It was rather sad, to review the stark list on the government print-out paper, but Doyle comforted herself with the knowledge that someone, somewhere, must be missing them; there wouldn’t have been a report filed, else.
As she slid the document back into the envelope, however, she also acknowledged that there were undoubtedly other women who’d dropped out of sight with no one to care, one way or another. Her scalp prickled, and she paused. So—someone was missing, and there was no one to care? The charwoman, who was pretending to be dead? No—her brother cared very much, and was prodding the fair Doyle to ease the woman’s mind, somehow. Who, then?
For reasons that she could not explain, she immediately thought of Gemma, and how she’d said the Russian word—but that made no sense; this misdirection murder was a grown
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woman, and besides, no one was searching for Gemma. And even if they were, it was not as though the little girl would be difficult to trace.
Looking out the window, she frowned, because she felt the answer was tantalizingly close; a woman was missing, it was someone who shouldn’t be a surprise, and if Doyle didn’t have overly-pregnant brain, she’d probably figure it out in an instant.
Her mobile pinged, and she looked to see that it was Reynolds, returning with Emile from their car-ride. She fingered the phone, and wished it was Acton, instead. He knows who’s missing-and-unmourned, she thought, because the wretched man is paying blood-money to keep it quiet. I’ve got to go to the source, then, and figure out some way to winkle the information out of him, even though my winkling attempts never seem to work out because Acton is a wily one, and he can run rings around me in terms of wiliness.
As she stuffed the list into the empty sugar canister, she braced herself for Emile’s re-entry and decided that she’d just go forward without any particular winkling-out plan, since having no plan always seemed to work out best, anyways. Mustering up a smile, she greeted Emile—who literally began leaping across the room—and listened to Reynolds’ recommendations for the dinner menu.
Acton returned just after dinner, and she knew immediately that he was tired—a rarity for him, since he never seemed to exert himself, overmuch; he was too well-bred to exert himself. The only time she’d seen him tired was when he was having a pretend-affair, which was definitely not the case at present, because he was too busy cooking-up some plot that involved misdirection murders and long-delayed vengeance.
Reynolds respectfully took Acton’s valise. “I have kept your plate warm in the oven, sir.”
“A moment, Reynolds, I’ll shower, first.”
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He bent to kiss Doyle, who observed, “A shower? Never say you’ve had to scale a wall—that’s what first-years are for. Did the perp get away?”
With a smile, he continued on his way into the bedroom. “I’d almost rather scale a wall; I am trying to tie up all loose ends before Edward is born, and I’m afraid it is heavy work.”
This was true, and it made sense; Doyle knew that he was planning to take a few weeks off from work when the baby was born—a shrine-worthy miracle in itself—and he was no doubt trying to get ahead on his caseload, so that he could hand off the leg-work to lesser personnel, and monitor their progress. It went without saying that Acton wouldn’t actually be out-of-the-loop for any appreciable time; the CID was woefully understaffed.
As Reynolds settled Emile in for the night, Doyle kept Acton company whilst he ate, and then suggested that she give him a back-rub—which was something he very much enjoyed, and would hopefully put him into an unguarded mood for a bit of winkling.
Willingly, he collapsed onto their bed, face-down, and Doyle clambered up to sit astride his back, and begin kneading his shoulders. “Let me know if I’m too heavy; don’t want to crush you, like an apple in the press.”
“No—it feels quite good. A bit to the left, please.”
“Faith, you’re gettin’ old,” she teased, and focused her efforts on his left shoulder. “Next you’ll be sittin’ in a shawl, and drinkin’ down a posset.”
His voice was muffled, due to the pillows. “Possibly.” “You’ve no idea what a posset is,” she accused. “It just goes
to show.”
“It does sound delightful.”
Doyle looked up at the wall, as she worked her fingers into his shoulders. “I never cared for possets; my mother would warm-up some horrid concoction when I had a chest cold.” She paused, thinking about it. “It had rum in it, I think.”
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“Then I will pass,” he replied into the pillows. Acton did not care for rum.
She smiled. “We could trade-out the rum for scotch, pour it over ice, and put all the other ingredients aside.”
“Better.” He reached behind him to grope until he found one of her ankles. “I missed you, today.”
“And I you, my friend. Although I wasn’t as hopelessly bored as my usual; I had Munoz over for lunch. Reynolds made her some sort of fried-potato-toppos.”
“Reynolds is a good man.”
“Well, I’m a bit disappointed in him, bein’ as he’s all smitten with her, and you’d think he’d be above that sort of thing.”
She could sense Acton’s amusement. “Surely, anyone is better than Savoie?”
With a great deal of meaning, she disclosed, “Gabriel is doin’ his best to take her mind off Savoie.”
With interest, he turned his head to the side. “Is he?”
“Yes, but I’ll say no more, because I think she told me in confidence. And that also goes to show that I was right, and that Tasza is not what she seems.”
He turned his face down into the pillows again. “It would be more surprising if you weren’t right, Kathleen.”
This, of course, was a fair point, and she decided that she may as well ask, “Then tell me what you know about Tasza, husband. I get the sense you’d met before the confirmation, and that you weren’t at all surprised when I told you she was LEO.”
Thus confronted, Acton turned his head to the side again, so as to speak to her. “Yes, we’d met. She was researching a cross-jurisdictional case, and interviewed me.”
Doyle blinked. “Formally?” Any interview with a member of the CID brass was carefully set-up and controlled, for rather obvious reasons.
“No—she had a few questions, and we met informally.”
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Doyle waited a moment, and then with a sigh of impatience, bent down to scrutinize her sphynx-like husband’s face. “Are you goin’ to tell me the name of the case, or is it shrouded in secrecy?”
“Secrecy,” he decided.
Doyle sat back up, and commenced rubbing his back again. “Well, you made an impression, I think. Small blame to her; it’s a handsome thing, you are.”
He did not deny it, but said only, “Absolve me of encouraging her.”
“No—she’s not your type. Your type is heavily-pregnant Irish girls.”
“Which was not something anyone would have predicted, I think.”
“Life is a never-endin’ basketful of surprises,” she agreed. “I suppose Tasza’s type is tall and lean superior officers—although this business with Gabriel is a sham, so maybe it’s just your title she’s after.”
“Speaking of which, Lady Abby rang me up, on a fairly transparent pretext.”
Doyle frowned, as she kneaded. “Remind me who Lady Abby is.”
“Howard’s ex-fiancée.”
Her hands stilled in surprise. “Oh—oh he’s broken it off already? Well, I can’t blame Lady Abby, either; she probably thought she’d wind up as a top-tier political hostess, and instead she’s been thrown over for a lowly nanny. She needs a revenge-romance, and so it’s no surprise that she’s sending out feelers to see if you’re assailingbull.”
“Assailable,” he corrected gently. “And to her regret, I made it cle
ar that I am not.”
“No,” she agreed readily. “You’re not. Now, there’s one thing I never have to worry about.”
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With great fondness, he squeezed the ankle he held. “You needn’t worry about anything, Kathleen.”
“Worry is my middle name,” she confessed. “It comes from knowin’ too much, even though I’d rather just keep my head down, and ignore it all.” She paused, and then added, “As a case-in-point, I know you’re very happy about somethin’, my friend, despite your aches and pains. You’re cock a’ hoop, if I may say so.”
He couldn’t help but chuckle. “Am I so rarely happy, then?” She had to chuckle too, and lightly traced her fingers down
his back. “I know it sounds silly, but it makes me uneasy for some reason—that you’re so pleased.”
With an effort, he propped himself up on his elbows, and turned to look at her. “What is there not to be pleased about, Kathleen? Everything has turned out very well, I think.”
She regarded him with a knit brow, as this seemed a fair point. “Mayhap it just seems wonderful by contrast—not to have the sword of doom, constantly hangin’ over our heads. It’s been a harrowin’ few months.”
This was the wrong thing to say, and she knew it as soon as she said the words; Acton didn’t like to think that he’d brought a heap of miseries to her doorstep, even though—technically— such was the case. Hastily, she warned, “Don’t start apologizin’, Michael; I’m pig-sick of it, and you know I wouldn’t change a blessed thing.”
He turned over to lay on his back, and propped an arm beneath his head. “I will make it up to you.”
“Stop, or I’ll dig out the rum, and force a posset down your gullet.”
“The scotch-and-ice kind,” he suggested. “I’ll wait here.”
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Chapter 26
A list of missing persons was hidden in the sugar canister. Hard to believe, that she was suspicious, but she hadn’t asked him, and so she must be. He’d have to come up with a plausible tale, which was no easy feat.
T he following morning, it occurred to Doyle that she hadn’t done any worthwhile winkling with respect to the Holy Trinity misdirection murder, and that she was a sad excuse for a detective, to be so easily distracted by her husband’s bare back. To be fair, however, it was no easy thing to introduce the subject of charred corpses and blood-money during a back-rub, so she shouldn’t be too hard on herself, and should instead
look for another opportunity.
To the good, Acton had drifted off to sleep after she’d prepared his scotch posset, and he seemed much recovered this morning. As was her wont, she was lounging in bed, and watching him check his schedule at his desk.
“Barring an emergency, I can come home for lunch,” he offered.
“Any chance I can meet you at headquarters, instead?” she wheedled. Faith, but she was bored to flinders.
“We could walk from here to the pub that’s the next street over,” he wheedled in turn.
“All right.” At least it was a small victory, and a change of scenery might present an opportunity to attempt more winkling—no one ever explained to you that marriage involved so much sub rosa work.
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With a click, he shut his laptop and swiveled around to face her. “I’ve made some inquiries about Gemma, and discovered that Blakney’s relatives have been contacted by a man who’s been asking after her. They’d nothing to relate to him, since they hadn’t kept in contact. Description is tall Caucasian man, forties, with silver and black hair. Slavic, someone suggested.”
Doyle digested this revelation with no small misgiving. “But he didn’t leave his contact information?”
“No.”
They exchanged a glance, because the man’s failure to identify himself did not bode well, and Doyle put a voice to what they were both thinking. “D’you suppose she was bein’ trafficked?”
Slowly, Acton shook his head. “It is hard to imagine—she has none of the signs. It is possible that she was being groomed for it.”
Doyle rubbed her eyes with her palms. “It’s too horrifyin’ to even think about it, Michael. It reminds me of the sex slavery rig, that the players in the corruption scandal were operatin’—such evil, despicable people. There’s goin’ to be a hard justice for them, sooner or later.”
Surprised, she removed her palms because she’d caught a flare of emotion from Acton. “What?”
“What, what?” he asked, regarding her steadily.
Narrowly, she eyed him, not at all fooled by his innocent manner. “It’s only that I’ve the sense that you’re itchin’ to lay down a bit of home-brewed justice, and sooner rather than later.”
“I think any man would feel the same.”
This was not exactly a denial, but she comforted herself with the undeniable fact that the principals from the corruption rig were now abiding in prison, and it would be no easy feat to
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lay down a bit of home-brewed justice in such a situation. Or at least, one would think.
He bent to pack his valise. “I will see if I can get an ID on the man they describe—there’s probably a street view, on CCTV. If he is a trafficker, then perhaps we can take him off the streets.”
“Just don’t stir up any sleepin’ dogs,” she warned. I’d hate to have to explain to Mary that I’m the one who arranged for Gemma to be snatched away by some Slavic man.”
“I’ll be discreet,” he promised, and kissed her goodbye. Doyle watched him go, knowing that he’d turned the subject. Her remark about the sex slavery rig had evoked an unguarded reaction, and she could only assume that someone, somewhere, was getting their just desserts, and mayhap it was just as well that she didn’t know the particulars.
As Doyle mentally girded her loins to spend another day wishing she were doing anything remotely interesting, her mobile pinged, and displayed an unfamiliar number. Since she was desperate enough to entertain even a salesman, she readily answered, only to discover that Tasza was on the other end.
“Lady Acton; I hope I am not inconveniencing you.”
“Not a’tall,” said Doyle, who’d decided that the day was suddenly looking up. “Thank you so much for comin’ to the confirmation—I’m sorry things took such an unhappy turn, what with Drake dyin’, and all.”
“It was a shock,” the other girl agreed, and this was not the truth. “We’d brought along a small gift for your husband, but— under the circumstances—we thought it best to leave. Would it be inconvenient if I dropped it by, today?”
“Not at all,” Doyle assured her, and wondered what this was all about. “Just let me know when, so that I can tell the concierge.”
“In an hour? Or wherever’s most convenient.”
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“Give it two hours,” Doyle suggested, calculating rapidly. “Just before lunch.”
She rang off, and stared out the window for a minute, trying to decide if she should be ashamed of herself for laying such a trap for her husband. On the other hand—being how Acton was—he was probably already aware that she’d received a call from the girl, and so was forewarned. Besides, any anxious moments he might experience were wholly his own fault, and let this be a lesson to him.
Doyle could hear Emile and Reynolds in the kitchen, and caught the scent of cinnamon pastries. With a smile, she tied her robe around her girth as best she could, and then lumbered out into the kitchen. “Ho, Emile; I feel like a St. Petersburg duck, hissin’ for my bolloki.”
“Bulochki,” he corrected with a giggle. “It sounds funny, when you say it.”
“Everythin’ sounds funny, when I say it,” she acknowledged. “Good mornin’ Reynolds; I’ll be havin’ a visitor in the late mornin’—a young woman who may or may not be a friendly.”
Reynolds paused to look at her in alarm. �
�You are not certain, madam?”
Murder in Misdirection: A Doyle & Acton Mystery (The Doyle and Acton Scotland Yard series Book 7) Page 17
