Williams shrugged. “It could just be a coincidence—the odds are pretty high that a kook gets himself killed, somehow. What do you remember about him?”
Munoz knit her brows. “Not much—I tuned him out.”
“As one does,” Doyle added fairly.
“And after what happened with the last one, I don’t like to give them any encouragement.” The previous kook had promptly fallen in love, and had sent her a series of letters, much to the amusement of the Desk Sergeant, who’d teased her about it whenever he’d the chance.
“Are you still hearing from that one?” Williams asked. “He’s probably got a special license, and spends his days waiting by the church door.”
Surprisingly, Doyle’s scalp started pricking, which was what it did when her intuitive instinct was making a connection. Frowning slightly, she asked, “Who was he? Remind me about that one.”
Munoz rolled her eyes. “That one told me he’d killed a copper with his bare hands, but that it was justified. He couldn’t tell me the name of the copper, or exactly when it happened, though.” The girl shrugged, and said succinctly, “Drugs.”
Doyle ventured, “Did he have anythin’ in common with this one, today?”
Munoz gave her a derisive look. “No, Doyle; this one said inoculations were a conspiracy to poison poor people, remember?”
“You certainly draw the winners,” Williams observed.
Why, there’s something here, Doyle realized with surprise, as her instinct continued to prod her; but I haven’t a clue what it could be. “D’you suppose we should check-out that one, too—the first kook?”
But Munoz said with a tinge of exasperation, “I did check it out, Doyle; I checked into officer deaths after I spoke with him, but there’d been none in the past year, and definitely no strangulations anywhere—on or off duty.”
“Oh,” said Doyle, but her scalp prickled, yet again.
“What is it?” Williams asked, watching her. “Why do you think there’s some sort of connection?”
Williams counted as Doyle’s best friend—not to mention he was Acton’s henchman and fellow doer-of-shadowy-deeds—and it often meant he’d divided loyalties, being as the fair Doyle was a not a fan of the aforesaid shadowy-deeds. Nevertheless, she trusted him completely, and he was the only person aside from Acton who knew of her perceptive abilities, which was no doubt why he was narrowly watching her right now.
“I was just wonderin’ if there might be a link,” Doyle offered a bit lamely. “It’s a hunch, I guess.”
With a show of impatience, Munoz reminded her, “We can’t waste resources on hunches, Doyle. That’s not in the departmental budget.”
“Let’s not be hasty—hunches can be legitimate, sometimes.” Williams kept his speculative gaze on Doyle, who steadfastly avoided it.
Munoz blew out an annoyed breath. “You always take her side, Williams, even though you know as well as I do that I’m right.”
Williams moved his gaze over to the Spanish girl and reprimanded gently, “We’re all on the same side, Munoz.”
With a sigh, Munoz looked over toward the gurney, now supporting the decedent’s body bag. “I know, I know. Pay me no mind, I’m having a bad day.”
But Doyle was still trying to figure out whatever-it-was that she was trying to figure out, and ventured, “Why did he think it was justified—the first kook, I mean. Why would he think he was justified in killin’ a copper?”
“Because the copper was a mass-murderer,” Munoz replied in a dry tone. “I just kept going further and further down the rabbit hole, with that one.”
This did sound far-fetched, and—coupled with the kook’s inability to name names, Doyle could only think that there must be something else she was supposed to be grasping, here.
Meanwhile, Munoz had decided to change the subject and asked Williams, “Does it look like the Sir Cavanaugh case is another spite-murder?” Spite-murders tended to be crimes of passion, where the victim was brutalized in a way that showed the killer was irrationally angry. The other Health Professions Council murders had all fit this profile.
“It looks that way,” Williams said without a shred of compassion. “Another one bites the dust.”
Munoz eyed him speculatively. “Do you think they’ll try to move this one into ‘just cause’?”
This was a good question; the Crown prosecutors were in a bit of a pickle, because the public didn’t necessarily disapprove of these murders—the members of the Health Professions Council had been, by all reports, up to their necks in the sex slavery rig—but the prosecutors were sworn to uphold the law, no matter how much the victim deserved his fate.
And so—with respect to the last Council member’s murder case—they’d attempted a compromise, and a judge had been petitioned to declare the murder a “just cause” case. If the “just cause” defense was allowed to go forward, then instead of having to prove only murder, the prosecution had to additionally prove that—even if it was murder—the suspect wasn’t justified in committing it. And because this would be no easy task, the prosecution often dropped the case as a result.
Whilst this approach was heartily approved by the public, staunch rule-of-law people like Doyle were made very uneasy by the “just cause” defense, since it allowed a judge to infringe upon the power of the jury, who were supposed to figure out these things all on their own.
And so, the situation was a public-relations minefield for the Crown, and especially controversial because, as a rule, the “just cause” defense was not supposed to be asserted when a murder was motivated by simple vengeance, and it seemed clear-as-glass that these high-profile murders were steeped in vengeance, with no bones about it.
Williams shrugged. “I think ‘just cause’ is a given. They did it for the last one, and it tends to let the prosecution off the hook.”
Doyle blew out an exasperated breath. “Except that it’s not appropriate in these revenge cases, and everyone knows it’s not appropriate, but they all make-believe as though it’s a massive morality play, and look the other way.”
“I don’t have a problem with it,” Williams admitted, because of course he didn’t.
“It’s all puffery, and underhanded weasel-words,” Doyle insisted. “Give me an honest jury, any day.”
But Williams wasn’t swayed. “‘Just cause’ is an ancient defense, Kath. I imagine they’d like to get rid of it, but it goes back a long way—the Middle Ages, at least.”
“The Church has something very similar,” Munoz noted, as she pulled her mobile to check her messages.
This was a surprise to Doyle, who knit her brow and stared at the other girl. “Our Church?”
Munoz raised her head. “Yes, our Church. Murder is not always a sin.”
“That can’t be true,” Doyle retorted. “You’re makin’ it up.”
With a show of superior-minded kindness, Munoz explained, “If you murder someone because there’s no other way to save innocent lives, then it’s not a sin.”
“Truly?” asked Doyle in surprise.
“Truly,” Munoz replied. “Look it up.”
But Doyle was distracted because her husband was watching the Coroner’s team wheel the gurney away, and as he did so, he casually pulled his personal mobile and glanced at the screen before re-pocketing it.
I’m in way over my head, and I need help, she decided. And—as hard as it may be to admit—I know just where to get it.
Chapter 6
It reminded him of his stint in at Bastion. You had to keep your head on a swivel, because you didn’t know if a friendly was really an enemy, waiting for a chance to give you the shiv.
Acton signaled to Williams, and the two men conferred briefly before Acton headed over to rejoin Doyle and Munoz.
“They found synthetic fibers, along the victim’s clothes,” he announced. “Forensics will test them to try to identify the source.”
“He was wrapped in a blanket, then,” Doyle concluded. “I suppose it onl
y makes sense, if he was moved and there was no bruising.”
“Anything more on the cause of death, sir?” asked Munoz.
“No evident trauma,” Acton replied. “We shall see.”
In the distance, the stairwell door clanged after Williams’ departure, and Acton said, “I would suggest, Sergeant, that you join us for lunch at our flat.”
“Yes, sir,” said Munoz quietly, aware that this was no social invitation.
“Do try to smile,” Acton advised, with his own small smile. “I would not be at all surprised if we are being watched.”
With her hands in her pockets, Doyle rocked on her heels and tried to appear unconcerned. “By who? The two coppers?”
“I am not certain,” was all Acton would respond. “Shall we go?”
Munoz mustered up a nonchalant attitude as she turned to follow Acton toward the stairwell, but Doyle knew she was deeply concerned. “Should Williams be alone, sir?”
“I do not believe he is at risk, but I’ve sent him ahead as an integrity-check.”
This was rather alarming, and Doyle met Munoz’s gaze behind his back, trying to send the other girl a reassuring message. She was certain that the two patrol officers were involved, somehow, and by using the term “integrity-check” Acton seemed to think so, too. In a game of cat-and-mouse, however, she’d take Acton’s odds any day of the week—especially when the villains weren’t aware, as yet, that the illustrious Chief Inspector had twigged them out.
But Doyle could not be easy that yet again, they were in the cramped stairwell, with their steps echoing loudly off the walls as they descended the four floors. Acton did not seem over-concerned, so it appeared that the danger—whatever it was—had passed, or at least it had been neutralized in some way.
As they neared the ground floor, Doyle could not help but reflect how they would have been sitting ducks—she and Munoz—if anyone had wanted to shoot them whilst they’d marched up the stairs, all unaware that this was anything other than an ordinary suicide investigation. It was the perfect opportunity for an ambush—in a contained area, and with no witnesses—and so something must have gone wrong with the plan, thank God fasting.
Acton’s car was double-parked at the curb, next to their own unmarked vehicle, and as he opened the unmarked’s passenger door for Doyle, she took the opportunity to murmur to him in an undertone, “Please ask Munoz about the first kook.”
“Right,” he replied in the same tone, and shut the door.
As she slid into the driver’s seat, Munoz watched Acton get into his own car, and asked, “Shouldn’t you go with him?”
“He doesn’t want you to be alone,” Doyle reminded her, and then added silently; that, and he wants to make some calls without our listening in. I’d love to be a fly on the wall in that car, I would.
After she’d started up the car and pulled out, Munoz blew out a long breath. “What am I going to say on my report?”
Doyle could sense the alarm that lay beneath the question, and so she said, “He’ll let us know, Izzy. Trust Acton, and try not to worry.”
The other girl made a wry mouth. “Easier said than done. Do you suppose we are still being watched?”
“No,” said Doyle, because she knew—in the way she knew things—that it was true; they weren’t being watched. “I think—if it was truly an ambush in the first place—the perp was spooked for some reason, and is long gone. Notice that Acton doesn’t seem very worried—he’d not leave us alone, else.”
As she navigated through the lunchtime traffic, Munoz glanced over. “Has he been sick? He looks a bit tired—don’t tell me he gets up with the baby.”
“Indeed, he does,” Doyle replied, since it was the truth, after all.
Munoz returned her attention to the road ahead. “That’s amazing—I’d never have guessed he’d turn out to be a doting father.” This said with a discernible touch of envy, as Munoz had been on a mission, lately, to find herself a decent husband.
You don’t know the half of it, thought Doyle, but she said aloud, “I suppose you can never tell; just look at Savoie, as an excellent case-in-point.”
Savoie was the French criminal who’d dated Munoz for a short time, even though Interpol was breathlessly waiting for him to make a false move. He’d recently adopted Emile, a small boy who’d been orphaned as a direct result of Savoie’s wreaking havoc on his enemies, and it did seem that the Frenchman exhibited surprising hidden depths, when it came to fatherhood.
“Remember that I’d like to ask him something, if you hear from him.”
“Right, then.” If Doyle had hoped she’d get a glimpse into the ever-evolving subject of Munoz’s love-life, it appeared she was doomed to disappointment—although it did seem clear that Munoz was not as mutually smitten as was Officer Gabriel, her current beau. He’d a drawback, the girl had remarked, and Doyle suddenly wondered—with no small alarm—if perhaps Munoz was worried that Gabriel was actually working for Savoie.
After a moment’s consideration, Doyle decided it was impossible, and gave her head a mental shake; Gabriel wasn’t a dirty copper—she’d bet her teeth on it. Besides, Gabriel was on loan from MI 5, and so he must have been thoroughly vetted, back and edge. Not to mention that Doyle had shared a few adventures with Gabriel, and she’d never got the sense that he was anything other than what he seemed—shrewd and clever, and rather amusing, too.
But there was something here—something that made her uneasy, and she almost wished, for an annoyed moment, that she was on her first day back to work at the fish market in Dublin instead of Scotland Yard’s CID. Life was a lot easier when your only worry was whether the mussels seemed a bit reeky.
Chapter 7
Now that he’d bit, it was time to pass along the intel. He picked up the phone, and made a call.
Acton lived in a penthouse flat atop an elegant, understated building in Kensington; the well-appointed rooms were decorated simply and in the best of taste, with the main living quarters framed by huge windows that overlooked the park next door, with a breathtaking view of the city beyond.
When Doyle had first moved in, she’d had to resist the impulse to tiptoe about—the place seemed so hushed, and still. But then everything changed substantially when the long-time bachelor became a husband and father in short order, so that his formerly-quiet existence was now noisy with nannies, butlers, and a wife who tended to talk a lot, in the best Irish tradition.
For her part, Doyle was making a similar adjustment, in that she could never be completely comfortable having servants about—although in this instance it was very much appreciated, since Acton had clearly called ahead to Reynolds, their butler, who was in his element as he manned the stovetop, preparing something in a large pan that didn’t smell remotely appetizing to Doyle.
Reynolds—like so many others before him—harbored a secret crush on Munoz, and small blame to him; she was as tempestuous as she was beautiful, and—for reasons that were unfathomable to Doyle—men couldn’t seem to resist such a combination.
“Ms. Munoz, how delightful to see you again. I know you are pressed for time, so I’ve taken the liberty of making up a quick paella.”
“It’s shrimp,” Doyle noted, observing the contents of the pan with deep distaste. Doyle famously didn’t care for seafood, her stint in the fish market serving as a powerful deterrent.
“Would anyone care for wine? I have a madeira that would be appropriate.”
“I am afraid this will be a working lunch,” Acton said. “Thank you all the same.”
Reynolds immediately changed his manner and became all efficient-butler. “Very good sir. I will phone Miss Mary, and ask that she prolong Master Edward’s walk.”
“No need,” Doyle said quickly. “He’ll be no trouble, and I’m longin’ to see him.”
“Yes, madam.” Reynolds nodded and then said no more, serving up the meal with quiet efficiency and then retreating out of earshot.
As they started to eat, Acton wasted no time i
n addressing Munoz. “If you would, Sergeant, please tell me everything you can remember about the victim.”
Munoz was no doubt anticipating just this question, and so she had a ready answer. “It was Thursday last, sir, and I was assigned to take statements from walk-in witnesses—”
Acton interrupted her with a small smile. “Kook-detail.”
Munoz tried to muster up a smile in return. “Yes, sir.”
“Was it a random assignment, or were you calendared for specific dates?”
“The Desk Sergeant sets the calendar on a day-to-day basis, sir—and if I was called out into the field on a case, then someone else would have to cover while I was out. It tends to be flexible, because it depends on who’s on-site at headquarters.”
“It is a detail for Sergeants or higher-rank, I believe.”
“Yes, sir. I believe they used interns at one point, but then realized it was best to have someone with experience handle the walk-ins—unless there was a specific case involved, of course, and then the personnel on that case would be called in to do the interview.”
Acton paused to contemplate the tabletop for a moment. “Would the walk-in have any way of knowing that you would be the officer taking the report, that day?”
Munoz knit her brow, thinking about it. “I don’t know, but I don’t think so, sir. It’s not as though there is a calendar, because it depends on who is on-site, and who has been called into the field.”
“Did you mention it on social media, this last assignment?”
“No, sir.”
“Not after the last kook,” Doyle joked, seeing an opening and taking it.
Acton raised his brows. “Oh? Tell me about the last one.”
Munoz shrugged in embarrassment. “The last one was about a month ago, sir; he—well, he started pursuing me. He became quite a pest.”
Acton thought about this. “Romantically?”
Murder in Just Cause Page 4