Murder in Containment: A Doyle and Acton Mystery

by Anne Cleeland

  Wishing she had something to do, she pulled her mobile, but there were no new messages. She was tempted to turn on the telly, but decided she didn’t want to be treated to the sight of the press all agog, whilst they interviewed Acton about another shocking death in custody—may as well find out what was going on straight from the source. She texted him, “Call when u have a mo. Just curious.”

  With gratifying promptness, he rang her up within the minute, and she asked, “How goes it? Did Zao confess, or is there no need?”

  “We’re almost done, but there may not be much of a case, here.”

  Doyle quirked her mouth to express her private lack of surprise, but asked with all sincerity, “Oh? How is that?”

  “The two were meeting in the briefing room, and it appears the solicitor smuggled in a tincture of hydrogen cyanide to put in Zao’s coffee. Instead, the tincture wound up in the solicitor’s coffee, so by all appearances, it may have been death by accidental switch.”

  “And the briefin’ room is the one place where there’s no CCTV.”

  “No,” he agreed, with all appearance of regret. “There cannot be; we are not allowed to listen in on attorney-client conversations.”

  Doyle noted that her husband had couched his words so that she couldn’t spot a lie, but decided there was little point in calling him out. “Will you be home soon?”

  “Another hour, perhaps.”

  It was just as well, she thought as she rang off; she needed some time to decide how best to handle her wayward husband’s latest excursion into vigilante justice. The problem was, she could reason with him until she was blue in the face, and it probably wouldn’t make a dent. He was a force unto himself, was Acton, and when he thought his methods might upset her, he simply didn’t let her know what was afoot.

  In a pensive mood, she wandered into the kitchen to behold Reynolds, bent over the counter, and studying a list.

  “Do you remember, madam, how many courses were served at Trestles?”

  “Reynolds,” she warned in an ominous tone. “If you serve me a fish, I swear on all the holy relics I will swing it by the tail, and knock you down.”

  “Just so,” he said, and crossed an item off the list.

  With a sigh, she reined in her temper, and offered, “I know it’s the first dinner party you’re to handle for us, but I promise you it needn’t be fancy—and Acton would never notice, anyway.”

  The servant looked up. “I must disagree, madam. There is little that Lord Acton does not notice.”

  She met his gaze for a moment, unable to refute this irrefutable fact. “Well then; he’ll be pleased, as long as I am pleased.”

  As this was another irrefutable fact, the servant conceded the point with a nod. “We’ll have a cover of soup, then, and the hens. Very simple.”

  “Perhaps a fruit pie for dessert?” This actually sounded rather good to her.

  Reynolds offered smoothly, “A fruit compote, instead. Or perhaps a torte.”

  “I don’t know what that means, Reynolds, but I’m partial to fruit pies, nowadays—the ones they sell at the convenience store; I think the crust is made with lots of lard.”

  There was the tiniest pause, whilst the servant hid his abject horror. “Very good, madam.”

  “You’ll see,” she teased. “Next we’ll be havin’ black puddin’, with a full measure o’ pig’s blood.”

  “I quite look forward to it.” The servant spoke this untruth without turning a hair, and Doyle smiled to herself, as she poured out a glass of milk.

  When Acton came home, she covertly assessed his mood, and decided that—although he emanated a sense of satisfaction—he was also a bit preoccupied. He was almost constantly on his mobile, even during dinner, and it didn’t sound as though he was necessarily talking to CID personnel, because he did a great deal more listening than speaking.

  After Reynolds left for home, Acton retreated to his desk, and Doyle stayed out of his way, lying on the sofa with her own laptop and pretending to work, even though she had precious little to do. Instead, she idly watched him, as he studied his computer screen with an unreadable expression. He had an amazing capacity to handle a complicated caseload and, as Reynolds had noted, no detail would go unnoticed. A genius, she thought with pride—despite the occasional and troubling shirking of the law. I, on the other hand, am no genius, but he loves me regardless, being as he is a bit nicked.

  She was tired; she didn’t have the stamina she used to, what with this whole being-in-the-family-way business. Drowsy, she turned her face into the sofa back, and thought she could feel Mary moving—now that she knew what it felt like. She’d let Acton feel again, when he was ready to take a break.

  She didn’t realize she’d fallen asleep, until she began having the dream again. “Tiresome, is what this is,” she said in the dream. “It’s always the same thing, and I’m not understandin’ it.”

  “Keep trying,” Maguire replied. “It’s important.”

  She watched the man barricading the door. “Who’s on the other side? It’s not the matron; instead, it’s someone we know.”

  But Maguire only pronounced, “Some are dead, and some are not.”

  Doyle looked at him in exasperation. “That’s not breakin’ news, my friend.”

  “Oh yes, it is.”

  “You’re no help whatsoever, is what you are,” she retorted crossly. “The wretched press has done me no favors.”

  “I made you the bridge-jumper.” Maguire countered. “And then your husband did me a favor, in his inimitable way.”

  As Doyle felt it might be bad form to take a swing at a ghost, she decided to ignore him, and instead marshaled all of her energy to take a step toward the man at the door. Striving mightily to focus, she asked, “What is it—can you tell me? Who is on the other side?”

  The man did not respond, but straightened up to turn and face her. Holy Mother of God, she thought in complete astonishment; you’re not Williams at all.

  She woke, and leapt to her feet with a gasp, focusing with some difficulty on the room and on Acton, who had also leapt up from his desk, to come to her.

  “It’s all right, Kathleen; it’s all right.”

  “Tá sé ina buachaill—”

  Taking her in his arms, he said in a calming tone, “English, Kathleen; I can’t understand you.”

  With a monumental effort, she gathered her scattered wits, her chest heaving. “We won’t be needin’ an ultrasound, Michael; ʼtis a boy—ʼtis a boy, an’ he’s paarfect. He’s paarfect, wi’ chestnut hair, an’ me mather’s eyes.” She bent her head, and began to weep into his chest. “He’s—he’s so beautiful, Michael. But he needs help.”

  “You will be wearing a vest, starting tomorrow,” said Acton.

  21

  Doyle held a coffee cup between her hands, as she’d decided that the circumstances warranted a bit of well-brewed comfort. Acton was seated across from her, knee to knee, and between them, they were trying to make sense of her dream.

  “Do you think it’s significant that it’s Maguire?” he asked.

  She contemplated her cup. “Yes, I do. What does ‘inimitable’ mean?”

  He paused, surprised by the non sequitur. “It means unique; in a class of its own.”

  When she made no response, he leaned in to look at her lowered face, and prompted, “Who said ‘inimitable,’ Kathleen?”

  “Maguire.” She drew a breath. “He seems to think you killed him, Michael.”

  Now it was Acton’s turn to make no response, and so she filled in the silence. “But he said you did him a favor. He wanted to die, I think, and knew you’d do the deed.” She paused. “He knew you better than most.”

  “Kathleen—”

  She lifted her face to his. “Were you tryin’ to cover for Drake? Did you know why Maguire wanted to murder him, then?”

  She could see that he was trying to decide whether to be honest with her, and was relieved to see that apparently, honesty won. “I could
guess.”

  She ventured, “It has to do with this corruption-and-sex-slavery case, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes. Although—” he paused for a moment. “Although I believe Drake may have been an unwitting participant.”

  There was a small silence, whilst she struggled yet again with keeping her composure in the face of her husband’s proclivity to go about killing people. He rarely opened up to her on this subject; rarely spoke of his shadowy activities, and so she wanted to stay level and calm, so as to keep this fragile conversation going. “So it was suicide-by-cop; Maguire knew he’d wind up as yet another death in custody.”

  “A containment death,” he corrected her. “Unfortunate, but necessary.”

  She met his eyes, thinking about this. “Which scandal had to be contained? Drake’s? Or were you afraid Maguire would reveal too much about—about your methods?”

  He shook his head. “No; after what happened to Masterson, Maguire changed his mind about going public with any exposé about me.”

  “And I think he rather admired you,” she added slowly. It was not surprising, truly; when you thought about it, Maguire and Acton had a lot in common. “And he liked me, too—he still does.” She glanced up at him, genuinely curious. “Why was Maguire so certain that you’d do him in, if he went after Drake?”

  Acton bent his head, and fingered her hands for a moment. “What would be the result, if the particulars of this corruption case came to light?”

  She retorted without hesitation, “A passel of blacklegs would be packed off to prison, and a good riddance.”

  He shook his head slightly. “I meant the larger picture—what would happen to the Crown Court?”

  She hadn’t thought about this, and ventured, “I suppose all the questionable acquittals and soft sentences would be set aside, and all the suspects would have to be re-tried. They’d have to sort out the genuine results from the invalid results.”

  “But at what cost?”

  Honestly, thought Doyle; it’s as though he’s the teacher and I’m the not-very-bright student. She thought about it some more. “The public would be horrified; everyone would think the system is crooked. The immigrant community would be up in arms.”

  “And?”

  “And I don’t know, Michael. Tell me.”

  He lifted his head to meet her gaze. “Every criminal case prosecuted during the past five years—ten?—would be the subject of an inquiry put forward by the defense. Those who were convicted would claim it was because they refused to sleep with any official you care to name—and they would be all too pleased to name names.”

  “Saints and holy angels,” she breathed. “I see.”

  “Best left alone,” he concluded mildly, as though they were discussing the weather.

  Doyle, however, could not like this summary decision. “But who are we to shield the system from the consequences, Michael? Perhaps it would be best to expose this vile plot to the light of day, come what may. ”

  “No,” he said with certainty. “It wouldn’t.”

  “I worry about you, Michael,” she continued softly. “Maguire, Zao’s solicitor—and Solonik, I imagine. You canno’ go on like this.”

  He dropped his gaze to her hands again, and she could feel him withdraw into himself. “I’d rather not discuss it, I’m afraid.”

  She leaned in, and persisted in a gentle tone, “D’you notice that I always manage to find out about it, despite your best efforts? And at the same time, I’m the only one in the world who might convince you to think twice? I don’t think that’s a coincidence, Michael—we both know I’m not that smart.”

  He raised his gaze to hers, but made no response, and she couldn’t tell what he was thinking. He hadn’t withdrawn his hands, though, so she carefully concluded, “Just think on it, please; it seems to me that some of these messages—or whatever they are—are not necessarily meant for me.” Truth to tell, this was not the first time she’d had this unsettling thought; that perhaps her husband hadn’t fallen for her at first sight—that instead, he’d been steered to her so that he could, in turn, be steered. It was a bit disheartening, so she didn’t like to think about it.

  “I will consider what you’ve said, Kathleen.” This was true, but didn’t mean much, and his tone held an underlying finality that told her the subject was closed. She was ashamed of herself for being relieved; she may be the only person who could force him to stop, but it was not in her nature to make demands. Besides, the ghosts at Trestles seemed to approve of his methods—although they were a bloody-minded group, to begin with.

  He continued, “Is there anything else that Maguire said—can you remember?”

  She nodded. “He did say somethin’—although it doesn’t seem very helpful. He said, ‘Some are dead, and some are not.’”

  This seemed to catch her husband’s attention, and he frowned, thinking it over. “What could it mean, do you have any ideas?”

  “No,” she confessed. “I told him that it didn’t make any sense, but he seemed to think that it did.” She paused, and then tried to explain, “It’s very hard to have a sensible conversation; it’s as though words aren’t the preferred method of communication—instead it’s all sounds and impressions.” She gritted her teeth, and fought off the panicked feeling that always reared up. She knew—in the way that she knew things—that she was never supposed to discuss with anyone what it felt like to be a human tuning fork.

  Leaning back, Acton crossed his arms, and drew his brows together. “So perhaps someone we believe dead is not.”

  She looked up. “Is Solonik dead—are we certain?”

  His eyes were steady upon hers. “Definitely. Why?”

  She contemplated her cup again. “That’s what leapt to mind, I suppose. You said he was an expert at diggin’ up blackmail, and this whole scheme seems to be based on a ruthless brand of blackmail—oh,” she exclaimed, startled. “That’s it—I knew it was about somethin’ more important than money, and that’s what’s more important than money—reputation. One’s good name is more important than money, which is the whole point of paying blackmail.”

  Acton lifted his chin slightly to disagree. “I would think it is about power. If the victims are exposed, they will be forced to give up their positions of power.”

  But Doyle could not concur. “I don’t know, Michael—I don’t think Mr. Moran was drinkin’ himself to death worryin’ about power. Reputation still matters to some people.” She gazed out the windows for a moment. “I need to find out what happened to Mr. Moran; I think it’s important, for some reason. Remember, Morgan Percy was lyin’ when she said his death wasn’t unusual.”

  He nodded. “And we should consider the possibility that Maguire meant that someone is dead whom we believe alive.”

  “Like the real Mrs. Addersley? But we already know she’s dead.”

  His gaze rested on her. “We are not yet certain Mrs. Addersley is dead.”

  “Oh, she’s dead, poor thing,” Doyle confirmed absently. “I also need to find out what the SOCO discovered; I think that’s the key to this puzzle.”

  He leaned forward to take her hand in his. “You must promise to check with me, before you do any more fieldwork on this case.”

  She gave him a look. “Then give me another assignment, Michael.”

  He ducked his chin in concession. “Fair enough; I’ll give you an assignment tomorrow, after I see where we are on these cases.”

  “And don’t give me busy-work,” she warned. “There’s something here—it’s just out of reach. The SOCO, and Moran—and the prison matron, who’s not who everyone thinks she is.”

  “Think about it tomorrow, please; tonight let’s get you into bed.”

  With a smile, she took the hand that held hers, and pressed it against her abdomen. “Not Mary after all, Michael. Are you disappointed?”

  “I’ll come around.”

  She moved his hand to the side, trying to remember where the movement was. “We’ll need
another name; can’t be callin’ the poor boyo ‘Mary’.”

  “Edward,” he said. “Edward John.”

  “Oh.” There was a small pause, then she added diplomatically, “Do you like that name?”

  “My grandfather.”

  “The one from the Battle of Britain?” Acton’s grandfather—two Lord Actons ago—had been a self-taught mechanic, helping the Royal Air Force during World War II.

  “Yes.”

  Doyle was conflicted; if anyone had ever told her she would have a son with such an English-sounding name, she would have laughed in their face. She ventured, “What was your father’s name?”

  “No.” the syllable was abrupt and vehement.

  All right then, she thought—don’t talk about his mysterious father, who disappeared many years ago; mental note. “Was ‘John’ your grandfather’s middle name?”

  “No; I thought we would honor Father John.”

  She smiled with delight; Father John was Doyle’s priest, and was giving Acton instruction in Roman Catholicism. “He’ll be over the moon, Michael—what a lovely idea.” She paused, and then said firmly, so as to get used to it, “Edward.” Edward obligingly gave the tiniest twitch, and they looked up in surprise to smile at each other. “We are so clever,” she pronounced.

  22

  Her rucksack on her shoulder, Munoz paused at Doyle’s cubicle entryway. “So; Holmes finally hauled off and belted you?”

  “No,” said Doyle, who was running a set of unbelievably boring statistics. “Holmes is not a belter.”

  “So what happened?”

  Doyle paused. “An accident. I’d rather not discuss it.” Let Munoz draw whatever lurid conclusion she liked; she was being tiresome—gloating, and full of herself. Acton had not yet come through with the promised new assignment, and the only reason Munoz had stuck her head in was to impress the lowly Doyle with her own importance. As a counter-tactic, Doyle refused to ask where the other girl was headed, since it seemed clear she was on the way to some interesting crime scene. I am going to go mad, Doyle thought, if I’m to watch Munoz solve all the interesting cases, whilst I bide my time at a desk, wearing a flippin’ vest and not even having a flippin’ latte to drown my sorrows. That morning she’d asked Habib for a new assignment, but Habib had only looked self-conscious, and given her a quarterly statistics sheet to run. It was clear that Acton had issued an order or two on the sly, and that the fair Doyle was to be kept in check.