Murder in Thrall (3 page)

C
HAPTER
3

 

The next morning Doyle approached her desk and was mentally reviewing the coming tasks for the day when she noted that her supervisor was lurking about her cubicle, awaiting her arrival. Not that Inspector Habib actually lurked in so many words—he was a very precise and dignified Pakistani man who took his job seriously. However, she was aware he was emanating impatience even as he stood and patiently watched her arrival.

“Mornin’, sir.” She greeted him in the cheerful fashion of a dosser trying to obscure the fact she was aware she was late for work and wondered what could be afoot that Habib would be waiting for her. After mentally reviewing her recent performance, she decided that she probably wasn’t getting the sack, as long as Acton held faith. Habib was full of news, however, and wouldn’t be waiting for her unless it was important. Of all mornings to oversleep—although surely she deserved it after the late hours the night before. She unloaded her rucksack from her shoulder and awaited events.

“I was unable to contact you through your mobile,” Habib began, his dark eyes opaque.

“Oh—I’m that sorry, sir.” She dug her CID-issued mobile out of her rucksack. “I had it on vibrate, I’m afraid.” Because she needed some sleep, for the love o’ Mike. Checking it quickly, she noted there were two calls from Acton and two from Habib. Back in the doghouse, she thought with an inward sigh; I should take up permanent residence, I should.

“DCI Acton came by to leave a note.” Habib’s careful diction managed to wordlessly convey his disappointment that she had not anticipated such a visit and had instead chosen to be unavailable. “He asks that you meet him at this address.”

He handed her a note written in Acton’s spidery hand.
Giselle murdered,
it said, and listed an address in Teddington.

Giselle murdered. “Mother a’ mercy,” she breathed, staring at the paper.

“Indeed.” Habib said nothing further but regarded her with an unblinking gaze; Doyle realized he was curious but could not bring himself to ask an underling what the note from the chief inspector meant. He was very punctilious about all things hierarchical (using the fancy words, she was), but on the other hand, he was not going to interfere if one of his DCs was consorting with Acton and thus bringing glory to his team.

Doyle gave him a quick explanation of Giselle’s connection with the trainer’s murder from the day before as she texted Acton that she was on her way. “We were interviewin’ her late last night, and I think she wanted to talk. Someone else must have been thinkin’ the same thing.”

“That is disappointing,” Habib agreed in a grave tone. “But it is also encouraging.”

Doyle saw what he meant. “Yes—we were on to somethin’. And this time maybe there’ll be some evidence.” Even the most careful killer could make a mistake—Acton had once told her it was always best to kill someone with a single shot from a distance, as though this piece of information was something that could be of use, and she had assured him solemnly she would keep such advice close to mind. It was true, though; a murder at close quarters was too hard to contain. The SOCOs were the next thing to magicians—they would find something.

She didn’t want to keep Acton waiting and shouldered her rucksack again. “Do you mind if I use an unmarked to drive to the scene, sir?”

Habib blanched and Doyle could hardly blame him. She was not the best driver, having recently learned, and had a spotty record with the unmarkeds.

“If it is necessary,” he replied with stoic fatalism.

She spared the poor man with a smile. “Never mind, sir—I’ll take the tube. It’s safer for the public, an’ all.” She grabbed her coffee canister and headed for the tube station across the street.

Once standing in the crowded train, she sipped her coffee and tried to concentrate—crowds were always hard for her to handle; too much sensory input at the same time and all the mixed signals always made her a bit anxious. In addition, she was trying to quell a feeling of inadequacy—she should have picked up on something the night before; should have known that Giselle was in danger. It was as though she was given bits of insight that seemed of little use, sometimes, which was extremely frustrating. Perhaps instead of being annoyed that the newly deceased was shamelessly flirting with the chief inspector, she should have been paying closer attention—she may have noticed something that only she could notice. With a mental shake, she took herself in hand; dwelling on perceived deficiencies wasn’t productive; she had been given a gift and was trying to do her uncertain best with it. In all things, give thanks.

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 not 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.”