Murder In Thrall

by Cleeland, Anne

  “Constable.”

  There must be others about. If she was truly wicked, she would say something provocative. She was not, however, and so didn’t. “I’ve been lookin’ into Smythe and Capper. While Smythe is a known associate of the trainer, Capper is not, and his phone records show no contact.”

  “I see.”

  I am telling him nothing he doesn’t already know, she thought. Exasperating man.

  She persisted. “Which brings us back to your question—why would Capper risk so much to talk to the trainer in person?” After a moment’s hesitation, she suggested, “Perhaps Capper was the killer, after all.” This would contradict all working theories, but it would certainly tie up the cases nicely.

  “Any indication that the trainer had a falling-out with anyone recently?”

  “Not as yet; or no one wants to speak of it leastways. As it turns out, there is a connection with Giselle, however. The trainer was goin’ to visit her folks’ house in Yorkshire, according to one of the owners.”

  “Was he indeed?”

  Ah; here was something the omniscient DCI did not already know. Pleased she had been of some use and had also managed a vocabulary word, Doyle continued, “It’s a wrinkle—by all accounts he was gay and there is no indication the acquaintance was long-standin’.”

  Acton’s tone was thoughtful on the other end. “It is interesting. Perhaps he felt he had to go to ground where he couldn’t be easily found; I imagine Giselle had a connection to the track.”

  “A beautician, she was,” Doyle pointed out doubtfully. “Unless she was braidin’ the horses’ tails or somethin’.”

  “We’ll see; it’s a significant fact, that he may have been trying to go to ground—it means he knew he was a target. Good work.”

  Doyle made a wry mouth into the mobile. “Then he should have gone to ground sooner, and recall that you are not to humor me.”

  “I am not humoring you,” he protested, and it was the truth.

  She could hear voices in the background that sounded a lot like a field team, and debated for a moment whether to ask, then decided there was nothin’ for it. “Where are you, then?”

  “We’ve pinned down Capper and are waiting for a warrant.”

  “Are you? Well, that is excellent.”

  He must have heard her carefully concealed disappointment. “I’ll need you in the gallery for his questioning.”

  “Of course. Give me a ring; I’ll be here. ”

  She rang off and contemplated her mobile’s blank screen. She wished he had asked her to go with him, mainly because she would have overseen Capper’s arrest with relish after the trick he had pulled on her. Acton knew this, of course, but didn’t ask her to come. On the other hand, it was undeniable that Acton would have her close to hand at all times if he had his druthers. So—she thought with an attempt at stoicism—there is a reason I was not asked, and I have to try not to be such a baby about it. I have to be careful not to start thinking I have the ordering of him; it is that personal versus professional thing again.

  “Who was that?” Munoz asked through the partition.

  All it needed was Munoz, needling her. “You shouldn’t eavesdrop, Munoz. It is impolite.”

  “You sounded as though you were trying to make it up to Acton.”

  “I’ll not dignify that remark with a response.”

  Munoz appeared over the partition. She is the only person I know, thought Doyle, who still looks good under fluorescent lights.

  “What did Drake want?”

  Doyle made a face. “To look down my top, mainly.”

  Munoz laughed, swinging her long hair back. “I told you. Did you let him?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t know why he bothered, there isn’t much to see.” Munoz had a very fine figure.

  Doyle remembered that a certain chief inspector had found nothing to complain about and felt generous. “I can’t hold a candle to you.”

  Habib appeared in Doyle’s entryway, his dark eyes bright. “What is this? Do I hear that Munoz bests you, Doyle?” He was trying to be funny in his own awkward way—he had a giant crackin’ crush on Munoz, as did everyone else with an XY chromosome. Except Williams, apparently. And Acton, of course.

  Munoz gave Doyle a sidelong look. “We were speaking of my spreadsheets, which are far superior.”

  “Sad but true,” Doyle conceded. “Many admire them.”

  Pleased to be participating in the banter, Habib spoke to Doyle but allowed his eyes to stray to Munoz. “You can better yourself.”

  Gravely, Doyle demurred, “I think not, sir; it’s a gift, is what it is.”

  Munoz could not contain herself and sank down, away from sight.

  With regret, Habib dragged his gaze back to Doyle. “I am hearing the chief inspector will bring in the prime witness on the Kempton Park racecourse murder.”

  “Yes, sir. I am hearin’ the same—he has requested that I attend.” This so that Munoz would not have the satisfaction of thinking she was in the doghouse.

  “Has a link been established between the cases?” He fixed his dark eyes on her.

  He is like Acton, she thought; it is hard to tell what he is thinking. “Other than the second victim was shot shortly after speakin’ to us, no.”

  “He was on the scene for both, though. The witness.”

  Doyle knit her brow. “I don’t know if we have him on the scene in Giselle’s flat as yet, sir. Not enough to pin him down for a time frame.”

  Habib tilted his head in a gentle admonition. “Nevertheless, sometimes the best suspect is the most obvious.”

  This was inarguable and a basic tenet they taught you on day one at the Crime Academy—that, along with the dire consequences of becoming sexually involved with a superior officer. “Do you want me to ring you when the interrogation goes forward, sir?”

  “Oh, no, no,” he said immediately, shaking his head. I am only interested from afar.” He withdrew.

  A very odd duck, thought Doyle; I’m having my share of them today.

  Munoz’s voice was heard. “I’d like to attend the interrogation. Let me know.”

  Doyle had the immediate conviction that Munoz was casting a proprietary eye on her case and bristled. “Why?”

  “I’d like to watch Acton’s technique.” Munoz’s tone was as mild as milk. It was true; Acton was famous for his interrogations.

  Doyle was reminded, “I should call Owens, too. He’d like to work on his interrogation technique.”

  “Who is Owens?”

  “A new TDC.” Doyle hid a smile. “I think you’ll like him.”

  CHAPTER 15

  HE DIDN’T UNDERSTAND THE KILLER’S MOTIVATION—ALTHOUGH perhaps there wasn’t one. Nevertheless, he didn’t like to think that she may be at risk, and considered assigning someone to her—he had to be careful, she was still feeling her way.

  As it turned out, there was no shortage of observers in the gallery when Danny Capper was escorted into the adjacent interrogation room. Owens had come to join Doyle, grateful for the invitation and asking her questions about the status of the case. He is warming up to me, she thought—it’s a saint in the making, I am. She hoped he wouldn’t want her to make a commentary while the interrogation was going forward; she needed to concentrate on what Capper would be saying, which tended to be more difficult when there were others crowded around her. Drake and one of his detective sergeants entered, and Munoz immediately gravitated into their orbit.

  It’s like a cocktail party in here, thought Doyle with disapproval as she observed Munoz and Drake making eyes at each other. Unprofessional, it is. With a guilty start, she recalled that it was a case of the pot and the kettle and decided to mind her own business.

  “Acton is making him wait,” said Owens into her ear. This was true; Acton used an arsenal of interrogation tactics—he’d make the witness wait or sometimes he’d pause in the questioning and say nothing for a long space of time. The witness would then start talki
ng to fill the silence and would oftentimes divulge too much. That would be me, thought Doyle; I’d be gabbling.

  Acton entered and took his seat across from Capper and his solicitor; the attending sergeant then began the recording machine and recited the particulars for the interview. Doyle sized up the participants and decided Acton would probably start strong—Capper was looking tough and defiant, and sometimes that type needed to be shocked a bit so as to bring home the seriousness of the situation.

  “Where have you been? We’ve been looking for you.” With a quick movement, Acton spread the grisly photos of Giselle—or what was left of her—before the witness.

  Sullen, Capper bent his head and averted his eyes from the photos. “I dinna know it. I was stayin’ wi’ me mates, is all.”

  Stupid culchie, thought Doyle with a flare of temper at hearing his voice again. Now it’s your turn to repent fasting.

  “Your mates have questionable politics.”

  Capper glanced up, scowling. “I wouldn’t know.” Interestingly enough, this was true.

  There was a pause while Acton regarded him steadily. “You left the scene before you were released.”

  But Capper had a reasonable answer and shrugged. “I wanted to get out before you saw that I was banned.”

  “Then why didn’t you leave as soon as you saw the man had been killed? Why identify yourself?”

  “I was in shock. Then when the colleen started askin’ me questions, I realized I should have cleared out.”

  Shifting uncomfortably in her seat, Doyle very much hoped the next sequence of events would not be reviewed in detail. However, Acton said only, “It made a very bad impression, your leaving—as though you were guilty.”

  “I didn’t kill him,” Capper insisted.

  “Did you kill her?” Acton gestured to the photos, but the man would not look.

  “No.”

  The question was for her benefit and Doyle duly noted that he told the truth.

  “Who did?”

  “I dunno.” This was also true and Doyle experienced a pang of disappointment; this strange case was to reveal not a shred of a lead, apparently.

  “Anyone you know unhappy with her? From what the neighbors say, she had a lot of different men, in and out.”

  Doyle watched with interest; Acton was trying to goad the witness into saying something he oughtn’t, but she was not hopeful—Danny Capper was a tough customer; she had come across many of his ilk on the streets of Dublin.

  “I told you, I dunno who would do this.” The question had made him uncomfortable, though, and he glowered at Acton. “You got nothin’ on me—you’re not going to mock me up with a false charge; I have rights, I do.”

  With some shame, Doyle realized they could have held him on a charge of obstruction of justice for locking her in the tack room, but Acton had spared her the humiliation and it had cost him some leverage on this case. You are a baby, she chastised herself; and now look what you’ve done.

  But Acton was unmoved, having his own leverage over the witness. “How often have you violated the ban, Danny?”

  Reminded, Capper subsided and replied sullenly, “Only the once.”

  It was true.

  Acton waited a few beats, but this witness was not prone to fill in the silences, and so he continued, “What were you doing there?”

  The witness hesitated and met the solicitor’s eyes. The man nodded and Capper hunched his shoulders. “Giselle sent me. She wanted to talk to him and his mobile had stopped workin’.”

  “Why did she want to speak with him?”

  “They were goin’ to Yorkshire, to see her folks.”

  Acton leaned back and made a show of satisfaction for the solicitor’s sake. “So—your girlfriend was going away with another man and they both turn up dead with you placed at each scene.”

  Capper was aware this didn’t sound good and dropped his head, staring at his hands. “It wasn’t like that. They were mates, is all.”

  “She was friendly with a trainer at the racecourse? I wonder how that came about?” It was clear from Acton’s tone that he already knew.

  Capper crossed his arms, on the defensive. “She liked the course—liked the horses. She was over there a lot.”

  Ah, thought Doyle, leaning forward. Here is something.

  But Acton didn’t need her help. “You had your girlfriend running your numbers for you because you were banned.”

  “Don’t answer,” instructed the solicitor.

  Acton didn’t pursue it and leaned forward again. Doyle could tell from his posture that he had come to the same conclusion she had—they would get little of interest from this witness. “I don’t understand, Danny. Why would you do her a favor? Giselle told me you had quarreled.”

  Capper lifted his head, genuinely surprised. “No. We hadn’t quarreled.”

  Acton thought about this. “What were you to tell the trainer?”

  Capper clenched his fists in frustration. “I don’t know what was goin’ on. She said he was spooked about somethin’ and wanted to get away until it blew over, so she was goin’ to help him out. Then his mobile stopped workin’ and she got all a’fret. If she was seen talkin’ with him, someone might guess where he went to, so she sent me instead.”

  “Spooked about what?”

  Capper shrugged. “Dunno.”

  This was not exactly true.

  “Did you overhear any conversations?”

  “Nothin’ of interest. I told her to stay out of his problems—it weren’t her concern.”

  “Were any names mentioned? Foreign names?”

  The man shook his head. “No. No names.”

  Thinking about those Russians, again, thought Doyle. He’s got Russians on the mind, he does.

  Acton sat unmoving and continued to watch Capper. “So the trainer thought he was in danger.”

  Capper met his eye, exasperated. “D’ye think?”

  The solicitor gave the witness an admonitory look and the man subsided.

  “Did you know he was associating with suspected terrorists?”

  “No.”

  This was not true.

  Acton contemplated him for a space, but Capper met his eyes and held steady.

  “When did you last speak with Giselle?’

  “I went to the pub and told her”—he caught himself—“that I was goin’ to stay with me mates.”

  “And that the trainer had been murdered.”

  Capper dropped his gaze. “That too.”

  “And what did she say to this news?”

  The witness took a breath. “She was spooked.”

  Yes, thought Doyle; she was indeed.

  There was a small silence, and Capper suddenly allowed a trace of emotion to show through his façade of toughness. “I told her the cops was after me, and that I would go to ground till it blew over—I should have stayed with her.” He lifted his head and contemplated the far upper corner of the room. “I should have stayed with her.”

  Doyle had to close her eyes briefly; the raw remorse simmered just below the surface, and inwardly she flinched.

  Apparently, Acton was willing to offer cold comfort. “If you’d stayed with her, Danny, I guarantee you’d be in those photos, too.”

  Pulling himself together, the witness asked with a show of bravado, “Are we done?”

  But Acton was the one asking the questions. “Did you speak with her again that evening?”

  “No—I tried to ring her up a couple of times, but she’d turned her mobile off.”

  Acton then asked him some rapidfire questions about what he’d said and done upon finding the trainer’s body. Sometimes the question would be a seeming non sequitur. Capper gave consistent answers.

  “He’s had too much time to rehearse,” said Owens in Doyle’s ear.

  “Or he’s telling the truth,” Doyle reminded him, which was in turn the truth.

  Acton spread out the forensics report and the solicitor leaned forward, suddenly
intent. “There was a healthy bit of Danny DNA within the decedent. How do you account for it?”

  The solicitor intervened, no longer passive. “This means nothing. He told you he was her boyfriend.”

  “She was going to implicate him in the trainer’s murder,” counter-claimed Acton, “but she didn’t get the chance.”

  “You’ve got nothing to hold him. Call me when you have something more than a fairy tale.” The solicitor stood, sure of his ground, and the interview concluded.

  “Nasty piece of work,” Owens commented, referring to the solicitor.

  Doyle explained, “I know it looks like they’re ready to have a go at each other, but he’s just doin’ his job. He and Acton are actually quite friendly.”

  Owens had found the interview intensely interesting, Doyle could see. “Do you think he did it?”

  Doyle tried to be diplomatic, although once again she was made aware that perhaps Owens wasn’t really suited for detective work. “It seems unlikely that a knowin’ boyo like Capper would kill his girlfriend in her own apartment. Might as well be wearin’ a target for the police.”

  He nodded in concession. “What does Acton think?”

  Doyle remembered that Owens didn’t have security clearance. “I’m not privy at the moment.”

  He made a sound of sympathy. “Are you off this case, too?”

  “Hangin’ by my fingernails.” This was more or less true; she had a very pleasant memory of raking her fingernails across Acton’s back.

  They watched Acton confer with the solicitor, then the two men shook hands and parted. Acton then made his way into the gallery and began a low-voiced conversation with Drake, discussing their take on the interview. Munoz promptly stationed herself within Acton’s line of sight and tossed her hair back. Brasser, thought Doyle, and wished she had thought of it first.

  After the conversation, Acton approached Doyle and Owens. “Do you have any theories, Constable?” He wanted a preliminary take.