Murder in Containment: A Doyle and Acton Mystery Page 6

  She stared at him. “Oh—oh that is despicable, Michael.”

  “Yes,” he agreed briefly, and went back to address his dinner.

  Honestly; it was like being married to the sphinx. “So—you were lettin’ him know that his sister would be protected? Is that why Williams leapt up to leave? And what was Chiu’s part, in this little holy show?”

  He considered for a moment, winding his pasta against a spoon. “Many Chinese operate on a caste system; she has a royal attribute, and therefore her presence was helpful, so as to apply additional pressure.”

  But this seemed a bridge too far for Doyle, who stared at him in frank disbelief. “You’re not tryin’ to tell me that Chiu is royalty?”

  “No; but she is of a particular caste. Many Chinese work within their own concepts of justice, and the English common law has little effect, one way or the other.”

  This was so interesting that she absently ate another bite, when he offered it. “So will Zao feel confident enough to grass on the others, d’you think? I hope he fingers the judges involved—I’m not havin’ much luck with my research.”

  Acton shrugged slightly. “Zao would not be someone who knows much; he’s a foot soldier, but oftentimes the foot soldiers will eavesdrop, so as to hedge their bets. We shall see.”

  Doyle lowered her voice. “Do you think he would truly give testimony against the others? Won’t he be worried that he’ll wind up a dead man?”

  “I think it more likely his solicitor will wind up a dead man.”

  Astonished, Doyle stared at Acton as he offered another bite, and it belatedly occurred to her that he was giving her bits of information only when she ate—like she was that dog in that famous experiment, whatever its name was. Nevertheless, she resolutely chewed and swallowed. “And why is that?”

  “I rather think the solicitor is a marked man,” was the only reply she received, and then he changed the subject. “I believe you were thinking that Judge Colcombe may have been one of the judges involved—no luck tying him to anything?”

  “Well, his name comes up more often than most, but that wouldn’t be much help, would it?” Colcombe did seem to have more than his fair share of unexpected acquittals, but he’d died several years ago—a heart condition, no doubt aggravated by the fact that he was being discreetly investigated by Judicial Standards. “And truly, it’s hard to find a pattern that you could shake a stick at, Michael. The judges who handle the more serious crimes seem to have the most surprise acquittals, but that would make sense—there are better quality barristers handlin’ the defense.”

  Acton nodded, and then offered thoughtfully, “Narrow the search to female suspects, please, and let’s see what develops.” He offered another forkful.

  “Women? All right.” Dutifully, she ate the pasta, and wondered where this thought had come from, and also wondered how she was going to perform this particular task; trials were not divided up by gender—the same judges would handle female and male suspects without any distinction, although the overwhelming majority of felons were male. She then added, “This recent victim at Wexton Prison was there for white-collar embezzlement; should I run a search on that, too?”

  “No,” he said. “I’ve already done so.”

  This was of interest, and so she prompted, “Anythin’?”

  He met her gaze, and hesitated. Saints, she thought in surprise; he doesn’t know what to tell me, because he’s worried I’ll catch him in a lie.

  “Yes, there is something there. But I’d rather not say, and it is important that there be no traceable record of anyone looking into these particular commonalities. I’ll have your promise that you will not pursue it.”

  She nodded, matching his serious mood. It seemed evident that he was on to something, but didn’t want to give the villains any clues that they’d been twigged, whilst a trap was being set up. “All right, then.” She then added diffidently, “D’you suppose I could help with some of the field work, then? Perhaps I could run a false flag operation.” A false flag operation was an investigation that was a pretense, so as to make the suspect think they were unaware of his misdeeds, while actually, they were closing in on him. “I could interview personnel, and ask misdirection questions.”

  But he shook his head. “No. I cannot like your dreams.”

  She was surprised; he was not one to be fanciful. She noticed that Reynolds, coming in to clear the plates, slanted her his own glance. So—she’d spooked them, what with her wild talk of armed danger. It’s exactly what I deserve for gabbling off every stray thought that crosses my mind, she thought a bit glumly; let this be a lesson.

  9

  Despite the important developments on the Wexton Prison case, the next morning Acton waited for Doyle, so that he could drive her in to work. Doyle was almost sorry for it, because she knew what was coming. The pasta hadn’t stayed down last night, and despite her overtures in bed, Acton had been firmly committed to ceding his position to the heating pad—a true measure of his concern.

  As he maneuvered them through the morning traffic, he said quietly, “I’d like to take you in to see Dr. Easton this afternoon, if you are available.”

  “Of course I’m available,” she answered crossly, then closed her lips on any further complaints she’d been about to make about being taken out of the field.

  He reached over to clasp her hand. “Perhaps it will be the last time.” Dr. Easton had decided Doyle should be administered intravenous glucose with vitamins whenever she was unable to keep any food down for more than two days. She had endured the procedure twice already, and profoundly hated it—she had a dread of medical procedures in general, and needles in particular. Best not to think about how she was going to handle childbirth, which she was well-aware would involve both.

  Miserable, she gazed out the window at the passing scenery, sick to death of feeling wretched, and sick to death of fretting Acton, who had better things to do than play nursemaid to the likes of her. To her horror, she started to cry; holding her hand over her eyes in shame, and trying without much success to stifle her sobs.

  With one hand rubbing her back, Acton negotiated his way to the side of the road, and then gathered her into his arms, making soothing sounds that were very unlike her buttoned-up husband.

  Mortified that she was behaving so badly, she wiped her cheeks with the palm of her hand, and tried to muster up a smile. “I am wretchedly sorry, Michael; of course I will go. I‘m just feelin’ a bit blue.”

  “No; you needn’t go today.”

  She hovered between accepting this reprieve, and being a grown-up, and it was a near-run thing. “Fine; I’ll just go without you, then.”

  “We’ll wait another day or two, and see.”

  This seemed an acceptable compromise, and she nodded into his shoulder, adding unnecessarily, “I hate the doctor’s.”

  “I know, but we should take advantage of the technology that is available; it is there to help.”

  This was undeniably true, and she was ashamed again, as he re-started the car, and pulled out into traffic. The obstetrician had also recommended an ultrasound, to check the baby’s development. No needles, Acton had pointed out, and they would be able to see the baby; make out arms and legs. Doyle was thinking it over.

  “Are you well enough to go into work? I can take you back home.”

  “I am fine, Michael. And I have to be a third on an interview with Williams, anyway.” She omitted any mention of the cat delivery, being as how she was worried he’d forbid her, and it was important, for reasons unknown, that she deliver the stupid cat to Mr. Huse.

  Reminded, she told him, “Chiu and I interviewed the SOCO’s next-door neighbor yesterday—the reportin’ witness—and she was lyin’ like the serpent in the garden. I meant to tell you, and then I forgot, in all the Wexton Prison excitement.”

  Acton found this of interest, and tilted his head as he turned the car into the parking garage. “Is the neighbor a potential suspect?”

&nbs
p; “No—or at least, there’s not a whiff of motive. Very unlikely she was lyin’ in wait to cosh the SOCO in the dark.”

  “Then why lie to the police? Did she have a key to the flat?”

  Doyle blew out a breath. “Oh. We didn’t ask, I’m afraid. Although another neighbor—a nice little old man—said he had a key so as to take care of the cat, but he didn’t seem a likely cosher, either.”

  Acton considered this as he parked the car. “What did the first neighbor lie about?”

  Shaking her head in bewilderment, Doyle held up her palms. “Everythin’. She said the SOCO had a boyfriend, described him, and said they’d argued in the hallway—castin’ blame, she was. None of it was true, but there was nothin’ I could say at the time, so I thought I’d tell you.”

  Thoughtfully, he rested his gaze on the concrete wall that faced them. “Anything in the background check?”

  “Nothin’—she’s as clean as the robes of the just. There’s a discrepancy in the original report about how old she is, though.”

  He glanced at her. “Could she be an inveterate liar?”

  Doyle wasn’t certain what “inveterate” meant, but took his meaning. ‘“I wondered about that, but she didn’t seem the type.” She paused, because there was something else she wanted to tell him about the neighbor, but she couldn’t remember what it was.

  Acton reached behind the seat to lift his valise, apparently having come to a decision. “Since she was trying to cast blame, she may have been covering for someone else. Let’s find an excuse to interview her again—perhaps you can gather together some suspect photos to show her. I should be free for a time tomorrow afternoon, and I will accompany you.”

  While this was welcome news—and greatly appreciated, since the SOCO’s case was far down in the pecking order—it was also news that caused a small qualm in Doyle’s breast. “That would be excellent, Michael, but could you please not mention it to Chiu? I don’t want to miff her—she already thinks me an idiot.”

  Acton paused with his hand on the door, his level gaze on hers, and Doyle immediately regretted her error—her wretched, wretched tongue. “I shouldn’t have said, Michael. Please don’t take it out on her; you make her nervous enough already.”

  But Acton was not one to allow such heresy to go unpunished. “You are a good detective, Kathleen; if she is prejudiced against you, I should appoint a different CSM.”

  “No, you shouldn’t,” she retorted in exasperation. “For heaven’s sake, Michael; I don’t want to be always watchin’ what I say around you.”

  There was a small pause. “Fair enough.”

  “Sometimes, I just have to blow off a little steam,” she explained.

  Smiling, he opened the car door. “Is that so? You astonish me.”

  “Knocker.” Grabbing his arm, she pulled him over to kiss him, one last time.

  Doyle settled in to her desk with her mood much improved—not only had she avoided going to the doctor’s, she’d enlisted Acton’s help in the SOCO case. Oftentimes when the renowned chief inspector showed up, those witnesses who weren’t cooperating became a bit less defiant, and a bit more worried about winding up in the nick. Of course, Doyle herself was now rather renowned, although Mrs. Addersley certainly wasn’t impressed—that’s it, she thought suddenly, sitting upright. That’s what I forgot to tell Acton—the witness didn’t like me much, and by not much, I mean not at all.

  Since there was no apparent reason for this prejudice—it was not as though the witness hailed from Ulster, or something—Doyle pulled up the SOCO’s file for a look-see.

  She was interrupted in this endeavor by Munoz, who leaned into the cubicle’s entrance. “When were you going to mention that you’re pregnant?”

  Unaccountably pleased, Doyle couldn’t contain her smile. “Can you tell, then?”

  “The coffee is a dead giveaway.”

  The smile faded. “Saints and holy angels, I miss coffee.”

  Munoz took a lingering sip from her own cup. “Are you going to quit?”

  “No, I am not going to quit.” Doyle tried not to bristle, and conceded, “I may have to cut back on hours.”

  “Don’t let them try to put you in PR,” warned Munoz.

  This was actually a fair point; Munoz had signed on to the Met’s public relations team, and the last thing either of them wanted was to be paired up like a raree show, and have to recite the bridge-jumping incident on a weekly basis.

  Reminded, Munoz continued, “Guess who was at the community outreach last night? Remember the witness who came in on the turf war cases—Gerry Lestrade? The one with the nice watch?”

  Doyle was instantly on high alert. Gerry Lestrade was actually Philippe Savoie’s brother, and Philippe Savoie was a French criminal-kingpin type who’d given Doyle some aid when the evil Solonik was trying to do his worst. Before Doyle knew of the family connection between Lestrade and Savoie, she and Munoz had interviewed Lestrade, when the man was nosing around the Met, trying to figure out why the turf wars were depleting the ranks of London’s underworld. To Munoz, however, he was just another witness.

  Doyle pretended a mild interest. “Was he indeed? Did he remember you?”

  Munoz drew down her mouth in amused irritation. “He was cheeky—he kept asking me questions about the bridge-jumping incident, because he knew I didn’t want to answer them.”

  “Brave man. Did you rear up and smite him?”

  “I didn’t give him the satisfaction. He was there with another man, and they seemed pretty thick with the minister’s secretary. It was a little strange; he didn’t seem the well-connected type, back when we interviewed him.”

  This was an alarming little piece of information; the companion might be Savoie himself, and it did not bode well that blacklegs like the Savoie brothers were hanging about with a government official. Doyle swallowed and asked in a faint voice, “Oh? Which minister’s secretary is that?”

  “The Home Office’s Minister for Immigration, of course—it was a community outreach, stupid.” Munoz tossed her hair over her shoulder in a self-important gesture. “They want to reassure the immigrant communities that the new minister will do a better job than the old one did of protecting them from protection rackets, and such. I think the man that was with them was from the Cabinet Office.”

  The outreach to the immigrant community was much needed, as the former minister for immigration had been caught up in some sort of scandal, and then had promptly killed himself before the particulars could be sorted out. Still and all, it didn’t bode well if the likes of Gerry Lestrade was hanging around with someone from the Cabinet Office. “Why do you suppose Lestrade was there?”

  Munoz shrugged. “I don’t know, but he’s involved, somehow.”

  I have to tell Acton, Doyle thought in acute dismay. If Savoie and his brother were currying favor with the new minister’s people, it was for no good reason. It would be a delicate matter, as Acton was unaware she’d shared a brief but intense adventure with the notorious Philippe Savoie. Nothin’ for it, though; this little development was not something that could be ignored.

  Her mobile pinged, and she saw that it was Williams. “20 min?”

  She texted “OK,” as Munoz looked on with interest. “Any news about the prison matron?”

  Doyle looked up. “No—did they bring her into interrogation?” Acton hadn’t mentioned it this morning.

  “They can’t find her, last I heard.”

  Doyle met Munoz’s sober gaze as both girls contemplated this unwelcome news. “Faith, Munoz; I hope she’s not another containment murder.”

  Munoz shrugged, as she turned to leave. “On the other hand, she may have gone to ground, so as to avoid that fate. I’m to visit a few of her neighbors this morning, and try to track her down before the bad guys do.”

  “Good luck.”

  Munoz made a negligent gesture with her coffee cup in the general direction of Doyle’s abdomen. “Good luck to you, too.”

  Doyle�
�s mobile rang, and she saw it was Chiu. Thinking to sound up-to-speed, she answered, “Hallo, ma’am; have they managed to run down the missin’ matron yet?”

  “No, but I wanted to ask if you would interview the SOCO’s father; he’ll be at her flat this afternoon, packing up, and I know you were going to deliver the cat. I am going to be needed on the Wexton Prison case again.”

  “Oh—oh, of course, ma’am.” Doyle wondered if the DI’s re-assignment had anything to do with her own thoughtless comment to Acton about working with Chiu, but decided that it didn’t matter; the dead SOCO’s case deserved equal attention, and maybe Chiu would get a chance to get out of the doghouse, if she did a good job working with Acton.

  Chiu continued, “I met the father at the morgue this morning for the ID. It turns out he was the one who was arguing in the hallway with her—so that lead from the neighbor sounds like a dead end. He has an alibi for time of death, but I thought you could follow up with him; I told him you’d be by.”

  Doyle took down the father’s mobile number, and rang off thoughtfully. One would think that an argument with one’s father would not sound at all like an argument with one’s boyfriend, and so here was another discrepancy to be laid at Mrs. Addersley’s deceitful door. She was tempted to try to speak to the woman again when she went over there today, but best wait for Acton, who wanted to use photos as a pretext, so the witness wouldn’t know they were suspicious. And besides, Doyle wanted Acton to judge the witness for himself; he was very long-headed, was Acton.

  With a sigh, she gathered up her rucksack. Since Munoz knew that she was pregnant, it was only a matter of days before the entire organization was made aware; therefore she’d best tell her supervisor without delay.

  10

  Inspector Habib was entering data on his laptop, and looked up when Doyle appeared at his workstation. “DS Doyle; my congratulations on the Maguire catch.”