Murder in Containment: A Doyle and Acton Mystery

by Anne Cleeland

  “I’ve already arranged for my dinner,” she said airily, shutting down her laptop. “Look to yourself.”

  She wouldn’t answer any further questions, but immediately upon arrival at their flat, addressed Reynolds with a great deal of eagerness. “Did you get it?”

  The manservant bowed slightly. “Yes, madam. Would you care to partake?”

  “Please.”

  With a flourish, Reynolds produced a small plate of toast triangles, artfully arranged and topped with peanut butter.

  “Good God,” said Acton. “What is that?”

  “I have found somethin’ I can eat,” Doyle told him proudly. “It’s peanut butter.” After giving him an abbreviated version of her experience at lunch, she concluded, “It’s the strangest thing; I could eat the whole jar with a spoon.” She promptly bit into a slice to demonstrate, and then offered it up to him. “Will you be wantin’ a taste?”

  He leaned over to kiss her. “That’s close enough.”

  “Milk,” she decided, licking her fingers. “I’d like some milk.”

  They had their dinner, and after Reynolds had cleaned up and gone home, Doyle sat on the sofa gazing at the fire, while Acton worked at his desk. She felt much better—amazing, the difference a bit of food could make. When Reynolds had presented Acton with his lamb chops, however, she’d left the table—apparently she’d no appetite for anything other than peanut butter. And Williams’s coffee, of course; between the two, hopefully it was life-sustaining. I’ve turned a corner, she thought; everything’s going to be miles easier from here on out. Now I have only to soothe Acton, who is all worked up about this case, for reasons that he is unwilling to disclose. And he’s worked up about my dreams, too. She glanced over to where he sat, reviewing some documents that he’d pulled out of a manila envelope, and decided that it wouldn’t hurt to get him worked up about something else, for a change.

  As she was well-versed in the working-up of her husband, she stood, stretched, and then walked over to stand behind him, running her hands down his chest. He immediately logged off—always one to take a hint, was Acton. Rising, he took her in his arms as she began unbuttoning his shirt and placing the occasional kiss on the skin thus exposed. “I’ve my appetite back, I think; let me check.”

  “If you’re too tired, Kathleen, you needn’t humor me.”

  She gave him points for sounding sincere, even though he was pulling off her shirt with no further ado. “I’ll humor you one, I will.”

  “If you wouldn’t mind.”

  She laughed, and he swung her up to carry her to the bedroom—she was almost surprised to discover that she was eager for sex; it had been awhile since she’d felt like her old self, and it was past time to make it up to her better half.

  A very satisfying space of time later, she lay on her side, with her back cradled against his chest and the covers in disarray on the floor. “How long has it been since you’ve had a drink?”

  “A while,” he replied in a neutral tone, stroking her arms.

  “Good father.” She could feel him smile, and added, “You may be needin’ one; I ran into Cassie Masterson today.”

  He stopped his movements. “Oh? Was it contrived?”

  “No, I don’t think so. I was walkin’ into the animal shelter with Williams, and she was walkin’ out; she was genuinely surprised to see me.”

  “And?”

  “She said somethin’ about how I’d won, and she’d lost, and hoped there were no hard feelin’s. So I wished her well.”

  He chuckled, deep in his chest, and she admitted, “Williams had to hold me back.”

  “You could take her.”

  “Considerin’ you almost did, Michael.”

  “Unfair,” he said mildly.

  Turning over to face him, she ran her thumb across his chin, and he bent his head to kiss it. “You know, Michael, for an unemployed journalist, she was wearin’ a very expensive suit of clothes—looked very smart.”

  “Solonik’s money, no doubt. He was paying her a fortune to do the exposé about me.”

  She thought about this, fingering his ear so that he flinched away, because it tickled. “Do you think they were married, Masterson and Solonik?”

  He was surprised by the question. “No, Solonik never married.” He seemed certain, and he probably would be, having done a thorough search for potential blackmail material.

  “It’s just that I’m rememberin’ our lovely visit to Trestles, and how Masterson was lyin’ when she said she’d never married.”

  “I have married.” Acton leaned in to place his mouth against her throat.

  “I see where this is goin’,” she sighed, and settled in.

  16

  That night, Doyle had the dream. Again, the man was fortifying the door against the danger, whilst she observed from a small distance. “Thomas?” she asked tentatively, but the man did not respond.

  “Cherchez la femme.”

  With a start, she looked beside her, and saw Maguire, the newspaper reporter—only as he had been when she first met him; healthy and overweight and rumpled. Smiling, she greeted him. “I’m that glad to see you; fill me in on all this, my friend.”

  But he only shrugged in his cynical manner, and jerked his head toward the man at the door. “You’d better help him. It’s another containment murder.”

  Puzzled, Doyle looked toward the young man. “Oh? I don’t understand—what am I supposed to do?”

  She woke with a gasp, and sat up, gazing into the darkness. Acton rolled over and turned on the light, then propped himself up on an elbow to scrutinize her carefully. “Tell me.”

  She closed her eyes, and tried to describe what had happened, but didn’t mention that she wondered if the man might be Williams. That part, she decided hastily, didn’t seem important, and he hadn’t responded to Williams’ name, after all.

  He listened without comment, and so she asked, “What does that mean, Michael—cherchez la femme?”

  “Roughly, it means ‘Look to the woman.’”

  She knit her brow. “Is the danger female, then? Perhaps the prison matron?”

  Acton tilted his head, unable to commit to this theory. “Maguire was referring to you, when he said it.”

  “Oh.” Doyle had forgotten. “Am I the danger, then?”

  “Do you think—” he paused for a moment, as though reluctant to say, but then continued, “Do you think the man in danger is Howard?”

  This was not a bad guess; Doyle wasn’t certain who Howard was, when he’d come to visit them at Trestles a few months ago, she’d only known that he was some important Home Office official, and that Acton was investigating him for a sensitive political case. Howard was about to be quietly arrested, when Doyle had warned Acton that her instinct told her Howard was good and true, and that the evildoers were framing him up, so as to stop his investigation. She didn’t know what had happened since—Acton hadn’t mentioned him again until now—but it made sense that perhaps Howard was the target of a containment murder.

  “Not Howard,” she told him with regret. “I wish it were; then all would be clear.”

  He lay back down, and pulled her against him, reaching over to turn off the light. “Keep me posted, will you?”

  The next day at work, Doyle rang up Williams, resolute, but feeling a bit foolish.

  He answered, but it sounded like he was walking. “Hey.”

  “Hey yourself.”

  “Am I to discourage the contraband?”

  “No—but on pain of death, Thomas, no more than a small cup, every two days. This poor child will be born with the willies, else.”

  “Understood; when and where?”

  “I’m really callin’ about somethin’ else.” There was a pause, whilst she tried to decide how to raise the subject without sounding like a madwoman.

  He prompted her, “And that would be?”

  “How is your health?”

  He was surprised by the question, as well he should be. He
was diabetic, and didn’t like to talk about it.

  “My health is good. How is your health?”

  “Don’t change the subject, Thomas. I am—I am checkin’ to make sure you’re not bein’ careless.”

  “What is this about, Kath?” He was a remarkably patient man, truly.

  She chose her words slowly. “Do you need help in any way? From me, I mean?” She paused, but there was nothin’ for it. “D’you think anyone would be wantin’ to murder you?”

  She could hear echoing voices in the background; it sounded like he was in a hallway. “Have you taken up drinking, Kath? Because gestation is really not a good time.”

  “I don’t drink,” she reminded him crossly. “And I’m tryin’ to offer my help, here.”

  “I appreciate that.” She could tell he was trying not to laugh. “Is there something I should know? Are you in trouble again?”

  Stung, she replied hotly, “You make it sound like I’m always in trouble, Thomas. I’m not so very helpless, you know.”

  “I have to go; text me when you decide what we are talking about.”

  She rang off, thinking that didn’t go very well at all. She was reluctant to tell him about the dream, being as she’d already shaken him up once this week, and she truly wasn’t certain that the dream was about him, in the first place.

  Habib presented himself at the entry to her cubicle, holding a message receipt. “DS Doyle; I had a call from a potential witness, asking for you. Since you were speaking on the telephone, I took down his information.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Doyle, hoping he wasn’t listening to her conversation with Williams. No privacy at all, in the land of the cubicles. The name on the message was unfamiliar, and so she asked, “Any clue about what he wanted, sir?”

  “He wished to speak directly to you, and was reluctant to say anything further.” Habib attempted a joking manner. “It is indeed fortunate that DS Munoz is not here, or she would pre-empt you.” This in reference to the anonymous witness, who’d prompted the bridge-jumping incident.

  She’s a poacher, that one,” Doyle agreed, and then to avoid any further discussion of stupid Munoz, began ringing up the witness—Dr. Jeremy Harding, the message said. A receptionist answered the phone, and Doyle explained she was returning a call, and wasn’t certain why the doctor had contacted her. She didn’t like to state she was with the police, in case it was something the witness wanted kept quiet.

  After a moment, the doctor himself came on the line. “Ms. Doyle, thank you for returning my call. I must give you some information, and I would like to speak with you privately at your earliest convenience.”

  Doyle poised her pencil. “May I ask what this is regardin’?”

  “I’m afraid I cannot say over the phone.”

  This seemed a bit unlikely, unless he was afraid of being overheard. “Would you like to come by headquarters, and make a statement?”

  “No—I’m afraid not. I must stress it is a private matter.”

  Doyle’s antennae quivered; something was not right, and she was not about to go meet a witness willy-nilly—she’d learned a hard lesson at Greyfriars Bridge. After agreeing to come to Harding’s offices that afternoon, she rang off, and immediately texted Williams. “Ring me.” She would take no chances.

  Munoz came by, and paused to cross her arms on the top of Doyle’s cubicle wall. She was in an uncharacteristically benign mood, and full of news. “Remember that witness, Gerry Lestrade? The one that was baiting me at the community outreach?”

  No, thought Doyle, reading her aright. No, no, no, no.

  “I’m going out for coffee with him.”

  Thoroughly dismayed, Doyle swallowed, and knit her brow. “D’you truly think that’s wise, Munoz? He was a bit sketchy, as I recall.”

  But the beauty only examined her nails, unperturbed. “Not if he’s hanging about with a minister’s secretary, he isn’t. I thought I’d give him a chance—he keeps turning up.”

  Holy Mother of God, thought Doyle in abject horror; it wants only this. “Let’s go out to lunch, Munoz; we haven’t had a chance to stop traffic in a while.”

  “You can’t eat anything,” Munoz accused.

  “Not true: I can eat; and—and I think Williams wants to come.”

  Munoz gave her a skeptical look. “Williams wants to meet us for lunch?”

  If he doesn’t kill me first, thought Doyle. “Yes, indeed he does.” She decided Williams would appreciate safety in numbers, and added, “And I’ll see if the transfer from MI-5 wants to come; he seems nice enough.” After DC Samuels had met his untimely end, their numbers were depleted, and so the unit had taken a temporary transfer from counter-terrorism.

  “Don’t make it sound like I asked for him,” said Munoz, who encouraged only those victims she’d carefully vetted herself. She flipped her hair back and wandered off, saying over her shoulder, “Text me when you’re ready.”

  Doyle then called the transfer, Officer Gabriel, and invited him to join them at the pub, which was a short walk from the building. He seemed pleased to be included; hopefully he could help distract Munoz from her chosen course.

  As soon as she rang off, Williams called her. “I’m free; are we going to have another obscure conversation?”

  “No,” she replied crossly. “You are not appreciative enough. Instead I was wonderin’ if you could accompany me to a witness interview.” Doyle explained the call from Dr. Harding. “I don’t like it; I’ve had my fill of mysterious witnesses.”

  “Do you think it’s about the Wexton Prison case?”

  “Maybe. I’m just a bit uneasy; he doesn’t want to tell me anythin’ over the phone. He says it won’t take long.” She then added in an over-casual manner, “Oh, and we’re havin’ lunch with Munoz, at the pub.”

  There was an ominous silence.

  “I need to distract her, Thomas. She’s interested in someone completely unsuitable.”

  But he wasn’t buying it. “Not Munoz; she’s not going to waste her time on someone completely unsuitable.”

  “Please, Thomas; I promise I’ll slap her hand away, too.”

  “All right, but you’ll be busy.”

  She had to smile. “Truly? I’m a bit shocked, Thomas. Irresistible, is what you are; perhaps you shouldn’t work out so much.”

  “Sit between us,” he instructed, and rang off.

  17

  Doyle and Munoz went by Officer Gabriel’s desk to pick him up on the way to lunch. He was of mixed race; his mother was Persian, and his father English, and the result was rather attractive, with pale skin but dark, heavy eyebrows and dark eyes. He seemed very affable, and shook Munoz’s hand without any outward indication that he’d instantly become her slave, which was actually a bit disappointing, for a change.

  “I’m very pleased to meet you both; your fame precedes you.”

  “Never speak of it again,” Munoz directed in a curt tone.

  “Right, then,” he said easily. “A sore subject.”

  “Not that DS Munoz is being unfriendly,” Doyle hurriedly assured him, as the other girl headed down the hallway. “She’s just being modest.”

  “Good God,” threw Munoz over her shoulder.

  “She’s truly very nice,” whispered Doyle in an aside. “Pay no attention.”

  As they made their way out of the building, Munoz gave Doyle a sidelong glance. “I hope you don’t mind; Lizzie from the lab will be joining us.”

  On the other hand, perhaps there was no point in even pretending that Munoz was nice. She’d hinted in the past that Acton was on intimate terms with Lizzie, and no doubt had invited the other girl so as to stir up trouble. “That’s just grand,” said Doyle with a bright smile for Gabriel’s benefit. “The more, the merrier.”

  To her immense surprise, however, she discovered that Lizzie from the lab was the woman who had acted the role of her maidservant, when Doyle had visited Trestles on that never-to-be-forgotten occasion.

  “Lizzie
Mathis,” the young woman said, taking Doyle’s hand without a hint of recognition.

  “I am that pleased to meet you,” said Doyle in return, vowing to blister Acton at her earliest opportunity. Mathis was intelligent and reserved, and just the type of person her husband would enlist to assist him in his shadowy doings, but nonetheless it was a crackin’ annoyance that Doyle hadn’t been informed of the woman’s dual role.

  “How do you like forensics?” asked Gabriel with a show of interest. “I was tempted to go that route, myself.”

  “It is a very fluid field, right now,” the girl replied. “There are amazing advances on the horizon; ID by antibodies, or retinal scan, for example.”

  “Munoz is very interested in forensics, also,” Doyle informed Gabriel, who was unaccountably talking to the boring Mathis. “Aren’t you, Munoz?”

  But Munoz had been checking her mobile for messages, and was not paying attention. “New homicide,” she announced. “Victim is a nun. Who would kill a nun?”

  “A religious kook?” suggested Gabriel. “A religious kook with a grudge?”

  “She wasn’t wearing a habit at the time, though.” Munoz frowned as she thumbed through the preliminary report.

  Doyle asked, “Was she in the wrong place at the wrong time?” This was an unfortunate but all-too-often occurrence; tourists or other naïve souls would wander into dangerous territory, all unknowing.

  “I don’t know—if it’s in Drake’s jurisdiction, maybe I can get assigned.”

  “Have you worked with DCI Drake?” asked Gabriel. “I’m supposed to help out with his major crimes case load.”

  “Yes, I’ve worked with him,” Munoz replied in a diplomatic tone. “Just be sure you make him look good.”

  While the others all smiled, Doyle was reminded that Drake still had a cloud hanging over him, so to speak, and that she should have asked Maguire about it in her dream, while she’d had the chance. The problem was, she never felt as though she was a participant in the dreams—not really. It was more as though she was merely an observer—as though she was watching something unfold that didn’t concern her.