. The right people should go to prison, to serve as an example.”

  “Will they let the DCS wiggle off the hook? Mayhap give him some leniency?”

  “No.”

  Her husband said nothing further, and Doyle didn’t pursue it. The DCS had tried to double-cross Acton, and there was little chance her husband wouldn’t exact a pound of flesh— and then some—Acton being a vengeance-taker of the first order.

  “Shall we allow you a small coffee?”

  With a sigh, she leaned her head against the headrest again. “Ach, husband; and here I’m tryin’ so hard to be a good mother.”

  “You’ve had a busy morning, and need something to sustain you.”

  “Lead on, then.” It was true that she’d had an eventful morning; she was now certain, down to her bones, that Acton knew more than he was saying about the psycho-mother killings. In fact, she wouldn’t be surprised if he knew who the killer was—or at least had a strong suspicion. It was bewildering, that he would throw dust in her eyes, to protect such a killer.

  As they shared a coffee and a slice of lemon cake, she decided to start with the basics—since the basics were fairly basic, after all. Acton was motivated to protect and care for his new bride, and oftentimes, that protection and care wandered into murder and mayhem.

  She stared out the window at the passersby, thinking this over. It’s all about me—it always is. And Trestles, too—I’ve discovered that Acton’s estate comes in a close second, in Acton’s universe. Is he reluctant to nick this killer because the killer is someone I know? And why on earth would that matter? Faith, even if it were Father John, I’d turn ʼim in without a second’s hesitation.

  She wondered if she was on the right track; perhaps instead, the psycho-mother was someone from Trestles—Acton was very protective of his heritage, and his estate’s storied reputation. But if that was the case, then he’d see to it, somehow, that the killer had no further opportunities to bring disgrace down upon their heads. Instead, he didn’t seem motivated to stop this killer—so it must be someone he can’t easily control. That, and he doesn’t wholly disapprove.

  Pausing with this thought, she straightened her spine slightly, her scalp prickling. Why in heaven’s name wouldn’t Acton disapprove of these terrible murders?

  His mobile pinged, and he checked the ID, then answered. Must be something important, she thought, since usually he didn’t like to interrupt their little tȇte-a-tȇtes.

  “A shame,” he said, and rang off. His long fingers broke off a piece of the lemon cake, and offered it to her. “Forensics was unable to come up with any latent prints from the blanket.”

  “That is a shame,” she replied in a neutral tone.

  6

  Doyle sat at her desk, staring at her growing list of unopened emails, and listening to the hushed sounds of CID personnel in the cubicles that surrounded her. She was almost getting used to finding herself skewered squarely on the horns of a dilemma, but despite the familiar feeling, she was flummoxed, yet again. What to do? Her renegade husband was up to something, and she could bury her head in the sand and hope for the best, or she could go confront Lizzie Mathis from the lab, and ask her outright why she was helping said renegade husband dispose of crucial evidence.

  Acton had gone off to meet with the brass, but she’d noted that he’d checked his watch several times beforehand, which seemed a sure sign that something was brewing. It could be something innocuous—he may be setting up a trap and seizure, to arrest a big player—but she had the sense that it wasn’t anything that was blessed by the powers-that-be at the CID.

  As she bleakly contemplated the computer screen, she wished she had better options. That Acton had his own people, doing his bidding here at Scotland Yard, went without saying. Lizzie was one of them, but there was little doubt that if Doyle confronted Lizzie, she’d deny everything, and then squeak to Acton, so that was not a very viable option—Acton would only become even more secretive, if such a thing was possible. And besides, Doyle resented stupid Lizzie’s stupid superior attitude, so the last thing she wanted was to give the stupid girl another reason to feel superior.

  With a small sigh, Doyle fingered her keyboard, and wished she knew why—for the love o’ Mike—her husband would want to protect this awful psycho-mother. If nothing else, he knew these crimes were upsetting her, and he was being so careful, nowadays, not to allow her to be upset.

  Her scalp prickled, but before she could decide why this would be, her mobile pinged, and she saw that it was Munoz. She answered immediately, feeling the wrench she always felt when she thought of the utter misery the other girl must be going through. “Munoz; how are you doin’?”

  “I keep trying to tell myself that no news is good news, but I’m not sure if that’s the case.”

  Doyle bent her head, trying yet again to dredge up some words of comfort. “Let’s keep holdin’ out hope, Izzy. They’ll probably be a prayer vigil at St. Michael’s tonight, should we go together?”

  “I suppose. But listen, Doyle, that’s not why I called. I was talking to Gerry—”

  Doyle blinked in alarm. “Gerry Lestrade? I didn’t know you were still seein’ him—”

  Ruthlessly, Munoz cut her off. “That’s not important, Doyle, what’s important is that he thinks Acton can find out where Elena is—that he has connections.”

  With no small measure of horror, Doyle remembered that the CID was monitoring Munoz’s phone calls. “Acton is doin’ everythin’ he can, I promise you, Izzy. And he does have a network of informants—I’ll ask, and make sure he’s leavin’ no stone unturned.”

  “But Gerry says—”

  “I have to go, Munoz; I’ve two fresh murders on my plate, this mornin’. Let’s talk some more at the church tonight, all right? And in the meantime, I’ll flog Acton about it.”

  Hurriedly, Doyle rang off, and then rested her forehead on the desk for a moment—truly, she was not cut out for this. Munoz was apparently still dating Gerry Lestrade, who was the brother of Philippe Savoie—a notorious French underworld figure. Munoz didn’t know of this career-threatening connection, of course, because Lestrade wasn’t telling her his true name. And the whole thing was further complicated by the fact that Savoie—the brother who was a criminal kingpin—was a friend-of-sorts to Doyle, being as he’d saved her life, once. And now this; the last needful thing was for the ACC to discover that Acton had shadowy underworld connections—they were running out of personnel
as it was, and Doyle was definitely not promotion material.

  Someone who definitely was promotion material addressed her from her cubicle entryway; DI Williams was understandably alarmed by the sight of Doyle, sitting with her forehead resting on her desk. “Everything all right?”

  Doyle lifted her head, much struck. “Faith, Thomas; if they end up promotin’ you to Chief Inspector, Acton won’t be able to take gross advantage of you, anymore. It’ll be a stand-off.” Like Lizzy Mathis, Williams was Acton’s henchman in shadowy deeds, and was not above manipulating a piece of evidence or two, if he thought the occasion warranted.

  Williams crossed his arms atop her cubicle wall. “I don’t let anyone take gross advantage of me.”

  “Except me,” she pointed out fairly.

  He didn’t bother to refute this unfortunate fact. “What’s up, Kath? You’re stewing about something.”

  She teetered on the edge of telling him her suspicions, but withdrew. She and Williams were close friends, but there were times that they had divided loyalties, and this would appear to be one of them. In fact, it was not beyond the realm of possibility that Williams knew whatever-it-was that Acton was hiding from her. With this in mind, she asked, “Have you had a chance to do any diggin’ on the psycho-mother?”

  He shook his head. “No—I’ve been slammed. I have an inter-unit meeting today, and I had to pull together a quick report on white collar embezzlement. How about you?”

  Doyle frowned, wishing she was clever enough to think of something guileful to ask him, so as to sound out whether he knew anything. “I did try to call that Wexton Prison witness, but her number’s no longer in service.”

  “Do you think she’s another victim?”

  Still frowning, she absently contemplated her keyboard. “I think somethin’, but I’m not sure what it is.”

  He shrugged, slightly. “It seems unlikely, Kath; we’d have heard about it, if she was murdered, and her fetus stolen. That’s not something that happens every day, even in that neighborhood.”

  Doyle nodded in agreement, wishing she could think of some way to ferret out whether Williams knew anything about Acton’s involvement. Coming to a decision, she closed off her computer screen. “I’m goin’ over there, to see what I can find out.”

  He straightened up in surprise. “Now? Don’t you have a report due?”

  This was unfortunately true; Doyle was tasked with reading through the preliminary reports from the two murders this morning, and then putting together an investigative protocol. It was not the type of assignment to which she was suited; she was more an intuitive-leaper-to-conclusions, than a put-pencil-to-paper-planner, and so she was putting it off, hoping that some other unsuspecting Detective Sergeant would be tasked with it. “That’s all right, I’m way behind, anyways. I’ll catch up tonight.”

  Frowning, Williams checked the messages on his mobile. “Well you can’t go over there alone; let me get my coat, and I’ll go with you.”

  This was what she’d counted on, but nonetheless she felt a twinge of guilt for pulling him away. “Are you allowed to ditch your inter-unit meetin’? I wouldn’t want to crush all chance of a DCI promotion.”

  “I can spare an hour, if we make it fast.”

  They made their way toward the utility garage, with Doyle still trying to decide how to sound him out without his realizing that he was being sounded out, which was a tall order, as DI Williams was a wily one. As they approached the unmarked vehicle, she ventured, “I hope we don’t stumble over any more bodies—I’ve had my ration for today. Acton seems to think the victim at Holy Trinity Clinic was left lyin’ there as some sort of message.”

  Williams lifted his head. “For the Coroner, again?”

  She paused, as this was a fair point. One of the victims of the corruption ring had been killed as a warning to the Coroner, who was a wobbly-kneed accomplice. “Acton didn’t think so—or at least he didn’t say anythin’ to that effect. Instead, he seemed to think it was a message to the CID, to take a close look at what was in the files.”

  “The killer is a vigilante, then?”

  She blew out an impatient breath. “Faith, I hope not. I am sick to death of vigilantes.” Her mobile pinged, and she saw that it was a text from St. Michael’s to its parishioners, announcing that there’d be another prayer vigil tonight.

  As Doyle forwarded the text to Munoz and Acton, Williams asked, “Who’s been assigned to research the files from the clinic?”

  “Not me—thank all available saints and holy angels. I think it’s someone from the ACC, since the workin’ theory is that the records may be related to the corruption rig—they may show who’s bein’ blackmailed, and why. Acton’s keepin’ it very quiet, though, since we don’t want to go about slanderin’ the fine people at the church.”

  Williams was quiet for a few minutes, as they drove through the midday traffic. “Do the same people that run the clinic run the church?”

  Doyle had already been through this analysis with Acton, since they’d already been suspicious that the church was involved in the corruption rig. “No—not really. The church funds the clinic, and has a seat on the clinic’s board, but there are different people in charge. Church people aren’t necessarily very good business people, bein’ as how they tend to trust people they oughtn’t.” After a pause, she gazed out the window, and continued, “I know it doesn’t make a lot of sense, but I can’t stop thinkin’ that this is all connected, somehow. Mayhap there’s somethin’ in the files that can give us a clue as to the identity of the psycho-mother.”

  Williams found this of interest, and bent his head toward her as he looked along the crowded street for a parking place. “You think the psycho-mother is connected to the corruption rig? How so?”

  This sounded implausible, even to her, and so she didn’t even attempt a theory. “Mayhap it’s a coincidence, then. But I do think there is some sort of connection; remember, we think the psycho-mother had medical trainin’, so she may have been a nurse, or even a volunteer at this very clinic. I asked Acton to check to see if there’s anythin’ in the files about Elena, too—it’s just a feelin’ I have.”

  Williams nodded without comment, having learned to respect her intuition. Doyle added, “Just think, Thomas; the psycho-mother may be someone I met, when I was volunteerin’ at the clinic.”

  “I suppose it’s possible,” he agreed. “The most likely place for this killer to meet the victims would be at a free clinic, near the projects.”

  Doyle carefully scrutinized his response, and decided that Williams sincerely didn’t know whether this was or was not the case. Delicately, she probed, “It’s just that I had the feelin’—another feelin’, I suppose—that Acton knew more than he was lettin’ on, when we found the body on the records-room floor.”

  There was a pause, and her companion offered carefully, “I don’t know whatever it is that Acton may or may not know about the psycho-mother.”

  She had to laugh at being caught out so easily. “Faith, Thomas; you sound as though you’re in the dock, bein’ cross-examined. It’s just me, and if you can’t tell me, then you can’t tell me, and I’ll harass you no more.”

  After turning off the car, he didn’t move for a moment, and then turned to face her. “I honestly have nothing to tell you.”

  She nodded, but noted that DI Williams did indeed have his own suspicions, which only verified her conviction that Acton was involved, somehow. Aloud, she observed, “It’s exhaustin’, is what it is.”

  He opened his car door, and paused. “Then that’s ironic, because the last thing he wants is for you to be exhausted.”

  She lifted a corner of her mouth. “Good luck to him. The apocalypse has come to town, and just when the CID is short-handed.”

  7

  With Williams keeping a sharp eye on their surroundings, Doyle knocked on a neighbor’s door in the high-rise government project, where the Wexton Prison witness used to reside. The girl’s former flat was no
w occupied by a family from Nigeria, who knew nothing of the old tenant’s whereabouts, and so, like good detectives, they were now canvassing the neighbors—slog work, which was tedious, but which often turned up useful information because humankind couldn’t seem to resist gossiping about the neighbors.

  A young mother answered the door, her little girl peering out from behind her legs. Doyle held up her identification. “We’re from Scotland Yard, ma’am, and we are lookin’ for information about the pregnant girl who used to live next door.”

  “The one who was killed?” the woman asked.

  Williams stood in surprised silence, but Doyle was not so much surprised as resigned to typing up yet another tiresome investigative protocol. “May we come in? I’ll be needin’ to take some notes.”

  “Of course—if you don’t mind the mess.” The woman smiled in a friendly fashion, and bent to hoist the little girl on her hip, as she led them into the small sitting room. The kitchenette was visible through the doorway, and the witness had left the oven on with the door open, which was what Doyle’s mother used to do, when the weather turned cold.

  “We weren’t certain what had happened to your neighbor,” Williams began. “Apparently, no one reported her death to the police.”

  “Oh?” As she cleared off the coffee table, the young woman glanced up in surprise. “Well, that seems a bit strange; you’d think the train authorities would have reported it.” She sat down, reaching to pull the little girl onto her lap. “Such a tragic accident.”

  Into the silence, Williams ventured, “She was killed on a train?”

  “No—not on the train, instead she fell onto the tracks.” The witness paused, thinking. “I believe she lost her balance, and fell from the platform at Euston station.”