Murder in Shadow (The Doyle and Acton Murder Series Book 6) Read online

  “Nothing. It looks like the SOCOs were pretty thorough.”

  Doyle nodded, noting that the offerings in the small closet included a suit of western clothes, which the Santero would probably don when the occasion warranted. Along the floor was a double-row metal shoe rack, which contained a few pairs of western shoes, interspersed amongst some tribal-looking leather sandals.

  Looking them over, Doyle suddenly caught her breath. “D’you see those brown shoes? Those are Bruno-somethings; they’re Italian, and ridiculously expensive. Acton has a pair like them, at home.”

  “Oh? Do you think the Santero stole them?”

  Slowly, Doyle said, “I don’t think they’re his. Look at the size.”

  Gabriel crouched to examine the Italian shoes. “You’re right—they’re way too big; I’m surprised the SOCOs missed it.”

  Doyle did not voice her opinion on this subject, but instead unsheathed her mobile. “I think we’ll need to ask the evidence officer to bring in all these shoes.”

  Gabriel looked up at her in surprise. “Some still have print powder; do you think they need a re-test?”

  Bluntly, Doyle informed him, “I think the shoes belonged to his murder victims, and I think we’ve just solved our Lambeth case.”

  His brows raised in surprise, Gabriel straightened up to stand beside her. “You think the brown shoes belonged to the QC?”

  “Yes. And the others belong to other victims.” With a nod, Doyle indicated the line of assembled shoes. “It looks like there were four victims—d’you see?”

  Gabriel put his hands on his hips, and ran his considering gaze along the shoe rack. “But why would he take the shoes from his victims if they were already dead—what was the point?”

  “I don’t think he took them to perform a curse,” Doyle replied, as she waited for the EO to pick up. “I think the shoes are trophies—that’s why he took them.”

  “Nasty customer,” pronounced Gabriel again.

  15

  It would be interesting to see what was planned, with respect to Blakney’s death. He’d monitor the situation and step in, if necessary.

  As Gabriel drove them back to the Met, Doyle frowned out the window whilst she thought over the morning’s events. She’d supervised the evidence gathering, and fended off Morgan Percy’s sharp questions as the forensics team carried the new bags of evidence downstairs. “You’ll hear all about it, Ms. Percy, but first let me see what we’ve got, for heaven’s sake—it may be nothin’.”

  The girl had then proceeded to be outraged on her client’s behalf, which was interesting, since any decent criminal attorney would know that the chain of custody had been interrupted—the shoes had sat in the closet for days, and there was no saying who’d been in and out of the flat. Not to mention they didn’t have proper permission to search in the first place—both excellent reasons to bring a motion to suppress the new evidence.

  Doyle had texted Acton and Williams to inform them of this latest development, and Williams had immediately asked if she’d mind following up—matching potential victims’ foot measurements, and asking friends and relatives to identify the footwear. Slog work, but at least they had a lead, such as it was. Acton had simply asked if she was available for lunch.

  As she contemplated the passing scenery, Doyle asked Gabriel, “D’you know what a shadow murder is?”

  “I do not,” her companion replied. “But I have a feeling that I will soon find out.”

  “A shadow murder is what they call it when someone seizes the main chance and frames up a murderer for a murder that they didn’t actually commit. It’s not your normal frame-up, because instead of an innocent person’s bein’ set-up, it’s a murderer who’s bein’ set-up, with the idea bein’ that no one’s goin’ to look very hard at yet another murder, hidden away amongst the others.”

  He considered this. “Like an add-on.”

  Nodding, she turned to look at him. “Yes—like an add-on. In fact, the first murder I worked with Acton was a shadow murder; a wife had seized the opportunity to kill her husband, because he was involved in the corruption rig and all suspicion would be turned elsewhere.”

  He glanced over at her. “Can I assume you think we’re looking at a shadow murder, here?”

  Thoughtfully, she nodded, and turned away to contemplate the passing scenery again. “Yes. I wouldn’t be a’tall surprised if someone’s doin’ some shadow murders, and pinnin’ them on this fellow. After all, he’s a prime candidate for a frame-up, and has indeed killed a victim or two—just not these ones.”

  He glanced at her again. “Is this going into the report?

  She shook her head. “No—I don’t want to do anythin’ that might let the cat out of the bag. Let me speak with Acton, just to gauge it.” She eyed him sidelong. “You don’t happen to know anythin’ about the QC’s murder, do you?”

  “I do not,” he said, and it was true.

  This was a relief; she’d been a bit suspicious, since Gabriel had been with her at the scene and yet again today, when she was practically spoon-fed the new evidence that would implicate the Santero in the QC’s murder.

  His voice interrupted her thoughts. “Do you think Percy knows about it—knows about the shadow murders?”

  Indeed, Doyle did, but she was not about to let Gabriel in on this interesting little fact, and so she feigned amusement. “Unlikely, Gabriel; she’s his defense, after all.”

  Good-naturedly, he shrugged as they turned into the parking structure. “I just wondered. She shouldn’t have been there, you know.”

  Doyle turned to him in surprise. “Why is that?”

  He put the gearshift into park, and turned off the vehicle. “You said she was a junior barrister. She’s not a solicitor.”

  This was a very good point, and unfortunately, Doyle—who, truth to tell, was indeed a bit of a dim bulb—had missed its significance. A barrister would not be involved in any doings outside of the courtroom; instead, the suspect’s solicitor would handle any concerns about illegal searches and seizures. No doubt Gabriel had put two and two together about Percy’s involvement, which served as an excellent example as to why the fair Doyle should keep her thoughts to herself.

  As they walked together toward the parking structure’s lift, she repeated, “Please don’t mention any of this—at least not until I’ve tested it out with Acton. It may be nothin’, but if it’s somethin’, it’s got to be handled carefully.”

  “No argument here,” he agreed, and made no further comment, which only reminded her that he was MI 5, and used to staying mum, when the occasion warranted. I wouldn’t last a day as a spy, Doyle conceded; I tend toward panic, and I’m always putting a voice to any spare thought that passes through my poor brain.

  Thinking along these lines, she was prompted to ask, “Would MI 5 ever do a joint exercise to help out the ACC?”

  This surprised him, and he glanced at her. “I’m afraid I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Would the ACC ever work with MI 5 personnel on an MI 5 matter?” She was thinking of what Munoz had said, and of Harding’s warnings.

  “No,” he said bluntly, and he seemed amused by the very idea.

  “I’d thought—” she began carefully, “I’d thought that you were asked to come over to the Met so as to take a look into some of our doin’s, over here.” She hoped this cryptic comment was vague enough; Acton had mentioned that Gabriel had been quietly recruited to monitor DCI Drake, Acton’s counterpart, who’d been suspected of participating in the corruption rig.

  “Can’t speak to that,” he replied easily.

  “I suppose not,” she agreed with resignation, as they waited for the lift. “But I truly, truly must learn how to drive myself about.”

  He glanced at her in surprise. “You can’t drive?”

  “I can, more or less, but it’s a hazard, I am. I may need to recruit you to help me.” She thought over her options, and then decided there was nothin’ for it. “I’d like you to hel
p me tail someone from the CID.”

  Admirably, he hid his surprise. “Off the record?”

  “Yes—I hope that’s all right. I wouldn’t ask, but I think it may be important.” Stupid Harding the stupid ghost certainly seemed to think so.

  They stepped into the lift. “All right, but then I get a favor in return.”

  “That depends,” she said cautiously, “on what sort of favor it is.”

  “Tell me about Morgan Percy.”

  Men; honestly, she thought. “Morgan Percy is trouble, my friend.”

  He smiled as the doors slid closed. “So I gather.”

  16

  It was the season for shadow murders, apparently.

  Doyle managed to catch Williams between field visits—he’d been working a white-collar embezzlement case that kept getting more and more complicated, which is what happened, sometimes. It was a shame the villains couldn’t keep things simple for the benefit of law enforcement personnel, but there it was; the harder it was to figure out what was going on, the more time there was to destroy the evidence, particularly in financial crimes.

  Williams was going over a spreadsheet with a forensics accounting person, and it sounded to Doyle like they were wondering what had happened to the aforesaid embezzled money. She positioned herself in his line of sight and adopted a patient posture, so that he’d know it wasn’t urgent. After glancing at her, he held up a finger to signal that he’d be wrapping up shortly. He’s not exactly happy to see me, she thought with a pang of sympathy, but at least he’s not making the sign against the evil eye.

  After giving some final instructions to the analyst, Williams walked over. “Hey, Kath; good catch on the shoes.”

  In a rush, she blurted out, “You—of all people—know that I’m not any good at subterfuge. I’m slated to have lunch with Acton, and so first I’d like to know what’s what.”

  Startled, he met her gaze. “What do you mean? Are you all right?”

  “I am, but you’re not. Let’s straighten it out, please; I have to figure out how to smooth it all over.” She paused, and touched his sleeve. “We’re goin’ to smooth it over, you know; I just need to know what’s happened.”

  He knit his brows, half-amused. “What’s happened to what? Start at the beginning, Kath.”

  Doyle decided there was no point in beating around the bush, as she was on a deadline. “I think Acton thinks you’ve done a shadow murder.”

  He stared at her in surprise, and then lowered his head to hers. “Let’s go.” With a hand on her back, he steered her out the door, and into the hallway outside.

  “I don’t have a lot of time,” she reminded him. “So, give me the short version.”

  “Not here,” he replied in a terse tone, and seeing the wisdom of this, she allowed him to escort her outside the building and away from potential surveillance coverage.

  They walked for a bit at a steady pace, and as he seemed reluctant to broach the subject—and she was fast running out of breath—she ventured, “Why would you want to be killin’ the QC?”

  He ran a distracted hand through his hair. “It’s not what you think, Kath, and—and, it’s complicated. What does Acton know?”

  “I’ll not be grassin’ on my own husband, Thomas. But I think it would be safe to always assume that Acton knows everythin’. Leastways, that’s always my startin’ point.”

  Williams raised his gaze to the sky for a moment, emanating waves of unhappiness. “Christ.”

  Such was the depth of her sympathy that she didn’t chastise him for blasphemy, but instead halted his progress by laying a gentle hand on his arm, so that they stood face-to-face. “If you’d rather not tell me, you needn’t. But Thomas—as strange as it may seem, I think Acton would lay down his life for you.”

  He ducked his chin. “Not for the reasons you’d think, Kath.”

  Stubbornly, she persisted. “You’re a good man, Thomas Williams. You’ll not convince me otherwise.”

  He made no response, but lifted his head to gaze at the horizon again, deeply unhappy, and avoiding her eyes.

  She’d always found him difficult to read—closed up like an oyster, he was—but she made an attempt to relieve his misery. “Is there any chance you could confess your sins, and take your lumps?”

  This brought his attention back to her. “Confess? Confess to who?”

  “Whom,” she corrected. “And my priest is a very understandin’ man, who would take any and all secrets to the grave.”

  With a curt gesture, he shook his head. “No.”

  This was not a surprise; Williams was not a believer, and he would probably just as soon confess to the Santero. When he offered nothing further, she pleaded, “I want to help, Thomas; please, please tell me how I may.”

  He finally met her gaze, his own eyes very blue. “I appreciate it, Kath, but it’s important that you stay out of it. Promise me.”

  Her scalp prickled, and she stared in astonishment. “What—what has any of this got to do with me?”

  But he deftly changed the tenor of the conversation, and offered a small smile. “If I’m in prison, who’s going to pick up the pieces when Acton dumps you for Munoz?”

  She knew he was attempting to distract her, but she couldn’t resist making a derisive sound. “If Acton wanted to dump me for the likes of Munoz, I would only wish them well with the sincere belief that they thoroughly deserve one other. But don’t change the subject; you can’t plot against Acton.”

  “Then you can put your mind at rest; I am not plotting against Acton.”

  Every syllable rang true, and she paused to stare at him in bewilderment. “Then why did you do it?”

  Slowly, he repeated, “It’s complicated, Kath, and I’d rather not say anything further on the subject.”

  Trying to puzzle this out, she decided that Williams must have laid down a bit of home-brewed justice, and didn’t want her to find out about it. It wasn’t much of a surprise, truly, considering that he’d learned such things at the feet of the master. “You can’t take justice into your own hands. Thomas. And you can’t try to be an Acton; no one can. He’s—” she tried to remember the right word. “He’s intimtable.”

  “Inimitable. Yes, I know that.”

  Delicately, she added, “And you’d not want to walk that path, anyways. He’s—he’s not exactly a happy soul.”

  But his intense gaze met hers again. “I disagree; you make him very happy.”

  Her scalp prickled again, and she wished she knew why. “I’m not sure that ‘happy’ is the correct adverb.”

  “Adjective, Kath. And I’ll disagree again; he lives to serve you.”

  He lowered his gaze to the pavement, and again, she got a glimpse of deep unhappiness—but why? Anyone who was paying attention knew that Acton was devoted to her, and Williams paid more attention than most. She wondered, for a moment, if he chafed at his role; he’d carried a torch for the fair Doyle—he still did, truth be told—and perhaps he was struggling with the now-rather-obvious fact that he could never be more than a friend to her. But what connection could this tangle of human emotions have with the shadow-murder of a posh QC? It was bewildering, even though she knew, down to the soles of her shoes, that there was a connection.

  He raised his head. “I appreciate that you want to help, Kath, but in the meantime, I should walk you back to headquarters.”

  “Aye, then—although I’m to meet Acton on the pavement, in front.” She fell into step beside him, and offered thoughtfully, “It’s a shame the church can’t just torture people to make them convert, like in the old days.”

  He managed to muster a half-smile. “And why is that?”

  She placed a hand in the crook of his arm. “Because religion helps people deal with frustration. You and Acton both; you get frustrated, because you can’t believe the world is the way it is, or that people behave the way they do. You’ve no faith in a higher power, and you don’t have the perspective of two thousand years at your back, s
o you take matters into your own hands out of sheer frustration.”

  He bent his head for a moment. “I suppose that’s a valid point.”

  She teased, “Don’t sound so surprised, that I made a valid point.”

  He glanced ahead, as the building loomed before them. “Acton is willing to convert, though, so your theory may be a little flawed.”

  “Acton is convertin’ because he lives to serve me,” she admitted in a dry tone. “I’m only hopin’ that somethin’ takes root before half the population of London is laid waste.”

  He chuckled, and she chuckled in response. They rarely spoke directly about Acton’s doings, but she’d decided that she needed to show Williams that she had his back, come what may.

  He must have sensed it, and he squeezed her hand against his side. “Are we all right?”

  “We are. We always will be, Thomas.”

  As Acton was waiting in the Range Rover at the curb, she took her leave of Williams and hurried over, so that the duty officer wouldn’t be put in the awkward position of having to tell a DCI to move his car.

  17

  It promised to be an interesting luncheon.

  Acton was taking her to Candide’s, which was one of her favorite restaurants—mainly because the staff was too busy to be pretentious, and the food was uniformly good.

  As he pulled away, she leaned over to kiss him. “Sorry I’m late; I’m that hungry.”

  He reached to run a fond hand over her belly. “How does Edward?”

  “He’s been quiet, today. We must’ve scared the poor boyo, what with all the sex and ice cream.” She spoke to her belly. “Get used to it, my friend. More to come.”

  Acton smiled in response, but she wasn’t fooled, and settled back to regard him thoughtfully. “So; I can’t decide whether you’re worried that I’m catchin’ on, or you’re worried that I’m not catchin’ on fast enough.”

  He did not pretend to misunderstand, but instead asked, “What did Williams have to say?”