“Nonsense; you have a knack for it.”
This, of course, was not true, but Doyle very much appreciated this attempt to make her feel less a fool. “Except for the sad fact that I can’t drive, and this accent of mine gives the game away.”
“Not necessarily a mark against you; they have to use native Gaelic-speakers in counter-terrorism, because non-native speakers are always caught out. There are too many idioms and regional differences.”
Doyle decided not to ask what “idioms” meant, and instead disclaimed, “I don’t speak it very well anymore—I’m rusty.” Absently, she gazed out the windscreen at the car ahead of them. “I wish I spoke French—everyone speaks French but me.” Surprised at herself, Doyle stilled for a moment, her scalp prickling.
Gabriel was understandably at sea. “Who speaks French?”
Button your lip, my girl, Doyle cautioned herself. The last needful thing was to blurt out to Gabriel that she’d overheard Acton and Savoie having a low-voiced discussion in French at Trestles, and that one of the ghosts had warned her that it was just as well she didn’t know what it was they were talking about.
She turned to smile at him. “Nothin’; I was just wishin’ I had the patience to learn another language.” But it wasn’t nothing; she knew—in the way that she knew things—that it was important, for some reason. At the time, she’d assumed that the two men were negotiating a suspect’s surrender to the authorities, but why would Savoie be in on it, then? And why speak in French?
Gabriel interrupted her thoughts. “There—Munoz is turning in. Looks like she’s heading to the racecourse.”
With a small frown, Doyle watched the other car. “I suppose it’s all makin’ a bit more sense, then—she wouldn’t be as recognizable, at such a place, and there’s always a basketful of blacklegs hangin’ about a racecourse. That’s how we caught the mighty Solonik, Williams and me.”
He turned to regard her with interest. “The Russian? What was someone like him doing at a racecourse?”
Doyle was suddenly aware that she should be careful about what she said. “Solonik was tryin’ to cut in on someone else’s smugglin’ rig, but he got a bit careless. Mainly, we were lucky, Williams and me; there was a witness who could place Solonik at the course with an illegal weapon, and the rest of the case just fell into place.” Best not to mention that “the rest” involved some Acton-style strong-arming.
Gabriel contemplated the road ahead, as they followed the other vehicle toward the racecourse. “Maybe some bent coppers were involved in Solonik’s rig—that could be the reason for the ACC’s interest.”
Doyle slowly replied, “Perhaps, but it seems unlikely—that there’s a connection to crooked cops, I mean. The Solonik situation was all about rival gangs, and now the gangs have conveniently wiped each other out.”
“And Solonik is dead.”
“Indeed, he is.” She frowned again, bewildered, because her instinct was doing the equivalent of beating her about the head and shoulders. What? she thought, exasperated; no question that the Russian kingpin’s evil schemes were dust and ashes. The man died in prison, and the vile sister who took his place was now incapacitated—
“Solonik still incites a lot of interest, for someone who’s dead.”
She turned to him, having the impression that this time, it was Gabriel who was fishing for information. “What d’you mean?”
He shrugged, his manner off-hand. “I just think there are a lot of loose ends that are still under review.”
Giving him a look, she replied in a dry tone, “Meanin’ you’re doin’ somethin’ mysterious, and you can’t tell me about it.” It was on the tip of her tongue to mention Chief Inspector Drake, but she held back, not sure whether she was supposed to know that Gabriel was investigating Drake, on the sly.
Smiling, he agreed, “More or less.”
“Holy Mother of God,” she said suddenly, so startled that she braced her hands against the dashboard. “We’ve got to turn back.”
Gabriel glanced at her in concern. “Are you all right?”
Her mouth dry, Doyle tried to decide how to put her instinct into words, and could only stammer, “I think—I think we’re headed into a trap.”
After staring at her in surprise for a moment, Gabriel checked the traffic, and began moving over. “A trap? Do you think Munoz is in danger?”
“No.” She was unable to resist blurting out the truth. “I think you are.”
25
He decided to head home early. Perhaps she’d planned another ice cream surprise.
As they drove away from the racecourse, Doyle tried to cobble together a semi-coherent explanation for Gabriel, but truth to tell, she wasn’t certain what it was that she was thinking in the first place—she only knew that they needed to abort the mission, and that Gabriel needed to avoid the racecourse like the plague. She decided to tell him that she needed to check something out with Acton before she explained her concerns, which he took in good part, being as Gabriel was nobody’s fool, and had kept an Acton-secret or two in the past.
“Should I be worried?” he asked, as he dropped her in front of her building. The question was casual, but she could sense an underlying thread of concern.
“I don’t know,” she replied honestly. “Let me speak to Acton, first. It wouldn’t hurt to be extra-cautious.”
“Right, then.” He waited in the car, and watched as she entered the revolving doors of her building, no doubt thinking her a madwoman.
Small wonder I’m a madwoman, Doyle thought crossly as she traversed the marble-floored lobby. No one ever tells me anything, and even when I get a glimpse, it’s too complicated for my poor brain. I’ll speak to Acton, and see if he can make heads-or-tails of any of this.
Once in the lift, however, she braced her back against the wall and began to entertain second thoughts about this plan. Solonik—the crackin’ black-heart—was well and truly dead, but for some reason, alarm bells had gone off in her head whilst they were approaching the racecourse when Gabriel had mentioned his name. Of course, Solonik had been trying to muscle in on Savoie’s smuggling rig, so it was not as though there wasn’t a connection. From what she’d gleaned from Acton, Savoie had masterminded a huge network that used race horse trailers for black market smuggling—an ingenious plan, considering such horse trailers traveled freely around the country, and incited little scrutiny.
Solonik had wound up dead and in prison—although not necessarily in that order—after tangling with Acton. The self-same Acton, who was now aligned, somehow, with Savoie.
The conclusions that could easily be drawn from connecting these particular dots gave Doyle pause. It could well be that Acton was involved, somehow, and she’d best be cautious; she could be hot on the trail of her own wily husband—yet again—and although she couldn’t approve of his dark dealings, she’d rather not be the one to pack him off to prison.
As she made her way to her flat’s front door, she regretfully admitted that it was entirely possible that her instinct had sounded the alarm today because she and Gabriel were about to discover Acton’s involvement in yet another breathtaking dose of law-breaking on a grand scale, and Gabriel should not be a witness to such a discovery. Therefore, as Reynolds took her rucksack, she decided that she wouldn’t raise this afternoon’s alarming development with her better half—at least not right away, until she’d sounded him out as best she could. After all, the ghostly Hastings kept going on about how she mustn’t trust Acton, and he was also very keen that the fair Doyle find out whatever it was that Munoz was doing.
“It’s too complicated,” she said aloud. “Nothin’ is ever what it seems, and it’s a simple creature, I am.”
“What is complicated, madam?” Reynolds—who probably thought nothing was ever complicated—seemed understandably confused by her comment.
She blew a tendril of hair off her face. “Everythin’. For two pins, I’d jump right back into the Thames.”
“Surely not,�
�� the servant replied with a hint of rebuke, and steered her toward the sofa. “If you will put your feet up, madam, I will brew chamomile tea.”
Sourly, she sank into the cushions and watched him bustle about, wishing she knew what she was going to say to Acton, and what she was going to say to Gabriel—and what she was going to say to Munoz, too, for that matter. And may as well add Williams, who was miserable for shrouded reasons that needed to be un-shrouded, if there was such a word.
I’m under the gun, she realized in bewilderment. The clock is ticking, but I don’t know why, or what will happen when the bell goes off. Harding knows—but he’s precious little help. Mainly, he keeps saying that I mustn’t trust Acton, which is complete and utter nonsense.
“Miss Mary left a message today, madam, and asked that you telephone her when it is convenient.”
Doyle blinked, because Mary was her dead mother’s name. She then remembered that Edward’s future nanny was also a Mary, and took hold of herself—although she wouldn’t have been overly-surprised if her deceased mother was telephoning; it was that sort of a day. “What did she want, Reynolds?”
“She didn’t say, madam, but only asked that you telephone.”
“I should go visit her,” Doyle mused aloud, as she rested her head back against the cushions, so as to contemplate the ceiling. “She’s a very restful sort of person.”
“Your tea, madam.”
The cup was offered with a certain precision that did not go unnoticed by Doyle, who soothed, “You’re a restful one, too, Reynolds, mainly because you are so efficient.” This said because Doyle knew it was the compliment that would be most pleasing.
Mollified, the servant bowed slightly. “Thank you, madam. And I believe that if you are planning to visit Miss Mary, Lord Acton would expect me to accompany you.”
Doyle smiled into her cup, as she pretended to sip the tea. “I thank you for the kind offer, Reynolds, but she doesn’t live in the housin’ projects, anymore. She and her husband now have a nice little place in Fulham.” She slid her gaze to his in a meaningful way—no doubt Mary’s sudden turn in fortune could be laid at Acton’s door, who wouldn’t want the Honorable Edward’s nanny to be commuting in from the projects.
“Nevertheless, I would be pleased to accompany you, madam.”
“We’ll see,” she equivocated as she blew on the tepid tea, pretending it was too hot to drink. The last needful thing was for Mary to take a gander at Reynolds, who was no doubt itching to whip the poor woman into shape.
A short time later, Acton pinged her mobile to say that he was on his way up—this advance notice possibly given in the fond hope that he was slated for another dose of naked ice cream, but she dashed any such hope by replying that Reynolds was making dinner.
Within the minute, he came through the door and bent to kiss her, whilst deftly removing the teacup from her hand. “How are you feeling?”
She leaned her head back and regarded him, upside-down. “I’m abidin’. The spirit is willin’, but the flesh is whale-like.”
With a smile, he surreptitiously ditched the teacup on the side-table. “Surely not; Rubensesque, merely.”
Laughing, she admitted, “I’ve no clue what that means, Michael, but I’ll take it as a compliment. I’ve been meanin’ to ask you, how’s our witch doctor?”
“He’s being arraigned tomorrow, I believe.”
She watched him walk over to the fridge. “I’m convinced that someone is pinnin’ shadow murders on him, and that the QC’s murder is only one of them.”
“Oh?” Orange juice bottle in hand, Acton sank down next to her, loosening his tie. “Is there anything I should know?”
She made a wry face. “I wish I had somethin’ concrete to offer, Michael—but I hate the idea that someone’s gettin’ away with murder.”
As he was a fine example of someone who regularly got away with murder, he made no reply, but instead put a sympathetic arm around her, and pulled her head down, to rest against his chest.
She spoke into his shirtfront. “It’s all very smoky—Gabriel said there were no prints on any of the shoes.”
Acton nodded in acknowledgment. “No. And we can’t prove the shoes belonged to the victims without prints. Instead, we’re left with circumstantial evidence, at best.”
“Well, the suspect’s a crackin’ horror-show, so I think a jury will have no problem drawin’ a conclusion or two, with or without hard evidence.” She watched the fire for a moment, then asked, “How many murders will they try to put forward for the indictment?”
“Two, unless more evidence turns up between now and then.”
Doyle frowned. “Is that countin’ the shop-minder’s husband?”
Acton cocked his head. “Tell me, if you will, about the shop-minder’s husband.”
Guiltily, Doyle sat up to face him. “I meant to tell you, Michael—truly, I did. Gabriel was chattin’ her up in Farsi, and she told him all about how the Santero had murdered her husband, as a favor.”
Thinking about it, Doyle sank back down beside him. “She hadn’t been read the caution, though, and it seems unlikely she’d be willin’ to tell her tale again.” She decided to omit the fact that Gabriel wanted to say that the witness had been read the caution, even though it wasn’t true—Doyle had a sneaking suspicion that Acton wouldn’t necessarily disapprove of such a plan. “He’s good at talkin’ to people—Gabriel is, I mean. He’s all ‘hail-fellow-well-met’, and stands all cheerful-like whilst he’s winklin’ out everyone’s secrets. Is he still keepin’ an eye on Drake, for the ACC?”
“Gabriel was not given that assignment by the ACC.”
This was of interest, and she lifted her head to gaze at him. “Because we’re worried the ACC is bent, along with Drake? Mother a’ mercy, Michael, who’s to be left standin’?”
“The corruption rig was a wide-ranging operation,” was his only response. Absently, he watched the fire, and rubbed her hand between his fingers. “I’d rather you said nothing about these matters, if you please.”
She dropped her head back down against the cushions with a small thump. “Not a problem, my friend; the very idea is horrifyin’—that the watchdogs are abusin’ the system. Is Howard involved?” Howard was a Home Office official who’d been originally investigating the corruption rig, on the sly. To spike his guns, the blacklegs had unsuccessfully tried to frame and disgrace him, but he’d been vindicated, and now was an up-and-coming MP. Doyle would not be at all surprised to discover that Howard was the one bringing down the hammer on the crooked ACC.
“I’m afraid I cannot comment.”
She reached for his orange juice bottle. “All right then; can you comment about Gabriel?”
Acton bent his head to hers. “Has he said anything that has raised an alarm?”
He was asking whether her perceptive abilities had given her any insights, and she shook her head, slightly. “No—not really. And he’s not involved in the corruption rig—I know that much. But he rather reminds me of you, in that it’s only after you walk away that you realize he’s told you absolutely nothin’.”
With a smile, he leaned in to press his lips against the top of her head.
“I think he’s very sharp—Gabriel, I mean.”
“I would not disagree with that assessment.”
She paused for a moment. “D’you think you can trust him, Michael?”
“Do you?” This was, of course, the more pertinent question.
But Doyle could only frown at the fire. “I can’t truly say, one way or the other. He seems a good sort—very willin’ to help out.”
“Then we shall see, I suppose.”
Her head resting against his chest, she fiddled with one of his buttons. “Have I mentioned that I haven’t the nerves for this, my friend? You do—in spades—but I don’t. I’m half-inclined to go to bed, and pull the covers over my head.”
“Speaking of which, I believe you were rather far afield, this afternoon.”
She teetered on the edge of telling him what she’d been about, but drew back, not yet certain that she should tell him. “I was indeed—I was with Gabriel, in fact. We were followin’ up on a lead, but it went nowhere.”
He took her hand in his. “If you would let me know, next time.”
With a pang of remorse, she could sense his anxiety, and the restraint it had taken for him to wait this long into the conversation to ask her about it. Leaning up to kiss his neck, she promised, “I will. I’m sorry, Michael; I’m truly bein’ careful.”
His gaze rested on the hand that he held in his. “Perhaps it will soon be time to take maternity leave.”
“Oh—oh, I can’t,” she said immediately, and leaned forward to look up at him in alarm. “There’s somethin’ I’m supposed to find out, first. It’s important, for some reason.”
As could be expected, this pronouncement drew his puzzled amusement. “What sort of something?”
“I haven’t a clue,” she confessed, leaning back into him again. “Or more properly, I’ve a basketful of clues, and I’m too thick to sort them all out.”
“Then I stand ready to help. Which case?”
Again, she decided to step warily, because she wasn’t sure if she should let Acton know about her misgivings—faith, she wasn’t even certain what her misgivings were, in the first place. “I’m not that far along. I just know—I just know I’m supposed to figure out somethin’, and I think it has to do with the Santero, and the shadow murders.”
There was a small pause. “It may be for the best,” he offered diplomatically, “if you stay away from the Santero case. The two of you are not on speaking terms.”
Doyle shuddered. “A nastier creep never contemplated a prison cell, and a good riddance, I say. But there’s somethin’—” she paused, trying to put her instinct into words. “He’s bitter, and—and angry, beneath his creepiness.”
“I would ask,” he repeated gently, “that you do not attempt to speak with him again.”
“Faith, no,” she agreed. “That would be like openin’ the seventh seal. No, thanks.”
Murder in Shadow (The Doyle and Acton Murder Series Book 6) Page 14
