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

by Anne Cleeland

  “Well, I’d be the first, then. I’d put Trestles on the map, with my tinned kale recipes.”

  “I thought there were too many ghosts at Trestles,” he reminded her, and leaned to help himself to her noodles.

  “You’d be one of the ghosts,” she countered. “Faith—it could be fun, although there are some maidservants who were brassers, in their day, and I’d be tempted to take a flamethrower to them.”

  “It wouldn’t be the same, I’m afraid.”

  “Then don’t be dyin’, husband. Easy fix to the problem.”

  He smiled, and leaned his head back so as to tip a bottle of water to his mouth. Faith, he was a handsome, handsome man, and leaning over, she rested her chin on his shoulder. “Shall we head home, to make it a proper celebration? Or, if there’s not enough time, we could try to squeeze into the back seat. We need only to put our minds to it.”

  To reward this thought, he cupped her head with his hand, and kissed her soundly. “As much as I would like to tempt a public indecency charge, I should head back. There’s been another death in the financial district, and I’ve been asked to make discreet inquiries.”

  Doyle frowned, trying to remember what she’d heard. “Didn’t they think the first one was suicide? That the man was embezzlin’ money, or somethin’?”

  “This appears to be another suicide, and for the same reasons.”

  She sneaked another bite of his sandwich. “And if they want you to take a gander, someone must be worried that they’re not truly suicides. Do they think someone’s doin’ misdirection murders, instead?” Misdirection murders were false flags, put up to mislead law enforcement with respect to the murderer’s true motives.

  “We shall see.”

  It made sense that the powers-that-be would ask Acton to do a bit of probing, since doors would be opened to him that would not have opened to your average detective, and the financial district people were notoriously tight-lipped about their brethren’s misdeeds. Faith; there’d been a rash of white-collar embezzlement crimes, lately, and she wondered if it was all connected, in some way.

  Since he’d finished off her noodles, Acton snapped shut the plastic container, and then reached into the lunch-pack to produce a pre-packaged fruit pie, fresh from the corner convenience store.

  “Michael,” she laughed in delight. “You are a saint.”

  As he began to unwrap it for her, he said with all sincerity, “It is you who are the saint, Kathleen. I am sorry to have put you through it, with these hearings.”

  Touched, she leaned over to kiss him, and snatch the pie from his hand. “Nonsense; never had a nicer time, I assure you. Now, all that’s left is to clean up Munoz’s ACC mess, and Williams’ Santero mess, and be home in time for dinner.”

  “Perhaps we should have ice cream, before dinner.” This said with a great deal of meaning.

  Laughing, she conceded, “I suppose it’s only what I deserve, for bringin’ up sex-in-the-car. Alright then; I’ll see you at quittin’ time, my friend. Bring the butter pecan.”

  “Done,” he said, and started up the car.

  38

  He checked with Reynolds, to make certain they had ice cream.

  Once back at headquarters, Doyle received a call-back from the QC’s girlfriend, who was back in town and available for her follow-up interview. The woman agreed to come in within the hour, and so Doyle reserved an interview room—often they were booked ahead of time, and it was never a good idea to try to question a witness in a cubicle, which wasn’t very private.

  Doyle knew she needed to concentrate, because this was going to be a tricky needle to thread—she didn’t want to alarm the woman, but she needed to try to find a motive for the QC’s murder. That it was connected to the Santero case in some way seemed evident—the dead barrister worked in the same chambers, and someone had gone to great lengths to pin his murder on the Santero. So, what was it—why had he been killed? The judge on the case was bent—Judge Horne, who was canoodling with Morgan Percy, who was also canoodling with Williams. And—lest we forget—who was also canoodling with Gabriel; faith, a roster was needful, just to keep all the canoodling straight. And poor Williams was being coerced into giving false testimony, even though he wanted Doyle to know he wasn’t going to go through with it. And meanwhile, there was a clock ticking somewhere, and about to go off.

  She cradled her head in her hands and closed her eyes, knowing that she was tantalizingly close to a solution, and wishing stupid Harding had told her straight-out who the stupid Até was. The Santero, perhaps? It all seemed to come back to the spider-like Santero, but in all honesty, she’d the strong sense that he was merely the dupe for all these shadow murders—and was bitterly resentful about it, which was not the attitude one would expect from the nasty Até. And—aside from the undeniable fact that he was a crackin’ blackheart—in a strange way she felt a bit sorry for him. Truly, it all made no sense.

  Glancing at the time, she decided that she always seemed to do better when she didn’t have any particular plan, and so she’d just see what the flight attendant had to say and play it by ear—perhaps the woman had heard something significant without realizing its significance, which was always a possibility, since it seemed to happen to Doyle with alarming regularity.

  When interviewing a friendly witness, a detective might spend the first quarter-hour trying to ease the person’s nervousness, but in this case, it wasn’t at all necessary; the woman looked about her with interest and smiled at Doyle in a friendly fashion. She’s a flight attendant, Doyle remembered; she makes other people feel comfortable—and that was why the QC wanted to marry her, after all. He was someone who worked in a very uncomfortable world.

  Doyle began, “How’re you doin’, ma’am? I’m sure it’s all been quite a shock.”

  Nodding, the witness sobered a bit. “It helps to work, of course. If I’m busy, I tend not to think about it, or how much I miss him.”

  Doyle paused, trying to decide how best to approach the subject she needed to approach. Presumably, the woman didn’t know that the QC’s death was not a random crime, and so she had to tread carefully. “I just wanted to ask some follow-up questions about your fiancé’s caseload—the Crown Court has been left high and dry, and they’re scramblin’.” Doyle pretended to review her notes. “He was involved in the Santero case, I understand.”

  The witness raised her brows. “That witch doctor bloke? No—no, he wasn’t counsel for that case.” Doyle could see that she struggled with whether to offer anything more, but in the end, couldn’t resist, and lowered her voice a bit. “But he did say that the judge was bent, in that case. And he found out that his old girlfriend was sleeping with him, to boot. I think that’s one of the reasons he broke it off with her—he didn’t stand for that sort of thing.”

  Here was a potential motive, and Doyle leapt on it. “Did he confront the judge with his suspicions? Make any accusations, or threaten to report him to Judicial Standards?”

  But the woman quickly disclaimed, “Oh, no—it was a Crown Court judge, after all, and he was a QC; he couldn’t be rocking the boat. And he didn’t want to look petty or jealous, when it came to the old girlfriend.” She paused for a moment, thinking about it. “It bothered him, though. He liked to think that the system was honest.”

  Doyle nodded in understanding, but it was all adding up—Horne was the judge who’d quickly ordered Blakney’s cremation, and who was presiding over the Santero trial. He must have been another, undisclosed player in the massive corruption rig, and was currently working hard to cover his tracks, so as to escape the fate of the others. It all fit; here was the motive for the QC’s murder—somehow, he’d twigged on to Judge Horne’s involvement, and so his murder was hastily arranged, to be pinned on the hapless Santero, who really couldn’t be described as hapless under the usual circumstances, but was truly hapless, in this case.

  Except—except that didn’t make a lot of sense; the QC did not plan to come forward, according t
o this woman. Of course, he may have kept quiet about his intention to expose the judge—it was radioactive knowledge, after all, and the fewer who knew about it the better. If nothing else, at least it was a working theory for the shadow murders: the QC was killed because he knew of Judge Horne’s involvement in the corruption rig, Blakney was killed to make sure Williams gave false testimony about the QC’s shoes, and Dr. Harding was killed because he also knew about Horne’s involvement, and was going to testify against him.

  Doyle frowned at the table for a moment, still unconvinced. That didn’t make much sense, either. It was too hard to believe it was all just a coincidence—that Blakney was a pawnbroker dealing with shady underworld types, and that he just happened to be married to the object of Williams’ affection. And another thing; Harding’s testimony was no doubt already buttoned down in sworn statements somewhere—after all, he’d already been placed in protective custody, and they’d already convicted the DCS, along with a quiverful of other villains.

  Would Harding have left Judge Horne out of his testimony, hoping to blackmail him later? That seemed unlikely; Harding had already sung like a bird, which was why he’d been placed in protective custody in the first place. And besides, Doyle had taken her measure of Dr. Harding, and he was not the sort of person who’d have the brass to blackmail a judge. He was no Acton.

  With this thought, Doyle’s scalp prickled, and she lifted her gaze to stare at the upper corner of the room. This was important, for some reason. Harding was no Acton—no one was. Talk about having brass, Acton was solid brass, through-and-through. It worried her, sometimes.

  “Ma’am?

  Recalled to the witness, Doyle gathered her thoughts. “I wanted to ask you—well, I suppose I wanted to ask you if he was worried about anythin’, in the days before he was killed.”

  Her companion knit her brow, understandably confused. “Worried about being robbed?”

  With some delicacy, Doyle ventured, “Well, he was killed in an unusual place, so perhaps he went to meet someone, or had somethin’ on his mind.”

  Fortunately, the witness took this question at face value, and didn’t see the implication. “Well, he was always worried about his cases—he was very conscientious about his work, and trying to do the best job that he could for his clients. And I know he was worried about meeting with the chief inspector—that famous one, who’s in all the papers. I can’t recall his name, but you know who I mean.”

  Doyle stared at her, unable to speak.

  The witness continued, “He didn’t talk about it much, but I know it weighed on his mind.”

  Doyle swallowed, and forced herself to say the words. “Is it possible—is it possible that he was meetin’ with that—the chief inspector, when he was killed?”

  Thinking this over with a doubtful expression, the witness shook her head. “No—no; or at least, I don’t think so—I don’t know as he’d set it up, as yet. Besides, if the chief inspector had been there, he wouldn’t have let him get coshed.”

  Slowly, Doyle nodded, knowing—in the way that she knew things—that here it was; the crux of the matter, and the solution to all mysteries. “So—he wanted to meet up with the chief inspector, but he was worried about it, and wouldn’t tell you why.”

  Watching her, the witness leaned forward, contrite. “Oh—do you think it important? I wish he’d told me more, and I wish I knew why he’d gone to such a place—it’s not what they think, that he was after drugs, or—or prostitutes, or something.” A wave a grief emanated from her, as she leaned back in her chair. “Such a shame, that he didn’t have his gun with him.”

  Doyle looked up in surprise. “His gun?”

  Self-conscious, the witness quirked her mouth. “Oh—I suppose I shouldn’t say, but he’s dead and gone, now. He had a gun; he said he’d got it from one of his clients, under the table, so to speak. A pawnbroker, I think it was.”

  But Doyle was no longer listening, over the roaring sound in her ears. Blessed and holy Mother of God—the illegal guns. Acton was Nemesis, and Nemesis did justice, but the Até—the Até brought ruin. She brought ruin, because of her victim’s hubris—because of his overconfidence. “That’s it,” she whispered through stiff lips. “That’s it—he thinks he’s closin’ the net on them, but instead they’re closin’ the net on him.” In abject horror, she clutched the table’s edge, and swayed slightly.

  “Oh, my goodness—are you all right?”

  But Doyle could hardly think, through the blanket of panic that had seemed to have dropped down over her head. Holy saints and angels, that’s what this was all about—the ACC was weaving a very patient web, and the trap was about to be sprung. It was about Acton’s gun-smuggling rig; the blackhearts must know all about it, and they were going to expose him, so as to ruin his credibility when he came after them—to create the perception that Acton was a bent copper, and therefore not to be believed. And they’d show that someone was framing the Santero for murders he didn’t commit—that’s why the shoe evidence wouldn’t be suppressed, it was all part of the plan to sink Acton. Just like Acton, they were creating a perception that would trump the evidence—

  Paralyzed with fear, Doyle closed her eyes, and struggled to think. The ACC was going to turn the tables on their Nemesis, and it wasn’t even a frame-up, because there was no need for a frame-up—Acton was guilty. And his partner in crime—Holy Mother, his partner in crime was Philippe Savoie.

  There was a quiet knock on the conference room door, and—still a bit dazed—Doyle opened her eyes to see Officer Gabriel poke his head in, his casual manner disguising his extreme alarm.

  “Sorry to interrupt, DS Doyle, but if you wanted to take this witness to meet the shopkeeper in catagóir amháin, he’ll only be there another hour or so.”

  Doyle blinked, because catagóir amháin was Gaelic for “category one”—the police term that called for an immediate evacuation. Belatedly, she remembered that the conference rooms were equipped for surveillance, and her mouth went dry—Gabriel wanted to evacuate the witness, and immediately. Could she trust him? It almost didn’t matter; she didn’t dare take the chance, if the witness was in danger.

  With a mighty effort, Doyle turned to the flight attendant and offered a smile. “I’m afraid I don’t know how to drive, so Officer Gabriel will take us to meet—to meet another witness, who may be able to shed some light. It won’t take long.”’

  “Of course,” the woman agreed, a bit confused as she gathered up her handbag. “Anything I can do to help.”

  The three of them walked out together, and with a sinking heart, Doyle noted that Gabriel made no effort to further explain the situation, but instead made small talk with the witness in his easy manner, making her smile as they headed down the hall.

  They walked out the front lobby—rather than through the parking garage—and Gabriel kept them at a steady pace, so that it was a bit difficult for Doyle to keep up. He held the door, and as she passed under his arm, he murmured, “I intercepted a communication from the ACC about your meeting with her. Not good.”

  “I need to speak with Acton,” Doyle whispered back, as steadily as she was able. “Straightaway.”

  “I wouldn’t stop moving.” His tone was slightly grim as he bestowed a smile on the flight attendant.

  If an extraction depended on the fair Doyle’s ability to hurry along, they were doomed, and so she decided that rather than participate in a thrilling chase, she’d do the next best thing, and call in clouds of witnesses. Pausing to clutch at her belly, she grimaced. “Ow—oh, that smarts.”

  “Oh—are you all right?” The witness asked in alarm. “Do you need to sit down? Let’s go back inside—”

  “Oh—ouch, ouch, ouch. I don’t think I can move.” Pulling her mobile, she texted her emergency signal to Acton, and then sank down onto the pavement, at the entrance to Scotland Yard.

  39

  It must be time. He asked his assistant to re-schedule all appointments, and grabbed his jacket on
the way out.

  In a commendably short space of time, Acton appeared through the lobby doors and spotted her sitting with her back against the wall, the flight attendant holding her hand in a soothing manner, and Gabriel standing, so as to block the sun.

  Acton crouched down. “Is it time? Can you walk, or shall I call an ambulance?”

  Why, he’s a bit nervous, Doyle realized, and was touched, despite the knot of misery in her stomach. “An ambulance,” she whispered, clutching his hand, and grimacing in pretend-pain. “But it’s a false flag, and the other two have to come along.”

  Whilst Acton stared at her in surprise, Gabriel leaned in to offer in a low voice, “No—I’ll take care of the witness, not to worry.”

  “What’s happened?” asked Acton quietly, his gaze intent on hers.

  “In a minute.” The small crowd that stood at a discreet distance murmured amongst themselves, their hushed tones brimful of excitement. “Wait til the siren’s on.”

  “Have we a t-call?” This was police code for a dangerous situation.

  “I don’t know,” she confessed. “Possibly.”

  Acton turned to signal to the desk sergeant, who was hovering in the doorway, torn between manning his post and rendering aid to Doyle, whom he admired hugely. Instantly, the man approached, striding over in a determined fashion. “Sir?”

  “Let’s keep the crowd back, while I call for an ambulance.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Be watchful,” Acton cautioned, as he held his mobile to his ear. “We may have a Section Seven in the crowd.”

  “A stalker?” the sergeant responded, aghast. “Good heavens, has she been attacked?”

  “It is as yet unclear,” Acton replied, and then began speaking to the emergency personnel.

  With no further ado, the desk sergeant ordered the crowd back a few steps, and then stood like a bulldog, guarding them with his hands on his hips, and surveying the crowd very carefully.