Murder in Just Cause

by Anne Cleeland

  “That is the rough outline, I believe.”

  She covered her eyes with her palms, thoroughly sickened. “Holy Mother, Michael—to think that coppers would be willin’ to kill other coppers, just to cover-up their own misdeeds.”

  “With one exception,” he said.

  She lowered her hands, “Yes, with one exception—they weren’t willin’ to kill me. I was a last-minute shield thrown up for Munoz, because the Desk Sergeant knew that would have been a bridge too far; the Petersons were not going to sacrifice me for their cover-up.”

  He nodded. “When you came along with Munoz, it changed the calculation—you are a true hero, to them. And remember also that your death—even if it were staged to appear to be in the line of duty—would raise a firestorm of investigations, fueled by public outcry.”

  She glanced over at him. “Not to mention that you’d be a one-man firestorm, all on your own.”

  “That, too,” he agreed. “Therefore, they didn’t dare.”

  Doyle said in wonder, “Faith, then I suppose there’s an upside to bein’ all heroic, and such. Although—although I think Claudia would have killed me, she was that desperate. It was James who held the line.”

  She turned to face him. “And that’s why you let the Desk Sergeant send me along with Munoz to meet McShane at the Clinic, and again at the coffee-shop. I was the shield, so that no one would try any funny business.”

  “Yes.”

  But Doyle was well-aware that all available dots had not yet been connected. “Are you goin’ to give me a glimpse, husband? This is not just about dealin’ drugs—it couldn’t be; coppers don’t kill coppers just because someone’s makin’ a bit of illegal money on the side. And I know you like the back o’ my hand, my friend; you’re not about to let the Archangel himself use me as a shield, not unless you’d your own reasons.”

  He made no reply, and shaking her head with impatience at his silence, she continued, “What could possibly be worth it—worth all this? What’s in the envelope, that you are tryin’ to keep hidden, and they’re fightin’ to expose?”

  “It is a delicate matter,” Acton repeated apologetically, and reached for her hand. “It is important to decide very carefully how best to proceed.”

  She blew out a breath, still reeling from these revelations. “You know that you scare me, when you say things like that.”

  “I do.” He squeezed her hand, gently. “Believe me, Kathleen; if there were an easy way out, I would have taken it. What did the witness at the coffee-shop have to say?”

  Doyle decided she’d allow him to change the subject—since it seemed clear he wasn’t going to answer her questions in the first place—and so she related, “She pretended to have information about Sir Cavanaugh’s assistant—the one that’s missin’—but it wasn’t true. Instead she whispered to me on the sly about syringes, and urged me to read the letters.”

  Thinking about it, she added, “I don’t see why they thought it was worth the risk, truly. Munoz doesn’t have the letters anymore—although I suppose they don’t know that—and of course there are syringes at the race-course if there’s drugs bein’ sold—that’s not a news flash.”

  But Acton explained, “I believe she was referring to the fact that illegal drugs were being smuggled in and out of the race-course using horse syringes.”

  She turned to him in surprise, yet again. “Oh—were they indeed?” She lifted her brows, thinking this over. “That’s a perfect cover, then—the syringes are huge, and no one would think to check-out what was inside.”

  “Hiding in plain sight, so to speak.”

  “Syringes, like the trainers use,” she mused. “Faith, it all falls together, doesn’t it? One of the trainers at the race-course was murdered—it was our case, remember? He must have been involved in this rig, and then he promptly got himself killed when the coppers started nosin’ around. It was the day you were annoyed with me for gettin’ my foolish self locked-up in the tack room.”

  “I do not believe I have ever been annoyed with you,” he corrected. “You are mis-remembering, perhaps.”

  She lifted his hand to kiss its back. “Fah, husband; you were intent on makin’ me suffer for my sins. I was deep in the depths of the dog house.”

  “I was more intent in hoping you would have sex with me, believe me.”

  With a wry mouth, she noted, “Well, you were ultimately successful, and—now that you mention it—I’ve fond memories of ragin’ sex in this very Range Rover. I suppose now that I’m an old mum I’ve lost my car-sex allure.”

  He smiled slightly. “No, you haven’t, as I will have to demonstrate at my earliest opportunity.”

  She smiled at him in return. “You’ll not turn me from the subject, you know—but it was a good try, Michael. There’s somethin’ here that I don’t understand—what’s the link betwixt MI 5 and the Petersons? Why would the Petersons—of all people—be willin’ to do their dirty work?”

  “I would rather not say,” he repeated apologetically. “I am sorry, Kathleen.”

  She eyed him. “Well, tell me this, then—is it goin’ to get itself straightened out?”

  “I am afraid that remains to be seen.”

  “You don’t like this,” she guessed shrewdly, “because it’s yet another horrendous black-eye for the Met, and you think the Desk-Sergeant-and-his-soldiers are goin’ about it all the wrong way, by crashin’ in like the cavalry. You’d much rather have one of your more guileful plans unfoldin’; the type of plan that clamps a tight lid on the fallout. You don’t like havin’ to put out fires on their rough-around-the-edges plan.”

  “Something like that,” he agreed.

  She thought she detected a nuance in his voice, and urged, “I know you’d come up with somethin’ miles better, Michael, but we were on maternity leave and they were desperate, so now their plan is already in play. Can’t you step in and put a stop to all the destruction, no matter how bad it looks, or what the papers will say? I’d hate to think that more coppers—or soldiers, for that matter—are goin’ get themselves killed just so the Met can contain the fallout.”

  He glanced up in the rear-view mirror, and began navigating his way across the lanes. “You are right, Kathleen. Let us go speak with the Desk Sergeant, then. He should be taking a lunch at The Bowman.”

  “Let’s go,” she agreed with some relief. “I’m mighty sick of bein’ stupid Munoz’s stupid shield.”

  Chapter 34

  It was disheartening that he’d seen no sign of movement.

  On the drive over to The Bowman, Doyle gazed out the window and tried to convince herself that her husband wasn’t, in fact, pulling the wool over her eyes. Unfortunately, she wasn’t very successful in this endeavor.

  Although she liked to think she’d persuaded him by her impassioned speech, she knew—in the way that she knew things—that the man was up to something. And whatever-it-was, it was more important to him than straightening out this unholy mess—that’s was why he was so reluctant to wade in, and start knocking some heads together.

  She wasn’t certain why she knew this—only that she’d one of her feelings, and her feelings tended to be right on-target, when it came to her husband’s proclivity toward murder and mayhem. It was familiar ground, after all; Doyle could never hope to match him in intellect, yet time and again she’d thrown a wrench into his carefully-laid plans—plans that usually involved an untraceable homicide or two. Her role in this life seemed to involve regular attempts to act as a brake on his masterminding, since she was the sole person on earth who could make such an attempt in the first place. He was not one to listen to advice from anyone, was Acton.

  But—truth to tell—her efforts at curbing his bloodthirsty impulses was a bit hit-or-miss, as the current situation sadly illustrated. She could swear that he’d some sort of operation already underway—despite his seemingly-concerned deflections about how delicate the situation was, and how he had to be circumspect. There was a reason he hadn’t put
a stop to the coppers-versus-soldiers battle, and whatever that reason was, it seemed to be at odds with the Desk Sergeant’s plan—the Desk Sergeant’s plan, which was to expose the evildoers, doing their evil deeds.

  So, this was rather alarming; could it be possible that Acton didn’t want the evildoers exposed? But he must; it was inconceivable that he’d let it keep going—not to mention he should be absolutely livid about his bride’s being thrown into danger. No; he didn’t want this covered up; he just wanted to handle it on his own terms, but that horse was well-away from the barn, now, and he’d little choice.

  It could only be a good sign that he’d finally decided to confront the Desk Sergeant, which was bound to start the ball rolling on the whole expose-the-evildoers plan. No more stalling, and pretending to not know how to best go forward.

  Because he was pretending, of course, and it was this detail that more-or-less had convinced her that the man was up to something. She’d learned—after long experience—that Acton was a prodigious planner, and he was always ten steps ahead of everyone else. It was inconceivable that he didn’t know how he wanted to handle this—no matter how “delicate” the situation.

  Therefore, the only question was what—exactly—he was orchestrating, and whether Scotland Yard would still be standing at its conclusion. Or whether the British army would, too; either-or.

  And so, yet again, Doyle was on the horns of her usual dilemma, only this time there was an additional element; this time, Acton’s mental condition was an added concern. Although he’d seemed much better in the past few days, there was still an ominous darkness, hovering about him at the fringes.

  Since his recovery was still in a fragile stage, she didn’t want take up the cudgels and beat him until he came clean. But on the other hand, he’d turned aside any and all attempts to winkle-out the information she felt compelled to seek out.

  So—what to do? It was strange and unfamiliar territory, and she wished she knew how best to handle it—short of what the knight at Trestles had recommended, which was for Acton to go forth and kill an enemy or two. Very annoyed, the wretched ghost was, that the current Lord’s wife was firmly against such a course of action.

  “It shouldn’t take more than a few minutes, Kathleen. My word of honor.”

  He must have been worried about her preoccupied silence, and so she turned to assure him, “That’s all right, Michael. I’ve plenty of time to visit Edward, because Munoz is goin’ to wait until this afternoon to ask for another assignment. Commander Tasza threw us off the last one—did you know?”

  “I did,” he said. “She phoned to smooth it over, and to assure me it was no reflection on you or Munoz.”

  “Yes, she was bein’ all friendly-like, at the scene,” Doyle disclosed. “Gave me the willies, it did.”

  He made no comment, and it was on the tip of her tongue to ask how he was going to handle it, if it seemed certain that a certain MI 5 Commander was hip-deep in the assorted wrongdoing, but no doubt this was the “delicate matter” to which he’d referred, and he’d only give her another namby-pamby deflection about not knowing how to handle it.

  As he parked the car in front of The Bowman—crowded, at this hour, he advised, “Stay close, please.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Doyle, teasing him.

  And so, as she alighted from the car, she was almost unsurprised to discover that she nearly bumped into the Desk Sergeant, who was on his way in, also. Not a coincidence, she decided; in Acton-world, nothing was.

  “Sir,” said the Sergeant, and Doyle felt his jolt of strong emotion, carefully hidden. The man then nodded respectfully to Doyle. “Officer Doyle.”

  Since the lunch clientele was passing by on either side of them—curious, but careful not to impose on a DCI—Doyle wondered what Acton’s strategy was; mayhap he was going to casually offer to buy lunch, or something, so as to have a private word. But the conversation did not start out the way that Doyle had anticipated.

  “You will stand down, Sergeant.” The words were said in an amiable tone, but with a hint of steel behind them.

  If the man was surprised by the abrupt words, he did not betray it, but instead stood stoically before Acton. “With all due respect, sir—I can’t.”

  “I’m afraid that’s an order.”

  The other man was silent for a moment, and Acton continued in the same amiable tone, “You forged my signature on an order, Sergeant. I believe that is a fire-able offense. “

  The man didn’t flinch. “Yes, sir,” he agreed.

  Acton glanced up toward the pub’s entry. “I would like to swap you out as an MAO in Inspector Geary’s place. You will be on temporary detail in Dublin, starting next week.”

  The other man protested, “I’ll not abandon my post, sir.”

  “I believe it will be for the best, Sergeant. Otherwise, there may be some pointed questions, coming your way.”

  “It’s nothing I can’t handle, sir.”

  “I do not ask lightly, Sergeant.”

  The man glanced at Doyle, and seemed to be constrained, for some reason, from reply. Doyle decided that she may as well help matters along, being as she was all heroic, and such. “We have your list,” she said. “And we’ll handle it.”

  Doyle could sense the other man’s enormous sense of relief as he nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You will obey my orders, and go directly to Dublin?” asked Acton.

  “I will,” the other replied, and it was the truth.

  “Say nothing of this until you arrive,” Acton continued. “Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Carry on,” said Acton. “I will be in touch.”

  With a nod, the man reached to hold the door for them, and as he did so, Doyle could see the faded tattoo, on the back of his left hand.

  As could be expected, the entry of DCI Acton with Officer Doyle caused no little stir of interest, and several officers immediately relinquished their table in the crowded room. As he held her chair for her, Acton leaned in to say, “What do you know of the list?”

  “I guessed, Michael,” she said, and blithely smiled her thanks.

  “Ah,” he replied, and then seated himself.

  Trying to ignore the intensely-interested onlookers—Mother a’ mercy, but she hated crowds—she continued, “It wasn’t so very difficult, Michael, all things considered.”

  In fact, it was the only thing that made sense; that made everything fall into place. The Desk Sergeant had put together a list of dirty coppers, to pass along to the illustrious Chief Inspector in the hope that he would take on the role of reformer, yet again.

  But his efforts—necessarily kept very secret—had been further complicated because her poor husband had been unreachable. But now—thanks be to God—now it seemed Acton was back in the saddle, and willing to address the matter. And not a moment too soon, since it was going to take some doing; not only was MI 5 involved, but the vaunted Petersons too—talk about bringing disgrace, there was the topper. It would take a miracle to bring the Met through this unholy mess; there’d be a firestorm of bad publicity. On the other hand, justice was justice—no nuances about it, in Doyle’s view—and besides, it was nothing they hadn’t weathered before.

  Doyle leaned in to say, “He’s like me, you know—the Desk Sergeant is. You want to do your ‘nuanced’ approach, and you worry about the Met’s reputation and the ‘greater good’ and such, but the Desk Sergeant is like me, and we’re impatient-like, and ready to go all fiery-furnace at the drop of a hat.”

  “An apt comparison,” Acton agreed. “Will he do as I ask?”

  “He wasn’t lyin’ when he said he’d follow orders, Michael, and I’m afraid that’s the most I can tell you.”

  “Good,” he said, very satisfied, and called for a beer.

  She ventured, “I’m that surprised they haven’t killed him, too.”

  “He has been a fixture for many years; in a way, he is almost as untouchable as you are.”

 
; “Lucky him,” said Doyle with heavy irony, as some of the patrons who were gathered around the counter took the opportunity to greet her in warm tones.

  “Mind if I take a snap, Officer Doyle?” asked the barkeeper.

  “Not at all,” she replied, and pinned on her smile.

  Chapter 35

  He packed for Dublin, and hoped for the best.

  They were back at the flat after lunch, with Acton stationed at his laptop in the bedroom and Doyle feeding Edward at the kitchen table whilst she related the pub visit to Reynolds. “It was crackin’ awkward, because they’ve named a drink after me but since I don’t drink, they just took my snap holdin’ it, instead.” She added darkly, “They’re to hang it on the wall.”

  “Very good, madam; I shall have to make a visit.”

  “It’s a bunch of coppers, hangin’ around in there,” she warned. “Best watch yourself.”

  “A word to the wise,” he agreed.

  To be fair, she added, “Although coppers tend to get fisty amongst themselves, too. I think it comes of havin’ to knock heads together all day, and dealin’ with the dregs-and-bottom-feeders. It’s a means to let off a bit of steam—pickin’ a fight with each other in the off-hours. There’s no hard feelin’s, usually, and then they’ll have a pint together, after they’ve come to terms.”

  “A very interesting dynamic, madam.”

  “Coppers are very interestin’ people, Reynolds.”

  Much struck by this thought, Doyle attempted to feed Edward another tiny spoonful as she considered the current feud between the coppers and the army-people. This was not your usual dynamic; this one was a fight to the death, so all bets were off. The dirty coppers were all-in because they didn’t want their misdeeds to be unearthed, and so there was no having-a-pint-together happy ending anywhere in sight.