“All right, but try to keep an open mind. You said yourself that sometimes you get it wrong.”
“All right, I will. Who’s checkin’ on what?”
“We should start by ruling out local clergy—there must be a database, somewhere.”
“We can ask for a list of local priests, when we’re at the Everyday Heroes outreach.” This said in a hopeful tone, as DI Williams had not spoken again of this upcoming engagement, and she had a shrewd suspicion that he was looking to duck out.
“That’s not a bad idea, Kath. And while we’re there, we can meet up with Shandera, and bring him up to speed.”
“Officer Shandera will be at the outreach?” Doyle had not heard this.
“Yes—I think he’s slated to talk about his old life, and turning things around.”
“Oh; oh—well, then, we can all put our heads together, and brainstorm.” It was unfortunate, in a way, that Acton had agreed to attend, since he would presumably realize that his better half was closing in on this killer, but she’d cross that bridge when she came to it. “We’re close,” she told Williams. “I can feel it.”
“And there haven’t been any more victims,” he noted. “Maybe he knows we’re close, and he’s spooked.”
“I hope not,” she said honestly. “I wouldn’t want him to be pullin’ up stakes, and goin’ off to some other sinful city, where bad mothers are ten-a-penny.”
“Good point. Then here’s hoping we nick him soon.”
“Amen, Thomas; and don’t think that I don’t appreciate your help on this. There’s no rest for the weary.”
He hesitated. “At some point, Acton should be brought in.”
Unspoken was the agreement that Acton wasn’t to know what they’d figured out thus far; Williams knew as well as she did that Acton was soft-pedaling this investigation, for reasons unknown. “I know, Thomas, but let’s find some decent evidence tyin’ the cases together, first. So far, all we’ve got is the ‘Dublin’ reference.”
“We’ll find it; there’s too much going on, here. Someone must know something.”
“I keep sayin’ the same thing, my friend, but we keep comin’ up empty.”
She glanced down at her neglected laptop. “It’s frustratin’, is what it is. These wretched cases are takin’ up all my time, and they’re not even mine. I’ve got to find a case-breaker soon, or I’ll be so behind on my own cases that I’ll have to start farmin’ them out to strangers on the street.”
Williams offered, “I have to do something for Acton that will take up most of my Saturday, but I can come over for a few hours on Sunday, if you’d like. We can go over your caseload, and sort out the priorities.”
Doyle remembered that Williams had a mysterious errand to run whilst Acton was at his retreat, and that she’d been worried said errand was somehow connected to her husband’s cover-up. Although she’d originally thought it had something to do with Father John, that now seemed unlikely; she’d not had the sense that Williams was planning to cosh her poor priest, and if he were, he wouldn’t be warning her about keeping an open mind with respect to the good father’s role as a suspect. So, her sense that the errand was somehow connected to these bizarre cases was off-the-mark; leastways, it seemed clear that Williams didn’t think so.
In response to the proposed Sunday get-together, Doyle replied in a carrying tone, “Best not come over here, with Acton gone, Thomas; Reynolds will be bristlin’ like a dog with a bone.” The servant, however, did not deign to acknowledge this particular sally, as he set out the plates.
She could hear the amusement in Williams’ voice. “Right; I forgot about your chaperone. If I stay an arm’s length away, will he feed me?”
“If he won’t, I will, out of sheer appreciation. You should see my emails—I’m half-tempted to delete them all, and blame the IT people.”
“All right—we’ll do it. Do you need a lift to the outreach?”
“No; Acton’s comin’ along, for moral support.”
“See you soon, then.”
“Cheers.” She rang off, and stared at her mobile screen for a moment. I wonder, she thought, if Officer Shandera was acquainted with any of these victims, being as he used to be a hoodlum. Her scalp prickled, and she lifted her head to stare out the window for a moment. I’ve missed something again, she thought, frowning with the effort to remember; Father John said something significant, but I didn’t realize it at the time—
The thought was interrupted by the sound of Acton’s card in the slot, and she looked up to smile a greeting, trying not to look self-conscious, because she was slated to have the Confirmation discussion with him, right on the heels of her let’s-not-do-heart-probing-discussions discussion. Honestly; sometimes she felt like Jeremiah-down-the-well, herself.
“Kathleen.”
He shrugged out of his coat for Reynolds, and then came over to kiss her. Immediately, she went on high alert; there was an air of satisfaction hovering about him, and he didn’t seem as weary, and pulled-about. Trying to decide why this would be, she ventured, “Any chance the investigation is wrappin’ up?”
“Which?” He leaned over to run a fond hand over her belly.
“The wretched ACC’s investigation. The whole thing is takin’ far too long; the public needs to have this done and buried, so they can be distracted by the next royal scandal, and the poor Met can pull itself together.”
“I’m afraid the investigation has not yet concluded,” he replied briefly, and it was true. With a hungry air, he wandered into the kitchen, so as to observe the dinner preparations.
Something’s up, yet again, she thought, watching him. I know the signs; he’s filled with carefully suppressed anticipation. With Williams’ remark about Saturday fresh in her mind, she decided to sound him out a bit. “Williams says he’s runnin’ an errand for you, whilst you’re away at the retreat this weekend. He’s already run off his feet, poor man—is it somethin’ I can do, instead?”
He glanced at her with a small smile, and then bent to retrieve the orange juice bottle from the fridge. “Williams is going to Trestles for me.”
She stared at him in surprise. “Trestles? Whatever for?”
Enjoying her reaction, Acton took a drink straight from the juice bottle. “A pensioner, living on the grounds. There is some concern that he’s losing his mental faculties, and I didn’t want to make it obvious that I was involved.”
“Say no more,” she assured him, retreating from the topic with all speed. Acton’s words were completely true, and so she’d misread something—it happened, sometimes. It also explained why Williams had been a bit vague, since Acton obviously wanted to keep the problem under wraps—he hadn’t even mentioned it to her. This seemed to verify that Williams’ errand was definitely not connected to the nuns-and-prostitutes murderer, and her instinct—this time around—was wrong, wrong, wrong, and should be thoroughly ashamed of itself, besides.
“I understand you went to tea at the Bell in Hand.”
She smiled, since that “understanding” came from his monitoring of the GPS in her mobile phone. “Indeed, I did—I met with Father John. What do they feed Irish cows, so that the butter is so much better than regular butter?”
“Irish clover.”
She laughed. “Well, they should bottle and sell it, then—I could eat it by the spoonful. The butter, not the clover.”
Although Reynolds had discreetly placed a juice glass on the counter, Acton ignored it, bringing the bottle with him as he settled in next to Doyle. “How is Father John?”
“He is doin’ well.” As her husband took another swig, she rested her head on his shoulder, and knew with complete certainty that she couldn’t broach the topic of Acton’s Confirmation—couldn’t tell him what the priest had said. It would feel like a betrayal, and they were each so vulnerable to the other—she wouldn’t wound him in such a way. If Acton wanted to get himself confirmed, the good Father would just have to deal with it.
“Hungry?” Act
on asked.
“Always,” she teased.
38
“Oh,” Doyle said in surprise. “How very nice it is to see you, again.”
She was dreaming, and it was one of the dreams like the ones where’d she’d seen her son Edward; all sounds and impressions, and—unlike most dreams—she was well-aware that she was dreaming. Aiki, the Rwandan cab driver who’d been killed, was standing before her, and smiling his infectious smile.
As was always the case with these dreams, she struggled with trying to communicate, since it took an enormous effort to focus. “I’m thick as a plank, Aiki. I’m off my game, and I keep missin’ clues.”
“No, no,” he soothed, spreading his hands so that the palms showed pale against his dark skin. “The mashetani, they distract you, and make mischief. It is their way.”
“I don’t know about that,” she said doubtfully. “And I don’t think I’m supposed to believe in the mashetani—it doesn’t sound like Church doctrine.”
Shrugging, he smiled again. “Yes; there are the old ways, and there are the new ways.”
“Can’t argue with that,” she agreed, thinking to be polite.
Pleased that she understood, he added with emphasis. “Yes, yes—that is it, exactly. It is hard to let go of the old ways; the simpler ways. He honors the old ways, still.”
She frowned, knowing that she was supposed to be understanding something, here. “Is that what this killer’s doin’? He’s holdin’ on to his old ways?”
“Yes. It is you who must stop him.”
“I’m tryin’, Aiki,” she protested. “But Acton won’t let me.”
“Your husband, he is a shujaa—a strong man. A good husband.”
“Sometimes too good,” Doyle was forced to admit. “He tends to forget what’s what.”
“That is so, and that is the trouble.” Aiki nodded. “His mind is filled with you.”
Puzzled, Doyle struggled to understand. “Are you sayin’—are you sayin’ that Acton is protectin’ this killer for me?”
“A good husband,” Aiki reiterated. “But soon, it will be too late for him. He does not see, so you must be made to understand.”
“You sound like a knight I know, Aiki—what will be too late? This killer isn’t comin’ after Edward, is he?”
But Aiki only repeated patiently, “You must be made to understand. It is a shame that you do not speak French.”
“Everyone speaks French but me,” she repeated, and wondered again why it was so important. “I wish I had a decent lead. Aiki. I feel like it’s just out of reach, and I keep missin’ the main points.”
He nodded in sympathy. “Yes. You missed the funeral.”
With an effort, Doyle tried to cross her arms, but found that they would not obey instruction. “Who’s funeral? Yours? We were there, Acton and me.”
“There are the old ways, and there are the new ways,” her visitor repeated. “It is hard to let go.”
She frowned, and tried to piece it together. “Someone is combinin’ Santeria and Roman Catholicism? Is that it?”
“He kills them to honor you,” Aiki explained. “So, you are the one who must stop him.”
Doyle stared at him in utter astonishment. “He kills them to honor me? What—whatever do you mean, Aiki?”
“I must go.” Aiki spread his hands again, in apology.
“Oh—oh, must you? I miss you,” she said suddenly. “I felt as though—oh, as though we were kin, or somethin’. I’m that sorry you aren’t here, anymore.”
“You must stop him. And the shujaa, he must be careful; he does not know what the others plan.”
Frowning, she struggled to understand. “What ‘others’? The mashetani, d’you mean? Or are you speakin’ about whatever the knight is worried about—the Crown’s ministers?”
Aiki beamed, pleased. “Yes.”
Doyle woke with a gasp, her eyes wide. Acton stirred, and sleepily ran a hand down her arm. “All right?”
“I—I had a dream, is all. I saw Aiki.”
After a small pause, Acton asked, “And how is Aiki?”
“Well. He’s doin’ well.” She took a long breath. “Sorry I woke you.”
“Not at all,” he replied, and drew her close to him.
39
Doyle stood in the west London district’s cramped morgue, wishing she’d brought her gloves, since the room was cold, as morgues were wont to be. She tucked her hands under her armpits, and somberly reviewed the remains of a woman, lying before her in the stainless-steel drawer.
The technician who stood beside her offered, “You’re lucky; we were going to cremate her after another two days, since she hadn’t been claimed.”
“Lucky—that’s me,” Doyle replied absently, gazing upon the former Sister Lucia—although since the nun had left her Order, she was more correctly just Lucia, now.
After Aiki’s warning, Doyle decided she needed to take a different tack on these murders, and—after thinking about the various loose ends—she’d come to the conclusion that the most obvious route to finding a decent lead was to give up on the missing babies for a moment, and instead, try to find the other dead nun. She was the only one who knew the second nun was dead, after all, so there might be a case-breaker involved, if the fair Doyle could just come up with a corpse.
And in the end, finding Lucia hadn’t been very difficult; a check-in with the local morgues had resulted in eleven Jane Does; only one of whom was in her thirties, and had no tattoos.
Lucia’s mother superior had—rather grudgingly—sent Doyle a photograph of the former nun, and now Doyle was making an identification, in this grim little auxiliary morgue.
“Do you happen to have any next-of-kin information?” the woman asked.
Doyle frowned slightly. “I was told she had family in Slough, although I don’t think she kept in touch.”
With a nod, the technician made a note. “Thank you; we’ll try to contact them—we always hate to bury an unknown. Someone, somewhere must be wondering what’s happened to her.”
Not these victims, thought Doyle; and apparently, that was the whole point. She bestirred herself to ask, “Cause of death?”
The woman scrolled through the record. “It was ruled death by misadventure, I think. No signs of trauma, no signs of assault—sexual or otherwise. No suicide note, so may have been an overdose.”
Doyle nodded, and decided not to point out the tiny, broken blood vessels on the victim’s cheeks, which were an indicator of death by asphyxiation. It was a sad fact of homicide work that if the victim went unidentified—and there were no signs of violence—police resources were regretfully put to use elsewhere. “Anythin’ unusual about her death?”
The woman reviewed her notes. “Well, under ‘additional facts,’ it says here that she was lying down, with a blanket over her—rather sounds like suicide, doesn’t it? And there was candle wax, on her clothes.”
Doyle lifted her gaze. “Was there? Is there any chance that you still have her clothes?”
The technician nodded. “I imagine; and if they noted it in the chart, they probably took a scraping of the wax. I know the evidence box hasn’t been purged, yet; they keep all evidence for ten years, I think.”
Hardly daring to hope, Doyle turned to her. “Then I’d like to take a look, if I may. There’s a chance the wax might be very important, to link this case to another homicide investigation.”
Willingly, the woman shut down her tablet. “Certainly. Do you want to go over to the Evidence Locker now, or wait for DCI Acton, first? We’d have to go to the local station house.”
Doyle stared at her in surprise. “DCI Acton is comin’ here?”
It was the technician’s turn to be surprised. “Well—well, yes, I thought you knew. The instruction on file says he’s to be notified immediately, if there is an identification.” With suppressed excitement, she leaned in, and confided, “The District Coroner’s on his way over, too—hoping he can take a snap with him, no do
ubt. He’s a huge admirer.”
“A true reformer; that’s our Chief Inspector,” Doyle agreed, and was rather surprised she wasn’t immediately struck by lightning, on the spot.
Curious, the woman nodded toward the corpse, as she zipped up the body bag. “Who is she, that someone like him would take such an interest?”
Doyle decided there was no harm in telling her. “She’s a nun. Or a former nun, I suppose.”
The other’s brows drew together, as she glanced up at Doyle in surprise. “Is that so? And yet you think she might be a homicide? Who’d want to kill a nun?”
“Someone who wanted to save her, oddly enough.” Doyle glanced toward the hallway. “Is there a waitin’ room? Somewhere I can speak to DCI Acton in private?”
“Please—use the Coroner’s office,” the woman offered, and ushered her into a small office, down the narrow hallway. “Would you like coffee?”
“I would,” Doyle replied, after deciding that circumstances warranted. “Thank you.”
Doyle gratefully sank into one of the visitor’s chairs, and propped up her feet on the other chair. She then helped herself to the contents of the candy dish and sipped coffee, whilst she waited for her husband—needed to keep her strength up, after all. Another tedious discussion loomed, but it was just as well, she thought philosophically. Sooner or later, they were going to have to show their cards to each other, and besides, Aiki and the knight were both worried that Acton was goin’ to miss the boat, somehow.
In a commendably short space of time, she could hear Acton’s voice, rather abrupt with the poor technician, who was unabashedly gushing as she escorted him to the office.
Upon opening the office door and seeing Doyle, Acton immediately said, “Don’t get up, Sergeant.”
“Had no intention of gettin’ up, sir,” Doyle replied, and ate another candy.
Acton turned to address the technician, who was trying to hide her astonishment with only limited success. “That will be all; I will call, if you are needed.”
The door closed, and Doyle chewed the candy, thoughtfully gazing upon her husband, who stood and returned her regard. He offered, “Recall that I am under strict instructions not to tell you that I am sorry.”
Murder in All Honour: A Doyle and Acton Mystery (Doyle and Acton Scotland Yard Mysteries) Page 22