Slowly, she shook her head. “Acton wants me well-away from whatever’s going on.”
“Then stay away, Kath.”
With another sigh, she confessed, “I can’t. A ghost is plaguin’ me.”
He regarded her with an expression that was equal parts astonishment and amusement. “A ghost? Really?”
Smiling, she shrugged. “It’s complicated.”
“I’ll bet. Is your ghost acquainted with any of my ghosts, from the Santero case?”
This was of interest, and Doyle was more than willing to be distracted. “Oh? Never say you’ve your own ghosts?”
“The Santero sends out orishas to wreak revenge, and so no one is willing to grass on him.”
Doyle stared at him. “Well, that’s impressive. Faith, none of the ghosts I’ve met are half so useful.”
“Then I guess the Santero’s got more pull than you do.”
Doyle was aware that her instinct was prodding her to pay attention, which was no hardship since she found the subject of great interest. “Tell me how it all works—faith, it’s hard to believe this type of thing is taken seriously, in this day and age.”
“Basically, it’s a lot like voodoo.”
She had to laugh. “I like the way you make it sound as though I’d know all about voodoo, Thomas.”
He smiled, and explained, “It’s another primitive religion based on black magic, curses, and animal sacrifices. A Santero is in the manner of a priest, and is believed to control the orishas, so that they do his bidding.”
Suddenly struck, Doyle said slowly, “So—is this one of those things where you need a personal item, to put a curse on your victim?”
He shrugged. “I suppose that’s part of it, yes.”
“Like—like shoes, for instance?”
There was a slight pause, whilst he regarded her with a glimmer of amusement. “I hope you’re not going to tell me your working theory is that these murder victims were coshed by orishas.”
She made an impatient sound. “I’m not sayin’ it’s truly ghosts, Thomas—for heaven’s sake, ghosts can only do so much. But it could easily be the suspect’s minions, makin’ it look like supernatural mumbo-jumbo. And that would explain why everyone’s afraid, and no one wants to cross the Santero—it’s all smoke and mirrors.”
But once again, Williams pointed out the flaw with this working theory. “That doesn’t make a lot of sense, Kath. There’s little point in stealing an object for a curse, if the victim you stole it from is already dead.”
“Oh—oh, of course.” Frustrated, she leaned back, and rubbed her eyes with her palms. “Faith, I’m comin’ up against brick walls on all sides—it’s annoyin’, is what it is. And I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that everyone is tryin’ to dupe me, since I’m as dupable as they come.”
Williams regarded her in surprise. “Who’s trying to dupe you?”
Her eyes slid to his. “You are.”
His gaze fell to study his hands, clasped on the table. “No comment.”
There was a small, tense moment, and then she touched his hand in sympathy. “All right, Thomas; I’ll not hound you about whatever-it-is that I’m not supposed to know. Let’s speak of mundane matters, instead. How’s our Miss Percy?” Morgan Percy was the junior barrister on the Santero’s defense team—a clever and rather ruthless young woman whom they’d met in an earlier case. It was clear that she was mightily attracted to the worthy DI Williams, which was an interesting situation, since they were currently on opposite sides of a notorious murder case.
Doyle had the impression that Williams was attracted to Percy, but was put-off by a few glaring gaps in the girl’s moral character—which, to be fair, appeared to include major crimes-committing. It was a bit ironic, though, because Williams thought nothing of helping Acton with his dark deeds, but balked when it came to Percy’s. She didn’t press him on it; they’d quarreled on the subject in the past, and she’d learned her lesson.
“Miss Percy is doing an excellent job of defending her client.”
She heard the nuance beneath the words, and sympathized. “We have to keep the system honest, Thomas; even the Santero is entitled to a defense.”
“Not when it’s so clear that he’s a soulless brute, Kath.”
Diplomatically, she made no response, but wondered why her scalp prickled.
8
It would not go amiss, perhaps, to make it clear that he was aware of the circumstances surrounding Blakney’s death, but not make it clear as to what was to happen next.
Because she needed to follow up on the Munoz angle, Doyle made a point of stopping by the other girl’s cubicle, once she’d returned to headquarters. After having saved Munoz by jumping off Greyfriars Bridge, Doyle was now in the uncomfortable position of being linked with the other girl in the public’s eye even though they weren’t necessarily friends. The situation was equally resented by Munoz, who was—to be fair—Doyle’s superior in every measure of detective work, but had to suffer the ignominy of being the one who’d needed rescuing.
Doyle rested her arms across the top of Munoz’s cubicle and tried to think of how to find out what she needed to find out. “Hallo, Munoz. How’re things?”
Munoz looked up, immediately defensive. “What do you mean by that?”
Belatedly, Doyle remembered that Munoz was currently involved with the notorious Philippe Savoie of Watch List and inheriting-Trestles-from-Acton fame, which was not a particularly good career move for a DS at the Met. Although, apparently—if Doyle was keeping her plots and counter-plots straight—Savoie was Acton’s plant, and hopefully wasn’t truly attempting to turn Acton’s ancestral estate into a hideout for underworld misdeeds.
To test out what was known, Doyle offered heartily, “It’s all rather awkward, actually. If you marry Savoie, you’ll have to file my initials off all the silverware.”
With an impatient gesture, Munoz tossed her hair back over her shoulder. “What are you talking about, Doyle?”
Doyle took some comfort in the knowledge that Munoz was a fellow weak link, and shrugged. “Just teasin’. Don’t get all bristly.”
Her mouth pulled down, the girl turned back to her typing. “I’m not serious about Savoie—I can’t be.”
This was a relief, and Doyle ventured, “Yes—well, it’s unlikely that he’s reformed. That kind of tiger doesn’t change his spots.”
“Tigers don’t have spots, Doyle. They have stripes.”
Doyle frowned. “Which is the one that has spots?”
“A cheetah.”
“A leopard, too,” added Doyle, trying to make up for her lapse.
Munoz pulled her mobile, to check her messages. “No, those aren’t spots, on a leopard.”
“Well, be that as it may, Munoz, its unlikely Savoie’s reformed his notorious self.”
The other girl added with heavy irony, “Not to mention I had a fling with his brother.”
“There is that, of course. I suppose things could get awkward, when everyone sits down together for the Christmas goose.”
Munoz paused, and lifted her gaze for a moment. “He’s got a sweet little boy.”
“He does—we saw him at the church, that time.”
“I don’t think the mother is in the picture. He never mentions her.”
And with good reason, thought Doyle, but aloud she said, “I suppose that makes things a bit easier for you.”
The beauty tossed her head. “I’m not serious about him, Doyle.”
“Right-o,” said Doyle, and drew her own conclusions.
Pointedly, Munoz began packing up her rucksack. “I have to interview the girlfriend on the QC case, so I’ve got to go.”
Doyle was instantly outraged. “Why wasn’t I given that assignment? That’s my case.”
As Munoz stood, her gaze rested for a significant moment on Doyle’s protruding belly. “I think Gabriel’s worried that you’re sick, or something. He told me that you had to leave the scene this morning
in a hurry.”
“No—I wasn’t sick; somethin’ came up, and I had to leave.” Doyle saw that an opening had been provided, and took it. “Since Gabriel was mistaken, I get to come along with you for the interview. That’s only fair.”
But Munoz could not look upon such a plan with enthusiasm and made a face, as she brushed by Doyle. “I hate it when we work together—everyone expects me to appreciate you.”
“Don’t let that throw you off,” Doyle offered as she followed the other girl down the aisle way. “Treat any such suggestion with open scorn.”
“Don’t tempt me.” With poor grace, the girl spoke over her shoulder. “You can come, but I have the lead.”
“Grand. Do we think the girlfriend’s a suspect?” This was a reflex question—usually, murderers were someone close to the victim, and a girlfriend would be carefully scrutinized before she was ruled out.
Munoz pointed out, “Seems unlikely in this case, since he was coshed and robbed in an alley.”
Stubbornly, Doyle persisted. “Remember that we think the scene was staged. And she could have hired someone to cosh him, if she didn’t want to get her hands dirty.”
“All right; I’ll keep an open mind. Just try not to say anything stupid.”
With an effort, Doyle bit back a retort and remembered that she was here to do a bit of probing. “I’m surprised you’re available to help out, in the first place. Weren’t you workin’ on an assignment for the ACC? Are you still undercover for them?”
Bluntly, the other girl replied, “I’m not supposed to talk about it. I had to sign a NDA.”
Doyle nodded, reluctantly conceding that this was only to be expected. “I suppose a non-disclosure agreement is standard procedure. After all, they may be investigatin’ someone who’s innocent, and you’d not want anyone tainted, by word leakin’ out.” Frustrated, Doyle wondered how she was going to find out what was going on if she wasn’t allowed to find out what was going on.
As they waited for the lift, the other girl frowned slightly. “Do you know anyone, over there at the ACC?”
“I can thankfully say that I do not. Why?”
The doors slid open, and the Spanish girl shrugged, as she stepped within. “They seem a bit strange, is all. Everyone else resents them, so I suppose you’d have to be a bit odd, to want to do that kind of work.”
“Well, we need them to ferret out the corrupt cops, Munoz—we’ve just seen what happens when the system gets corrupted. It’s horrendous, and now no one trusts any of us.”
The girl glanced into her reflection in the lift doors, and smoothed her hair back. “I know, I know. But it doesn’t seem like they are looking at corrupt cops—it’s almost MI 5-type stuff.”
This seemed a bit ominous, and Doyle offered, “Gabriel’s on loan from MI 5; can you ask him about it? Mayhap the units work together, sometimes.”
“I can’t. I’ve got the NDA.”
Doyle nodded as they walked out into the lobby, and wished Munoz weren’t quite so by-the-book. On the other hand, Doyle had been scrutinizing Munoz very carefully, and hadn’t picked up even a hint that the girl was being influenced, in some way, by the villains. Perhaps it was just a coincidence that her sister had been seized—however unlikely that seemed. Harding-the-ghost seemed to think it was important, but he also thought she shouldn’t trust Acton, for some reason, which only went to show that he was as dim-witted in the afterlife as he’d been in real life.
As they got into the unmarked vehicle, Munoz instructed, “You should read the prelim, to get up-to-speed. Gabriel spoke to the QC’s girlfriend on the phone, and he thinks she’s worth an interview.”
“Give me the short version,” suggested Doyle. “I’ll get sick, if I read in the car.”
Munoz gave her a look that indicated she was well-aware this was a lame excuse for laziness. “The girlfriend says they were newly engaged—she’s a flight attendant, and met the QC on a flight.”
Doyle raised a skeptical brow. “I wonder if she’s sportin’ a ring?” It was a strange truism of detective work that the girlfriends of dead men tended to elevate their status to fiancée, now that there was no longer anyone around to refute it.
“I don’t know, one way or another, but Gabriel thought she was sincerely upset.”
Doyle made no comment, being as how she may be a weak link, but she was also a fine discerner of who was sincerely upset, and who wasn’t.
They met the woman at her flat, and introduced themselves as they were seated at the kitchen table. The witness was in her thirties, and a bit rough around the edges—blowsy, Doyle’s mother would have said. She was a slightly plump, had a generous bosom, and wore a bit too much make-up, considering the situation.
Not one of those posh flight attendants, then, thought Doyle; and it was not a surprise to see that there was no engagement ring in evidence. However, the woman emanated a profound sadness—apparently, she was sincerely grieving the dead man.
She explained to the detectives that she’d come home for a four-day layover, and had grown alarmed when she couldn’t contact her boyfriend. “He’s busy, being a barrister and all, but I thought it was strange. He always called me back as soon as he had the chance.”
Munoz checked her notes, and offered in a neutral tone, “I understand that his wife made the ID at the morgue.”
But the woman didn’t seem shaken by this revelation, and nodded. “Yes. They were getting a divorce, so’s he could marry me. They hadn’t lived together in quite some time, even though they stayed married.”
I’ll bet my teeth he’d no intention of going through with a divorce, thought Doyle, who’d seen this situation many a time. Divorces cost money, and why go to the trouble, if your estranged wife doesn’t care whether you’re consorting with women of this stripe?
But Munoz had seen the hint of a motive. “Do you know how his wife felt about you? Or about his philandering?”
Good one, thought Doyle, and resolved to pay closer attention.
But the woman seemed genuinely surprised by the suggestion. “You mean was she behind the murder? Oh, no—I’m certain. She was tired of him, too, and ready for the divorce. She knew all about me, and the other girlfriend before me. It was all very civilized.”
Yet again, Doyle reflected upon the foolishness of a woman who’d believe protestations of love from such a man, and then asked, to show Munoz that she could also spot a motive, “Who was the other girlfriend, before you?”
For the first time, the witness’ spirits plucked up. “Oh—she was someone from his work. She didn’t know he was dating me on the sly, but she was suspicious, and called my number from his mobile.”
“That’s brass,” said Munoz, and Doyle noted that her compatriot couldn’t keep a tinge of admiration from her tone.
“Oh, she was brassy, all right. He liked me better, and so he dropped her and decided he wanted to get married.” She paused, and her lip trembled. “He said he was sick to death of the deceitful people he had to deal with, and that I made him feel comfortable—like an old slipper.”
Munoz passed the woman a handkerchief, and they waited for a sympathetic moment before getting back to business. “And the old girlfriend’s name, if you know?”
“Morgan something,” the woman said, her brow knit with the effort of remembering. “She worked at his chambers.”
9
It had been a foolish mistake, but he could feel some sympathy; he’d made a foolish mistake himself, once.
On the way back in the car, Munoz was musing aloud over what they’d learned, whilst Doyle was sincerely regretting that she’d asked to come along.
“We should follow up, just as a matter of form, but I think we can rule her out—the wife too; unlikely she’d want to kill him, if this situation has been going on for some time. I suppose we could check the mobile records to see if there were any suspicious calls, but it almost seems unnecessary—this looks more and more like a stranger-robbery.”
“Yes,
” Doyle agreed glumly. “It does seem unnecessary.” Mainly, this was because Doyle was certain that the spurned girlfriend was Morgan Percy, the junior barrister on Williams’ case, and Morgan Percy was the type of person who was willing to kill people—or at least arrange to have them killed, as it seemed unlikely that Percy would deign to swing a truncheon in her manicured hands. In point of fact, Doyle knew that Percy had killed her old boss—the head of her chambers—to protect his reputation. Unfortunately, no one else knew this—save Acton—and so now Doyle was squarely skewered on the horns of a dilemma, which always seemed to be her natural state, post-marriage.
Doyle had been semi-friendly with Percy, and Williams had been—she suspected—more than semi-friendly. A kettle of snakes, it was—if she raised her suspicion of Percy’s involvement in the QC’s case, then the murder of the old boss might come to light, and Acton had already decided that particular sleeping dog should be allowed to lie.
On the other hand, if Percy killed the QC out of jealous spite, Doyle should not cover it up—the girl was dangerous, and should be brought to justice. Not to mention if this was indeed a spite murder, it also meant that the other murder—Blakney, the shoeless pawnbroker—was completely unrelated.
Doyle frowned, because her trusty instinct had been telling her otherwise. There was always the possibility that her trusty instinct was wrong—unless Percy was dating the pawnbroker, too? This seemed highly unlikely, but the fair Doyle should probably shake her stumps and find out.
And there was yet another dilemma, in what seemed like an unending list; should she tell Acton what she’d discovered? Did Acton know, already? After all, she’d had the sense that he was trying to keep her away from something, so perhaps she should follow Williams’ advice to stay away and trust her husband, despite advice to the contrary by an irksome ghost.
On the other hand, there was the continuing problem of Acton’s taking-justice-into-his-own-hands tendencies; she shouldn’t just stand idly by, and put blinders on. She was fairly certain that she was supposed to try to save Acton from himself—or at least, that was the general impression she’d gleaned, based on her strange and eventful marriage to the man.
Murder in Shadow (The Doyle and Acton Murder Series Book 6) Page 5