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

by Anne Cleeland

  The witness shrugged her thin shoulders. “I wouldn’t know one way or the other, I’m afraid. I do know that she was with the Sisters of the Sacred Cross.”

  Doyle looked up with interest. “Oh? That’s one I haven’t heard of—d’you know where it is?”

  In an apologetic tone, the witness confessed, “I’m afraid I didn’t pay much attention, particularly since Carmella was ending her relationship with them. I think the convent is over near Ealing, since she always came in on the number sixty-five bus. I do know that it’s a small order, and there’s only a few nuns left, now that they’ve lost the two.”

  Her scalp prickling, Doyle raised her gaze in carefully suppressed alarm. “Two have been lost? The other one bein’—”

  “Oh, the other one wasn’t killed—sorry, I didn’t mean to give that impression. She left the convent, too. I think the first one’s leaving was an influence on Carmella—I think it triggered her own doubts.”

  “And who was this other nun?” Doyle asked, swallowing. “The first one who’d left the convent?”

  Puzzled, the witness drew her brows together. “I’m afraid I don’t know—I don’t know if Carmella ever mentioned her name. But I’m certain that she isn’t involved in the murder—Carmella was definitely arguing with a man, not a woman.”

  “Right, then.” Doyle bent her head and pretended to make a note, unwilling to tell the witness that she was certain that the first nun was dead, also.

  14

  Almost immediately after exiting the grocer’s, Doyle rang up Williams. “Hey.”

  “Hey yourself. Sorry—haven’t much time to spare.”

  “Well, this will only take a mo’, Thomas. I just had one of those things—those things where you feel as though you are re-livin’ somethin’ that’s already happened.” She paused, thinking about it. “‘Days of view’, I think it is.”

  “Oh? How so?”

  “Remember how we were mindin’ our own business yesterday, canvassin’ the neighbors about the Wexton Prison witness, and then we stumbled across the news of her murder?”

  “Wasn’t her death an accident?”

  “Oh—oh yes, the train accident; that’s it. Well, I was workin’ on Munoz’s nun-killer case, and I think I’ve stumbled across another dead nun.”

  “Now, that is impressive. You should buy a lottery ticket.”

  She quirked her mouth. “Not so very funny, Thomas. But now I’m thinkin’ it may be all connected—I think the dead nuns may be connected to the dead prostitutes.”

  There was a small pause, and she could tell he’d stopped walking. “A serial killer? A serial killer who targets nuns and pregnant prostitutes? That seems a bit of a stretch, Kath.”

  But Doyle played her trump. “This new witness—the one I just interviewed—said she didn’t see the man the victim was arguing with, but she thought she heard him say ‘Dublin’.”

  There was a moment of silence. “All right,” he conceded. “I’m listening.”

  “Could’ve knocked me over with a feather,” Doyle admitted. “I thought the connection might be Holy Trinity, or the Health Professions Council, but the dead nun worked at the Community Family Center, and there doesn’t seem to be a link.”

  “There may be an overlap in personnel—it’s charitable work.”

  She stopped walking, and dug out her occurrence book so as to make a quick note, balancing the book on her leg. “Good one; we should compare the volunteer lists, and see if anyone shows up in both. And I should do a search for the other nun—I’ll call her convent, to get an ID, and find out when they last heard from her.”

  “All good ideas, Kath, but isn’t this Munoz’s case?”

  Doyle struggled with what to say, and then settled on, “I think I’d like to keep this between us, Thomas—at least for the time bein’.” She left it at that, because Thomas Williams was nobody’s fool, and she’d already raised her concerns about Acton’s involvement in the psycho-mother cases.

  “Who’s the SIO on this one?”

  “The nun’s case was originally assigned to Drake, but now it’s Acton’s.” Again, she offered nothing further, because Williams was well-able to connect the dots.

  He said quietly, “Acton should be informed, Kath; we may need to form a task force.”

  This was undeniably true, and she shouldn’t be muckin’ up the protocols just because Acton was muckin’ up the protocols. “I know. Just let me do some checkin’ on the other nun first, Thomas, in case I’ve got it all by the wrong leg.”

  “All right; keep me posted.”

  Thoughtfully, Doyle rang off. Her trusty instinct told her that it was the same killer—although apparently, it was a psycho-man, not a psycho-woman—and Acton knew all about it, which was why he’d had the case transferred to his own docket. It also meant that Acton was covering for someone who was not only murdering pregnant mothers, but was also murdering nuns, for good measure—a thought that truly boggled the mind. And despite her certainty that the killer couldn’t possibly be Timothy, he did seem a likely candidate. Aside from her fair self, she couldn’t think of anyone else who’d inspire Acton to go to the trouble of covering up these two sets of despicable murders.

  She put away her notebook, and began to walk along the pavement, trying to come up with a working theory, which seemed a tall order, given the circumstances. Surely the Timothy angle was a dead end, because if Acton were indeed covering for Timothy, one would think he’d have taken measures to save his friend from potential exposure—sent him to a psych, or to rehab, or something. Instead, there’d been a fresh victim just yesterday morning, and it had seemed to her that Acton wasn’t overly-concerned—it wasn’t exitent to him—although she may have gotten the stupid word wrong, again; it was one of those things where you’ve mixed it up so many times that you forget which is which.

  Instead, Acton was throwing out hints of Santeria, and then sticking like a burr to his wilful wife, so that she didn’t nose out whatever it was that he was covering up. But his attitude seemed—it seemed rather steady, if that was the right word. If the killer was Timothy, her husband should be acting more alarmed, and worried.

  That’s it, she thought suddenly, coming to a halt. Acton wasn’t worried about these murders, which seemed a strange thing to say. But, why wasn’t he? And if it wasn’t Timothy, why would Acton cover for this killer?

  With a full measure of unease, she began walking again, and remembered that she’d had the sense that Acton didn’t exactly disapprove of these killings, but that was ridiculous—some maniac was killing nuns and babies, for heaven’s sake. Although—although it was unclear, as yet, whether the babies were actually dead.

  She paused again, looking down the road without really seeing it, struck with this thought. Acton didn’t think so—he didn’t think the babies were dead, and she could sense that he was genuinely trying to find out what had happened to them.

  Hard on this thought, her mobile pinged, and she saw that it was Acton, himself—he kept track of her whereabouts through the GPS on her mobile, being as he was slightly nicked, when it came to his worrisome wife. Best not give him any specifics as yet; she needed to sound him out.

  “Hallo, husband; I’m not just wanderin’ about the city like a dosser—I’m on an assignment, I promise.” Inspired, she added, “I thought I’d take a nice walk, whilst I was at it.” Acton had been gently reminding her that the pregnancy treatise recommended a daily walking regimen.

  “I did wonder,” he replied mildly. “Are you free for lunch? I can spare a half hour.”

  She teased, “Will there be any role-playin’?”

  “I believe the top of my desk is clear.”

  “Michael,” she laughed, scandalized. “Sex-on-the-desk is only reserved for those times when you are in dire need of distraction. I’ll bring pasta, instead.”

  “It will be a poor substitute.”

  With a smile, she rang off, and then lifted her face to feel the wan sun for a moment,
trying to decide on a strategy. She was not good at subterfuge, and tended to lay all cards on the table, willy-nilly, even when caution was advised. But in this instance, perhaps it was best that she not make it clear she was detecting like a house afire; at least not until she’d taken a read on Timothy. No doubt her husband had called her, just now, to take his own read on her—he couldn’t be happy that she’d horned her way in on the psycho-mother cases, and was now dabbling in the nun-killer. On the other hand, a little fretting might do him good; if he were truly worried that she might get to the bottom of all this, it might inspire him to curb his exasperating ways.

  After checking the time, she re-adjusted her rucksack, and began walking toward the closest cross street, taking a last, backward glance toward the grocer’s. Something was bothering her; there was something that the witness had said—something important—and she’d missed it. With a sigh, she faced forward again. She’d no time to spare, just now, and after all, she could always ring the woman up, or even interview her again, if she thought it necessary.

  I am juggling way too many balls in the air, she defended herself a bit crossly, as she made her way up the street. I should be home, decorating the nursery, but instead I’m coming across stray corpses everywhere I go, between the nun, and the Wexton Prison witness, and the records-keeper at Holy Trinity Clinic—small wonder I can’t remember whether I’m afoot or horseback.

  Reminded, she decided to put in a call to PC Shandera, to see what he’d discovered about Mr. Rowan-who-was-also-Dr.-Mayne—another wrinkle that didn’t seem as important, compared to the bodies that were piling up, but which was nevertheless an item of interest, and shouldn’t be overlooked.

  “Officer Doyle.”

  Very respectful, he was, being as she was the leaper-off-the-bridge. “Hallo, Officer Shandera. I’m callin’ to see how things are goin’ on the case.”

  “Which one, ma’am?”

  “Oh—oh, that’s right, there are two—I’m losing track, which is a sad commentary. Either one, take your pick.”

  “With regard to the female victim, we don’t have a lot. I’ve shown her snap at the local tattoo parlors, and I’m gearing up to make some discreet inquiries among the Santeria practitioners—there’s a Haitian contingent, living in Lambeth.”

  Wild goose chases, thought Doyle. Good one, Acton. “Any leads on the babies?”

  “DCI Acton has assigned DI Williams to that aspect of the investigation, ma’am.”

  That will be news to him, thought Doyle; good one again, Acton. “And what of our Mr. Rowan? Is he bein’ held, or has he jumped through yet another window?”

  “Mr. Rowan has been charged with obstruction of justice, and is currently in Detention, ma’am. He’s the prime suspect for the murder, but he doesn’t have a record, and the EO and the SOCOs say the room was clean—it looks like a professional hit.”

  “Yes, it does,” Doyle mused. “And Rowan doesn’t strike me as a professional; a professional wouldn’t have panicked when the coppers came nosin’ about.”

  “No, ma’am. And you’d think a professional wouldn’t have hung around, after the murder.”

  She squinted at the clouds, which were now moving in over the sun, and decided to press the tab on her mobile that requested the driving service. “On the other hand, Rowan didn’t call it in, and he fled the scene—not the actions of an innocent man.”

  Officer Shandera, however, had already come up with a working theory. “He must have been working under a false identity, and didn’t want that to come to light.”

  “Oh—that’s right; you knew him as his alter-ego—an instructor.”

  “Yes, ma’am; he teaches forensic psychology. He’s a guest lecturer at the Crime Academy.”

  Doyle grimaced. “Faith; I hated that class.” Mainly because she had to pretend she didn’t know far more than the instructor about the psychology of whatever criminal they were using as the subject of the study. Ironic, is what it was; she wasn’t very good at lying about how good she was at catching out liars.

  “I have to say I found the class very interesting, ma’am.”

  “To each his own,” she replied philosophically, and wondered why her scalp was prickling.

  He continued, “I’m going out this afternoon to show the female victim’s snap at the local clinics. Did you and DCI Acton have a chance to speak with the personnel at Holy Trinity Clinic?”

  Doyle blew out a breath, as she watched up the street for the driving service. “No—we were too busy with the new homicide. I’m speakin’ with one of the doctors this afternoon, though, and I’ll ask him.”

  The young officer ventured, “If you’d like, I can include Holy Trinity in my list. I know a few of the personnel, myself; my wife was a volunteer there.”

  Slowly, Doyle lifted her head. “Was she indeed?”

  “That’s how I met her, actually—I was a patient.”

  Another wrinkle, she thought with resignation—mental note; check out Officer Shandera’s background, and his whereabouts at the time of the murder. “No, I think Acton still means to go over there, but thank you for the offer.”

  “He’ll command a bit more respect, that’s for certain, ma’am.”

  She spotted the limousine, and raised her arm. “Small good it would do him—they’re a gafty bunch, this lot.”

  He sounded a bit surprised. “Which lot is that, ma’am?”

  Doyle felt it would do no harm to tell him. “The Anti-Corruption Command is goin’ through the records that were stored in the room where the victim was found. They’re keepin’ it quiet, but they think the records may be related to the corruption scandal.”

  “Oh, I see. Well, that explains it; DCI Acton told me that there were trans-jurisdictional issues at play, and that the homicide investigation would be handled by another department.”

  With a feeling of intense aggravation, Doyle nodded a greeting to the driver, as he opened the limousine door for her. The ACC wouldn’t take over a homicide investigation, of all things, which meant that Acton had given Officer Shandera a fish tale, so that he’d stop working the case. Which also meant that Acton was covering up for yet another murderer—unless it was the same one. As she settled into the leather seat, she tried to imagine a scenario whereby someone was murdering nuns, pregnant women, and shady clerks, and decided it was beyond her capabilities, just now. “Thank you, Officer Shandera; please let me know if you’ll be needin’ any support. It sounds like you’re doin’ yeoman’s work, and I appreciate it.”

  “Thank you, ma’am; let me know if you can think of any other leads I should pursue, with respect to the female victim.”

  Reminded, she offered, “I should tell you that I’m seein’ a pattern—the victim is overheard arguin’ with a man, shortly before the murder.”

  “Yes ma’am; I noted it in my preliminary report.”

  Doyle closed her eyes briefly. “I’m afraid I haven’t had a chance to review your report—can you give me the short version?”

  “Yes, ma’am. One of the neighbors thought the victim had turned down a customer; a man was pleading with her in the hallway.”

  With a frown, Doyle considered this development. “So, there’s an arguin’ man involved in each case, but the witnesses never seem to think it was the murderer—or at least, no one mentions him, straightaway.”

  “He must have not seemed threatening, ma’am. And I suppose we cannot be certain that it’s the same man, each time—these are prostitutes, after all.”

  “That’s true.” Doyle did not tell him that she knew—in the way that she knew things—that it was indeed the same man in each case, and that in fact, two of the victims were the opposite of prostitutes. She also was striving mightily not to think about how Timothy McGonigal was the pattern-card for a man who would not appear threatening. “I’ll start puttin’ together an investigative protocol, then, once I’ve had a chance to read through everythin’, and see what’s what.”

  He offered with all
due respect, “I believe that DCI Acton is preparing the protocol, ma’am.”

  With forced heartiness, Doyle exclaimed, “Well then; he’s a trump, that man.”

  The young officer certainly seemed to think so. “He tries to ease your way, ma’am, and good on him.”

  Her scalp prickling, Doyle slowly replied, “Yes. Yes, he does. Thank you, Constable.”

  15

  With take-out containers in hand, Doyle made the trek up to Acton’s office, wondering if he had his fingers in every single homicide on the docket, and—more to the point—wondering how she was going to resist picking up his coatrack, and braining him with it.

  Acton buzzed her in, and she found that he was holding an impromptu meeting with some of the personnel who were slated to testify on the corruption cases. At Acton’s signal, the others left, looking a bit grave.

  She set down the pasta on his desk. “Are we surrenderin’ the city?” With deep regret, she decided that she’d probably have to refrain from giving him a bear-garden jawing about his behind-the-scenes staging, if he was dealing with yet another crisis in the wretched corruption case.

  “We’re seeing what we have, and what we need.”

  Thinking that this was an equivocal answer, if she’d ever heard one, she ventured, “Do they still have a decent case? They looked a little grim.”

  “Oh, yes; they’ll make it stick.”

  She nodded without comment, as she set out the napkins and bottles of water. No doubt Acton had painstakingly gathered enough evidence to support a solid case; of course, whether that evidence had been falsified was a completely different matter.

  He watched her actions for a moment. “Am I in trouble?”

  Blowing a tendril of hair off her face, she straightened up to consider him. “What’s a trans-jurisdictional issue? Saints and holy angels, Michael, if you’re goin’ to yank my cases, at least have the decency to use an excuse that I can understand.”

  Immediately contrite, he leaned over to run an apologetic hand down her arm. “I’m sorry, Kathleen; I should have told you as soon as I was made aware.” He leaned back in his chair, and regarded her steadily. “Unfortunately, the prime suspect for the records-room murder is someone who has been secretly working on behalf of the Home Office.”