Murder in Thrall (12 page)

C
HAPTER
15

 

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 talking 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.

“No,” she said bluntly, which was her way of letting him know that the witness had told the truth, more or less.

“I have a theory,” Munoz interjected.

“Let’s hear it.” Drake smiled at her in an indulgent fashion.

“He was set up to take the fall for both murders.”

Drake humored her, having recognized a fellow traveler. “So one killer, but it’s not Capper—I suppose it’s possible.”

Munoz preened. “Just a theory.”

The detective sergeant, however, was not going to allow beauty to trump common sense. “But there was no point in setting up Capper as the stalking horse; there is no evidence against him, either—although the victim made no defensive struggle, which points back to Capper.”

All good points, thought Doyle. This is indeed a strange case.

“I’m afraid I must go. Thank you for your input.” Acton nodded to the group and left with Drake, the two men checking their mobile devices for messages.

The remaining group in the gallery began to break up. Munoz lingered to argue her point with the handsome detective sergeant, and Doyle’s mobile buzzed as she headed toward the door. It was Acton. He texted, “Cereal?”

She smiled at the screen. Last night—or more accurately early this morning—she had carefully vacated her bed and crept into the kitchen, her bare feet silent on the linoleum. Suffering some discomfort from this first sexual experience, her original intent was to apply ice to the afflicted area. Before she opened the freezer, however, Acton had followed her into the kitchen. She was not about to tell him what she was doing—the man might be remorseful and swear off. So instead she had improvised, telling him that she was hungry and inviting him to join her in a bowl of cereal. She began pouring out her favorite frosty flakes, but Acton had been distracted, standing behind her to lift her hair off her neck so that he could kiss it. They soon adjourned to the bedroom with no cereal consumed, and she had to wait until he left in the morning to have recourse to the ice tray.

“Done,” she texted. Apparently he wasn’t too busy, after all.

Much heartened, she went back to her task of cross-indexing track personnel, known associates, and Watch List but kept coming up empty until Habib wandered in to watch over her shoulder. This was a habit of his that greatly annoyed the other detectives, but Doyle figured it never hurt to spot-check, so to speak, and so she was not resentful. After a moment he asked about the interrogation. “What did you think of him?” He would never admit to it, but he respected her intuition.

Doyle paused and considered. “I don’t think he murdered either of them, but he knows somethin’—I think he knew more than he was sayin’ about the trainer’s troubles.”