Murder in Containment: A Doyle and Acton Mystery Page 2

  “You’ll not fool her with your tone, Michael—she knows she’s got you well under her thumb.”

  His hand wandered up to her breasts, which were more in evidence lately. “I’d like to have her mother under my thumb.”

  “Michael,” she laughed, scandalized. “Not in front of the baby.”

  2

  Once back at the flat, Reynolds took one look at Doyle, and insisted she be put to bed with a heating pad. The servant then prepared warm milk with dry toast points, and hovered with a critical eye while Acton coaxed her into eating them. Reynolds remarked to no one in particular that it was quite a long day for a lady in her condition, and Acton was immediately defensive, explaining that Doyle had insisted she attend the trap and seizure because she’d broken the case.

  Doyle intervened to quieten everyone down, before her head started aching again. “I couldn’t miss it, Reynolds; please don’t blister Acton.” She then told Reynolds about Maguire’s unexpected death en route to his booking. “He may have done himself in, poor man.”

  But the servant was unmoved. “A good riddance,” he declared as he cleared her plate away. “And it spares the rest of us from having to hear him made into a sympathetic figure by the press.”

  Doyle reluctantly fingered her cup; she was supposed to be drinking milk, but wondered if anyone would notice if she poured it into the Sèvres vase, on the sly. “It’s a hard one you are, Reynolds. I felt sorry for him, myself; tryin’ to find a way to ease his guilt.”

  But Reynolds only sniffed. “I’m afraid I haven’t much sympathy for murderers, madam.”

  She sighed, and took another sip. “Then save your sympathy for the Met; it doesn’t help public relations, to have the suspects dyin’ in custody, willy-nilly. There’ll be a massive review.”

  Reynolds knew upon which side his bread was buttered, and affected outrage. “Surely law enforcement cannot be blamed, madam, if the man was in ill health.”

  “There will be a review,” Doyle assured the servant with deep regret. “A death in custody is always a black mark.”

  “I cannot imagine the public will muster any outrage,” Reynolds insisted as he brushed up the last of the crumbs. “Instead, it’s good riddance to bad rubbish.”

  “It’s a hard one you are, Reynolds,” Doyle repeated, rather wishing everyone would stop talking so that she could rest her poor head. “Life cannot be held so cheaply.”

  Reynolds assessed her with an expert eye. “That being said, perhaps we can make an attempt at chicken broth.”

  “Perhaps,” said Doyle doubtfully. “Let me have a lie-down, first.”

  The men folk quietly withdrew, and Doyle lay in bed, clutching the heating pad and watching them move about the kitchen, as Reynolds served Acton his dinner. Thinking of nothing in particular, she dozed off, listening to the men’s voices. Later, she awakened when Acton lifted the covers to join her in bed, moving carefully so as not to wake her. Remembering his earlier comment in the car, she moved toward him, receptive. Her libido had receded somewhat during the past months, but she was nevertheless willing to please him. He held her against him, however, and whispered that she should rest; it had been a long day. Happy to comply, she drifted back in to sleep, with Acton rhythmically stroking her arms, as was his habit.

  Later that night, Doyle had another one of her dreams. Once again, she was in a room, watching as a man around her own age methodically barricaded the door, lifting heavy objects to pile against it, his back to her so that she could not see his face. There was danger on the other side, and she stood in uncertainty, wondering what she should do to help. The dream was extraordinarily vivid; even as she dreamed, she acknowledged to herself that it was a dream, and marveled that it didn’t seem like a dream.

  She awoke as she always did; suddenly, and with a start. She decided not to wake Acton this time; he needed his sleep as much as she did, and truly, it wasn’t a nightmare—not the kind where you try to call out, but can’t. Strange that she kept dreaming of danger; Acton probably would say it was a subconscious fear of childbirth, or some such—although why the young man was present wasn’t clear. She wasn’t certain, but she had the impression he was DI Williams. Silly, pregnant knocker, she chided herself; dreaming of Williams—it must be your hormones, running amok.

  As though she’d conjured him up by the thought, Williams called her the next morning, after she’d settled in at work. “Hey.”

  “Hey yourself; what’s up? Anyone else dyin’ in custody?” She paused, and then added so as to tease him, “Sir.” Since he was now a Detective Inspector, he outranked her.

  “Not so funny, Kath. And here I was calling to offer contraband.”

  Leaning back, she smiled into the mobile. “You should be ashamed of yourself, Thomas; it’s like a drug dealer, you are.”

  “Is that a no?”

  “Heavens, no. When and where?”

  “The deli?”

  “It’s rainin’,” she pointed out, her gaze moving to the far windows.

  “I’d rather not talk on the premises.”

  This was of interest, and so she slowly sat upright. “All right; I’ll meet you there in ten.”

  “Do you have an umbrella?”

  “Indeed I do,” she replied, annoyed. Honestly; the men in her life treated her like she was a baby, just because she had forgotten an umbrella, once or twice in the past. “See you there.”

  After buttoning her coat, and duly hoisting her umbrella, she walked over to the deli, located down the street from headquarters. Doyle had been trying to give up coffee during her pregnancy—her only vice, truly—but would share a small cup with Williams on the sly once in a while. How much could it hurt? People had been drinking coffee since the dawn of time—she was certain her mother didn’t stop drinking coffee whilst pregnant. Suddenly, she thought of her strange dreams, and it gave her pause for a moment. No connection, she decided resolutely, and carried on.

  Once inside, she shook out her umbrella, and spotted Williams at a table away from the windows. He could be counted as her best friend, although there were those occasions when she had to keep him firmly at arm’s length, because he carried a torch for her, did DI Williams. It was one of the hazards of being an emotional tuning fork, so to speak; you were aware of secret longings that were better kept secret. And as Williams was Acton’s henchman, this made things a bit complicated—despite his sterling reputation, Doyle was aware that Acton was involved in some unsavory doings that couldn’t withstand the light of day. He was a vigilante in his own right, and her main goal in life—aside from trying to eat something, once in a while—was to try to keep her wayward husband on the straight and narrow path. For example, she was certain he kept a cache of illegal guns in the safe at their flat, and that he was involved in selling black market weapons. Williams was Acton’s aider and abettor, but she truly couldn’t fault him for it—it would be the pot versus the kettle, as she was an aider and abettor, herself. And despite his warm feelings for her, Williams behaved himself, and had been shown to be solidly in her corner, time and again.

  She nearly snatched the coffee cup from his hand, and he warned, “Easy—it’s hot.”

  “Why is it,” she wondered aloud, savoring her sip like a pilgrim at the font, “—that the only things that sound appetizin’ to me are the things I’m not supposed to be eatin’?”

  “God’s cruel joke,” he suggested. She’d made him promise never to mention that she was thin, and needed to eat more; she got enough of that sauce from Acton and Reynolds, and it was more than a body could bear.

  She took another sip, even though the first one had burnt her tongue. “What’s afoot?”

  “The Drake angle.”

  He needn’t say more, and she nodded, suddenly somber. Williams had come to the same conclusion she had; if Maguire wanted to kill Drake, it was with good reason. She slowly shook her head. “I looked very carefully into the pawn broker’s death, Thomas; it was the only Maguire story where Drak
e was a potential killer, and I couldn’t find anythin’ the least bit murky about it.” It went without saying that their concerns would not be discussed with anyone else—Drake was a DCI, after all. Talk about bad public relations, that would be a topper.

  Williams thought about it, absently fiddling with the sugar packets. “Could it be another case?”

  With some regret, Doyle shook her head. “The others don’t fit the profile, Thomas; Maguire’s victims got off, thanks to the newspaper’s manipulation of public sympathy. The only case that fits that m.o. is the pawn broker’s death, and the video shows that the man went after Drake first—no doubt thinkin’ he was the robber—and that Drake just defended himself.”

  With a glance at the door, Williams leaned forward. “You’re forgetting that the profile has two parts; the person got off, but a more recent murder showed that he was guilty in the first place.”

  Actually, Doyle had been striving mightily to forget this unfortunate fact. In the other Maguire murders, the victims had all gone on to kill again, which showed—to Maguire’s remorse, apparently—that the suspect had been guilty the first time around. Each had a second, more recent murder that had triggered Maguire’s vigilantism.

  She leaned in also, and lowered her voice, “Should we look into it, d’you think? We could start with this year’s firearms report; that shouldn’t be difficult to do.” Any officer who fired a weapon was compelled to complete reams of paperwork, and the report was carefully reviewed by the Detective Chief Superintendent, who was the top law enforcement officer at the Met. However, DCIs like Acton and Drake were rarely in a firearms situation, because they were not usually in the trenches, so to speak. For that matter, even PCs were not likely to discharge a firearm; the use of weapons by police was carefully controlled.

  Williams kept his neutral gaze on the table. “Perhaps you should speak to Acton about it.”

  Doyle immediately understood this to mean Williams didn’t wish to speak to Acton himself, and that this particular request must be the reason for this off-premises meeting. It might have something to do with Acton’s illegal guns-running—perhaps Williams thought that Drake was involved, somehow. Drake’s victim was a pawn broker, after all, and pawn brokers were notorious for black market. Doyle appreciated the delicacy of Williams’ position and the reason for his request; he would not want to ask Acton to look into deeds committed by Drake which Williams was well-aware Acton was committing himself on a regular basis. And as an added caution, Acton was Doyle’s husband, so he had to be careful about what he said.

  “All right,” she agreed. “Do I mention your name?”

  “Use your judgment.”

  She nodded, and they sat for a few quiet moments, thinking it over, as the rain pattered against the windows. Doyle had to admit she had a hard time imagining Drake taking the trouble of murdering anyone; he was a political creature, self-absorbed and careful not to exert himself overmuch. It didn’t make a lot of sense to her.

  Williams interrupted her musings. “There’s another favor I’d like to ask.”

  “Ask away,” she said readily, hoping it was something easier than the last favor.

  “Morgan Percy has asked to meet with me away from chambers, and off the record; she says she may have information about a case, but is not sure how to go about it.”

  Doyle was suddenly on high alert. Williams was asking because their training told them it was best to have a third party present at any off-the-record meeting with criminal defense personnel, in the event the officer was being set up for a charge of impropriety. On the other hand, Doyle knew there was something smoky about Percy’s place of employment. Percy was a junior barrister at one of the prestigious Inns of Court, and Doyle and Williams had visited the place a few months ago, trying to track down the vigilante killer. At the time, Doyle had the feeling that the chambers was awash in secrets, a feeling strengthened by the discovery that Percy’s senior barrister, Mr. Moran, was staggering drunk by mid-morning.

  “Of course I’ll come along with you, although Percy’ll be thinkin’ me a dog-in-the-manger.” It had been evident that Percy found DI Williams very attractive, and small blame to her; Williams was a fine specimen.

  If she’d hoped to provoke a response from him, she was to be disappointed. “Thanks; when are you available?”

  “My calendar is clear,” Doyle replied in a regretful tone. “I have officially solved myself out of my last assignment.” Now that the Maguire case had concluded, she’d have to find another task—and that was not as easy as it sounded. Her hyper-protective, certifiable husband did not want her working out in the field where she might be exposed to danger, especially now that there was a bun in the oven. She had little choice; her hyper-protective, certifiable husband also controlled her case load. Checkmate.

  “Thanks Kath; can we go tomorrow morning? Munoz and I are doing interviews on the Wexton Prison case this afternoon.”

  “Right then,” she agreed, privately hoping she wouldn’t be sick. Mornings were the worst—next to evenings and afternoons.

  3

  Later that day, Doyle stood beside Acton and the coroner, as they somberly contemplated the dead SOCO photographer, lying in her bleak stainless steel drawer in the morgue. Law enforcement necessarily involved personal risk; still, it was never easy to lose one of their own, and one would think a scene of crime officer—and a photographer, to boot—would not be in any particular danger. Upon hearing the news, Doyle had sacrificed her lunch hour to visit the decedent—not much of a sacrifice, really, since she’d no appetite to speak of in the first place. And despite the fact he was hip deep in high-profile cases, Acton had offered to accompany her, and so here they were, taking a long, dispassionate look at the remains of the blonde woman in her thirties, who’d evidently met a bad end. The lividity marks showed she’d died prone on her back, and the bruise patterns indicated one or more blows to the forehead. After a small silence, Doyle asked Acton, “Do we have a preliminary?”

  “Found dead in her flat; reported by a neighbor who noticed the smell. Possible domestic violence; the neighbor remembers hearing an altercation with a man.”

  Dr. Hsu indicated with a finger, “Cause of death was blunt force trauma; fractures to the frontal bone, and supraorbital process.”

  Acton nodded. “She faced her killer, then. Defensive wounds?” If there had been a face-to-face battle, the chances were good that the woman would have helpful DNA on her hands or arms.

  “None apparent,” was the coroner’s regretful answer. “And although we took swabs from under her nails, preliminaries indicate that she was wearing latex gloves, even though there were none at the scene. Some spot bruising on her forearms—nothing of significance.”

  “Perhaps because she warded off the blows?” Doyle demonstrated by raising her arms and crossing them. “Otherwise, she just let someone come up and conk her in the face, which seems unlikely.”

  “Only spot bruising on her arms,” Acton reminded her. “Therefore, not from blows.”

  Doyle frowned as she considered this paradox—paradox being a vocabulary word—but Acton was apparently following his own train of thought.

  “Was she reclining when struck?”

  “Upright,” the coroner replied. “Then fell back.”

  “Sexual activity?”

  “Nothing evident.”

  “Was she bound?”

  “No—no bruising at the wrists.”

  “Tox?”

  “Prelim screen shows no drugs or alcohol.”

  Acton was silent for a moment, and Doyle took the opportunity to ask, “Who’s been assigned to the case? And have we any likely suspects?”

  Acton replied, “DI Chiu is the crime scene manager. No obvious suspects; no indication there was a steady boyfriend.”

  Doyle made a wry mouth. “Not a surprise, my friend. She carried a crackin’ torch for you, you know.”

  He did not disclaim, but remained thoughtful. “That doesn’t mean
she didn’t have a boyfriend—or someone.”

  But Doyle shook her head doubtfully. “With her, I’m not so sure; she was the reclusive type—I imagine she rarely went anywhere. She probably did those role-playin’ video games, and kept a cat.”

  Dr. Hsu lifted the corpse’s hand. “The cat had started in on her fingers.” It was an unfortunate truism that when cats were hungry, they were not sentimental creatures.

  “No sign that the motive was robbery,” Acton noted. “But it may be helpful to delve into that aspect, and take another careful look `round.”

  Doyle wasn’t sure she followed him. “And why is that?”

  He crossed his arms, his hooded gaze on the woman’s remains. “She was struck facing her attacker, yet there are no signs that she attempted to ward off the blow. What does that tell you?”

  The penny dropped, and Doyle looked up at him. “She couldn’t see him.”

  He nodded. “So it was either dark, or she was blindfolded. But she was upright, not bound, and we’ve ruled out sex play, so it must have been dark. He may have been lying in wait.”

  Doyle knit her brow, considering this. “But there were reports of a verbal altercation.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Then—then I suppose we’re speakin’ of two different people?”

  “Perhaps,” said Acton, who was not a leaper-to-conclusions.

  At Acton’s signal, the coroner moved in to zip the bag and re-shelve the corpse, and Doyle took the opportunity to observe in a low voice, “I don’t know, Michael; it doesn’t seem in keepin’—that she had a fight with someone outside her flat, and then got coshed by someone else, waitin’ inside. Some people—” she tried to put her instinct into words. “Some people are lookin’ to get themselves murdered, and some people are not. She’s one of the nots.”

  “Yet here she is,” he gently pointed out.