Murder in Just Cause

by Anne Cleeland

  “You’re a good soul, Thomas. Is it the Sir Cavanaugh case?”

  “Yes.” He finished texting and sheathed his mobile.

  “What do we know?”

  “We know a lot, and it’s not good. We’re meeting to decide how to best handle the revelations.”

  “Another pedophile?” Several of the spite-murdered Council members had been revealed to be pedophiles, involved in sex-trafficking.

  “Can’t say,” he replied, and she nodded in understanding. They’d be keeping a tight lid on it, and no doubt Acton was involved, since the brass liked to have him in the public’s eye when there were delicate public-relations issues to be navigated. It was a foreign concept to Doyle, who was a firm believer in honest pound-dealing, and letting the chips fall where they may. But the brass-types at the CID—similar, no doubt, to brass-types everywhere—tended to worry about whose ox was being gored more than giving the public the information it should rightly have.

  Williams opened the first folder. “James Peterson.”

  “The Petersons are the famous copper-family,” Doyle offered, remembering what Munoz had told her.

  He glanced up at her. “Yes. There have been Petersons at the Yard going all the way back.”

  As Doyle had discovered, this was not exactly unusual in law enforcement; the children of coppers tended to be coppers, themselves—she was more the exception than the rule, having had no previous connection to law enforcement. “The older brother was killed in the line of duty—Munoz said there was a huge funeral.”

  “I went, too. Brody Peterson, was his name. He threw himself on an explosive device, knowing it was about to go off. It was a terrorist set-up; a lot of personnel had been maneuvered into a narrow alleyway as a trap. He sacrificed himself to save them.”

  “‘No greater love’,” Doyle quoted softly, very much moved. “And now he’s a star in the firmament.” Scotland Yard had a monument to officers who’d fallen in the line of duty; a plain white marble wall, upon which was affixed an array of small, raised stars; each modest symbol representing a heroic act of sacrifice.

  Williams reviewed the report. “I don’t see anything unusual here with James. Had the usual training—good marks, not great ones.”

  “Well, he knows somethin’ about the kook-murder,” Doyle insisted. “And whatever it is, he’s that thrashed about it.”

  “Next is Claudia Ruppe.”

  “Acton’s says she’s James’ sister. Which makes her Brody’s, too, I suppose.”

  Williams raised his brows. “Oh?” He frowned, scanning the information. “Right; she’s a Peterson—was married to another copper, he’s dead, she’s now a widow.”

  Doyle’s scalp prickled. “Is the dead husband a star on the wall, too?”

  “Doesn’t say. Officer Peter Ruppe. Doesn’t say how he died.”

  As he scanned the report, Doyle thought over this new information. I’ve got to find out how the widow Ruppe’s husband died, she thought, and her scalp prickled.

  Williams turned the page. “Not much here, either. She gets higher marks than her brother James, though.”

  “Who’s older?” asked Doyle thoughtfully.

  Williams checked. “Sister is. Brody—who’s dead—was the oldest, then Claudia, then James.”

  “And Claudia’s husband is dead, too.”

  Williams shrugged. “So far, nothing seems unusual.”

  But Doyle shook her head slightly in disagreement. “Faith, there’s three different things that are unusual right from the start, Thomas. First, Munoz’s kook managed to get himself murdered in a staged scene; second, the two coppers are brother and sister, and third, Acton wants to see their files on the quiet.”

  Tacitly conceding these points, he leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “I only meant there was nothing unusual in the files.”

  “Which makes sense, I suppose; if it’s all a massive cover-up of some sort—like the sort the kook was paranoid about, before he got himself murdered—there wouldn’t be anything unusual in the files.” On impulse, she decided to disclose, “I think Acton knows exactly what happened—with these two coppers, and the kook-murder, I mean. But—like I said before—he’s stalling, for some reason. I think he’s tryin’ to decide how best to go forward, which makes me wonder if it’s yet another massive scandal.”

  “No comment,” her companion said only. “No fishing, please.”

  “You don’t know, either,” she concluded, reading him aright. “I’m glad I’m not the only one left in the dark.”

  After a small hesitation, Williams raised his gaze to meet her eyes. “Is Acton all right?”

  So; Williams had noticed. “He’s just a bit tired, Thomas; nothin’ to signify.”

  He lowered his gaze to the table again. “Right, then.”

  Into the small silence, Doyle picked through her own divided-loyalties minefield, and offered, “We’re goin’ to Trestles this weekend so’s he can rest up a bit, and I think that will do him a world of good.”

  “Good. I didn’t mean to pry, Kath.”

  “I know, but thanks for bein’ concerned. And whilst we’re at Trestles, I’ll give your regards to Lizzie Mathis, and warn her that Nazy is goin’ to steal you away.” Lizzie Mathis was a young woman who was related to the Steward at Trestles, and who also worked in the forensics lab at the Met. She’d shared an adventure or two with Williams, and as a result, was yet another heart slain.

  He smiled and lifted his coffee cup. “Lizzie’s not a good candidate, Kath. She wouldn’t be loyal to me, she’d be loyal to Acton.”

  Doyle considered this insight, much struck. “Now, there’s a good point; I hadn’t looked at it quite that way. But then again, she’d have divided loyalties, just like you, so you’d have somethin’ in common.”

  “No, thanks,” he demurred. “All in all, I think having undivided loyalties would probably make for a happier marriage.”

  “Now, there’s a provocative statement to overhear—who’s being disloyal?” They were joined by Officer Gabriel, who slid in to an empty chair and promptly helped himself to Doyle’s coffee. Munoz’s current beau was a handsome, half-Persian man, and tended to take nothing very seriously, despite his roots in MI 5.

  Amused, Doyle explained, “We were sayin’ that you shouldn’t marry someone who’s got divided loyalties.”

  “I can’t get Munoz to marry me,” Gabriel complained, and glanced up at Williams as he set down Doyle’s cup. “Does she want to keep you, on the side? Is that the hold-up?”

  “I’ll never say,” Williams joked.

  “Can’t kiss and tell,” Doyle agreed.

  “As long as I could have every other weekend,” Gabriel declared. “You’re a good sort, Williams, and I can’t imagine you’d try to overreach.”

  “Right-o, then,” said Williams, raising his cup in a salute.

  “Talk about divided loyalties, laughed Doyle. “That’s the topper.”

  “Divided loyalties are a misery,” Gabriel announced. “Better to be loyal to none.”

  “Don’t say that to the Commander,” Williams cautioned. Gabriel worked cheek-by-jowl with Commander Tasza Kozlowski, doing mysterious and important work for the Crown.

  Doyle felt she had to chime in. “Faith, Gabriel, the whole justice system works on loyalty, when you think about it—loyalty to your country, and to its laws. Loyalty is to be treasured above everythin’ else, just about.”

  Their companion glanced out the windows and shugged. “Not always,” he pointed out. “Informants aren’t loyal, for instance, and we’re lucky they aren’t. Sometimes you have to be disloyal for the greater good, I suppose.”

  But Doyle remained skeptical, and offered, “I’m not sure you believe that, Gabriel—it’s just a handy excuse. The minute you start talkin’ about ‘the greater good’, you’re goin’ down the same path they use to allow ‘just cause’ for murder.”

  “Don’t get her started,” Williams warned.

 
“I wish I could see things through the Doyle-lens,” Gabriel agreed. “What color is the sky in your world—black, or white?”

  Doyle laughed with all good humor, and took a last swallow of coffee. “All I know is it’s not as complicated if you just stick to the basics—things only get complicated when you try to justify gettin’ away from them.”

  Gabriel cocked a brow at her. “Is this a religious discussion? Because that’s a Munoz-problem, too.”

  “Ah. Here we go,” said Williams, contemplating the ceiling.

  Doyle decided—in light of her audience—that she’d best not delve into these matters, and so turned the subject. “Are you goin’ to her showin’?”

  “Of course,” Gabriel replied promptly. “What showing is this?”

  Stepped in it, there, thought Doyle; I should have stuck with religion. “She’s just heard this mornin’, actually. She’s havin’ an art showin’ at some gallery in Soho.”

  He smiled, very pleased to hear it. “Is she? That’s not easy, in this city—good for her. I’ll send her flowers, in sincere congratulation.”

  Doyle made a face. “Don’t—not until you hear officially. I might be in trouble for tellin’ you before she wanted to.”

  “Right, then. Mum’s the word.”

  Williams checked the time and pushed out his chair. “I can’t stay; I’m already late for the meeting I’m late for.”

  Gabriel turned to Doyle. “Then can we stay here for an early lunch? I want to hear your tales of the homeland.”

  “Soon,” she promised, as she rose along with Williams. “But today I’ve got a lunch date with my husband. Not to mention that I’ve got to meet-up with your boss later, who’s done me no favors with her stupid task-force.”

  Sympathetic, Gabriel tilted his head. “There’s nothing like a task-force to take up all your spare time. Fortunately, it’s a girl-power thing, and I’m immune.”

  Oh, thought Doyle in surprise; he’s upset about this, for some reason.

  “Who’s going back with me?” Williams asked, as he headed for the door.

  “Me,” said Doyle.

  “I’ll stay for a minute—I need more coffee,” Gabriel demurred. Then, to Williams, “Send Munoz to keep me company, will you?”

  “No—today’s my day,” Williams replied.

  Chapter 12

  No word, yet. Of course, he was one who’d have to move carefully.

  On the walk back to headquarters, Doyle could hardly wait until they were out of earshot. “What was that about? Never say you’re spendin’ time with Munoz?”

  “No. I think that’s just his sense of humor.”

  She crossed her arms against the chill, remembering that Williams wasn’t much for a good gossip, which was one of his serious drawbacks. “Well, there was a bit of a bite to his words, did you hear it? So, I gather things aren’t going very well on true love’s path. Is she indeed seein’ someone else? He made that crack about loyalty bein’ overrated.”

  “I think you’re reading too much into it. He was just kidding, Kath.”

  “I think somethin’s off,” she insisted. “He was a little too glib, even for Gabriel. And he wanted to have a word with me for some reason—there’s not the least chance he’s truly interested in my tales of Dublin.”

  “I want to hear your tales of Dublin, too,” Williams offered, reminded.

  “No, you don’t,” she said absently. “You’re just bein’ polite, Thomas.”

  He smiled at being caught out. “Come on, Kath; you should allow me a white lie, once in a while.”

  “Oh, I do, my friend. For instance, when you said there was nothin’ unusual in Claudia Ruppe’s file.”

  There was a small pause, whilst Williams contemplated the treetops for a moment. “There was something unusual,” he admitted. “She had an Improvement Notice for being AWOL.”

  Doyle glanced up in surprise. Being absent without leave was a serious infraction for a police officer, since it directly impacted the safety of citizens and other officers. The infraction could be turned into an Improvement Notice if the officer had an acceptable explanation for the lapse, but there were very few acceptable explanations.

  Doyle leapt to the obvious conclusion. “Was it the day of the kook-murder? Mayhap Ruppe left her assigned post to go join her brother at the scene—they shouldn’t have both been there, so someone was out of place.”

  “No,” he replied. “The AWOL was years ago.”

  Doyle frowned. “Truly? Then it must not have gone any further than the original Improvement Notice. Why did you think you needed to hide it from me in the first place?”

  Williams took a breath. “Because that was what Acton was looking for. He wanted to know whether she or James were ever AWOL, but he didn’t want anyone to know he was looking.”

  “Oh—oh, then there is some scandal brewin’,” Doyle concluded with some dismay. “I wonder why she was AWOL, and why he thinks it’s important to this case.” She thought about it for a moment. “Could it be the drug aspect? Mayhap she’s caught up in it, somehow? There’re still those rumors.”

  “There are always those rumors,” Williams reminded her. Due to the nature of police work—and the temptations that officers came across on a daily basis—sometimes a copper became addicted to drugs, and aligned himself with an informant or drug dealer so as to indulge in the habit. A few years back, there’d been rumors that the problem had ballooned to a wider scale than the usual, and strict reminders had been issued in the form of Notices to Personnel, warning the rank-and-file that consorting with drug dealers constituted serious misconduct.

  Indeed, it was one of the reasons for the integrity checks; the ACC used them as a preventative measure, since the rank-and-file would be afraid that they were being tested, and would therefore avoid any form of temptation. Despite the crackdown, however, rumors persisted that many officers were compromised.

  Frowning, Doyle thought it over. “Faith, Thomas; it’s hard to believe someone like Claudia Ruppe would be doin’ drugs, if she’s a hallowed Peterson. And besides, the AWOL might have been right around the time that her brother was killed in action—which isn’t an excuse for desertion of duty, but may explain why she was absent only the once.”

  “Yes—that might be the reason. It would be hard to believe she’d get involved in drugs, with the family reputation at stake.”

  Doyle squinted thoughtfully. “I should find out why she was AWOL—if Acton thinks it’s connected to all this, then it must be.”

  But Williams couldn’t like this plan—not to mention his own part in it—and cautioned, “I wouldn’t, if I were you. Let Acton handle it, Kath—especially if he really believes the patrol officers were falsifying evidence. That’s a matter for the brass, and it’s got to be handled very carefully.”

  They’d crossed the street that bordered headquarters, and Doyle reviewed the tall building thoughtfully. “He is handlin’ it carefully, Thomas—like I said, it’s almost as though he’s squashin’ it down like it was an apple in the press. But it’s nigglin’ at me, for some reason—about how they were that angry with each other.”

  He glanced at her in surprise. “Who was angry?”

  “The two coppers—the Petersons. Faith, they were that close to blows.”

  He lifted his brows. “Really? I didn’t notice anything.”

  “They didn’t want us to notice, Thomas.”

  He was silent for a moment, and then he noted, “I don’t envy you, Kath. It can’t be easy, being you.”

  She made a wry mouth. “I’ve never known anythin’ else, Thomas. The hard part is decidin’ what’s important, and what’s not.”

  He paused before the lobby doors. “I suppose that goes for the rest of us, too. I’ve got to go up and decide how to walk through this Cavanaugh minefield; what’s next on your docket?”

  “Home—although I haven’t done a thimbleful of work, yet. I doubt they’ll fire me my first week back, though.”

 
“Not to mention you’re married to Acton.”

  “Not to mention. Cheers, Thomas, and thanks.”

  Chapter 13

  He didn’t want to hold on to the intel any longer, so he put everyone in place for the drop, and hoped for the best.

  Once home, Doyle greeted Reynolds and covertly gauged the butler’s mood to see how Acton was doing. Lately, she’d noticed that the very correct servant was even more wooden-faced than his usual, no doubt because he was hiding his deep concern about the master of the house. Small blame to him; she was deeply concerned, herself. For that matter, so was the aforementioned master of the house, no matter how lightly he tried to pass it off.

  “How’s everyone doin’, Reynolds?”

  “Lord Acton has retired to the bedroom with Master Edward, madam. I will bring a lunch tray in to you, if that is agreeable.”

  This was a bit daunting—that Acton was so desperate for sleep he didn’t even want to wait until she’d eaten lunch before attempting a nap. Tentatively, she suggested, “Should we bring him a tot o’ scotch, d’you think?”

  The usual cure for a black mood was impressive amounts of scotch, and it was rather alarming that—as far as she could tell—her husband was abstaining from alcohol lately; this seemed another bad sign, and she was almost hoping he’d get swilkin’ drunk so as to reassure her that all was not lost. At this point, she’d be happy to weather one of his black moods—or any sign that he was back to being his old self.

  “I inquired, madam, but he explained that he is on-call.”

  So; Reynolds had entertained the same bottle-of-scotch therapy plan. She teetered on the edge of saying something reassuring to the servant, but then drew back; Reynolds always kept their footing on a professional level, and she knew he wouldn’t appreciate the broaching of matters personal—there was no telling where it would lead.

  Softly, she walked over to the bedroom and slipped within. The room was dark, with the curtains drawn. “I’m here,” she announced, and leaned to kiss her husband, then lift baby Edward from the bed, where he’d been dozing within the crook of his father’s arm.