Murder in Shadow (The Doyle and Acton Murder Series Book 6)

by Anne Cleeland

  MURDER IN

  SHADOW

  Anne Cleeland

  © 2017 Anne Cleeland

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 0998595624

  ISBN 13: 9780998595627

  For George Grandison, who defends the

  powerless; and for all others like him.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  EPILOGUE

  1

  It was past time to settle all lingering problems; he’d been unwilling, up to now, but the child would soon be born.

  Detective Sergeant Kathleen Doyle stood beside Officer Gabriel as they reviewed the remains of the decedent, a man of approximately forty years who’d met a bad end, here in the Lambeth borough of London. The victim lay crumbled against an overturned ashcan, having attempted to avoid his fate by fleeing up this back alley. He was wearing an expensive suit—which probably explained why he wasn’t very well-versed in the evading of criminals—and he looked to have been dead for some hours. A bloody wound on his left temple indicated that he’d been coshed, and even his shoes had been stolen.

  “It all seems a bit smoky,” Doyle remarked thoughtfully, as she surveyed the scene.

  “How so?” her companion asked. “Seems a straightforward robbery-murder.”

  But she shook her head. “No—I don’t mean the crime. DCI Acton is the senior investigatin’ officer, and he’s not here. DI Williams is the crime scene manager, and he’s not here, either—faith; we don’t even have an evidence officer, to throw a fig leaf of dignity over this investigation. Instead it’s only you and me, which is a case of the blind leadin’ the blind, with all due respect.”

  The young officer raised his brows in amusement. “I beg your pardon?”

  “We shouldn’t be the ones standin’ here,” she observed slowly. “And yet, here we are.”

  Gabriel’s amused gaze returned to the body, splayed out before them. “I imagine we can perform a patched-up investigation, if we put our minds to it. Just remind me what happens first.”

  Smiling at his tone, she pulled her mobile. “First, my friend, we beg for help. Let me text DCI Acton on the sly, and see if he’s finished at court.” On this particular investigation, Chief Inspector Acton was serving a dual role as the senior investigating officer and also as Doyle’s husband, sworn and sealed. Hopefully, she could wheedle him into pulling rank and taking charge of this crime scene; Doyle had never been the ranking officer on a homicide before, and she had a sneaking suspicion that it involved a lot of paperwork.

  Gabriel crouched down to take a closer look at the corpse, and she cautioned, “Don’t touch anythin’; the SOCOs will give you the edge of their tongues if you muck up the scene before they get here.” Gabriel wasn’t up-to-speed on crime scene protocols, because he was a transfer from counter-terrorism, on loan to the CID. A recent corruption scandal had come to light, and many of Scotland Yard’s upper management were currently cooling their heels in prison, or awaiting trial. And—no doubt as a result of this sorry state of affairs—it was left to the lowly Doyle and the inexperienced Gabriel to try to sort out this poor fellow’s murder. Doyle, however, couldn’t shake a nagging suspicion that she was being kept busy whilst something much more interesting was happening, elsewhere.

  She texted Acton, “How goes it, R U available?” Acton had mentioned he’d be testifying this morning—although he hadn’t mentioned the specific case. It seemed odd that he’d been tied up so long—oftentimes the Crown Court would accommodate the police by allowing them to be on call, since the mills of justice tended to meander a bit and there was no reason to keep law enforcement off the streets. But there was something strange about his absence that she couldn’t quite put her finger on—perhaps it was because usually, he kept himself within an arm’s reach of her.

  The answer came through. “Sorry, not yet finished. After lunch, perhaps.”

  “Ok. In Lambeth w/ new case.” It wasn’t necessary to tell him, of course; Acton would know exactly where she was since he kept track of her, using her mobile’s GPS. Her husband was a well-respected chief inspector, but in truth, he was a bit nicked—although no one knew of it, except for the wife of his bosom. And it wasn’t the good sort of nicked, where the person stood on tables and said outrageously funny things, but a rather a dark sort of nicked, where a black mood would settle in, a great deal of scotch would be consumed, and then questionable people would suddenly disappear off the streets.

  Acton was something of a vigilante, and tended to dispense his own version of justice whenever he felt that the justice system—the one they were sworn to uphold—was lacking for any reason. Fortunately, Acton’s nicked-ness had caused him to fixate on his red-headed support officer, and after rushing her into marriage he now spent a great deal of his time obsessing about her, rather than obsessing about who needed to be killed, next. Not the most ideal of situations, but—all in all—an improvement.

  Resigned to her fate as this scene’s ranking officer, Doyle looked up to review the entry into the alley. “All right, then; we’ll start with the basics, and ask the PCs to cordon off the alley at both ends to set up a perimeter. We should clear a path for the coroner, too—are the SOCOs on the way?”

  Gabriel nodded. “Yes. They’re a bit shorthanded, unfortunately.”

  This was only to be expected, as their entire department was being run ragged, what with trying to handle the usual major crimes caseload alongside the massive corruption cases that were getting themselves prepared for trial. “Well, let’s start takin’ video and gettin’ the lay of the land. D’you happen to know which case it is, that Acton’s testifyin’ on?” Unlikely that Gabriel would know, but it was still bothering her, for some reason.

  “No, but here are the SOCOs.” Gabriel indicated the Scene of Crime Officers, who were piling out of their van and looking a bit harassed.

  She shook off the uneasy feeling and straightened up, in an attempt to give the forensics people the impression that she was capable and competent. “Good—let’s get the prelim done, and hopefully we can rope in some DCs to canvass for witnesses. Otherwise, we’ll have to do it ourselves.”

  As was always the case when a murder occurred in a public place, a small group of gawkers had already assembled outside the cordon, and it was always possible that someone had heard or seen something suspicious, even though the murder seemed hours old. Mentally, Doyle girded her loins; she never enjoyed having to
sort through a wide variety of agitated persons, all eager to tell the police every uninteresting detail about their day, thus far, and with half of them positing wild conspiracy theories about why the decedent had been done in. She hated canvassing, and with good reason.

  “I’ll be happy to canvass—I don’t mind.”

  This was true—she’d already noted that Gabriel could turn on the charm, when needful, and he seemed to have a gift for worming his way into places that usually barred their doors to all persons constabulary. It was no doubt a useful skill when one worked in counter-terrorism, and Doyle should watch and learn; she tended to be impatient with witnesses, and half-inclined to beat them with her baton. “Thanks, Gabriel; and if you could sweet-talk someone into confessin’ before I have to type up a protocol, I would truly appreciate it.”

  Gabriel smiled and pulled his tablet. “Don’t worry—I can work an entrapment with the best of them.”

  This rang true, and Doyle reminded herself that Gabriel was a sharp one, as she watched him walk away. Best keep it to mind, and best watch her tongue—she was the opposite of whatever a sharp one was. A dull one, perhaps—although she kept managing to land on her feet, despite this unfortunate drawback.

  She then turned her attention to the SOCOs, and felt a twinge of sympathy as she watched them reluctantly pull on their bunny suits. It was unlikely the forensics people would be able to process anything of interest; any evidence found in an alley like this one was automatically compromised, and any barrister worth his salt would argue that the suspect’s DNA—even if they managed by some miracle to collect it—didn’t mean he was anything other than an innocent passerby, in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  As there were no bullets, they couldn’t count on helpful ballistics, either. If they were lucky, the cosher may have dropped his weapon, or left something else behind that could offer up the whisper of a lead; otherwise it appeared they were in for a long and fruitless slog.

  The supervising SOCO approached her, and Doyle said in her best presiding-officer voice, “We’re short an evidence officer and a CSM, but let’s start preparing for the coroner’s arrival, and try to get an ID.” Although the crime appeared to be a simple stranger-robbery, the victim’s identity and recent dealings may help to shed some light; she mustn’t overlook the possibility that this was not a random crime.

  “Yes, ma’am.” The woman pulled on her gloves, eyeing the victim. “Poor bloke. At least we know someone’s going to miss this one. The last one I worked is still a John Doe in the morgue.”

  Doyle could only agree. “Yes, goin’ by his clothes, this one does seem well-heeled—except that his shoes were stolen, so I suppose he’s heel-less, instead. Mayhap he wandered into the wrong place, and paid the price for his foolishness.”

  But the SOCO was more cynical, having seen many a robbery-murder. “He may have wanted to buy drugs, or something worse.” She paused, assessing the corpse with a practiced eye. “His feet are big, and his shoes would be expensive; maybe we should check in with the local pawn and second-hand shops. The killer may have already tried to cash in.”

  “An excellent idea.” Doyle made a note. “I’d have never thought of it.”

  The SOCO shrugged. “We did it with the John Doe. It went nowhere—he wore an ordinary size, and wasn’t rich enough to have anything but ordinary shoes.”

  But Doyle found that her scalp was prickling, and she raised her head. “The John Doe’s shoes were missin’, too?”

  The woman shrugged, as she tested the visual recorder on her tablet. “It happens. After the wallet and the watch, sometimes the shoes are next in line to be worth something.”

  Why, there’s something here, Doyle thought in surprise, as the woman carefully approached the body. Doyle was Irish, and—thanks, no doubt, to some long-dead ancestor—she was a bit fey. Mainly, it meant that she could read the emotions of those persons in her vicinity, but it also meant that she could usually tell when someone was lying. In addition, there were those occasions—such as right now—when her instinct would prod her, telling her that she was missing something important. The shoes? she thought in surprise; what about the shoes?

  Her thoughts were interrupted by a ping on her mobile, and the screen identified the absent CSM, Inspector Williams. Unfortunately, the SOCOs were still within earshot, so Doyle was forced to be civil rather than berate him like a fishwife, which was her inclination. “Why, hallo, sir. Very nice it is, to hear from you.”

  Williams wasn’t fooled by her tone. “Sorry, Kath; I’ll be there as soon as I can. Anything of interest?”

  “Rich man, coshed and robbed in a shabby alley.” Doyle frowned. “Where are you, that’s more important than bossin’ me about, here?”

  “You’re more than capable of bossing yourself.”

  “I’m a foot soldier, Thomas—born and bred. I need direction.”

  “Then you’ll have some as soon as I get there; I’m in the middle of dealing with a witness on the Santero case. Just secure the scene and any surveillance feed—there must be CCTV, in that area.”

  She made a face, because reviewing surveillance feed was her least favorite thing to do, right after canvassing for witnesses. “Do we have any PCs who are available to help?”

  “Check with the desk sergeant, but unlikely, I’m afraid.”

  “No rest for the weary, then. Acton says he’s hung up in court—what’s the case, d’you know?”

  “Sorry—got to go, Kath.”

  “All right, then; cheers.”

  Doyle rang off thoughtfully, and frowned at the screen for a moment. Williams seemed a bit constrained, and he’d sidestepped a straight answer about Acton’s case—faith, Acton himself was being overly-vague about it. With a pang of alarm, she remembered that Acton had voiced his private opinion that the Anti-Corruption Command unit—the unit he was working with, in prosecuting the massive corruption rig—was itself corrupt. This was alarming to no small extent; if the watchdogs were also bent, it meant that it was a very dicey situation for her husband, who was busily ferreting out all their dastardly secrets. Hopefully, he was not fleeing up his own alley, somewhere.

  Trying to hide her uneasiness, Doyle stepped forward to interrupt the SOCO, who was discussing blood spatter with her photographer. “I’m sorry, but I’m not very tech-savvy, and I’d like to find out how long it will be before the DCI arrives. I don’t want to bother him again—can you trace his location from his phone call?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The woman lifted Doyle’s mobile, and touched the screen a few times. In a moment, a map appeared with a highlighted indicator. “Palace of Westminster, ma’am.”

  Doyle frowned slightly. “Palace of Westminster? Is that the address for one of the Crown Courts?”

  The SOCO gave her a look, as she handed back the mobile. “No, ma’am. That’s the address of Parliament.”

  “Parliament?” Staring at the woman in surprise, Doyle slowly sheathed her mobile. What on earth would Acton be doing at Parliament—and testifying, to boot; he’d been telling the truth, when he’d told her he was needed to testify. Suddenly, she lifted her gaze to stare down the alley, unseeing. “Holy Mother,” she breathed.

  “Ma’am?” The SOCO was fast losing patience and small blame to her; she was not used to dealing with third-tier law enforcement personnel, and Doyle was about to cement the woman’s low opinion of her.

  “I’m afraid I must go,” she announced hurriedly. “The coroner is comin’, and Officer Gabriel will secure the scene, until the CSM gets here.”

  “Are you all right?” the woman asked in mild alarm. Doyle was heavily pregnant.

  “A family emergency,” she explained vaguely, as indeed it was. The chickens were coming home to roost with a vengeance, and it appeared that the fair Doyle’s foolish husband was attempting to keep her well-away from the fallout. Good luck to him; pigs would fly.

  As Doyle hurried away as quickly as she was able, the SOCO called out, “What do I tell the c
hief inspector, ma’am?”

  “Not to worry,” Doyle threw over her shoulder. “I’ll see him before you do.”

  2

  Oftentimes, the problem was that it was too simple. He mustn’t be complacent, and assume everyone will behave just as they ought. Indeed, a challenge would be welcome, occasionally, just so as to make it interesting.

  Doyle sped to the Westminster address, hailing a cab and turning off her mobile in the hope that Acton wouldn’t see that she was coming. It hardly mattered, though; if the hearing was underway, there was nothing Acton could do to prevent his bride from storming the gates.

  Acton held an ancient title—a barony—which only supported the public’s good opinion of him in that it was considered a boon if an aristocrat actually did anything remotely useful with his life. Unbeknownst to his admirers, however, there’d been a bit of chicanery several generations back, and an imposter had been put up as Lord Acton when it had looked as though the estate would have to be sold to pay taxes. The false Lord Acton had married an heiress, and by doing so, had saved the day.

  Sir Stephen Waite, Acton’s second cousin, was Acton’s current heir, and it should have been Sir Stephen’s grandfather who inherited the estate, instead of the imposter. Thus far, the issue had been simmering beneath the surface, since Acton had long been a bachelor, and Sir Stephen stood as Acton’s current heir. But the fair Doyle had unexpectedly turned up to marry Acton out-of-hand and then—in true Irish fashion—had promptly gotten herself pregnant. Now that Sir Stephen was about to be cut out of the succession altogether, matters had come to a head, and he must have filed a formal claim to the effect that he was the rightful Lord Acton.

  It was a doubly unexpected, because it seemed that Sir Stephen had jumped the gun. Doyle had seen her son in a dream, once, and had informed her husband that the boy would have green eyes. This had caused Acton some concern, since apparently there were brown eyes as far as the eye could see in the Acton family tree—with the exception of the imposter, and Doyle’s mother. You’d think that Sir Stephen would have waited for Edward to be born, so as to add this factor to his claim— but, of course, he wouldn’t know about the green eyes in the first place; until Edward was born, only Doyle and Acton knew.