Murder In Thrall

by Cleeland, Anne

  He bent his head once in acknowledgment. “Yes. Although there is much more emotion in the execution of Giselle.”

  Doyle thought it over. “Because he shot off her face.”

  The Pakistani man nodded with a quick movement of his chin. “Yes. It takes a great deal of anger to do such a thing to a woman.”

  Knitting her brow, Doyle was not certain she agreed. “He used a large-caliber weapon so as to retrieve the bullet, we think.”

  “There are much easier ways to kill if that was the concern—and professionals normally do not face their victims.”

  This made sense, and Doyle could only agree. “So he was angry at Giselle—it was personal.”

  “Perhaps.” Habib, ever cautious, was not going to commit.

  Doyle bit her fingernail. “But the anger was not obvious to her, not enough to make her try to get away from him. There were no signs of forced entry or a struggle; she allowed him to approach her.”

  “That is true,” he agreed with another quick nod. “His anger was not overt.”

  An excellent word; Doyle made a mental note to use it.

  Habib continued, his demeanor thoughtful. “There is a strong emotion beneath the anger. It may be sexual in nature.”

  Doyle was impressed; sometimes Habib sounded a lot like Acton. “Acton and I don’t think it’s the boyfriend, though, because we don’t think he killed the trainer and one would think the same man did both—it’s someone who knows his forensics.”

  “Then look for other suspects,” Habib suggested, “—others who would be enraged at this woman.”

  Doyle had rather thought the killing was to keep Giselle from talking to the authorities, but what Habib said made sense; this killer, so meticulous, shouldn’t have been so vindictive—not if he was merely eliminating a perceived leaker of information. If there was a sexual aspect, it would mean the investigation had to cast a much wider net, given Giselle’s proclivities. “A rival for her affections, jealous of the boyfriend? Or perhaps the other way ’round—Giselle had a rival who wanted Capper and so she was eliminated.”

  “Not a woman,” Habib pronounced with certainty. “It was not a woman’s crime.”

  Doyle decided she wouldn’t challenge this assumption, which seemed a little simplistic—she hadn’t been doing this very long, but she’d seen some first-rate nasty women capable of doing some first-rate nasty things. “But by all accounts this is not the standard love triangle—it started with the trainer’s execution, perhaps in connection with a money-launderin’ scheme, although we haven’t found anything definite. It seems odd to suggest there may be a sexual aspect to it.”

  Habib bent his head in acknowledgment. “Perhaps, perhaps not—but there must be a commonality; we have only to understand why the woman was murdered so brutally compared to the other.”

  Doyle nodded, thinking such an understanding a tall order, given there was so little to go on.

  As if reading her mind, Habib suggested kindly, “You would do well to ask the chief inspector for his opinion, or DC Williams, who also may have good suggestions.”

  With a nod, Doyle took the implied vote-of-no-confidence in stride; Habib was very capable and fair to those under his supervision, but Doyle knew he felt—a cultural thing, to be sure—that women had no place in this type of police work, where grubbing about with the bottom-dwellers was not for the faint of heart. As for Habib, he was single, appeared to have a nonexistent social life, and was intensely dedicated to his job. Pausing in reflection, Doyle realized that she fit the same description and so perhaps shouldn’t be so judgmental. “Thank you for your help,” she said in her best I-should-really-be-cooking-something tone of voice.

  “You are welcome,” Habib said gravely. “It is an interesting case.”

  CHAPTER 5

  HE MONITORED HER LAPTOP AS SHE WORKED; HE LIKED TO SEE HER thought processes.

  Doyle was the first to arrive at the meeting room on the fifth floor and slid into a chair toward the far end of the conference table. After setting up her laptop, she leaned down to check her teeth in the reflection on the screen, hoping against hope that she appeared competent and professional and humbly asking any available saints or holy angels to see to it that she didn’t make any obvious mistakes that would make Acton look foolish for having recruited her. It was true the two of them had an exemplary record of solving cases thus far, but it was also true she was a first-year and they were an odd pairing. He had taken a professional risk by enlisting her to work on his cases, and she did not want to let him down; his approval meant a great deal to her.

  The second person to appear was a slightly plump, cheerful woman wearing a white coat over her clothes who smiled upon Doyle as she breezed into the room. Carrying a file in one arm and a doughnut in the other, she paused to offer her hand, temporarily holding the doughnut in her mouth. “Forensics,” she mumbled as rainbow sprinkles were dislodged. “Fiona from Forensics—Morgue.”

  Doyle shook hands and introduced herself, feeling self-conscious.

  “Are you working with DCI Drake?” Fiona’s eyes held a gleam of speculation.

  “DCI Acton, instead.”

  “Ah.” The gleam was quickly extinguished. Fiona took a seat and they were joined by a research assistant named Sid who also shook hands all around. He was about Doyle’s age and the type of man who spent a lot of time in clubs. He sat next to her and began chatting her up, as she was female and it was second nature to him.

  Acton then entered, already in conversation with his counterpart, DCI Drake. Drake was about Acton’s age, tanned, and had a luxurious head of hair that was apparently a source of some pride. He also had a reputation for being overly friendly with female subordinates, which had landed him in the soup on more than one occasion. Technically, the racecourse murder had occurred in his territory, and so he was the other presiding officer for the meeting—he had been out of town at a sex-trafficking conference, and Acton had been called in to handle it instead.

  They sat and Acton began by thanking Fiona for expediting Giselle’s autopsy.

  “Nothing to it,” the woman demurred, wiping her hands with a napkinette. “Opened her up over lunch yesterday.”

  “Same shooter?”

  “Hard to say. I can offer something, though. The bullet was not a through-and-through on the trainer. Instead it was removed with a delicate instrument; I’m guessing a surgeon’s probe. The bullet lodged near the nape of the neck, an inch off the spine. It wouldn’t have been too difficult to remove with the right tool.”

  This pronouncement was met with the surprised silence it deserved. Faith, thought Doyle; here’s a wrinkle.

  “Residue?” asked Action.

  “None on either. My guess it was wiped away with alcohol or something that evaporated with no trace.”

  “Caliber?”

  “Large for her; not so large for him.”

  “So not the same weapon,” mused Drake.

  Acton offered, “He may have wanted the bullet to exit her head to retrieve it more easily, after having to operate on the trainer.”

  Doyle decided there was no time like the present to put forth Habib’s theory. “Or it may have been a crime of rage.”

  The others turned to look at her. She decided they couldn’t have been more surprised if her laptop had spoken.

  “How so?” asked Drake, intrigued.

  “It was a vicious way to be killin’ a woman, face-to-face—and there are less messy ways to leave no evidence.”

  “Good point.” Drake eyed her with renewed interest. “The boyfriend, then? He was present at both scenes and they had a falling-out.”

  Doyle could not very well point out that her instinct had told her that Giselle had been lying about the falling-out, so instead she offered, “The crime scene did not lend itself to a crime of rage, though—no forced entry and no sign of a struggle.” She realized she had not used the word “overt,” and mentally chastised herself. “And the trainer’s death seems
to be a different pathology altogether.”

  Acton steepled his long fingers, his eyes hooded. “I didn’t think it was Capper on the trainer; the work is professional. But he was present at one scene, directly connected to the other, and is behaving like a prime suspect.”

  To Drake this seemed to be what mattered most. “Better find him. Any leads?”

  “Not as yet.” Acton said to Fiona, “Anything else?”

  Fiona brushed the crumbs off her report and went down the checklist. “Not pregnant, some alcohol. Smoked a lot. No defensive wounds—but you already know that. Hair and fibers are in the lab and will take another day or so. Nothing startling that I could see; just routine. We should have tox screen results in a few more days.”

  “Thank you,” said Acton.

  “Always a pleasure.” Fiona smiled her cheerful smile at him and stood to re-gather her file. “Nice to meet you,” she nodded to Doyle as she left. Interestingly enough, this last was not true, and Doyle watched her exit with some surprise. She had the brief impression the woman was sad for some reason, despite her pervasive cheerfulness.

  Drake leaned back in his chair and contemplated the ceiling. “So if the boyfriend is not shooting her in the face, who is? And doesn’t that make it seem it may have been two different shooters?”

  Acton shook his head slightly. “She was killed just after we interviewed her—we had the impression she was getting ready to grass. And the clean forensics seems too much of a coincidence.”

  “Maybe he was only trying to obscure identification by shooting off her face,” suggested Sid, who had not contributed to this point.

  Doyle could see that Sid had a drug problem, couldn’t concentrate, and was trying to cover it up. “Perhaps,” she responded diplomatically. “Although the shootin’ did occur in her own apartment.”

  The participants sat in silence for a moment, each trying to concoct a scenario with little success. Drake asked, “Any drugs around? Personal items missing?”

  “No—no drugs and her purse held nothing unusual.” Doyle paused, suddenly struck, and turned to Acton. “I didn’t see the card you gave her in inventory, sir.”

  Acton drew his brows together, considering. “It should have been in her purse—in the outside sleeve.”

  “Yes,” Doyle agreed. “I remember that’s where she put it.”

  “The killer took it?” With a small smile, Drake shook his head in bemusement. “Maybe he’s planning on giving you a call.”

  “I wish he would,” said Acton, and it was the truth, which only reminded Doyle that Acton was not your ordinary hail-fellow-well-met.

  “It was a good thing I was away,” joked Drake. “I could have been the lead on both of these.”

  “Let’s look at the participants. What did you find on background, Constable?” Acton turned to Doyle.

  On cue, she recited what she had learned, trying not to speak too fast, which is what she normally did when she was nervous. “The shooter covered the surveillance camera in the lobby of the building with tape; he must have known it was not a live feed. There was a camera on the street, but there was nothing useful. He knew how to avoid it. Giselle had no priors; neither did Rourke, the pub owner. Danny Capper did two years for larceny and was barred from workin’ at the track by the racing association, which may explain why he took off when we were knockin’ about. Smythe, the barkeeper, has no priors but is a known associate of the dead trainer, who was on the Counterterrorism Watch List.”

  Drake whistled softly. “Where was the trainer from?”

  “Ireland.” Doyle tried not to look self-conscious but knew she failed miserably.

  Drake spread his hands and made an exasperated sound. “Oh, well—practically everyone from Ireland is on the Watch List. That doesn’t mean much.” He smiled at Doyle. “No offense, Constable.”

  “None taken, sir.” You will never make chief inspector, my girl, she thought with resignation. Not wi’ this accent.

  “Any working theories?” asked Drake, speaking to Acton. “Everything suggests a professional except when it comes to the way Giselle was killed; was he trying to send a message to someone, perhaps?”

  “Perhaps,” Acton agreed slowly. “Perhaps the manner of death was a warning of some kind. I don’t think its Capper, however; plus I’m not convinced he’d be foolish enough to shoot his girlfriend in her own apartment.”

  “No hint of violence in his record,” added Doyle, who was aware that Acton’s unease stemmed in large part from her truth-detecting abilities, which could not be cited before present company.

  “If it was a surgeon’s probe, the killer might have been a medico connected with the track,” suggested Sid.

  Good one, Sid, thought Doyle; I hope you clean yourself up and keep your job.

  Acton nodded at him and said to Doyle, “Cross-check medical and veterinarian personnel who worked at the track for criminal record or known associates involved in doping or money laundering. Follow up on the men in Giselle’s life in the event it is something unrelated.”

  “Should we start with the presumption the two murders are connected, then?” asked Drake.

  “Until we can definitively say otherwise.” Acton’s dark brows were drawn together. “I don’t believe in coincidences.”

  And I don’t believe I made any mistakes, Doyle thought with satisfaction, snapping her laptop closed. Good one.

  CHAPTER 6

  SHE WAS NOT WITHOUT ADMIRERS, AND IT GAVE HIM PAUSE. HE KNEW her; someone would penetrate her defenses and she would be forever loyal to him—it was her nature. He did not know if he could accept a secondary role.

  After the meeting adjourned, Doyle watched Acton walk over to the windows to stand with his arms crossed, gazing down toward the street below. She had declined Sid’s lunch invitation, recognizing it was made only as a matter of form. A bucko, he was; she had a fine-tuned radar when it came to men of that stripe.

  With an eye on Acton, she gathered up her things—she could see that something was troubling him about his business.

  “I should have listened to you. It was good advice.”

  She paused, and as there was no one left in the room, she concluded he must be speaking to her. “Which good advice was that, sir?”

  “Giselle.”

  “Ah. You were not to know she would be killed, after all.” Apparently Acton suffered from the same sort of remorse she did; it was a hard thing to feel one should have known, somehow.

  He glanced over his shoulder at her. “She was ready to talk, with a little coaxing.”

  “We’ll find someone who knows somethin’, sir. No point in second-guessin’.” It was interesting that he dwelt on it; he did not seem a dweller to her.

  He turned and approached to stand beside her, still deep in thought. “This case has too many variables and no governing theme. Did you discover anything of interest from the neighbors?”

  “She wasn’t a favorite. Not very friendly; a lot of men in and out and complaints about noise. She had an ex-husband but by all reports was on good terms.”

  Acton lifted his head. “Did he owe her back support?”

  Here was a motive, she supposed. “I will check, sir.”

  “Phone records?”

  “I’m going through them, but there was nothing after ten o’clock that night.”

  He dropped his gaze to the floor, thinking. “Who called in the report?”

  Doyle realized this was a good question; the call had come in so early the next morning that presumably Giselle hadn’t yet been missed at work. “I will check,” she said again, and wished she had thought of this herself.

  He must have sensed she was feeling inadequate because he lifted his eyes to hers and said with sincerity, “You made a good report. It was very helpful.”

  She smiled, pleased because it was the truth. “Thank you, sir.”

  He made a gesture indicating they should leave. “Can you come to the canteen? I’d like to pick up something to eat
and reassess our working theory.”

  She wasn’t certain they had a working theory as yet, but she was not one to demur. “Yes, sir.”

  They descended in the lift to the third floor and didn’t speak on the journey; Doyle felt it was one of the reasons they were so compatible—neither felt a need to fill up the silences that fell between them. They emerged into the canteen and were met with the familiar faint smell of curry mixed with fish and wet umbrellas, then made their way toward the display cases to survey the offerings. The usual crowd at the canteen was thin at this hour, but there were enough glances thrown their way that Doyle felt her color rise; Acton sightings were rare.

  After picking up sandwiches, they stood in line at the cashier, and as he pulled his billfold from an inner jacket pocket, Acton said to her, “My treat, Constable.”

  She raised her eyes to meet his and knew that the only reason he had deigned to mingle with the hoi polloi was because he was determined to pay for her lunch. He met her gaze and she knew that he knew she knew. They regarded one another.

  “I see, sir, that it was a mistake to tell you about my financial plans.” With a show of defiance, she pulled a bill from her own wallet. “You would do well to be more careful with your money, if I may say so. If you’re to be throwin’ it after every DC who wrings your heart with a hard-luck story, you’ll soon have nothin’ left.”

  He gave her his half-smile and did not move. They were holding up the line. “Just this once,” he said in a mild tone. “Indulge me.”

  But she stood firm, knowing it was a slippery slope. “No. It’s for your own good, it is. Have done, please.” She dared to scold him and he conceded, amused. As she paid, however, she ruined the effect by adding in an aside, “Except for the lattes, which are very much appreciated.” Pride was a sin, after all.

  As she followed him to a table, she speculated on what it would take to make him laugh, or at least unbend enough to chuckle. He had come very close several times—she could feel it. It would be a new project for her—to loosen him up a bit. With an exhilarating sense of well-being, she decided that something had shifted between them, starting from his offer to loan her money. Proprietary, is what he was. She was pleased; it was a vocabulary word.