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

by Anne Cleeland

  Doyle could feel Williams’ keen interest, but he asked in his best measured-policeman voice, “Can you tell us what you know, ma’am?”

  Smiling at him, the woman shrugged in apology. “I don’t know much, actually. One of the other neighbors told us about it—that there’d be a funeral, if we wanted to go.” She glanced at them apologetically. “We didn’t know her very well, so we didn’t go.”

  Doyle asked, “Had she had her baby yet?”

  Sadly, the witness shook her head. “No—they think that was one of the reasons she lost her balance, because she was so very pregnant.” Unconsciously, she tightened her arms around her daughter. “It was so horrible to hear.”

  Williams nodded in sympathy. “Do you know if she was quarreling with anyone?”

  With some surprise, the woman looked from one to the other. “Do you think—do you think someone killed her on purpose?”

  In a reassuring manner, Williams replied, “It’s just routine, ma’am. Whenever there’s a homicide, we have to follow up on all possibilities.”

  The woman knit her brows for a moment. “Well, she did quarrel with the man from the church.” She looked up with a touch of embarrassment. “The walls are so thin—it’s hard not to hear.”

  Doyle couldn’t resist glancing at Williams, but he kept his steady gaze on the witness. “Can you tell us about the man from the church?”

  “I never saw him; I just heard them, when I was putting Gemma to bed. He was—he was unhappy with her, because she was supposed to have met him, but she didn’t show up.” Looking conscious, she added, “I think she took drugs—she seemed a bit unreliable.”

  Williams digested this for a moment. “Are you certain it wasn’t a boyfriend, or the baby’s father?”

  Thinking about it, the witness shook her head. “No—they didn’t know each other very well. He kept telling her that she had nothing to fear, and that she’d be taken care of.” The woman paused, stroking her daughter’s hair. “The girl didn’t like him much, and made him leave.”

  “So—it was a social worker from the church, perhaps? Trying to help her with the baby?”

  The witness met his gaze, and answered slowly, “I suppose that would make sense—but it didn’t seem like that. There was something—” she frowned, trying to remember, and shook her head. “He said something that struck me as strange, but I can’t remember what it was.”

  Williams tried another tack. “Did the baby’s father ever come to visit, or did she have a steady boyfriend?”

  “No one in particular.” She added carefully, “She had a lot of men, going in and out.”

  “Did anyone come looking for her later—after she died?” This was a useful bit of information for a detective, because the murderer was unlikely to come looking for the victim after her death; any post-mortem visitors could be tentatively crossed out as potential suspects.

  “No—the building supervisor had to clear out her flat. And the church-man didn’t come back, either.” Suddenly, the witness raised her head. “Dublin—that’s it. The man from the church said he’d take her to Dublin.” She looked at them both. “It seemed a little strange, to me.”

  Putting a small hand to her mother’s ear, the little girl leaned in to say in a stage whisper, “When are they going to go ʼway?”

  They all laughed, as the embarrassed woman caught the girl’s hand in hers. “Sorry.”

  Doyle smiled. “She favors you, I think.”

  The witness squeezed her arms around the child. “That’s kind of you, but she’s my stepdaughter, actually—my husband’s child.” She bent to nuzzle the girl’s head.

  “It’s a good mother, you are.” Doyle blushed, because the words had come out without conscious thought.

  “Thank you.” The woman didn’t seem discomfited by this bald statement, and smiled with genuine pleasure.

  Doyle and Williams finished up the interview, and then retreated to the unmarked, where they sat in silence for a moment. Doyle then shook her head. “I’m not understandin’ it, are you? When you put it all together, it doesn’t make much sense.”

  Williams propped an elbow on the seat back, and rested his head against his hand. “Maybe there’s no connection between the psycho-mother and the man from the church. The church-man may have been trying to convince her to put the child up for adoption.”

  “In Dublin.” She glanced at him, skeptical.

  “This witness may be mistaken about that. We should check for single-mother charities in the area, and see if one of them is named something that sounds like ‘Dublin’.”

  Doyle regarded him with abject admiration. “Now, that’s why you’re on the fast-track to DCI, my friend. That must be it.”

  But Williams was on to the next point. “It seems unlikely that the church-man is our killer, since he’s trying to take her somewhere, and help her. And I would guess there was no report of her death, because everyone involved thought it was an accident.”

  But Doyle reminded him, “You’re wrong there, my friend. If it was a death in the Metro area, we should have a record of it, accident or no. The Coroner is the only one who gets to decide what’s an accidental death, and what’s not.”

  Williams nodded, conceding this point. “Then maybe the name they found on her ID is not the one she used for the Wexton Prison investigation, and the two cases were never connected. That’s probably it—if she was a prostitute, she may have gone by another name.”

  “Another pregnant prostitute, killed.” Doyle slowly shook her head. “We should have heard about it—it can’t just be a coincidence.”

  “No one stole her fetus,” Williams reminded her.

  This was an important distinction, and it gave Doyle pause, as she gazed at the raindrops which were starting to patter on the windscreen. “Still and all, it all makes me very uneasy, what with Holy Trinity Church in the thick of things.”

  Williams checked the time, and then started the car. “I think I’d be inclined to think this was all a coincidence, were it not for the fact that you seem to think it’s not.”

  This was as close as he’d come to referring to her intuitive abilities, which was much appreciated, as she didn’t like to discuss it, even with Acton. “There is somethin’ here,” she told him, and knew that it was true. “And it seems odd that the church-man would go to her home, uninvited. Usually the adoption people make themselves available, but aren’t quite so aggressive.”

  Thomas turned into the traffic, made worse by the rain, and shrugged. “Well, it must have been frustrating; these women have no business raising a baby.”

  “No—no, they don’t; wait—holy Mother of God, Thomas, I think that’s it.” Doyle turned to face him in her excitement. “That’s it—we’re lookin’ at it from the wrong angle—from the baby angle. I think the psycho-mother is not targetin’ the babies, she’s targetin’ the bad mothers, instead. These two today had drugs and prostitution in common; we should check on the other three victims, to see if that’s the pattern.”

  They paused at a red light, and he watched the wipers for a moment, thinking this over. “I suppose that would explain why there’s more than one victim—instead of trying to replace a baby, she’s eliminating bad mothers. Did she have a bad mother? Or was she a bad mother, herself?”

  “Or—or we’re back to the original theory; she’s a good mother, who lost a child, and it doesn’t seem fair that the bad mothers are gettin’ to have all the babies.” Doyle sank back into the seat, turning it over in her mind, and knowing that they were on the right track. “I do think it’s tied to Holy Trinity, somehow—we should see if these victims were patients at the clinic.”

  “The ACC has custody of the records, now,” he reminded her. “Good luck getting them.”

  But Doyle was testing her theory aloud, to see how it sounded. “The psycho-mother has some connection to the clinic; she sees these women come in, and can’t bear the thought that their babies are doomed to be born into such a miserable l
ife.”

  “If that’s the theory, then what’s happened to the fetuses, Kath? There’s five gone missing, now, and they haven’t turned up anywhere.”

  “Not five,” she reminded him absently. “Only four—this one was different, the baby died, along with its mother.” Her scalp prickled. “I think I should pop in at the train station, and find out why there’s no report.”

  He tilted his head in apology. “Can you wait till tomorrow? I can’t spare any more time, today.”

  “Not to worry—I’ll take the tube, and be back in a pig’s whisker. Not the least trouble, but I do thank you for the offer.”

  And so, Doyle did pop over to the Euston station, having a very good guess as to what she would discover there. The station master recognized her before she produced her ID, and asked if he could take a snap, to show his mates at the pub. She acquiesced with a show of enthusiasm, and after chatting him up in a friendly fashion, explained that she was there—strictly routine—to follow up on the pregnant girl who’d been killed.

  “Such a shame,” the station master pronounced, checking their picture on his mobile with satisfaction. “She had so much to live for. Sometimes, the young girls feel if something doesn’t go their way, it’s the end of the world.”

  “Oh?” Doyle pretended to check her notes on her tablet. “Was it suicide? I thought they hadn’t ruled out misadventure.”

  After taking a glance around, the station master lowered his voice. “No; it was suicide—there was even a bystander who tried to restrain her, but in the end, he couldn’t hold her, and she did herself in.” He paused, and gave her a knowing look. “The police wanted to keep it quiet— keep it out of the papers, so as to not upset the family. The official story is that she lost her balance.” He closed his mobile with a thumb, and pocketed it. “Mighty decent, when you think about it—no point in pouring misery upon misery.”

  “He’s a decent man,” offered Doyle, with a sinking heart.

  The man winked at her. “You’d know better than most; you’re the one that’s married to him.”

  8

  As Doyle rode on the tube back to headquarters, she decided that she’d chosen a bad week to stop biting her nails, and absently pulled off her gloves. It’s not my fault, she tried to assure herself, as she examined her sorry excuse for a thumbnail. Even if I’d thought it over for more than ten minutes before I married him, I wouldn’t have seen this coming.

  The train was crowded, as was the usual on rainy days, but she was too preoccupied to feel buffeted by the human emotions that swirled around her. Acton didn’t want her riding on the tube, now that there was a bun in the oven, but the tube station had been right there at the train station and besides, Acton was not in any position to be ordering her about. Her scalp prickled, and she leaned forward to rest her head on her hands, wishing the prickling would stop, and wishing the woman next to her wasn’t working up the nerve to ask for a snap.

  Sternly taking herself in hand, she straightened up again, a little ashamed of this rare moment of weakness. There must be a way that all of this made sense, and she should begin with the premise—please God—that Acton was not murdering pregnant women. Or aiding and abetting someone who was. Here she paused, and frowned. It may not rise to aiding and abetting, but it could very well be a cover-up—it certainly seemed so, if he hadn’t reported this death-by-train. And it did seem clear that the Wexton Prison witness had been murdered—pushed to her death. It was too coincidental, and besides, Acton wouldn’t be covering up an accident, there would be no point to it. So—she was back to the main question; why would Acton cover up such a murder?

  She knew that her husband was hip-deep in helping the prosecutors with the corruption scandal, so perhaps it had something to do with that. Perhaps, for instance, an important witness was involved in these psycho-mother murders, and he couldn’t jeopardize the investigation.

  But she shook her head, slightly. That wasn’t it. It was—it was more personal than that; which seemed a strange thing to think.

  “Did you say something, dear?” The woman next to her saw her opening, and took it.

  “No.” Doyle pinned on her smile, and turned to face her seat companion. “I was just lost in thought.”

  “I was wondering,” the woman ventured, “—if you wouldn’t mind—

  “Not at all,” Doyle replied, with poor grace.

  The woman knit her brow in puzzlement. “Oh—well, I was wondering if you could pass along to your husband—”

  “My husband?” Doyle realized she’d been abrupt, and tried to retrench. “Do you have a message for the Chief Inspector?”

  The woman nodded. “I just wanted to express my admiration. I work for the Ministry of Justice, and it is such a relief to know that someone is finally willing to take on those terrible people, and root them out. It quite gives one hope.”

  “Yes.” Doyle smiled at her companion with genuine warmth. “And here’s hopin’ those terrible people get their just desserts.” Silly, vain knocker, she thought; thinking that you’re world-famous, or something.

  Her companion ventured shyly, “Would you mind if I took a snap with you?”

  Then again, maybe she was. “Not at all.” With an air of resignation, Doyle leaned in as the woman held her mobile phone at arm’s length.

  She heard the woman’s voice, resonating against her head. “What were you thinking, when you jumped?”

  “I was just thinkin’ that I had to help my friend,” Doyle repeated for the thousandth time. Her scalp prickled yet again. What? she thought in surprise. Was Acton helping a friend? That seemed unlikely—Acton had no friends.

  The train slowed, and Doyle suddenly sprang up. “My stop.” It wasn’t, but she was possessed of a sudden need to breathe some air for a few minutes, and so she ducked her head, hoping no one would stop her as she passed through the sliding doors. That last thought was not exactly true; Acton did indeed have a friend—a friend who was a medical doctor. And Dr. Timothy McGonigal volunteered at Holy Trinity Clinic. Overcome, she paused a moment, nearly swaying with dismay. It all added up, but it couldn’t possibly be true.

  Biting another nail in agitation, she made her way up the escalators, and into the metro station, only to stop short—she’d forgotten it was raining buckets; best to wait it out for a few minutes.

  She leaned against the wall next to the newsstand, and took a deep breath, watching the travelers go by, shaking out their umbrellas and leaving a trail of damp on their way through the turnstiles. It was impossible; impossible to believe that Timothy would hurt a fly—he was a good man. And he’d stood as a good friend to Acton through thick and thin, despite the fact that Acton was not one of your warm and fuzzy types. Indeed, she’d gotten the impression that Timothy knew—or guessed—that Acton had killed his father, and that was the type of secret only a staunch friend would keep. That, and apparently Acton’s da was someone who needed killin’.

  She lifted her head for a moment, dismay washing over her yet again. If Timothy thought Acton’s da needed killin’, was it such a stretch to think he felt the same about these bad mothers?

  Her mobile pinged, and she glanced at the ID, then decided she’d like nothing better than to hear her husband’s reassuring voice. “Ho, there. I’m afraid to tell you exactly where I am, for fear I’ll be in for a browbeatin’.”

  “Surely not—such a lovely brow.”

  She smiled. “Well, I thought I’d take the tube, just because it’s rainin’ like the great flood, and traffic is a crackin’ mess.” This was actually a plausible explanation, and she was rather proud of herself for coming up with it on the fly.

  “As long as you’re staying dry. I am going to meet with Father John before the vigil service tonight, and I may not have time to come home to fetch you, first; I’m rather tied up, here.”

  She came to the shrewd conclusion that her poor husband was helping to process the next round of arrest warrants for the players in the corruption scandal�
��it would necessarily have to be done as quietly and as quickly as possible, and only trusted personnel could be involved. He’d not told her the particulars, but she could sense that some cataclysmic event was about to happen; he was preoccupied, and when Acton was preoccupied, Katy bar the door. “I’ll be fine, Michael.” She pronounced it “foine,” just to tease him. “In fact, I think I’ll have one of those cellophane-wrapped sandwiches they sell here, at the tube station.”

  “Will you indeed? Bring one home for me.”

  She laughed aloud, happy to take his mind off his troubles for a moment. “Only if it has whey paste—you truly need to mix it up a bit, my friend.” Acton was one of those healthy-eating types.

  She could sense his smile. “I miss you, Lady Acton.”

  “Not half as much as I miss you. Let’s go back to the flat, and pull up the ladder. This stupid city can fend for itself.”

  “Only a bit more fending,” he soothed. “Once the dust settles, we’ll be back to normal.”

  She refrained from pointing out that “normal,” thus far, had been an unending series of catastrophic events, and instead changed the subject. “Have you seen the papers?” She glanced at the newsstand next to her. “Howard’s on the front page, big as life.” Howard was a government official, and the players in the corruption scandal had tried to frame him—being as he was a reformer, and unwilling to play along. Now that the villains were on the run, he’d decided to take the current whilst it served and stand for Parliament, with an eye to a potential Prime Minister position.

  “Is he?” Acton, was not going to get involved in anything political, being as he had no use for politicians—other than to work around them, of course.

  “Well, now he’ll have to start wearin’ his sleeves rolled-up, and drinkin’ pints of beer. Don’t ever stand for office,” she warned.

  “I can’t,” he pointed out. “I am in the House of Lords.”

  She quirked her mouth. “Trust me to forget that little detail.”