Murder in Hindsight (13 page)

C
HAPTER
23

T
HEY ASCENDED THE ANCIENT STONE STAIRS TO THE PRESTIGIOUS
chambers devoted to the representation of criminal defendants since medieval times. In keeping with police officers everywhere, Doyle was more scornful than impressed. “A bunch o’ blacklegs,” she pronounced as they crossed the threshold.

“Behave yourself,” Williams cautioned in an aside. “Remember, you want a favor.”

“Right you are; I’ll be as subtle as a serpent.” She couldn’t very well tell Williams that mainly, she wanted to ask a few questions of those involved in the early cases, and see what there was to see—if someone on the premises was a walking mass of guilt and misery, perhaps she’d be able to spot it.

They approached the receptionist and identified themselves, Doyle explaining that they were investigating the murder of a former client. The receptionist seemed unimpressed by her warrant card, but advised them she’d see if Mr. Moran could give them a few minutes. Moran was a senior barrister with a storied career, and had handled the trial for Mrs. Bennet’s daughter, when the boyfriend had been killed. While they waited, Doyle looked around the sumptuous offices and remarked, “How come we’re the good guys, yet we work in cubicles under fluorescent lights?”

But Williams seemed unaffected by this gross injustice. “Because we serve the public, that’s why. These people can charge as much as they like, and—given their clientele—money is probably no object. I imagine you’ve noticed that crime pays.”

Doyle decided she should turn the conversation, as she had a very good suspicion that crime was paying off for Acton in spades, but before she could think of a safer topic, they were interrupted by the receptionist’s return. “I’m afraid Mr. Moran is occupied at present, and unable to entertain visitors, but his junior will meet with you.” With a nod, she led them down the hall and opened the door to a wood-paneled office, ushering them in.

The barrister’s junior was a very self-possessed young woman dressed in a dark, tailored suit that nevertheless showed her figure to advantage. She introduced herself as Morgan Percy and her eyes lingered on Williams for a moment longer than necessary, despite her businesslike attitude.

Doyle shook hands and began, “We are investigatin’ the homicide of one of your former clients—well, two of the chambers’ former clients, actually; we are tryin’ to determine if the murders are related.”

As Doyle named the victims, the woman pulled her gaze away from Williams, a hint of skepticism contained therein. “And you think we will be able to cast some light on who killed a former client?”

“We’re trying to pursue all leads,” offered Williams. “We were hoping you would allow us to review your old files to look for any connections to the recent homicides.”

Percy raised a brow at him. “I’m surprised the CID is concerned enough to turn over this particular stone. Aren’t there other crimes with more appealing victims to consider?”

Faith, she’s a little defensive for this early in the day, thought Doyle, but Williams fired right back.

“Are you conceding your former clients deserved to be killed, then?”

“Of course not,” Percy protested, crossing her arms and leaning against the desk. “But you must admit this is unusual—wouldn’t it be more efficient to follow up with known associates?”

Doyle explained carefully, “There is a—a concern—that this killer may be lookin’ for similar victims.”

This came as a surprise, and the other girl stared. “Similar victims? Other clients, do you mean?”

“Something like that, I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say.” Couldn’t very well tell her that all the chambers’ employees and the renowned barrister himself were potential suspects; they’d be ushered out the door with no further ado.

It may have been this somber revelation, or it may have been that Williams was a fine specimen, but for whatever reason, Percy decided to cooperate. “Very well. What is it you’d like to know?”

“Could we have a look at the two files?” asked Williams.

Doyle put in, “Or—is there anyone here who would remember workin’ the cases? I’d like to ask a few questions, if I may.”

Percy consulted her laptop and entered the names. “The Bennet file has been shredded as part of the routine purging, but we still have the other one.” Lifting her phone, she asked a file clerk to pull it from storage. As they waited, she glanced over at Williams. “How long have you been doing homicides, Detective Sergeant?”

“He’ll be a detective inspector soon,” Doyle offered, thinking to boost his stock. “The youngest since Wensley.” Doyle was not certain who Wensley was, but it sounded impressive.

Percy smiled at him. “You must be good at it.”

“I do my best. It is interesting work.”

“Indeed it is.” They regarded each other for a long moment and Doyle was careful to hold her tongue—one needn’t be over-perceptive to feel the chemistry in the room.

The clerk came in with a two-volume file, and Percy removed the ribbon tied around it and began to read the log. “Oh yes—I remember Mr. Moran talking about this one; the client was charged with killing his tutor.” She looked up to explain. “He was enrolled in a social program to help disadvantaged youth, and a tutor was provided free of charge to help him pass the trade exam.” Flipping through the pages, she displayed the mug shot. “Client was poor and black, victim was white, newspapers found it impossible to believe that the accused would compromise such an opportunity; a witness came forward with a shaky alibi, and a plea deal for probation was the end result.” She paused and added honestly, “The prosecutors were nervous about black on white crime; at the time there was a lot of unrest in the black community.”

“Public sympathy was with the accused,” said Doyle aloud, unsurprised; it was the common theme in all the cases.

“Right or wrong, it was,” Percy agreed. “When that’s the case, it makes our job much easier; either to cut a deal or obtain an acquittal. The public reaction can govern how a case will be prosecuted.”

But Doyle’s sensibilities were offended by the unfair picture thus painted. “It doesn’t seem right, when the jury pool is tainted like this. Justice should be blind.”

“Our job is to represent our client,” Percy explained, almost kindly. “Your job is to put him away. We each take whatever advantage we can.”

Doyle decided she didn’t want to start an argument about ideals, since everyone always seemed to think she was quaint, or something. So instead she asked a related question. “How can the defendants afford a firm like this? Who pays for it?”

Again, the girl looked upon her with the sympathy one reserves for someone as thick as a plank. “Where the case is high-profile, we often take the matter pro bono
—
free of charge. The publicity more than makes up for the cost.”

“It doesn’t seem fair,” Doyle reiterated stubbornly, although she knew it was hopeless. “One suspect gets a first-class defense because he’s caught the fancy of the press, while someone without such a cause goes to prison.”

“The vagrancies of popular opinion,” the girl agreed. “Often it doesn’t seem fair.”

As Doyle wasn’t certain what “vagrancies” meant, she cut to the nub. “Would it be possible to give us a copy of the file, d’you think?” Mainly, she wanted to identify the other personnel who had worked on the case, since it didn’t seem she’d be allowed to wander the halls, here.

“I don’t see why not, but I have to check with Mr. Moran first. I don’t have that kind of authority.”

Williams rose and handed her his card. “If you wouldn’t mind, please ask Mr. Moran if he would be available to discuss the old case with us—there shouldn’t be any problem, now that the client is dead. We could come back whenever it is convenient.”

Percy readily gave him her card in return. “I will ask him—again, I’m afraid I can’t commit.”

At this point, however, the interior door to the inner hallway opened and a distinguished older man poked his head in. After resting his unfocused gaze on Doyle and Williams for a long moment, he said to Percy, “Visitors, Morgan?” His words were slurred and he swayed slightly on his feet as he grasped the doorjamb for support. It was evident to Doyle that this was the renowned Mr. Moran, and it was just as evident that he was quite drunk at half-past ten.

Her color high, Percy rose and went to him, “Just a word, Mr. Moran.”

“Mr. Moran,” Doyle interrupted, rising to him and extending her hand. “How nice to meet you; I am investigatin’ the murder of one of your former clients—could I have a moment?”

Her brazen attempt to get a read on the man was to be frustrated by Percy, who gave her an annoyed look as she gently pushed the man out through the door again. “Some other time, please.” But the barrister resisted for a moment, his gaze fixed on Doyle. “Why, you—you’re the police officer who jumped off the bridge.”

“That I am, sir—”

“We must go,” Percy insisted, and then firmly pulled the inner door closed behind them. Frustrated, Doyle was left to exchange a significant glance with Williams, and settle in to wait.

After several minutes, Percy returned and said smoothly, “I’m afraid Mr. Moran has no time to spare this morning, but please call, and I’ll see if I can arrange another meeting.” Her gaze rested on Williams.

As though nothing unusual had gone forward, he shook her hand. “Thank you, Ms. Percy; you’ve been very helpful. And please let me know when I can return to pick up the file.”

“As soon as I get approval,” she reminded him. The girl might be smitten, but she hadn’t completely lost her bearings.

As they exited out the door and down the stairs, Doyle looked sidelong at Williams. “Well then, DI Williams; I believe you’ve made a conquest.”

He quoted Percy, “We each take whatever advantage we can.” Yes; the same way that Acton was taking advantage of Masterson, Doyle thought as they crossed the courtyard. Using the elemental attraction between the sexes to further your purposes; I suppose it’s been this way since there were sexes to begin with. She thought this might be important, but before she could consider why this would be, Williams said, “It’s not yet eleven and Mr. Moran was quite drunk.”

“Swilkin’,” Doyle agreed. “Which is puzzlin’; he’s had a long and distinguished career. Perhaps he has demons, or a guilty conscience.” She wished she’d had a chance to ask some questions, she’d been
so
close.

Williams was skeptical as they approached the car park. “He doesn’t seem like someone who would condescend to murder criminals in parks.”

“You never know, in this business. And Percy was very eager to protect him; didn’t want him talkin’ to the likes of us whilst he was in his cups.”

“Loyalty is a virtue.”

As Williams was the grand master of loyalty, she couldn’t very well argue with him on the subject. Still, she persisted, “Even if it’s not Moran himself, I think there’s somethin’ here; public sympathy played a part in gettin’ the victims off the first time, and that same sympathy got them these fine defense barristers, which in turn made the prosecution leery and more apt to back down in the face of the public pressure.” She paused, warming to her theme. “And remember, our vigilante is someone the victims are willin’ to meet—they’re not the types who’d meet with just anyone who rang them up.”

“Good point,” he conceded. “Do you want me to do a background check on all personnel at the chambers?”

“Allow me,” she teased. “You outrank me yet again, wretched man.”

“Not yet, I don’t. You probably shouldn’t have said.”

This was delivered with the faintest hint of a rebuke as they came to the unmarked, and hearing it, she swiftly apologized. “I’m that sorry, Thomas—you’re right. I shouldn’t be showin’ you off like a prize pig.”

He accepted the apology with a small smile as they slid into the unmarked. “After all, I don’t show you off; instead, I help you escape from your adoring fans.”

“We are both too famous for our own good.”

“Like these victims,” he added as he turned around in the seat to back the car out.

Much struck, she stared at him, her scalp prickling to beat the band. “Do you know, Thomas; sometimes you hit the nail right on the head.”

“That’s because I’m the youngest DI since Wensley,” he replied mildly.

C
HAPTER
24

A
S THEY DROVE BACK TOWARD THE
M
ET,
D
OYLE HAD THE GRACE
to realize that she was about to take advantage of Williams’s affection for her within the next ten minutes, and that she was no better than Acton with Masterson or Williams with Percy, to use him in such a way. I’m doing it to Savoie, too, she thought with another twinge of guilt; I’m something of a tease, I suppose—Munoz would be that proud.

She looked at her watch and assessed the street ahead of them. “Thomas, I’m goin’ to ask a horrendous favor of you, and I’m miserably ashamed, but there’s no one else I can ask and it is
truly
important, or I wouldn’t even think of it.”

He glanced at her in surprise, but replied in a light tone, “Kath, you aren’t the first and you certainly won’t be the last. I am at your service.”

Nothin’ for it, she thought. “I was wonderin’ if you would carry my mobile for about three hours; if anyone notices, you could say that I left it behind this mornin’ at the Inn and you are going to return it to me.” He was no fool; he would realize she was referring to Acton, and his tendency to track her through her mobile phone.

He considered this request for a moment in the silence it deserved, and then glanced over at her thoughtfully. “Do I answer it?”

She was relieved, she half-expected him to refuse outright. “It’s up to you, but please don’t turn it off.”

They pulled to a stop light. “And where will you be that I won’t be?”

The words were said in an even tone, but he was a bundle of concern, no doubt thinking of Savoie, and how she’d refused to allow him to accompany her to the next meeting.

She pulled a knit cap from her rucksack and pulled it over her head, tucking in her tell-tale hair. “I’d rather not say, but if you don’t hear word from me in three hours, you are no longer bound and may do whatever you will.”

He was quiet and she worried that he was going to balk, or start asking questions that she was unwilling to answer. Instead, he mused, “When I imagine Acton as wanting to kill me, this is not the reason I would choose.”

With a mental sigh of relief, she handed over her mobile as the light turned green and they started up again. “I am usin’ you
shamelessly
, and I’m that sorry.”

They continued a block until they stopped at the next light. “At least tell me where I should drop you.”

She reached over to lift his hand from the steering wheel and kiss the back. “Thank you.” She then opened her door to exit onto the busy street.

“Kath!” he called out angrily, but she kept walking, threading her way through the stopped cars until she reached the sidewalk, where she disappeared down into the tube station. She knew DI Williams like the back of her hand, and he would be given no chance to follow her.

She rode the tube the several stops to her destination, then walked the few blocks to the intersection Savoie had indicated. She was a few minutes early, and kept back from the curb, waiting with her face averted—it was a quiet, residential area and hopefully no one would remark a girl in a knit cap, hanging about.

A new-model black sedan with tinted windows pulled up to the curb before her. There were no plates—naturally, she thought with resignation; I hope I am not being more foolish than my usual. Stepping down to open the door, she slid in next to Savoie, who said nothing, but pulled away and began to drive. The prison was about an hour away with no traffic, Doyle figured—although she was no expert at calculating such things, not being much of a driver. She looked out the window and went over the protocol in her mind. She thought about what she wanted to accomplish, and hoped she’d guessed right about Savoie’s role in these matters—sometimes she was not the best guesser.

Her companion spoke first. “The big blond man.”

She turned to him. “Yes?” She was not going to give him Williams’s name.

“You trust him?”

“I do,” she answered, a bit surprised. She waited, but he said nothing further. “Why?” she finally asked, unable to help herself.

He glanced at her, then returned his eyes to the road and cocked his head slightly. “Me, I am not so sure.”

She didn’t answer. Presumably he was prejudiced against Williams, which shouldn’t surprise her.

“Did you show Acton the photographs?”

“I am not goin’ to talk to you about Acton and the photographs,” she said firmly. “Choose another subject.”

He smiled, amused.

“What?” she asked.

He shrugged his shoulders. “You are not afraid of me.”

“I should be,” she admitted. “It’s a wolf in sheep’s clothin’, you are.”

“No, no,” he protested with his thin smile, “I am the—” he gestured with a hand, trying to find the word. “I am the dog who rescues.”

“Yes—the one that saves the people in the snow, with brandy.” She frowned, unable to think of the right word, either. “But you never mentioned that you were Savoie, which truly puts the cat among the pigeons.”

But he only gave her a chiding look. “You never asked for my name.”

Stricken, she realized he was right, and was immediately ashamed of herself. “Oh—I am sorry; I should have done. Why on earth are you tanglin’ with the likes of Solonik? I would think it beneath you.”

She could see that he debated what to tell her—if anything—and so she prompted, “He doesn’t know anythin’ about your brother, you know. So don’t believe him if he says he does.”

This remark earned her another glance. “What do you know of this?”

“I know Acton didn’t kill your brother. Instead, Acton was mentorin’ him.”

He thought about this. “You mean Acton was helping him.”

“Yes—and it was quite an honor, because Acton is not one to be helpin’ the young detectives. Owens was puttin’ together a manual on bloodstains for him; he was that pleased to have such an assignment.” Best not mention that Acton was keeping Owens close whilst he decided whether to kill him, it would only confuse the issue. “Solonik may be tryin’ to get you to think Acton killed him.” This was guesswork on her part, but made sense. She could think of no other reason the notorious Savoie would stoop to aid in Solonik’s paltry revenge plot.

“You are worried I will come after Acton.”

“Yes,” she admitted readily. “That I am, and it would be
horrendously
unfair.”

He tilted his head in mild disagreement. “He is not the good husband.”

“We are not going to speak of that,” she reminded him.

“We will,” he replied in his brusque manner. “But not yet.”

Doyle tried a different tack, mainly because she couldn’t figure out whether she was making any headway. “You did me a favor, so I do you a favor, by letting you know that Solonik is dupin’ you.”

“You give the cat a pigeon.” He seemed very pleased with this attempt at the idiom.

“Well—yes; yes, I suppose I do.” She now knew exactly how Acton felt when he didn’t correct her. “D’you see? You shouldn’t fall in with whatever the scheme is. Perhaps it would be best if you just returned home.”

But this suggestion was roundly rejected with a definitive shake of his head. “First, I will find out what happened to my brother.”

Mother a’ mercy, thought Doyle in dismay, and lapsed into silence. Hopefully she’d made a dent, at least; he was very hard to read.

But apparently her companion had indeed decided to unbend, and after a few minutes he offered, “I will do you the favor, also, and tell you to be very careful of Monsieur Solonik. You are
ingénue
, I think.”

“I haven’t a
clue
what that means.”

“You are, ah”—he waved his hand again, searching for the words—“too trusting of the men.”

“Never say so,” she teased in mock-astonishment.

He smiled a bit grimly as he drove. “Yes. There is Acton, there is the blond man, there is me . . .” He paused, and concluded, “
ingénue
.”

“I will keep your advice to mind, then.” It was all very ironic, of course, since she knew exactly who to trust and who not to trust. Most times, anyway; it was a little odd that he kept referring to Williams as being in the latter category.

There was a small pause in the conversation and then he spoke again—he was rather talkative, for a shadowy kingpin. “You will tell me what he says to you, yes?”

She did not need to feign surprise. “Don’t you already know what he will say? I thought you were in cahoots—and I’m that ashamed for you, I might add.”

“He does not tell the truth about my brother, you said.” He glanced over to give her another chiding look for forgetting this. “And me, I watch and I see.” He paused, as though deciding what to say. “I do what I wish.”

“I wish I could,” Doyle retorted a bit crossly. “It’s crackin’ annoyin’ to have all these dire plots and counter-plots to contend with.”

“We will be cahoots,” he said in a soothing tone. “You will tell me what he says.”

“I will watch and see,” she countered, and saw him smile.

They settled into silence, and nothing more was said for the remainder of the drive. Perhaps she had an ally in Savoie, and perhaps she didn’t. Her instinct told her he was not a threat to her, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t a threat to Acton—or Williams, apparently, and she’d best be very careful; he tended to kill people, thinking he was doing her a favor.

She contemplated the passing scenery as they traveled through the shabby industrial area that surrounded Wexton Prison. It was obvious there was some sort of revenge plot against Acton at play—and Acton had his dazzle-the-brasser counter-plot to thwart it—but it was unclear what Doyle’s role in these affairs was, other than to be intimidated. Best discover it, she concluded, mentally squaring her shoulders. Forearm is forewarned, Acton would say. She paused for a moment, because that didn’t seem to be quite right, but her thoughts were interrupted when the car pulled to a stop at a tattered bus stop down the road from the prison gates.

“I do not want to be seen by the cameras,” Savoie explained. “When you come out, telephone me.”

Having taken her cue from him, Doyle had purchased a disposable phone for the occasion, and she handed it to him so that he could enter his number. It was different from the last one, she noted, and decided he must change it often. He was no doubt very good at covering his tracks, what with the Home Office having the vapors about his being here.

“Would you mind keepin’ my gun?” she asked.

He nodded, and watched in silence as she released the Velcro fastenings and took off the ankle holster, leaving it bundled on the floor of his car.

“It is a fine weapon. Have you used it?”

“Once.” Best change the subject. “If I’m not out in an hour, feel free to storm the place and break me out.”

“
Bien sûr
,” he agreed with his thin smile.

After checking in the rear-view mirror to see that her cap was in place, she exited the vehicle, slinging her rucksack over her shoulder and walking toward the prison. Behind her, she heard Savoie turn the car around and drive away.