Murder in Containment: A Doyle and Acton Mystery

by Anne Cleeland

  “This is not about just you anymore—remember? And Acton has every reason to be worried, this is an ugly set of customers we’re dealing with.”

  But Doyle did not want to hear it, and retorted, “I’m not so very helpless, Thomas Williams.”

  “You don’t always think, Kath.” He ran a distracted hand through his hair.

  Mulishly, she looked out the window. “Thinkin’ is overrated.”

  “You are not this stupid; Christ, what am I going to do with you?”

  Incensed, she turned on him. “I’m not yours to do anythin’ with—somethin’ you keep forgettin’.”

  There was a sudden silence, whilst she felt the full force of his hurt feelings, and wanted to bite her stupid, red-headed tongue. Stricken, she faltered, “Mother a’ mercy, Thomas, but I’m an archwife. You—you mean the world to me.” She paused. “I beg your pardon fastin’.”

  He turned to start the car. “It’s all right, Kath, you’re right; it’s really none of my business.”

  Hard on the realization that he was right to be angry at her, and that she was a knocker, and that she’d hurt his wretched feelings, she dissolved into tears.

  Alarmed, he looked over at her, hunched and weeping into her hands. “Oh—oh hey, Kath; it’s OK, it’s nothing.” He pulled the car over again, and turned to place an awkward hand on her shoulder. “I’m the one who’s sorry; I shouldn’t have been so hard on you.”

  But Doyle was drowning in tears and remorse, and wouldn’t hear it. “I—I shouldn’t have come—you’re right. I saw Munoz goin’ out in the field and I—I couldn’t bear it.”

  “You are twice the detective she is.”

  This was not true, of course, but had the beneficial effect of putting a halt to the waterworks, as she hid a smile, and wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “I’m wretchedly sorry I snapped at you, Thomas. Of course my business is your business—” she paused delicately, “—well, most things, leastways.” With a sudden burst of clarity she added, “I’ve always been—well, I’ve always been a solitary soul, I suppose. I don’t know how to do this friendship business, and I shouldn’t be so abrupt with you, and so defensive.”

  “I understand, Kath. It can’t be easy for someone like you to have friends.”

  With another rush of guilt, she realized he’d never pursued the subject of her perceptive ability, even though he must have been dying to know more. She wiped her eyes again. “Whist, Thomas; everythin’ is a million times better since I met you. I’m sorry I hurt your feelin’s.”

  He bent his head, and contemplated the cracked leather seat. “You were right, though—I keep overstepping, when I promised you I wouldn’t. I want you to be happy, and even if that happiness doesn’t lie within my own power, it doesn’t change the fact that I want you to be happy.”

  “Oh—oh, you are so good.” She said it with all sincerity and wonder. “I wish I was.”

  Meeting her gaze with his own, he asked, “Are we all right?”

  “Or course we are. After Acton and this baby, you are a very close third—there’s hardly any daylight between you.”

  Smiling, he turned to start the car. “I can’t ask for more than that.”

  24

  Doyle’s mobile pinged, and she saw that it was Acton, calling her on his private line. “Michael,” she answered. “Are you tryin’ to keep track of your wayward wife?”

  “Not so wayward, as long as you are being careful. You’re with Williams?”

  “Yes, I begged him to take me with him, but I shouldn’t have, and I’m sorry if I worried you. We do have a good report, though.”

  “Are you all right?”

  Apparently she hadn’t been successful at trying to erase the recent crying jag from her voice. “I am indeed. We have a witness who will testify that the matron led the dead girl away, like a lamb to the slaughter. And that she thought the matron was a foreigner.”

  “Well done. Did we get a statement?”

  “We did. DI Williams here seemed to think we shouldn’t bring her in.”

  “No. In fact, we may have to put her in protective custody.”

  “Like me,” Doyle joked with a false sense of heartiness.

  But Doyle’s husband cut to the root of her unhappiness with no further ado. “I have an assignment for you—this afternoon, if at all possible. There’s a witness I’d like to you speak to—to see what there is to see. ”

  “Won’t be as good as this one,” Doyle cautioned. “This one brained her husband with a fire jack.”

  “Did she? I’d prefer that you didn’t take a page.”

  “I suppose that depends; who’s my interview?”

  “I’d like you to interview Moran’s widow.”

  Doyle leapt upon this plum assignment with all the fervor it deserved. “Oh—that is an excellent idea, Michael.”

  “She may not want to say much, even if she knows something.”

  Doyle could only agree. “I suppose I can’t just ask her outright if her esteemed late husband was runnin’ a sex slavery ring.”

  “I’d like you to keep this just between us, for now; don’t even mention it to Habib.”

  This was a twist, and Doyle ventured, “Are you worried Mrs. Moran’ll end up as another containment murder?”

  “There’s that, certainly. But a disposable mobile phone number was lifted from the pad of paper at the SOCO’s flat, and I’ve traced the purchase of the phone to Mrs. Moran.”

  “Mother a’ mercy,” Doyle breathed in surprise. “That’s a wrinkle—it all keeps comin’ back to the SOCO.”

  “Indeed.”

  “And her cat.” For heaven’s sake, thought Doyle in exasperation; why is it I can’t stop thinking about the stupid cat? “All right then, Michael, I’ll go speak to the grievin’ widow, and see what I can find out.”

  There was a small pause. “I have a lunch meeting in an hour, but shall I come fetch you first? We can pick up a jar of peanut butter.”

  Ah-ha, she thought; that’s what this call is all about. Aloud, she said, “No thank you, Michael—I owe Williams a lunch. He had to remind me that I’m too reckless, and I took umbage—”

  “Umbrage,” Williams corrected in the background.

  “—umbrage, and now I’m repentin’ like a prophet in ashes.”

  “All right,” Acton replied in a mild tone. “Don’t forget to check in with me.”

  “Will do. See you later.”

  She rang off, and as Williams drove, he hunched his shoulders in exasperation. “I wish you hadn’t mentioned our little—our little misunderstanding, Kath.”

  But Doyle only smiled out the window. “I had to, Thomas; Acton already knows about it. Don’t look, but he has a man shadowin’ me. He’s probably a white male in his early thirties—he’s had the assignment before. He’s supposed to be keepin’ me safe, so he must have reported to Acton that you were scoldin’, and I was cryin’.”

  Without moving his head, William’s eyes slid to his rear view mirror. “Why doesn’t Acton want you to know you’ve got a shadow?”

  “Because I had just had a temper tantrum about bein’ spied on, that’s why.”

  Williams took a deep, unhappy breath. “I look like an idiot.”

  “No, I’m the one who looks like an idiot. Just don’t wave your weapon at me, and all will be well.” Assuming a casual air, she admired the view out the window. Poor Acton; he’d been informed about the contretemps in the car, but couldn’t ask her outright what had happened. And it hadn’t helped matters that she’d flown the coop to begin with, but he loved her too much to give her a well-deserved scold. Williams had no such qualms—which was a good thing, actually; sometimes she needed a good bear-garden jawing, just to keep her in line.

  “What’s for lunch?”

  She looked over at him, amused. “You’re holdin’ me to it?”

  “It’s our cover, now. And anyway, I’m hungry. It’s exhausting work, trying to manage headstrong elderly ladies.”

/>   “As opposed to headstrong younger ones.” He smiled, and she took the opportunity to observe, “You know, Thomas, if all the detainees who witnessed this little incident were allowed to go home, instead of serve their sentences, it is starting to look like this corruption scandal involves some higher-ups, doesn’t it?”

  He said carefully, “I would not be surprised.”

  She didn’t press it, but hoped Acton’s plan—whatever it was—was a good one. She didn’t like to think about what would happen if he tried to nick a higher-up, and fell short.

  Williams decided on fish and chips, and so they stopped at an open-air stand near the embankment, as it wasn’t too cold to eat outside, and it would make matters easier for her shadow. Once seated on a bench, Doyle methodically spread peanut butter on Melba toast, and averted her eyes from the sight of Williams enthusiastically eating fried cod from a greasy newspaper.

  Between bites, Williams took a causal survey of their surroundings. “Have you twigged the shadow?”

  “Please don’t even try, Thomas. It could all get very awkward.”

  They ate in silence for a few moments, then he ventured, “Can you tell me more about the dreams?”

  Immediately, her instinct rose up, warning her not to speak of it, and so she said only, “It’s hard to understand, but the general gist is that the baby’s in danger.”

  He thought about this, as he applied another liberal dose of malt vinegar. “But not you? Just the baby?”

  “Yes—just the baby.” Now that she thought about it, it did seem a little strange, that in the dreams it seemed clear it was not her problem—but it was not as though you could separate one from the other.

  Williams asked, “Who is Acton’s heir, do you know? It must have been a shock, that Acton is suddenly starting a family. Who’s being cut out?”

  Although her companion was watching carefully for her reaction, this thought hadn’t even occurred to her, which only served as another example of why DI Williams was storming up through the ranks. “Acton’s heir is Sir Stephen, a cousin. As vile as the day is long.”

  He addressed his fried cod again. “That would be someone who has a grudge against the baby, but not against you.”

  “I suppose that’s true.” She decided not to mention to Williams that the danger was female—at least according to Maguire—and that the dowager Lady Acton hated Doyle with the heat of a million suns. I imagine Acton has already thought of this, she thought, and that’s another reason he’s fretting about it. No doubt the other Lady Acton has a shadow assigned to her, too.

  Williams’ mobile pinged, and after checking the ID, he spoke to Gabriel about arranging to meet his sister for her interview. He turned to Doyle. “Are you free after Marnie gets out of school today? Gabriel says they can meet you at the pub.”

  Doyle made a face.

  “Oh, sorry.” He spoke again to Gabriel. “Somewhere less nausea-inducing; how about the canteen at headquarters? Marnie can have a tour.”

  This agreed upon, he rang off, and Doyle complained, “Saints, Thomas; I thought I was done with tellin’ the sorry tale of leapin’ from the stupid bridge.”

  “Cheer up; you would be telling it every week at the community outreaches, if the DCS had his way. Although Munoz would probably kill him, if he tried to set up such a thing, so there’s that.”

  “I understand that Munoz’s been given an undercover assignment.” Doyle eyed him, and waited to see whether he’d give her any particulars, but he was by-the-book, was DI Williams.

  “Sorry, I can’t discuss it. Shall we head back? Your shadow must be getting hungry.”

  “Poor thing. I hope he’s gettin’ time-and-a-half.”

  Williams returned the vinegar bottle to the stand as they prepared to leave. “If I’m asked about this, what do I say?”

  “Tell the truth and shame the devil, Thomas, but I doubt you’ll be asked. How did you know I was wearin’ a vest, anyway? Were you lookin’ at somethin’ you oughtn’t?”

  He glinted a smile at her. “There is more to see, nowadays.”

  “That’s enough of your sauce, DI Williams; don’t give my shadow any grist for the mill. Now stay a good arm’s length away, keep your hands in plain sight, and let’s slowly get back into the car.”

  As they headed back to the Met, Doyle reluctantly decided that—with respect to Munoz and her new assignment—the fair Doyle would have to intervene; the fact that the girl was working undercover made Lestrade’s interest all the more ominous. She paused for a moment, trying to remember if ‘ominous’ meant what she thought it did, and decided that it did. It was past time she stopped being such a baby, and tried to be good for a change, like Williams was. Therefore, once back at her desk, she dug into the very back of her top drawer, where a plain card displayed an international telephone number, next to a hand sketch of a goat. After walking over to an empty cubicle, and taking a careful look over her shoulder, she rang up Philippe Savoie.

  25

  Savoie answered in his usual brusque manner. “Yes?”

  “Hallo,” Doyle ventured. “It’s me.”

  “Ah.” He was very much amused. “You have changed your mind, yes?”

  Savoie had suggested they have an affair, because—for reasons that were unclear— he was very fond of the fair Doyle. “No,” she said bluntly. “But I have to speak to you about somethin’ important.”

  “What is it?” He continued amused, as though he were enjoying himself hugely, which was a bit strange, as he was not someone who was easily amused. Perhaps he was drunk.

  “I can’t say until we meet.” Belatedly, it occurred to her that this may not be feasible. “Are you still in London?”

  “Yes, but I am very, very busy.”

  She had the impression he was teasing her, but she was in no mood to be teased. “It’s about your brother; the one who’s here in London.” A bit crossly, she emphasized, “It’s important, Philippe—don’t be jokin’ around.”

  “Bien sûr; we will meet. Not now, though.”

  Listening to the amusement in his voice, her scalp prickled, and she was so astonished that she nearly dropped the phone. She knew—in the way that she knew things—that Savoie was with Acton. Acton’s flippin’ lunch meeting was with Philippe flippin’ Savoie.

  “Hello? You are there?”

  With a monumental effort, she pulled herself together. “Yes—sorry. Are you available later today?” Tiresome, is what it was; the interviews were piling up, but she decided she could squeeze in an underworld kingpin, as long as it didn’t take too long—Savoie was not one for long conversations, anyway. “The usual place and time?” In the past, they’d met at the bookstore, a few blocks away from headquarters.

  “Bien.” He rang off.

  Slowly, Doyle replaced the receiver on the phone set, trying to make sense of it. Acton was meeting with Savoie, and he didn’t want her to know of it. Of course, Acton wouldn’t know that she was acquainted with Savoie, but it did seem ominous—second use of the word in ten minutes; a shame that it was needed yet again.

  Was Acton aligned with Savoie? From what she’d gleaned, Savoie was running a smuggling rig, using horse trailers that traveled between racecourses. Doyle was aware that her husband was also running illegal weapons, although she’d never discussed it with him. Were the two men involved in a common enterprise? One could only imagine the fallout, if it were discovered that the illustrious chief inspector was collaborating with the notorious Philippe Savoie—but surely Acton didn’t trust the Frenchman. On the other hand, perhaps Savoie was involved in the Wexton Prison case, and Acton was setting him up for an arrest.

  This thought gave her pause. Savoie was a rum character, but he’d saved her life, once, and they were friends, in a strange way. It’s that “friends” thing again, she thought with dismay—life was so much easier when I had no friends. Coming to a decision, she rose to her feet; she would meet with Savoie, and hopefully she wouldn’t muck up whatever plan Acton was h
atching—she’d be very careful.

  Doyle next wandered over to Munoz’s cubicle. “Munoz,” she said with an attempt at friendliness. “How goes the undercover business?”

  The other girl didn’t look up from her typing. “I shouldn’t have said anything—I thought you’d already know, through Acton. Obviously, he’s aware you’re a weak link.”

  “I am not a weak link, it’s only that Acton is very by-the-book on classified matters.” Doyle paused for a moment, hoping she wouldn’t be struck by lightning, as a result of such an out-and-out untruth.

  “I can’t talk about the case with you, so go away.”

  “No, it’s not that,” said Doyle, trying to keep a firm grip on her temper. “I’m needin’ some advice, is all. What if your husband had been involved in an illegal sex ring? Would you talk about it, or would you pretend you didn’t know?”

  Munoz immediately stopped typing, and smoothed her hair back. “Hold that thought, while I go track down Acton.”

  “It’s not Acton, with the sex ring,” Doyle said crossly. “Try to stay on-topic.”

  “Oh? Well, that’s a shame,” the other girl said with feigned regret. “It’s always the quiet ones who are amazing in bed.”

  “Whist, Munoz; may I remind you that we’re speakin’ of my husband, here?”

  “I thought we weren’t,” said Munoz, startled. “Good God, is he really operating a sex ring?”

  “No, he is definitely not. But I am interviewin’ a widow, and I’m afraid she’ll pretend she knows nothin’ of her late husband’s misdeeds, because it’s too embarrassin’ to admit she knew.”

  Leaning back into her chair, Munoz considered this. “I think you approach her as if you assume she didn’t know. She’ll have to pretend to be outraged, and want to help you in any way she can.”

  “I see,” said Doyle thoughtfully. “Box her into the virtuous corner.”

  “A very dull place, but I think she’ll have no choice.”

  As Munoz turned back to her keyboard, Doyle took the bull by the horns. “So—how is our Mr. Lestrade?”