Upon her arrival at Giselle’s building, Doyle noted that a small crowd had formed around the entrance where the police had set up a cordon. It was a questionable neighborhood, and many of the inhabitants did not appear to be gainfully employed, so there were more lookers-on than usual for a weekday morning. She showed her identification to the PC guarding the entrance, and he directed her to the appropriate floor. There was no problem finding it; the flat was crawling with SOCO personnel and swathed in yellow tape. Curious neighbors were congregating in the cramped hallway, abuzz with excitement while Doyle shouldered her way through and as she passed them, Doyle heard little that was flattering about the recently departed. Although she had not been working homicides long, a basic tenet of human nature had emerged; if you were murdered, the immediate reaction was that it was your own fault.
Ducking under the yellow tape, she entered the flat and spotted Acton speaking with the forensic photographer near the windows. Only mild sunlight glinted through those windows, but the place was hot as an oven, the sickly sweet smell of decomposition heavy in the air. She met Acton’s eye as she pulled on latex gloves, and a slight nod indicated she could examine the body. She walked gingerly toward what remained of Giselle, careful not to step on the congealing pool of blood and tissue. A violent crime, it was, but Doyle didn’t flinch; she had discovered long ago that she was not the queasy type and tended not to think of the sad remains as the person—the person was long departed, and hopefully to a better place. She crouched down and scrutinized the body, careful not to touch anything without Acton’s permission.
Her work with the illustrious chief inspector had taught her to observe minute details she might otherwise have overlooked—details that may later turn into case-breakers. He was justly renowned for his analytical powers and would explain to her that humankind had a set number of predictable reactions to certain stimuli; therefore, it was important to notice when the reaction did not make sense, given the stimulus. He was also trying to help her understand the science of it—the physics and the biology that nowadays were just as important as motive and opportunity. It was the forensic evidence that won cases, as she well understood.
Giselle had been shot in the face, so there was little left that was recognizable. Shot at close range with a large-caliber weapon and it didn’t look as though there had been a defensive struggle—although the forensics morgue would be definitive on this. She had been dead for less than twelve hours, from the looks of it, which placed time of death shortly after Doyle and Acton had spoken with her. She wondered if Giselle still had his card in her purse and remembered the girl’s arch flirtation as she’d held it in her red-nailed fingers. Those fingers were now lifeless, the red nails rather incongruous but intact, which would indeed indicate there had not been a defensive struggle.
Sitting back, Doyle observed the position of the body and its location in the room. No—no sign that she had been trying to flee to an exit; perhaps she had been pleading with the killer rather than trying to fight or flee—it couldn’t have been much of a surprise, the weapon was a large-caliber and therefore not easily hidden—especially if there was a silencer, which seemed likely if no one heard the shot in these close quarters. Of course, it was possible Giselle had known about the gun but didn’t think it would be used against her; what a terrible moment it must be when you realize you are wrong.
Acton came over to crouch beside Doyle, and they both considered the evidence in silence for a moment.
“I’m sorry you couldn’t get through to me this morning, sir.” She made the apology as a matter of form; she’d known immediately upon entering the room that Acton was not unhappy with her.
“No matter; you had a late night,” he replied in a mild tone. “But I did have an anxious moment or two.”
She glanced at him, puzzled, and he indicated Giselle’s remains with a nod of his head.
“Oh—I see.” He had been concerned she had met the same fate, apparently. “I’d left the mobile on vibrate, I’m afraid.”
“Yes—I realized that must have been the case when I checked the GPS unit in your mobile and saw that you were en route to headquarters.”
She made a wry mouth. “That is excellent detectin’, sir.” Acton was a wily one; mental note.
He continued almost apologetically. “I would appreciate it if you kept communication open at all times.”
She turned her head to meet his gaze and said sincerely, “I will. I am sorry I gave you a turn, sir.” There had been a suppressed anxiety underlying the last words that was rather touching—he must think her a sorry excuse if he thought she would let some crazed killer have his way with her.
But the moment had passed and he was back to business. “No sign of forced entry. The landlord says she had a variety of men visiting at odd hours over the past few months; he thinks more than one had an Irish accent.”
This was of interest; the witnesses had said the dead trainer was Irish, and Capper was Irish. Giselle, however, was not—Doyle could tell when an accent had been erased and Giselle had not emigrated from the old sod.
Acton indicated the fatal wound. “What do you think?”
“A lot of firepower. And it makes such a crackin’ mess; perhaps he didn’t plan on doin’ this when he came in.”
“I think he did.” Acton turned the body so that the mangled mass that used to be the back of Giselle’s head was in view. Doyle studied it. “Where’s the bullet, in the wall?”
“Not here.”
Doyle met his eyes in surprise. “He took it again. He used a weapon that was so powerful it would not leave the bullet in the skull.”
Acton rose and pointed to a splinter that was protruding from the window frame. “Pried it out.”
Perplexed, Doyle looked over the murder scene. “Surely there must be trace evidence left behind; the place is a shambles.”
Acton shook his head. “He had plenty of time to clean it up. He knows his forensics—he even turned the heat up.”
“So time of death is obscured.” The temperature of the body would be unnaturally high; they wouldn’t have a target time for witness interviews or review of the CCTV tape; not immediately, anyway. Doyle was silent, thinking it over. There was something a bit chilling about such cold-blooded calculation; a professional killer was a different breed.
They rose to their feet and Acton continued. “We’ll have to do it the hard way; I’ll have the landlord come down to headquarters to look at some photos of Watch List persons of interest—Irish, as well as track personnel. Show photos of Capper and the barkeeper while you’re here. I would also like you to review the surveillance tape of the lobby for the past twenty-four hours and anything available from the CCTV in the street.”
Doyle hated reviewing surveillance tape, which was a tedious job usually given to first-year DCs such as herself. “Perhaps I should show her photo around at the track?”
Acton rested his gaze on what was left of the dead girl’s face for a moment. “No.”
Doyle knew better than to argue. He glanced up at the curious residents who were jostling for position behind the cordon. “Check for witnesses who can place her coming in last night, and find out if she was alone.”
Acton then gave instruction for the removal of the body as the forensic photographer took a few last photographs. When the team began to unfold the body bag, he turned back to Doyle. “Where is your latte, Constable?”
Always one for noticing the details, he was. It was true she started her mornings with her favorite latte concoction from the corner franchise—she shouldn’t be so addicted to the expensive vice, but there it was and there was no resisting it. This morning, however, she held a travel canister from home, which she lifted in ironic acknowledgment. “It’s Sav-Mart’s finest generic brew. It’s economizin’, I am.”
He looked at it, then back to her. “You alarm me.”
“It is the eighth wonder of the world,” she agreed, and took a sip.
But he was n
ot going to let it go and continued to regard her as though she were the next thing to a homeless person. “Is the wolf at the door, Constable?”
Blushing and uncomfortable with this inquiry, she resorted to flippancy, as was her wont when she was blushing and uncomfortable. “Not a’tall, sir. My rental was raised and I can save twelve quid a week if I cut back—it’s an unhealthy habit and past time. I’m debatin’ whether to go full bore and give up half-and-half, although it may well kill me.”
Acton rendered his half-smile at her light tone, and it seemed as though he wanted to say something but thought the better of it. To get past the awkward moment, she pulled out her occurrence book in what she hoped was an efficient manner and made ready to hunt for potential witnesses in the hallway. As she turned, however, he caught her elbow. “Hold for a moment, please.”
She waited in surprise while he lowered his head to hers—his hand remained on her arm, and she couldn’t remember another occasion when he had touched her. He then said quietly, “If you ever need anything—a loan, or—anything; you need only ask. I would be honored.”
Mother a’ mercy. She could feel the hot color flood her face as she protested, “Oh no, sir—I have plenty of money. I am rigorously savin’ a down payment for a condo—almost there.” They looked at each other, and she couldn’t help but reflect that his coat alone was probably worth two months’ rental. “But I do thank you for the offer, sir—I’d have no back-up plan, else.”
The coroner’s team had hoisted the body onto a gurney, and so there was a general movement out the door as the clean-up phase began. Doyle took the opportunity to recover her equilibrium as she moved toward the group in the hallway—Acton had always shown little interest in her personal life and so she was thrown a bit off balance, although she had managed to use the word “rigorously,” so there was that. And to offer her money, of all things—she was certain that protocol forbade him from offering a loan to a subordinate. It surely was a sign of the apocalypse.
To take her mind off it, she spent a very patient hour listening to tales of the Jezebel from the neighbors who vied to outdo each other with the result that much of what they told her was not true. Doyle found it rather sad—there was nothing like getting one’s self killed to find out what everyone thought of one. She dutifully jotted down all variety of wild theories while reflecting that it was a terrible thing to be murdered; all foibles and weaknesses were brutally exposed to public scrutiny, and yet no matter the weakness, no one deserved to die in such away. She showed a photo of Capper around, and one neighbor identified him as the current boyfriend. No one was sure if he had been visiting over the past few days, and overall, the consensus was that the victim had got no less than what she deserved.
Acton came out to join her and indicated she was to finish up, which was just as well as she was learning very little that was useful. They descended the steps in silence, past the knot of spectators on the sidewalk who murmured among themselves when they recognized Acton. The spring weather had turned and it was a fine day.
“Where are you parked?”
“I came on the tube, sir.”
He was angry suddenly—she could feel it. The only outward indication was that his words became clipped as he strode along. “Why does your supervisor have you travel to a crime scene on the tube?”
Afraid poor Habib would suffer Acton’s wrath, Doyle protested. “No—it was my own choice, sir.” To tease him out of his temper, she smiled up at him. “It’s a wretched driver I am, and two of our poor unmarkeds have suffered at my hands in the past year alone.”
The anger was gone and his mouth relaxed. “I had no idea you were so dangerous.”
“You live and you learn, sir,” she replied piously.
She thought for a moment that he was actually going to laugh; he contained himself, however, and was back to business. “Send me an email tonight at close and let me know where we are. If you learn anything particularly startling, call or text my mobile.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll give you a lift,” he said firmly.
“Lead on,” she said agreeably.
He was on his mobile on the drive back to the Met, requesting that Danny Capper be brought in for questioning. He returned a message from the detective chief superintendent and then was discussing available conference time with someone when he turned to Doyle, who hadn’t been paying attention. “Are you available to conference day after next at four? We should have forensics by then.”
She found herself blushing again and stammered, “No—I mean yes, if necessary.”
He turned back to watch the traffic and continue his conversation. “Not good. How about tomorrow? We’ll expedite the autopsy and toxics won’t be important.” He raised his eyebrows in question at Doyle, and she nodded to show she was available.
“Good.” He disconnected and addressed Doyle. “We’ll conference with Research and Forensics then. DCI Drake’s team will attend.”
“Grand.” She had never been invited to a conference before, being as they were not intended for the lowly likes of her but only for those with dispositive authority. Acton was mentoring her again, bless him. She’d best study up.
He drove in silence for a moment or two and then asked in a neutral tone, “What’s happening day after next?”
“Oh no,” she protested, laughing. “Thus far today I’ve had to confess I’m pockets-to-let and I’m a wretched driver, and it’s still morning. I’ll suffer no more humiliations, if you please—it’s more than a body can bear.”
“Suit yourself,” he said with a smile.
CHAPTER 4
HE DISCOVERED WHAT SHE WAS ATTENDING TWO EVENINGS HENCE and it was a cause for concern. There was the financial problem to be addressed, also. He considered concocting an inheritance or perhaps a long-lost pension from her mother’s employer, but he felt certain she would guess. She was no fool.
The remainder of the day was spent slogging away in the field, reviewing surveillance tape and interviewing secondary witnesses who had been neighbors or workmates of the two victims, and at the end of it Doyle had nothing of interest to text to Acton. It was a very strange sort of case, she thought, gazing with furrowed brow at her screen. The forensics pointed to a professional killer, but the victims didn’t point to a professional killer; there was no indication that either the trainer or Giselle had come a cropper with the sort of people who would hire a professional to finish them off. It was almost as though the killer was practicing, or showing off, or something. Or perhaps he’d gotten his assignments mixed—nothing worse than a mixed-up assassin, one would think—but no; Giselle had let him into her rooms, so she must have known him. Very strange, it was.
After carefully assembling what little information she had gathered, Doyle went in to work uncharacteristically early the next morning to prepare herself for the conference—it was not clear if she would be called upon to report and so she wanted to be up to speed on every detail. She had never been very good at detail—tending instead to instinctively jump to the heart of matters—but in this line of work the tedious details could not be overlooked, particularly in a case of this nature where a nice, juicy clue was needful. It would be so very fine if she could impress Acton with a case-breaker, but it seemed unlikely, given what they knew.
With steely determination, she resolved to go over everything yet again once she was at her desk and was aided in her endeavors by a latte, exactly to her specifications and delivered to her desk by a messenger. She stared at it for a full twenty seconds, wrestling with her conscience. Her conscience didn’t win, and she briefly considered thanking Acton with a text but decided he would not want her to thank him—she knew him that well, at least. “Sláinte,” she said aloud, and drank it down.
Inter-team conferences were set on a regular basis as a means to cross-check for ideas within a basic command unit when cases became tough to crack or—as in this case—when different homicides appeared to be related, raising concerns
of a serial killer. At least two DCIs would participate, along with pertinent staff to brainstorm ideas and information with the aim of encouraging fresh insights. The conferences were developed as a remedy for past problems when detectives, competing for attention and promotions, had become territorial and secretive about their cases to the extent that information acquired that might have been helpful to another case was instead withheld.
The practice was a good one—setting aside for a moment the fact that a first-year DC such as her fair self would almost never be involved. She double- and triple-checked her information and then decided to wear lip gloss to appear older than she was; as she did not usually wear makeup, it was a telling measure of her state of mind.
Armed with her lip gloss, she decided to ask Habib for suggestions. It would be diplomatic to defer to him since he could theoretically control her assignments, although there was no question he would, in turn, defer to Acton. On a practical level, Doyle was aware that her days as Acton’s helpmeet could be numbered, and so she was careful to burn no bridges—someday she may need to come crawling back to her supervisor and beg for decent assignments. Besides, Habib seemed a knowing one, and she wanted to hear his opinion.
After she sought him out, he listened to her synopsis of the case thoughtfully, sitting up very straight in his chair with his arms crossed before him and his feet flat on the floor. “It seems apparent the two murders are by the same killer,” she concluded. “A professional, we think, given that the scenes were wiped clean.”
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