Williams obligingly holstered his gun, stepped to the doctor and—grasping his shirtfront—knocked him out with one blow. The man fell into a heap on the plush rug, and Williams stood over him, looking as though he hoped that a second dose would be needed.
Doyle was already calling Acton on his private line.
“Kathleen.”
“Michael, it’s a long story, but your psychiatrist was tryin’ to frame you for somethin’. I’ve said he assaulted me—even though he didn’t—and Williams has knocked him out.” She paused. “We’ll need the protocol.”
Acton didn’t miss a beat. “Cuff him, and bring him in, please; read him the caution and follow procedure, but don’t call this in. I’ll meet you in the utility garage. ”
“Right.” She rang off. “We’re to cuff him and bring him in. Acton’ll meet us in the garage.”
Williams pulled a pair of flex cuffs from his belt loop, and bent to secure the suspect, as Doyle returned her weapon to her ankle holster. No point in attempting an explanation for her illegal weapon; it was a stand-off, as Williams had one, too.
Pulling the cuffs tight, he glanced over at her. “Exactly what happened here?”
She hesitated. “I’m not sure I can say, Thomas. It’s that divided loyalties thing again.”
“Understood.” He straightened up. “Your lip is bleeding.”
She dabbed at it with her wrist. “Self-inflicted; I had to make it look like an attack.”
The doctor began to moan and recover consciousness, and Williams hauled him roughly to his feet. The dazed man was then paraded past the horrified receptionist and the next patient in the waiting room. “He won’t be back today,” Doyle announced unnecessarily. “He’ll be all tied up.”
19
Acton was waiting in the parking garage, and approached the unmarked as they pulled in. There were security cameras in the garage, but no sound recording, and so he took Doyle by the elbow, and turned so they weren’t facing the camera. “Let’s have a report.”
In a quick, whispering monotone she related, “He was giving me some warnin’ under the law that you were a danger to me. He was lyin’; it was a set-up. I pretended he’d assaulted me, to gain some leverage.”
“Did he do that to your lip?”
The question was asked in a conversational tone, but Doyle had much experience with her husband’s conversational tone, and so was quick to respond. “No; strictly self-inflicted.”
He gave her a quick, assessing glance, and directed, “Go to my office, please, and stay there until I come for you. I may send ERU to take some photos of you.”
Doyle admitted, “I’d rather not bear false witness, Michael.”
“It won’t come to that.” He then turned, and said to Williams and the doctor, “Come along, now.”
“I insist on speaking to a solicitor, sir.” Despite his brave words, Harding was a bit white around the mouth.
“We shall see,” said Acton in a mild tone, and gestured for Williams to follow him.
Following instructions, Doyle went upstairs to Acton’s office, trying to keep calm and trust her husband, even though this latest turn of events was nothing short of alarming. She knew that her first instinct was the correct one—someone had put the psychiatrist up to it, as he hadn’t believed what he was saying. It was all rather ironic, actually; someone was trying to make it appear as though Acton was a dangerous character when in fact, Acton was a dangerous character—something the instigator of this little plot would no doubt soon find out.
When Doyle arrived at his office, Acton’s assistant was waiting for her, discreetly hiding her avid curiosity. After explaining that someone from forensics would be along shortly, the girl quietly shut the office door behind Doyle with a last, sidelong glance. She’s probably hoping my bleeding lip was the result of Acton giving me the back of his hand, Doyle thought; Acton’s assistant was yet another workplace hazard.
To pass the time, she wandered over to her husband’s desk, and noted with a smile that he had a new photograph of her. She was in three-quarter profile, her hair in a braid and blowing a bit, her cheeks flushed—the flag of Ireland, her mother used to say. Trestles? It looked like it was taken the morning Acton had given her a riding lesson at his estate. She picked up the photo, and fingered it fondly. The knocker was always taking snaps of her with his mobile; once it had nearly gotten her killed.
There was a tap at the door, and Doyle cautiously approached and asked who it was.
“Mathis, ma’am,” the answer came. “I’m here to collect evidence.”
Just crackin’ grand, thought Doyle, and opened the door.
Mathis stepped inside, scrutinizing Doyle’s swollen lip. “Ouch.”
“Yes,” agreed Doyle. “Ouch. I was that surprised to see you here, Mathis.”
“I’m called into Trestles to help out on occasion,” the girl answered evenly, and Doyle surmised this meant she acted as Acton’s eyes and ears, when he wanted to keep tabs on his scheming mother and heir; Acton’s assorted relatives were yet another cause for alarm in what seemed like an unending list.
Although Mathis carried an evidence kit and envelope, she made no attempt to recover evidence—which was a relief to Doyle, as there was none to collect. Instead, the two girls sat across from each other, saying nothing. I feel like Alice, after she’d gone through the looking-glass, thought Doyle. “Do you need me to make a statement, or anythin’?”
Mathis smiled in a reassuring manner. “No—not unless we hear word.”
Annoyed that the other girl knew more about her husband’s plan than she did, Doyle bit back a retort, and instead idly checked the messages on her mobile. She then decided she was being childish, and so put the mobile away, and set about trying to draw Mathis out in conversation. It was heavy going, as the girl didn’t particularly like Doyle, and it was clear she would have been quite content to sit in silence. During the course of the labored conversation, Doyle noted that Williams’ name came up more than once. Ah, thought Doyle; perhaps he is irresistible, after all.
They could finally hear Acton’s voice outside, speaking with his assistant, and then he came through the door, his gaze on Doyle. “Are you all right?”
“Right as rain,” she replied cheerfully, although it hurt her lip to smile.
“Thank you,” he said to Mathis. “We won’t require a report.”
“Yes, sir.” The girl rose, and left with no further ado.
“I would have liked a little warnin’,” said Doyle with a significant look at the door, as soon as it clicked shut. “It gave me quite a turn when she popped up, like a jack-o’-the-clock.”
He took her hands in his, and bent his head. “I asked her to keep an eye on you, and I knew you’d not appreciate it.”
This was not surprising; Mathis had been given the same task at Trestles. “You should have told me,” she insisted. “Otherwise—” she tried to explain why she was so annoyed. “Otherwise it makes me think you trust her more than you trust me—that she’s on the inside, and I’m on the outside.”
He met her gaze, startled. “Is she disrespectful to you?”
Doyle sighed, and reluctantly clambered off her high horse. “No—no, of course not. I don’t like to be taken unawares, is all.”
Gently, he pulled her into his arms, and rested his chin on her head. “Can you humor me in this?”
Of course she could; one of the hallmarks of this tangle of related cases was the threatening of female relatives. If Acton was in the process of exposing the plot, it was entirely possible the villains would go after the fair Doyle, so as to keep him in line. “Resting her cheek against his lapel, she assured him, “I’ll take no chances, Michael. I’m bein’ very careful—you should have seen how fast I was wavin’ my fine weapon at the wicked doctor.”
“That was quick thinking.”
She smiled in relief—sometimes he was unhappy with her for behaving recklessly, without consulting him first. “There was nothin�
�� for it; I thought drastic measures were needed, with no time lost.” She leaned back to look up at him. “What did he say?”
“He is terrified he’ll lose his license and his wife; it didn’t take much persuasion to have him tell his tale.”
“And what’s the tale, then?”
“He says he was offered money to give you the statutory warning; he claims he was informed there was a valid concern.”
Doyle made a derisive sound. “No, he knew better.” She fingered his lapel. “Can you use him as the bait, in a trap and seizure?”
“It does not appear so; Harding was to have no further contact.” He paused. “Did you mention to anyone that I’d sought therapy?”
“Of course not, Michael.” Someone obviously knew, though, and was using it against him. Of course, Acton was a recognizable figure in London, and anyone may have seen him going in and out—the shrieking receptionist, for example, may have been unable to resist mentioning it to her mates. But the whole thing made little sense, when you thought about it. “What was the point of this little morality play? Were they tryin’ to smear you? Or did they think I’d believe such a warnin’, and flee from you in horror?”
But he was thinking along other lines, and said slowly, “I am wondering if you should start wearing a vest.”
She blinked. A Kevlar vest was bulletproof; the latest models were lighter and easier to wear, but she was a small person, and it wouldn’t be comfortable. On the other hand, if it meant her husband would be less inclined to appoint annoying babysitters to watch over her, she’d do it gladly, and never count the cost.
“Just as a precaution.”
She eyed him, but as he offered nothing further, she asked the obvious. “So—d’you think this ploy was aimed at me? That I’m the one who’s in some sort of danger?”
He leaned back to meet her eyes, intent. “Do you?”
This, of course, was the more pertinent question, and so she dutifully plumbed the depths of her feelings on the subject. “I don’t think so—I didn’t get that feelin’, at the time. But I never get any warnin’s anyway; I didn’t get a warnin’ with Owens, or Caroline—or Greyfriars Bridge.” Which certainly seemed unfair, when you thought about it. She caught a wave of deep unhappiness from her husband, and mentally chided herself for bringing up all the assorted and sundry attempts on her life; he was a pig’s whisper away from locking her up in a tower, and she shouldn’t be reminding him that she was a bundle of bad luck.
He pointed out, “You are getting warnings now, though.”
She knit her brow. “The dreams? I suppose, but mainly I feel like I’m as thick as a plank, and not understandin’ whatever it is I’m supposed to be understandin’.” She paused. “But I do know something; remember my dream at Trestles, when I said there was a woman who is not English, but everyone thinks she is?”
“I do.”
“I think she’s the cherchez la femme in all of this.”
He ducked his chin and ran his hands along her arms. “We’ve run a thorough background check on the prison matron, and by all appearances she is English.”
Doyle considered this. “Well, I’m not sure if that’s who was meant, but she seems a likely candidate, what with her scrubbin’ of crime scenes, and then goin’ to ground. Munoz was in the field, checkin’ in with the matron’s neighbors, so she may have somethin’ to report.” The mention of Munoz brought to mind yet another crisis, and Doyle closed her eyes and rested her forehead against his shirtfront. “I have to tell you somethin’ that you’ll not be thankin’ me for.”
“Kathleen,” he gently chided. “You should never be afraid to tell me anything, remember?”
A bit late for that, she thought, and soldiered on. “Remember that night when Samuels died, and the—the passer-by was there, the one who wanted to take my snap?”
“The one you said was affiliated with Philippe Savoie?”
She smiled into his chest. Trust Acton to make this easy for her; he’d never asked how she knew such a thing, and he didn’t ask now. “Yes; the very same. It seems—” she took a breath. “His name is Gerry Lestrade, and it seems he’s makin’ a run at Munoz. I’m uneasy, because he’s in thick with a minister’s secretary from the Home Office.”
If he was surprised by this revelation, he hid it well. “I will look into it. Please don’t worry.”
Immeasurably relieved to have gotten over that rough ground so lightly, she quickly changed the subject. “Are we goin’ home, or do you have work to do?”
She could feel him turn his wrist to look at his watch. “I should stay to make some calls; I’m behind schedule, thanks to the good doctor.”
“This only supports my theory, Michael, that doctors are a waste of time.”
“You have an appointment in two days; have you been eating?”
She could have bitten her tongue for bringing up the subject—she was indeed as thick as a plank. Equivocating, she replied, “I had some peanut butter on toast, at lunch.”
“You were sick at lunch.”
After a silent moment, she stepped out of his embrace, and met his gaze with a chilly one of her own. “And how would you be knowin’ that, if I may be askin’?”
She could see him pause, realizing she was annoyed. “Mathis,” he confessed.
Doyle had already known it was Mathis; Williams would never grass on her, and the others had no contact with Acton. She tried to control her temper, but was only moderately successful. “I don’t appreciate bein’ spied on.”
“My fault,” he said immediately. “I should not have asked her.”
With dawning anger, Doyle remembered the seemingly artless questions about Williams. “And my relationship with Williams is none of her business.”
“Forgive me, Kathleen; I will speak with her.”
But Doyle knew this would only make things worse. “No—she’d only think I’m a baby, and she’d be right. Instead I’ll have your promise that you will not discuss me with her from here on out.”
“You have it.” His mobile pinged, and despite the fact they were in the midst of a rare argument, immediately, he drew it to answer. “Acton.”
Oh-oh, she thought in dawning realization; he was stalling here with me, waiting for this call. Now what?
“Right; I’ll be straight down.” He rang off, and announced, “Zao has killed his solicitor.”
Doyle stared in astonishment, as she watched him walk over to hoist his field kit. “Zao? I thought Zao was in custody.”
“He is. The death occurred in Detention.”
“Mother a’ mercy,” she breathed. “Another death in custody. What’s my assignment?”
“You’re to go home, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, Michael—”
“I’m afraid that’s an order, Kathleen.” To take the sting out, he kissed her forehead before heading for the door. “I’ll ask my assistant to call the driving service.”
20
On the ride home, Doyle was harboring some very disquieting thoughts. Acton had predicted from the get-go that the solicitor was going to get himself killed. Acton had also given Zao some sort of veiled assurance in his interview, an assurance that made the suspect buck his solicitor’s advice, and enter a guilty plea. Then there was the strange delay in announcing the plea, whilst rumors swirled that Zao was about to name names—it was almost as though they were encouraging an assassination attempt on Zao. But instead of Zao’s getting himself killed, he’d killed his nasty solicitor, and probably with immense satisfaction, if he’d been under the thumb of these hateful people.
She closed her eyes, briefly, and conceded that it had Acton’s fingerprints all over it. Acton was a master at turning the tables, and now the vile threateners—who were openly abusing the system, so as to keep everyone in line—had a fine taste of their own medicine. A victim of the scheme had been allowed to take his revenge, a revenge that was in full view of everyone who watched, so that a message was sent to the villains and to the vic
tims alike. Small wonder that Acton had predicted with such confidence that the solicitor would be killed; he’d been arranging for it himself.
Which brought up another disquieting thought; out of the clear blue, Acton had mentioned Solonik’s death during Zao’s interview, but it hadn’t been out of the blue, not really—Acton never said anything out of the blue. Apparently Solonik’s death could be laid at Acton’s door, and everyone in London’s underworld knew this. Acton had been reassuring Zao that he’d take care of him.
Michael, Michael, she thought; what am I going to do with you? Just when I think we’re getting over all the commandments-breaking, you go out and break a few more.
As the town car pulled into the security garage, she decided that there was nothin’ for it; she’d have to try to reason with him. He loved her, and she should try to influence him as best she could, and even though it hadn’t seemed to work out very well thus far, she should keep trying.
Upon her entry into the flat, Reynolds expressed his dismay at the sight of Doyle’s swollen lip. “Acton finally got sick o’ my sauce, and clipped me,” she confessed.
The servant did not deem this comment worthy of a response. “Can you eat, madam?”
Privately, Doyle couldn’t wait for the glorious day when no one cared anymore. “I’ll wait a bit, if you don’t mind.”
“What would you like to serve for dinner tomorrow, madam?” asked Reynolds. Timothy and Nanda were coming over.
“I know what I’ll be havin’,” groused Doyle, who continued out-of-sorts.
“Lord Acton never seems to indicate a preference,” the servant mused.
With a mighty effort, Doyle shook off her sulks, and suggested, “Cornish game hens? I know his mother served them, at Trestles.”
Reynolds immediately plucked up. “Is that so? Can you remember how they were dressed, madam?”
Doyle stared at him for a moment. “Well, they had those funny little paper things on their legs.”
Reynolds solemnly bowed his head, but Doyle knew he was wanting to laugh out loud, which made her annoyed all over again, since he was the one who’d asked the absurd question, not her.
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