Murder in Thrall (4 page)

Mother a’ mercy. She could feel the hot color flood her face as she protested, “Oh no, sir—I have plenty of money. I am rigorously savin’ a down payment for a condo—almost there.” They looked at each other, and she couldn’t help but reflect that his coat alone was probably worth two months’ rental. “But I do thank you for the offer, sir—I’d have no back-up plan, else.”

The coroner’s team had hoisted the body onto a gurney, and so there was a general movement out the door as the clean-up phase began. Doyle took the opportunity to recover her equilibrium as she moved toward the group in the hallway—Acton had always shown little interest in her personal life and so she was thrown a bit off balance, although she had managed to use the word “rigorously,” so there was that. And to offer her money, of all things—she was certain that protocol forbade him from offering a loan to a subordinate. It surely was a sign of the apocalypse.

To take her mind off it, she spent a very patient hour listening to tales of the Jezebel from the neighbors who vied to outdo each other with the result that much of what they told her was not true. Doyle found it rather sad—there was nothing like getting one’s self killed to find out what everyone thought of one. She dutifully jotted down all variety of wild theories while reflecting that it was a terrible thing to be murdered; all foibles and weaknesses were brutally exposed to public scrutiny, and yet no matter the weakness, no one deserved to die in such away. She showed a photo of Capper around, and one neighbor identified him as the current boyfriend. No one was sure if he had been visiting over the past few days, and overall, the consensus was that the victim had got no less than what she deserved.

Acton came out to join her and indicated she was to finish up, which was just as well as she was learning very little that was useful. They descended the steps in silence, past the knot of spectators on the sidewalk who murmured among themselves when they recognized Acton. The spring weather had turned and it was a fine day.

“Where are you parked?”

“I came on the tube, sir.”

He was angry suddenly—she could feel it. The only outward indication was that his words became clipped as he strode along. “Why does your supervisor have you travel to a crime scene on the tube?”

Afraid poor Habib would suffer Acton’s wrath, Doyle protested. “No—it was my own choice, sir.” To tease him out of his temper, she smiled up at him. “It’s a wretched driver I am, and two of our poor unmarkeds have suffered at my hands in the past year alone.”

The anger was gone and his mouth relaxed. “I had no idea you were so dangerous.”

“You live and you learn, sir,” she replied piously.

She thought for a moment that he was actually going to laugh; he contained himself, however, and was back to business. “Send me an email tonight at close and let me know where we are. If you learn anything particularly startling, call or text my mobile.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll give you a lift,” he said firmly.

“Lead on,” she said agreeably.

He was on his mobile on the drive back to the Met, requesting that Danny Capper be brought in for questioning. He returned a message from the detective chief superintendent and then was discussing available conference time with someone when he turned to Doyle, who hadn’t been paying attention. “Are you available to conference day after next at four? We should have forensics by then.”

She found herself blushing again and stammered, “No—I mean yes, if necessary.”

He turned back to watch the traffic and continue his conversation. “Not good. How about tomorrow? We’ll expedite the autopsy and toxics won’t be important.” He raised his eyebrows in question at Doyle, and she nodded to show she was available.

“Good.” He disconnected and addressed Doyle. “We’ll conference with Research and Forensics then. DCI Drake’s team will attend.”

“Grand.” She had never been invited to a conference before, being as they were not intended for the lowly likes of her but only for those with dispositive authority. Acton was mentoring her again, bless him. She’d best study up.

He drove in silence for a moment or two and then asked in a neutral tone, “What’s happening day after next?”

“Oh no,” she protested, laughing. “Thus far today I’ve had to confess I’m pockets-to-let and I’m a wretched driver, and it’s still morning. I’ll suffer no more humiliations, if you please—it’s more than a body can bear.”

“Suit yourself,” he said with a smile.

C
HAPTER
4

 

The remainder of the day was spent slogging away in the field, reviewing surveillance tape and interviewing secondary witnesses who had been neighbors or workmates of the two victims, and at the end of it Doyle had nothing of interest to text to Acton. It was a very strange sort of case, she thought, gazing with furrowed brow at her screen. The forensics pointed to a professional killer, but the victims didn’t point to a professional killer; there was no indication that either the trainer or Giselle had come a cropper with the sort of people who would hire a professional to finish them off. It was almost as though the killer was practicing, or showing off, or something. Or perhaps he’d gotten his assignments mixed—nothing worse than a mixed-up assassin, one would think—but no; Giselle had let him into her rooms, so she must have known him. Very strange, it was.

After carefully assembling what little information she had gathered, Doyle went in to work uncharacteristically early the next morning to prepare herself for the conference—it was not clear if she would be called upon to report and so she wanted to be up to speed on every detail. She had never been very good at detail—tending instead to instinctively jump to the heart of matters—but in this line of work the tedious details could not be overlooked, particularly in a case of this nature where a nice, juicy clue was needful. It would be so very fine if she could impress Acton with a case-breaker, but it seemed unlikely, given what they knew.

With steely determination, she resolved to go over everything yet again once she was at her desk and was aided in her endeavors by a latte, exactly to her specifications and delivered to her desk by a messenger. She stared at it for a full twenty seconds, wrestling with her conscience. Her conscience didn’t win, and she briefly considered thanking Acton with a text but decided he would not want her to thank him—she knew him that well, at least. “
Sláinte
,” she said aloud, and drank it down.

Inter-team conferences were set on a regular basis as a means to cross-check for ideas within a basic command unit when cases became tough to crack or—as in this case—when different homicides appeared to be related, raising concerns of a serial killer. At least two DCIs would participate, along with pertinent staff to brainstorm ideas and information with the aim of encouraging fresh insights. The conferences were developed as a remedy for past problems when detectives, competing for attention and promotions, had become territorial and secretive about their cases to the extent that information acquired that might have been helpful to another case was instead withheld.

The practice was a good one—setting aside for a moment the fact that a first-year DC such as her fair self would almost never be involved. She double- and triple-checked her information and then decided to wear lip gloss to appear older than she was; as she did not usually wear makeup, it was a telling measure of her state of mind.

Armed with her lip gloss, she decided to ask Habib for suggestions. It would be diplomatic to defer to him since he could theoretically control her assignments, although there was no question he would, in turn, defer to Acton. On a practical level, Doyle was aware that her days as Acton’s helpmeet could be numbered, and so she was careful to burn no bridges—someday she may need to come crawling back to her supervisor and beg for decent assignments. Besides, Habib seemed a knowing one, and she wanted to hear his opinion.

After she sought him out, he listened to her synopsis of the case thoughtfully, sitting up very straight in his chair with his arms crossed before him and his feet flat on the floor. “It seems apparent the two murders are by the same killer,” she concluded. “A professional, we think, given that the scenes were wiped clean.”

He bent his head once in acknowledgment. “Yes. Although there is much more emotion in the execution of Giselle.”

Doyle thought it over. “Because he shot off her face.”

The Pakistani man nodded with a quick movement of his chin. “Yes. It takes a great deal of anger to do such a thing to a woman.”

Knitting her brow, Doyle was not certain she agreed. “He used a large-caliber weapon so as to retrieve the bullet, we think.”

“There are much easier ways to kill if that was the concern—and professionals normally do not face their victims.”

This made sense, and Doyle could only agree. “So he was angry at Giselle—it was personal.”

“Perhaps.” Habib, ever cautious, was not going to commit.

Doyle bit her fingernail. “But the anger was not obvious to her, not enough to make her try to get away from him. There were no signs of forced entry or a struggle; she allowed him to approach her.”

“That is true,” he agreed with another quick nod. “His anger was not overt.”

An excellent word; Doyle made a mental note to use it.

Habib continued, his demeanor thoughtful. “There is a strong emotion beneath the anger. It may be sexual in nature.”

Doyle was impressed; sometimes Habib sounded a lot like Acton. “Acton and I don’t think it’s the boyfriend, though, because we don’t think he killed the trainer and one would think the same man did both—it’s someone who knows his forensics.”

“Then look for other suspects,” Habib suggested, “—others who would be enraged at this woman.”

Doyle had rather thought the killing was to keep Giselle from talking to the authorities, but what Habib said made sense; this killer, so meticulous, shouldn’t have been so vindictive—not if he was merely eliminating a perceived leaker of information. If there was a sexual aspect, it would mean the investigation had to cast a much wider net, given Giselle’s proclivities. “A rival for her affections, jealous of the boyfriend? Or perhaps the other way ’round—Giselle had a rival who wanted Capper and so she was eliminated.”

“Not a woman,” Habib pronounced with certainty. “It was not a woman’s crime.”

Doyle decided she wouldn’t challenge this assumption, which seemed a little simplistic—she hadn’t been doing this very long, but she’d seen some first-rate nasty women capable of doing some first-rate nasty things. “But by all accounts this is not the standard love triangle—it started with the trainer’s execution, perhaps in connection with a money-launderin’ scheme, although we haven’t found anything definite. It seems odd to suggest there may be a sexual aspect to it.”

Habib bent his head in acknowledgment. “Perhaps, perhaps not—but there must be a commonality; we have only to understand why the woman was murdered so brutally compared to the other.”

Doyle nodded, thinking such an understanding a tall order, given there was so little to go on.

As if reading her mind, Habib suggested kindly, “You would do well to ask the chief inspector for his opinion, or DC Williams, who also may have good suggestions.”

With a nod, Doyle took the implied vote-of-no-confidence in stride; Habib was very capable and fair to those under his supervision, but Doyle knew he felt—a cultural thing, to be sure—that women had no place in this type of police work, where grubbing about with the bottom-dwellers was not for the faint of heart. As for Habib, he was single, appeared to have a nonexistent social life, and was intensely dedicated to his job. Pausing in reflection, Doyle realized that she fit the same description and so perhaps shouldn’t be so judgmental. “Thank you for your help,” she said in her best I-should-really-be-cooking-something tone of voice.

“You are welcome,” Habib said gravely. “It is an interesting case.”

C
HAPTER
5

 

Doyle was the first to arrive at the meeting room on the fifth floor and slid into a chair toward the far end of the conference table. After setting up her laptop, she leaned down to check her teeth in the reflection on the screen, hoping against hope that she appeared competent and professional and humbly asking any available saints or holy angels to see to it that she didn’t make any obvious mistakes that would make Acton look foolish for having recruited her. It was true the two of them had an exemplary record of solving cases thus far, but it was also true she was a first-year and they were an odd pairing. He had taken a professional risk by enlisting her to work on his cases, and she did not want to let him down; his approval meant a great deal to her.

The second person to appear was a slightly plump, cheerful woman wearing a white coat over her clothes who smiled upon Doyle as she breezed into the room. Carrying a file in one arm and a doughnut in the other, she paused to offer her hand, temporarily holding the doughnut in her mouth. “Forensics,” she mumbled as rainbow sprinkles were dislodged. “Fiona from Forensics—Morgue.”

Doyle shook hands and introduced herself, feeling self-conscious.

“Are you working with DCI Drake?” Fiona’s eyes held a gleam of speculation.

“DCI Acton, instead.”

“Ah.” The gleam was quickly extinguished. Fiona took a seat and they were joined by a research assistant named Sid who also shook hands all around. He was about Doyle’s age and the type of man who spent a lot of time in clubs. He sat next to her and began chatting her up, as she was female and it was second nature to him.

Acton then entered, already in conversation with his counterpart, DCI Drake. Drake was about Acton’s age, tanned, and had a luxurious head of hair that was apparently a source of some pride. He also had a reputation for being overly friendly with female subordinates, which had landed him in the soup on more than one occasion. Technically, the racecourse murder had occurred in his territory, and so he was the other presiding officer for the meeting—he had been out of town at a sex-trafficking conference, and Acton had been called in to handle it instead.

They sat and Acton began by thanking Fiona for expediting Giselle’s autopsy.

“Nothing to it,” the woman demurred, wiping her hands with a napkinette. “Opened her up over lunch yesterday.”

“Same shooter?”

“Hard to say. I can offer something, though. The bullet was not a through-and-through on the trainer. Instead it was removed with a delicate instrument; I’m guessing a surgeon’s probe. The bullet lodged near the nape of the neck, an inch off the spine. It wouldn’t have been too difficult to remove with the right tool.”

This pronouncement was met with the surprised silence it deserved. Faith, thought Doyle; here’s a wrinkle.

“Residue?” asked Action.

“None on either. My guess it was wiped away with alcohol or something that evaporated with no trace.”

“Caliber?”

“Large for her; not so large for him.”

“So not the same weapon,” mused Drake.

Acton offered, “He may have wanted the bullet to exit her head to retrieve it more easily, after having to operate on the trainer.”

Doyle decided there was no time like the present to put forth Habib’s theory. “Or it may have been a crime of rage.”

The others turned to look at her. She decided they couldn’t have been more surprised if her laptop had spoken.

“How so?” asked Drake, intrigued.

“It was a vicious way to be killin’ a woman, face-to-face—and there are less messy ways to leave no evidence.”

“Good point.” Drake eyed her with renewed interest. “The boyfriend, then? He was present at both scenes and they had a falling-out.”

Doyle could not very well point out that her instinct had told her that Giselle had been lying about the falling-out, so instead she offered, “The crime scene did not lend itself to a crime of rage, though—no forced entry and no sign of a struggle.” She realized she had not used the word “overt,” and mentally chastised herself. “And the trainer’s death seems to be a different pathology altogether.”

Acton steepled his long fingers, his eyes hooded. “I didn’t think it was Capper on the trainer; the work is professional. But he was present at one scene, directly connected to the other, and is behaving like a prime suspect.”

To Drake this seemed to be what mattered most. “Better find him. Any leads?”

“Not as yet.” Acton said to Fiona, “Anything else?”

Fiona brushed the crumbs off her report and went down the checklist. “Not pregnant, some alcohol. Smoked a lot. No defensive wounds—but you already know that. Hair and fibers are in the lab and will take another day or so. Nothing startling that I could see; just routine. We should have tox screen results in a few more days.”

“Thank you,” said Acton.

“Always a pleasure.” Fiona smiled her cheerful smile at him and stood to re-gather her file. “Nice to meet you,” she nodded to Doyle as she left. Interestingly enough, this last was not true, and Doyle watched her exit with some surprise. She had the brief impression the woman was sad for some reason, despite her pervasive cheerfulness.

Drake leaned back in his chair and contemplated the ceiling. “So if the boyfriend is not shooting her in the face, who is? And doesn’t that make it seem it may have been two different shooters?”

Acton shook his head slightly. “She was killed just after we interviewed her—we had the impression she was getting ready to grass. And the clean forensics seems too much of a coincidence.”

“Maybe he was only trying to obscure identification by shooting off her face,” suggested Sid, who had not contributed to this point.

Doyle could see that Sid had a drug problem, couldn’t concentrate, and was trying to cover it up. “Perhaps,” she responded diplomatically. “Although the shootin’ did occur in her own apartment.”

The participants sat in silence for a moment, each trying to concoct a scenario with little success. Drake asked, “Any drugs around? Personal items missing?”

“No—no drugs and her purse held nothing unusual.” Doyle paused, suddenly struck, and turned to Acton. “I didn’t see the card you gave her in inventory, sir.”

Acton drew his brows together, considering. “It should have been in her purse—in the outside sleeve.”

“Yes,” Doyle agreed. “I remember that’s where she put it.”

“The killer took it?” With a small smile, Drake shook his head in bemusement. “Maybe he’s planning on giving you a call.”

“I wish he would,” said Acton, and it was the truth, which only reminded Doyle that Acton was not your ordinary hail-fellow-well-met.

“It was a good thing I was away,” joked Drake. “I could have been the lead on both of these.”

“Let’s look at the participants. What did you find on background, Constable?” Acton turned to Doyle.

On cue, she recited what she had learned, trying not to speak too fast, which is what she normally did when she was nervous. “The shooter covered the surveillance camera in the lobby of the building with tape; he must have known it was not a live feed. There was a camera on the street, but there was nothing useful. He knew how to avoid it. Giselle had no priors; neither did Rourke, the pub owner. Danny Capper did two years for larceny and was barred from workin’ at the track by the racing association, which may explain why he took off when we were knockin’ about. Smythe, the barkeeper, has no priors but is a known associate of the dead trainer, who was on the Counterterrorism Watch List.”

Drake whistled softly. “Where was the trainer from?”

“Ireland.” Doyle tried not to look self-conscious but knew she failed miserably.

Drake spread his hands and made an exasperated sound. “Oh, well—practically everyone from Ireland is on the Watch List. That doesn’t mean much.” He smiled at Doyle. “No offense, Constable.”

“None taken, sir.” You will never make chief inspector, my girl, she thought with resignation. Not wi’ this accent.

“Any working theories?” asked Drake, speaking to Acton. “Everything suggests a professional except when it comes to the way Giselle was killed; was he trying to send a message to someone, perhaps?”

“Perhaps,” Acton agreed slowly. “Perhaps the manner of death was a warning of some kind. I don’t think its Capper, however; plus I’m not convinced he’d be foolish enough to shoot his girlfriend in her own apartment.”

“No hint of violence in his record,” added Doyle, who was aware that Acton’s unease stemmed in large part from her truth-detecting abilities, which could not be cited before present company.

“If it was a surgeon’s probe, the killer might have been a medico connected with the track,” suggested Sid.

Good one, Sid, thought Doyle; I hope you clean yourself up and keep your job.

Acton nodded at him and said to Doyle, “Cross-check medical and veterinarian personnel who worked at the track for criminal record or known associates involved in doping or money laundering. Follow up on the men in Giselle’s life in the event it is something unrelated.”

“Should we start with the presumption the two murders are connected, then?” asked Drake.

“Until we can definitively say otherwise.” Acton’s dark brows were drawn together. “I don’t believe in coincidences.”

And I don’t believe I made any mistakes, Doyle thought with satisfaction, snapping her laptop closed. Good one.