Murder in Containment: A Doyle and Acton Mystery

by Anne Cleeland

  At the mention of Solonik’s name, Doyle could sense Zao’s flare of strong emotion, quickly suppressed. “Yes—I’d forgotten; I was off that week.” This was true.

  “I suppose no one was surprised that Solonik met a bad end.”

  “Don’t answer,” advised the solicitor with an impatient gesture. “Someday we’ll get to the point.”

  Acton leaned forward in his chair, as though conceding that he needed to focus, which was laughable, as Acton was always focused like a laser beam. Spreading them out on the table, he displayed several photos of the decedent, lying in a pool of blood on the concrete holding cell floor. “Were you involved in processing this prisoner?”

  “No, I wasn’t, sir.”

  Doyle blinked. He’s respectful, all of a sudden, she thought with surprise. That’s interesting.

  “Do you know why he was asking to speak to the matron from the women’s prison?”

  “No, sir.” Doyle frowned slightly; this was not exactly true, and it was not exactly false.

  “Were you in the cell when he died?”

  “No, sir; I came on the scene afterward. I checked for a pulse, and called for the medics.”

  This was not true, and seemed to be an attempt to explain the blood on his trouser cuff. It wouldn’t be helpful, though; Williams had said that the blood on the trousers consisted of inert, round drops, which meant they fell from almost directly overhead—the victim was standing whilst bleeding. On the other hand, if Zao had knifed him himself, there would have been more than a little blood on his clothing—stab wounds were very messy affairs.

  “Do you know why the CCTV in the holding cell area was not functioning?”

  “No, sir—I don’t.”

  Not true. More or less a serial liar, was our Mr. Zao, and Doyle was getting more than her share this fine day. Except for the whole Chinese thing, he could be related to Mrs. Addersley, with her fake story about how-the-nonexistent-boyfriend-done-it.

  With a show of impatience, the solicitor spread his hands. “So; why exactly are we here? My client has an exemplary record—”

  “Your client has been cautioned, twice.”

  “Minor rule infractions.” Assuming a confident manner that masked his uneasiness, the solicitor snapped his file shut, and rose to leave. “You’ve got nothing, and there’s no point in even putting a hold on him. I think the CID owes Officer Zao an apology.”

  But the prisoner had not stood. “I’d like to enter a plea,” he said to Acton. “sir.”

  7

  The gallery sat for a moment in stunned silence. “Does anybody know what just happened, here?” asked Munoz.

  With a sound of satisfaction, Williams swiftly rose from his chair. “Cheers—I’ve got to go make a call.” As he left, he reminded Doyle over his shoulder, “I’ll text you about our interview tomorrow.”

  “What interview?” asked Munoz, immediately suspicious.

  “He’s got a witness who wants to talk off-campus.” Best not mention to Munoz that the witness was an attractive young woman, and interested in the worthy DI Williams.

  “On the Wexton Prison case?”

  Munoz was being territorial again, and so Doyle soothed her as best she could. “He doesn’t really know, Munoz; he wants me along because he doesn’t want to be set up.”

  “He never asks me to be a third.”

  “That’s because if you came along, he’d be needin’ a fourth, to keep you at arm’s length.”

  Hotly, the other girl retorted, “Come off it, Doyle; I know how to be professional—he never even gives me a chance.” With an annoyed gesture, she gathered up her rucksack. “Fine. I’ll go see if any help is needed with Zao.”

  This was a thinly-veiled attempt to slice a share of the glory, and Doyle was annoyed in turn, since Acton had kept her well-away from this whole prison case, and now it had taken a very interesting turn. “I don’t know what you think you can do to help; they’ll be keepin’ him under lock and key ʼtil he’s sung his song.”

  “Chiu is not taking over my case.”

  “We’re all on the same side, Munoz.” Doyle paused to text Acton on his private line, “Beware the solicitor.” The man was a dirty dish, if ever there was one, and a liar in his own right—although there was not a lot Acton could do to try to come between a solicitor and his client.

  Acton’s text came back immediately. “Matron?”

  Frowning, Doyle paused to remember the question and response from the interrogation, and then texted, “Zao knows something, but not everything.”

  “Zao citizenship?”

  Trying to keep up, Doyle texted back, “N/T,” not true.

  “What’s Acton saying?” On her way out the door, Munoz had paused to watch Doyle.

  Doyle looked up. “He’s sayin’ he thinks Chiu’s a genius, and she should be assigned to all his cases.”

  “Not funny, Doyle.”

  As the other girl shut the door with a semi-slam, Doyle turned back to her mobile and made one more attempt to get in on the action. “Need me to listen in?”

  Instead, her mobile pinged with the instruction: “Home, please. Eat and rest.”

  Doyle took a reluctant breath, and reminded herself that she shouldn’t worry her husband, he had enough going on—although it was hard to be a witness to this case-breaker, or whatever it was that had happened, here—and not want to be in the thick of it. “Right. See u there.”

  She sat in the dim room, and stared at the mobile screen for a moment, brushing her thumb over it absently. She could always do research from home, in a restful sort of way. Research was tedious and mind-numbing, but at least it was useful, and would cause no undue anxiety to her better half. She could put a report together about the SOCO’s murder—since Chiu was apparently too busy being Chinese to do it herself—and she could also go over the search criteria she’d established to try to figure out which of the Crown Court judges might be involved in the Wexton Prison corruption case. Perhaps something would leap out at her; sometimes it did. With another sigh, she rang up the driving service, and asked that they come to fetch her home.

  She arrived at the flat to find Reynolds cooking up some concoction on the stove. “What are you brewin’, my friend? Not more poison, I hope?” The domestic whom Reynolds had replaced had tried to poison the fair Doyle.

  “Certainly not, madam,” said Reynolds severely. The servant did not always appreciate Doyle’s sense of humor. “I am making a beef broth to soak the toast in; we think it may serve.”

  Doyle was not so certain, if it tasted anything like it smelt. “I did have a banana at lunch.” This was technically true; she wouldn’t mention it didn’t stay down—she positively longed for Williams and his contraband, but he was off working on this very interesting case whilst she was fighting nausea at home. “I don’t want to hurt your feelin’s, Reynolds, but the smell alone is makin’ me sick.”

  He immediately disposed of the broth, and insisted she lie down on the sofa. “Iced ginger tea,” she suggested, just so he wouldn’t hover over her. “And I’ll be needin’ my laptop, if you don’t mind—I’m to make myself useful.”

  Doyle spent the next hour propped up on the sofa, typing up the report for the SOCO’s murder, and reviewing the original interviews done by the PCs. She didn’t want the woman’s murder to be lost in the shuffle, now that things were finally moving on the more important Wexton Prison case, and besides, she has nothing else to work on, at the moment. Looking over the notes for Mrs. Addersley’s original interview, she saw what she’d remembered—the woman was described as “elderly.” The notes said that she’d been worried about the decedent, although it was not made clear why she was worried. The report also said that the neighbor had noticed an odd smell. Further questioning had revealed that there’d been an argument in the hallway with an older man, three days earlier.

  Doyle paused, frowning. Unlikely Addersley would have referred to the unknown man as “older” if it were a known boyfriend, e
ven if the boyfriend were indeed older—it sounded more as though she was describing a stranger. And besides, Doyle had the distinct impression that the witness was telling lie after lie—although sometimes Doyle got her wires crossed. But what was the point of lying? Doyle had discovered—being how she was—that there was the occasional person who lied for sport, about anything and everything. She didn’t know the psychology, but imagined it was some sort of personality disorder that made the person feel superior. It seemed odd, though, to want to lie to the police about your neighbor’s murder.

  Mr. Huse knew about the smell, also, although it didn’t sound like it was decomp—he’d described the smell as sweet. So what was the smell? And who was the arguer-in-the-hallway?

  She called out, “Reynolds, how old would a woman have to be for you to be describin’ her as ‘elderly’?”

  The servant paused in his dinner preparations to consider this inquiry. “I would try to avoid such an adjective at all costs, madam.”

  Of course he would, the knocker. Possessing her soul in patience, Doyle persisted, “Pretend the police were askin’, and you had to come up with a cut-off, so to speak.”

  “Eighty,” he decided.

  Doyle nodded absently. “That’s what I think, too. Now, how old would a man be for a woman to describe him as ‘older’ with respect to a thirty-five year old woman?”

  Reynolds sounded disapproving. “Is this one of those magazine quizzes, madam?”

  “No, this is police work, Reynolds; I wouldn’t be botherin’ you, else.”

  He considered this. “Fifty?”

  “Somethin’s not right, here.” She frowned into the laptop screen. “The witness completely changed her story from two days ago.”

  Oven mitts on, Reynolds carefully transferred the baking dish into the oven. “Perhaps someone got to her, madam.”

  But Doyle couldn’t see it. “This witness seemed very self-assured, and not the gettin’-to type. She certainly didn’t like me, much.” Thoughtfully, she closed her laptop, and decided she’d go over tomorrow to deliver the cat, and see what transpired; perhaps the woman would tell yet a third version of her story, and then Doyle would know that she was just a lying liar who lied. Reminded, she rang up the Metro animal shelter, and spoke to a volunteer about the cat, explaining she’d deliver it to a new home tomorrow, and to please not give it the gas in the meantime. The volunteer was one of those people who gushed about Doyle’s kindness and general merit, and so she hadn’t the heart to tell her the cat was merely a ploy to nose around a crime scene.

  “You will be bringing a cat home, madam?” Reynolds’ voice was carefully neutral when she rang off.

  “No—I’m deliverin’ it to a man I met at the crime scene.”

  There was a pause. “You will mention this to Lord Acton?”

  Surprised, she lifted her head to consider him. “Unsnabble, Reynolds. What’s up?”

  The manservant carefully folded the dish cloth. “I believe women in your condition are not supposed to handle cats.”

  She stared at him. “Truly?”

  “Ask Lord Acton,” said Reynolds. “But I believe that is the case.”

  “Well, I need to deliver this cat,” she said aloud, and then wondered again why this was so. “I would put him in one of those carry-cases, anyway—I’m not going to wrestle a cat onto the tube; mayhem would be the certain result.”

  Reynolds eyed her doubtfully. “How large is the animal, madam?”

  “I’ve no idea,” Doyle replied absently. “Apparently, he sheds a lot.”

  “I shall accompany you, then.”

  Hiding a smile at the stoicism behind this pronouncement, she replied, “That’s a kind offer, Reynolds, but no one is goin’ to tell me anythin’ of interest if my butler is standin’ there with me.”

  Understandably, Reynolds was confused. “You are engaging this cat in your detective work, madam?”

  “Aye, that.” She nodded with certainty. “That cat knows a thing or two, he does.”

  8

  “Couldn’t stand the broth,” Doyle confessed, when Acton came through the door. “Not Reynolds’ fault.”

  “That is a shame; you need more protein.” He bent to kiss her.

  “I’ll work on it,” she promised. “I’ll try chicken soup, later.” He was dubious, but said nothing—the last attempt at chicken soup had not gone well at all.

  After hanging up Acton’s coat, Reynolds retreated to the kitchen to assemble dinner, while Acton walked over to stand before the windows, deep in thought. Interesting, Doyle thought as she watched him; he doesn’t want to talk about this Wexton Prison case—or at least not with me. And he looks weary, poor man. She decided that, as his helpmeet, she should make an attempt to take his mind off his troubles. “Can you come into the bedroom, for a moʼ? I want to show you somethin’.”

  Acton cast a meaningful glance in Reynolds’ direction, and she made a face to let him know that it wasn’t that—and now she’d better make good on that later, after getting his hopes up. Instead, she led him to the bed, and instructed that he should lie down next to her, so that they were both on their stomachs, face-to-face. Taking his hand, she slid it beneath her abdomen. “Tell me if you can feel this.” She positioned her own hand next to his and waited.

  “There,” she said. “Did you feel that?”

  “No.”

  She readjusted his hand. “It’s not obvious,” she cautioned. “Stay very still.”

  They waited, and suddenly he smiled. “Yes,” he said.

  “Can you feel it?”

  “Yes,” he said again. “Mary.”

  “Mary,” she agreed, and found that her eyes had filled with tears. He pulled her to him, and they lay cradled together, even though they still had their shoes on. Worth every nauseous moment, she thought; thank You, thank You, thank You.

  She wasn’t aware she’d dozed off, until she leapt up with a gasp, standing beside the bed, and gazing with wide eyes at the far wall. Acton scrambled up with her, and pulled her to him. “It’s all right, Kathleen; you were dreaming, again.”

  Reynolds appeared in the entryway, alarmed, and Doyle stared at him, her heart beating in her ears, as the vision of the barricaded door faded from her mind.

  Acton held her close. “Who is it? Did you see, this time?”

  Shaking her head, she closed her eyes, and felt like an idiot. “He’s on the other side of the door, so I never see him—but I think it’s someone we know.” She waited, willing herself to have one of her leaps of recognition, but it didn’t come, and so she made a sound of extreme frustration. “I’m flummoxed—can’t come up with a scrap.”

  “Does he have a weapon?”

  “Yes,” she answered immediately. “He does.”

  Reynolds regarded her consideringly. “I will check the alarm system,” he decided, and went off.

  Acton stroked Doyle’s hair. “Anything else?”

  She teetered on the edge of confessing that it may be Williams who was barricading the door, but then he’d know that she’d left out that little detail before, and he might think she was trying to hide something, which, in fact, she was. Acton knew about Williams’ feelings for her, and did not appear to be overly concerned, but you never knew, with him; she didn’t want him to snap, one day, and strangle poor Williams. And this was exactly why the nuns taught you that honesty was the best policy. “It just seems to be more and more—” she tried to think of the right word.

  “Exigent?”

  With a sigh, she looked up at him. “I haven’t a clue what that means, Michael.”

  “More and more alarming.”

  Thinking about it, she slowly shook her head. “I don’t know about that; I’m not afraid when I’m in the dream—not truly. I just wish I weren’t so dense. I need a translator, or somethin’.”

  Resting his chin on the top of her head, he ran his warm hands up and down her back. “You must try to remain calm, Kathleen; else you’ll alarm Mary.”r />
  “I’m that sorry. It’s a crackin’ annoyance, mainly.”

  He squeezed his arms around her, briefly. “Shall we have some dinner, and try to sort it out?”

  “Could I have some coffee, d’you suppose?” She tried to sound semi-pathetic.

  He turned, and tucked her under his arm. “You may have anything you like.”

  They adjourned to the kitchen table, where Doyle sipped a blessedly strong cup of coffee, and Reynolds served Acton his dinner. The servant had been thoughtfully quiet, but now offered, “Do you think it was Detective Samuels, madam?” Samuels was a fellow DC who had threatened Doyle, and then had ended up dead on the street from some sort of seizure.

  “No,” she said with certainty. “Not Samuels.”

  She could feel Acton slant a glance at Reynolds, and no more questions were asked, which was just fine with her, as she’d decided to take the bull by the horns, and quiz Acton about his Wexton Prison case. “What exactly happened durin’ Zao’s interrogation today, Michael? It made no sense a’tall, from where I was sittin’.”

  Acton marshaled his thoughts for a moment. “The suspect was under enormous pressure not to talk, and so I attempted to relieve that pressure.”

  Doyle eyed him over the brim of her cup. “You shook him up a bit, with your talk of Solonik’s bein’ killed in prison.” Once again, she thanked God fasting for whoever instigated the prison fight—not that she would ever wish death on anyone, she offered up hastily—but Solonik’s demise was a very convenient turn of events. In truth, his death was so convenient that Doyle had been worried that Acton murdered Solonik himself, but he’d assured her that he hadn’t, and he’d been speaking the truth.

  “Yes; I suppose that is true.”

  There was a small silence, and—as her better half was not being forthcoming—she prompted, “And there was somethin’ about his sister, which seemed to surprise him.”

  Acton offered her a forkful of his pasta, and with a show of cooperation, she accepted it, even though it tasted like sawdust. He took a bite himself, and then disclosed, “Zao was cooperating in the corruption scheme—and in the murder—because his younger sister was being threatened.”