Murder in Just Cause Read online

  Murder in Just Cause

  A Doyle and Acton Mystery

  Anne Cleeland

  The series in order:

  Murder in Thrall

  Murder in Retribution

  Murder in Hindsight

  Murder in Containment

  Murder in All Honour

  Murder in Shadow

  Murder in Misdirection

  Murder in Spite

  Murder in Just Cause

  For Benita Koeman, who saw a need; and for all others like her.

  Chapter 1

  It was his fault, that the operation hadn’t succeeded, and so it was jolly well up to him to save her.

  With stoic determination, Detective Sergeant Kathleen Doyle began climbing the iron stairway up to the London housing project’s fourth floor. She was followed closely by Detective Sergeant Isabel Munoz, who—aside from being annoyed about having to climb the stairs instead of taking the lift—was equally annoyed because Doyle had been a last-minute addition to her assignment.

  I hate this sound, thought Doyle, as their footsteps clanged and echoed on the metal stairs. Brings back bad memories, it does.

  They were investigating a reported homicide in the dilapidated high-rise, and it was just as well that the lift wasn’t working, since the lifts in these projects were notoriously dangerous—nothing like being cornered between floors with an assailant-by-trade. And so, the two detectives were doggedly climbing the four stories up to the flat that was listed on the occurrence-sheet, keeping a wary eye on their surroundings because the residents who lived in the projects weren’t, as a whole, Scotland Yard’s biggest fans.

  Doyle didn’t normally work on the same team as Munoz—a good thing, all in all—but it was her first day back from maternity leave, and so the powers-that-be were easing her return to detective work by placing her in an “assist” role, for the time being. It helped, of course, that the powers-that-be included Chief Inspector Acton, Doyle’s husband—nothing like a bit of nepotism to make one’s job easier, although surely Acton must have known that pairing his wife up with Munoz would cause her more hardship than not. He may not have thought it through, though—he was not himself, these days.

  As they clambered up to the next landing, Munoz’s voice echoed up to Doyle. “Have you heard anything from Savoie?”

  “I have not.” This was only the truth, and thank God fasting. Munoz had been involved in a torrid romance with Philippe Savoie, a French underworld figure, but the romance had cooled—mainly because Savoie had gone back to France to lay low, being as he’d been implicated in some troubling homicides over the past few months. Not an auspicious turn of events for a copper’s love-interest, and Munoz had—rather wisely—broken it off. Not that she’d much choice, of course, with his being gone and all.

  “It’s just as well,” Doyle threw back over her shoulder, unable to resist the chance to feel superior. “He wasn’t good for your career, Munoz.”

  “Well, Acton was already taken.”

  This said in a sniping tone, because Doyle had married their mutual superior officer in an impetuous turn of events—so much so that Doyle wasn’t even certain how it had happened; one day she’d been minding her own business as the DC who’d been assigned to be the famous Chief Inspector Acton’s support officer, and the next day she was Lady Acton, and the eighth flippin’ wonder of the world.

  After deciding that she deserved the snipe for sounding so superior, Doyle bit back a retort and instead slowed down her ascent so as to remark, “How are things goin’ with Gabriel—is he a keeper? He’s well-connected, I think.” Munoz was beautiful in a smoldering-Spanish sort of way, and had no dearth of ardent admirers. The latest in this long list was Officer Gabriel, who was on loan to the CID from MI 5, the counter-terrorism unit. This addition was very much appreciated, since the CID was recovering from a massive corruption scandal that had seen many of the higher-ups land in prison, and as a result they were short-handed, with the major-crime reports piling up like so much cordwood.

  Any available hand was appreciated, and Officer Gabriel seemed a good choice to stand in the breach; he’d worked a few cases alongside Doyle, and was equal parts amusing and shrewd, which made for a fine combination when one was fighting the good fight against almost overwhelming odds. Gabriel had also been bitten hard by the Munoz-bug, and had finally managed to inveigle himself into her good graces. They’d been dating for several months, now, but—as Doyle had been on maternity leave and out of the loop—she hadn’t heard how it was going.

  “We’ll see. Gabriel’s got a draw-back.”

  “He’s not rich enough,” Doyle guessed. Munoz was exacting in her requirements, and small blame to her, as she was quite the prize herself.

  “No. Actually, it’s the opposite—he’s got more money than what’s good for him.”

  As no further insights were offered, Doyle teased, “And that’s a problem? Who are you, and what have you done with Sergeant Izzy Munoz?”

  But Munoz apparently regretted her cryptic remark, and now fell back on being disagreeable. “I don’t want to get into it, Doyle. You would do well to mind your own business.”

  “It’s you, that asked about Savoie,” Doyle defended herself. “I’m just drawin’ my own conclusions.”

  There was a small pause whilst the two girls continued their clumping ascent. “Well, if you hear from Savoie, tell him I need to ask him something.”

  “I will, then.” That Munoz knew Doyle would probably hear from Savoie before she did was actually a delicate subject; Doyle had formed a friendship of sorts with the notorious Frenchman—mainly because he’d saved her life, once, on a best-be-forgotten occasion that featured a mad dash down a project stairwell very similar to this one.

  In fact, it was rather awkward all-around, because Savoie should more properly be in prison somewhere, rather than counting two Scotland Yard detectives amongst his acquaintances, but one of the reasons he wasn’t currently cooling his heels in the nick was because the notorious Savoie was also allied with Doyle’s wedded husband, Chief Inspector Acton.

  Acton was a famous homicide detective and much-loved by the public in that he avoided the lime-light, even though he had a long history of solving even the thorniest of murder cases. That he also held a title didn’t hurt, either, even here in modern-day England—the public was fascinated by its aristocracy, and Acton was just aloof enough to fuel his heroic-peer persona; strangely enough, the fact that he couldn’t care less what anyone thought of him only made them care more.

  In point of fact, he’d been responsible for the exposure of the aforesaid massive corruption rig, which was justice and irony shaking hands because—unbeknownst to just about everyone, save his wedded wife—Acton was something of a vigilante, and never hesitated to manipulate evidence so as to ensure that the proper villains got their just desserts, one way or the other.

  And it was even worse than that, because as an even more troubling aspect of his chosen course, Doyle had become aware that the famous Lord Acton wouldn’t hesitate to commit a murder or two, when he felt that the safeguards within the justice system might muck up the correct result, or that the opinions of twelve fine jurors might run counter to his own.

  The discovery that Acton was a vigilante had, of course, shocked his young-detective wife to the core, and so as a result, much of her time and energy was devoted to trying to unearth whatever-it-was that Acton was up to, and thus trying to save him from himself; she truly loved the man, and—even more importantly—he was devoted to her, which meant she’d a fighting chance to try and change his bloodthirsty ways.

  It was a delicate operation, however, because if she acted the archwife and demanded too much of him, he’d simply see to it
that his questionable activities were shrouded in even more layers of secrecy and guile. And so, she’d been gently and persistently trying to steer him in a better direction, and—on the whole—felt she’d been making progress, in that he’d shown recent signs of attempting to turn over a less-bloodthirsty leaf. It may have been baby steps, but it was better than nothing.

  Doyle paused to catch her breath—out-of-shape, she was, after having been away from all the stupid legwork that seemed to be so necessary in chasing down the villains. They never told you, during your training at the Crime Academy, how much of your time was going to be spent tromping up and down dilapidated staircases; instead they made it sound all exciting, with sirens, and take-downs. They were very wily, that way.

  “We should probably keep moving,” Munoz instructed without mercy. “We’re too exposed, here in the stairwell.”

  “Who has the lead?” Doyle asked crossly, as she stalled for time. “You or me?”

  “I do, you’re the temporary assist,” Munoz reminded her. “Let’s go.”

  To save face, as they started climbing again Doyle groused, “Not a very interestin’ case. You should ask for better-quality homicides.”

  “I’m a DS,” Munoz countered. “I don’t get to make those kinds of requests.”

  This was said with pointed irony because—due to Doyle’s exalted marital connection within the CID—she tended to encounter a much more interesting brand of murder case than a normal rank-and-file Detective Sergeant should rightfully encounter. Munoz’s case today, for example, was a run-of-the-mill deceased white man in his thirties who lived alone and appeared to be a suicide—a “burn-out,” the CID called them with little sympathy; no doubt high on drugs and down on his luck.

  The patrol officer who’d secured the scene had dutifully called-in the Coroner, but had also requested that a detective have a look, for reasons which were as yet unknown. Under police protocols, any homicide was presumed to be a crime until it was ruled an accident or suicide, but oftentimes the circumstances were so clear that only a cursory investigation was needed, and so there must be something to this one that had caught the patrol officer’s interest.

  Munoz added with little sympathy, “And you’re lucky; I could have drawn kook-detail, today. I had to take one last week, and it was all I could manage not to reach across the table and slap him for wasting my time.”

  The kook-detail was a necessary but rather strange result of homicide work; whenever a murder made the papers, almost inevitably there were certain members of society who came forward and confessed to the crime—mainly, Doyle was convinced, because they craved attention, and any kind of attention would do. Law enforcement was honor-bound to take their testimony and file a report, even though the information given—often at great length and in outlandish detail—was patently untrue. The kook-detail was one of the reasons that some of the pertinent facts about a homicide were always withheld, so that law enforcement could more easily sort the wheat from the chaff, so to speak.

  “Oh? Which case was he confessin’ to?”

  “An old case, which only made it that much worse. Any decent kook should at least try to stay current.”

  “Was it the Bishop?” Doyle guessed. The local Bishop’s murder had gone cold—although the police were still seeking leads—and that type of sensational case seemed a likely target for your average kook-who-needs-attention, not to mention one who might have religious issues, to boot.

  “No—the Bishop’s case is still open, so at least I’d be willing to pay attention. Instead, he came in to talk about the inoculations case.”

  As they paused at the top of the stairwell to catch their breath, Doyle guessed, “It was space aliens. Space aliens were the ones who put the poison in the inoculations.”

  Munoz gave Doyle a look. “No—instead it was law enforcement, trying to snuff out the poor population.”

  “Faith, that’s even better,” Doyle agreed in a dry tone. Eight young immigrant children had died a couple of years ago due to a bad dose of vaccination serum. Fortunately, the error was discovered quickly, as apparently it had affected an entire shipment of the drugs. Still and all, it had been a sensational story because the immigrant population was wary about having their children inoculated to begin with, and so naturally the news media had fanned the flames of distrust. “Did your kook mention why we were tryin’ to kill off little children in such a sneaky fashion?”

  “I’d lost interest by that time. Something about a conspiracy gone awry—real tin-foil hat stuff.”

  “Naturally,” Doyle replied. “And the bigger the conspiracy, the better. The Queen herself was probably directin’ it.”

  Munoz pulled her mobile to report that they’d arrived at the scene. “Spare us from crazy people with time on their hands.”

  Doyle teased, “Whist, Munoz, you never know—you might meet an admirer to replace Gabriel.” One kook—the kooks were overwhelming male—had been so smitten with Munoz that he’d taken to sending her letters. The Desk Sergeant had found this extremely amusing, and often asked if she’d managed a date, yet.

  “I should feel sorry for them, but I can’t—they’re such a nuisance.”

  “A time-suck,” Doyle agreed. “They want someone to listen to them, and we’re a captive audience, Munoz. Priests have the same problem, where crazy people come to confession twice a day, so as to confess to slammin’ the door too hard.”

  “It’s probably the same demographic. Maybe we could ask the priests to take the crime report, while they’re at it—kill two birds with one stone.”

  “There you go.”

  Munoz pushed open the heavy fire-door, and Doyle followed her out onto the long outdoor balcony that ran along the entrances to the flats. The housing projects had been built to subsidize those members of the population who were unable to afford decent housing; a population that tended to include immigrants new to the country along with—unfortunately—a criminal element who found such immigrants to be easy victims. There was also a sizable population who fit the profile of the decedent in this case; burn-outs, who were too young for subsidized elderly housing but who were unable to maintain gainful employment, for one reason or another.

  The decedent’s flat toward the end of the balcony was easily identifiable, since it had been marked off by police tape and was guarded by two uniformed patrol officers, standing outside the door.

  Oh, thought Doyle in surprise as they approached the pair; they are very angry with each other, these two. Irish by birth, Doyle had an extraordinary perceptive ability that allowed her to read the emotions of the people in her immediate vicinity; it also meant she was usually able to hear lies being told—a very useful tool for a detective who was not, truth to tell, the sharpest knife in the drawer. And although the two patrol officers were apparently standing at ease, Doyle knew—in the way that she knew things—that they were, in fact, furious with one another.

  As Munoz made the introductions, Doyle tried to decide the cause of the animosity; they were male and female, and both about the same age—late thirties, she guessed, the Met always sent seasoned personnel on any call to the projects. So, it could be a romance gone bad betwixt the two, or perhaps a rejected sexual advance—except that she didn’t have that sense that this type of thing was the cause; both officers were equally angry, but both were hiding it very carefully behind their best stoic-copper faces.

  “Have you called the Coroner?” Munoz was asking as a matter of form, because the Coroner was the only person with jurisdiction over a dead body—not the family, not the police; only the Coroner could determine a cause of death, so as to ensure there’d been no monkey-business by medical or police personnel. And only the Coroner could release a body for burial, after having sworn-out a death certificate.

  “Yes,” said the female officer—a Sergeant Ruppe, according to her nametag. “Although it looks to be a suicide.”

  “I am wondering,” said her male counterpart, “if the victim may have bee
n moved.”

  He was also a Sergeant—Sergeant Peterson—and two spots of faint color appeared on his cheeks.

  Why, they’ve an inch away from coming to blows, Doyle realized with some surprise. I wonder what’s up?

  Munoz leaned inside the doorway to take a quick survey of the room, and then began to pull on her examination gloves as Doyle did the same. “Why do you think that?”

  Officer Peterson offered, “It seems strange to me that he’s prone on the floor but lying the kitchen. It doesn’t make a lot of sense.”

  This seemed a bit weak, but—no doubt because the Sergeant was an experienced officer—Munoz nodded without comment. “We’ll take a look, then, and ring up the SOCOs if we need to.” The Scene-of-Crime officers were the ones charged with processing a crime scene for forensic evidence, but since processing a scene was expensive—and the SOCOs were always busy—the Crime Scene Manager usually made the determination of whether or not the SOCOs were actually needed. In this case, the decision fell to Munoz, as the case was a presumed suicide, and thus low-priority.

  The two detectives stepped carefully into the crime scene, and as they did so, Munoz murmured to Doyle, “Notice anything strange?”

  Doyle ventured, “The PS’s are at loggerheads.”

  Munoz made an impatient sound. “No—who cares, Doyle? What’s strange is there aren’t any gawkers.”

  Much struck, Doyle could only agree. Although there’d been police tape up for some time now, with two uniformed officers standing guard, none of the other inhabitants on the floor had come out to watch the show. Munoz was right—it was strange.

  They both paused for a moment to carefully make a scene assessment, but nothing seemed out-of-place to Doyle—save for the corpse lying on the linoleum floor, of course. The flat was sparse and shabby, and there was drug paraphernalia on the table—a smoking bowl, and a discarded syringe; exactly what you’d expect from this type of death. Either the victim had accidentally overdosed or he’d decided he didn’t want to live any longer—usually it was impossible to tell which, and not worth the investigation either way, since it was very unlikely that there was a life insurance company with a stake in the decision.