Murder in Containment: A Doyle and Acton Mystery

by Anne Cleeland

  “Thanks be to God,” she said. “And to Morgan Percy, and her blessed peanut butter.”

  “Amen,” said Reynolds primly, making her laugh.

  After packing up his electronics, Acton headed out the door, reminding her to check in with him. “Don’t go anywhere without telling me, if you please.”

  “And Trenton,” she added.

  “And Trenton.” The door closed behind him.

  Reynolds came over to clear her plate. “Am I acquainted with Trenton, madam?”

  “He’s security, Reynolds. I’m truly not acquainted with him, myself.”

  “If you ever need an escort, madam, I stand at your service.”

  Reynolds was being territorial again, and so to change the subject, Doyle stretched her arms over her head, and announced. “The baby’s a boy, Reynolds, his name is Edward.” This said rather firmly, so that she’d get used to saying it aloud.

  The servant paused in his movements, and straightened up, as excited as he allowed himself to be. “An heir, then. My congratulations, madam—that is wonderful news.”

  “Not for Sir Stephen, it isn’t.” No need to explain who Sir Stephen was; Reynolds probably knew more about Acton’s lineage than Acton did.

  But Reynolds lifted his lip with a touch of scorn. “Sir Stephen is merely a second cousin, madam; and there is the cloud over his claim, in any event.”

  This was news, and Doyle stared at him in surprise. “What cloud is that?”

  The servant paused at the sink. “I shouldn’t gossip, madam.”

  “Recall, if you will, that the last time that you didn’t want to tell me somethin’, I ended up savin’ your life.”

  “Very true,” the man conceded as he absently polished the stovetop with the tail of his tea towel. “There is some question about the paternal line, from that branch.”

  With a knit brow, Doyle tried to puzzle out what was meant. “The grandfather who was mechanical—the one who helped repair the airplanes in the war—Sir Stephen’s grandfather was his brother, correct?”

  “It is unclear,” said Reynolds carefully, “whether Sir Stephen is legitimate.”

  “Oh. Oh—I suppose that is a cloud, Reynolds; small wonder he’s such a crackin’ blackheart. Well, thanks to Edward, it doesn’t matter anymore.”

  “Certainly not, madam.”

  Doyle looked at the clock, and decided there was no time like the present; hopefully Williams was not hip-deep in whatever skullduggery Acton and Savoie were hatching up—he certainly didn’t seem to be aware that Savoie had signed up on team Acton, and she was not going to be the one to tell him. She rang him up. “Hey.”

  “Hey, yourself.”

  “Are you free this mornin’ to go to the deli? I need to ask a monumental favor.”

  “All right, but in exchange I need a monumental favor.”

  “Done.” She was willing; she never got a chance to do a favor for Williams, and she owed him a million times over.

  “Contraband?”

  “Please; meet you there.”

  “I’m going to push back a meeting, but I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

  “No rush; I’m still at home.”

  He was instantly wary. “You’ll let Acton know you’re coming to meet me?”

  “You are such a baby, Thomas. Yes, I’ll let Acton know; I’ll come to no harm at the flippin’ deli, for the love o’ Mike.”

  “I’m not going to put myself in that situation again.”

  “You didn’t; it was all my wretched fault, and I’ve repented fastin’ to all concerned. I swear on all the holy relics that I will tell Acton we are meetin’ at the deli, but I will draw the line at confessin’ about the contraband.”

  “Right then; see you there.”

  When she arrived, Williams was already waiting at a table, a small cup of coffee at the ready. She slung down her rucksack, and was sipping from the cup before she even sat down. “Bless you; I am countin’ the days ʼtill I’m swillin’ down lattes again.”

  “Ladies first,” he said. “Name your favor.”

  But now that the moment was upon her, she hesitated, and fingered the cardboard cup. “You must promise you won’t think me mad.”

  “Can’t promise,” he said easily, “but I’m intrigued.”

  She took a breath. “I think somethin’ is wrong with Marnie.”

  There was a pause, while he regarded her. “Marnie Gabriel?”

  “Yes. I think she is sick, or has a disease, or somethin’.”

  “And why is that?”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  He had a good guess. “You know, you’re a little spooky.”

  She ignored the comment, and continued, “So I need to enlist your help. I can’t just call Gabriel, and tell him this fantastic tale.”

  “So I should?”

  “No, I was wonderin’ if you could tell him you are diabetic, and thought you recognized some symptoms; you could use that as an excuse to urge her to see a doctor.”

  He thought about it for a moment. “All right.”

  She reached across to touch his hand. “Thank you, Thomas. I know you hate to speak of it.”

  “No, it’s important. I hope she has nothing serious.”

  Doyle said only, “Don’t let up, until a doctor has seen her.”

  Soberly assessing her, he nodded. “I won’t; don’t worry.”

  Having gotten over that rough ground, she leaned back in relief, and cradled her cup between her hands. “Now then; name your favor.”

  “Tell me what Morgan Percy told Acton.”

  Dismayed, Doyle slowly sat upright again. “Oh—oh, I don’t know if I should, Thomas.”

  “Acton made no record.”

  She was incredulous. “You hacked into Acton’s laptop? Thomas, you’re the one who is mad.” Not to mention the last person to do such a thing was dead.

  “I’d like to know,” he insisted, his gaze unwavering.

  A bargain is a bargain, she thought with resignation, and so she told him.

  He listened, and tried to control his reaction, but she knew he was very upset. “So, she is a whore.”

  “You will watch your language, my friend. She was young and stupid—I’ll give you that.” Best not mention that the wages of sin seemed to have turned up a trump for Miss Percy.

  “You’d never have done such a thing.”

  She drew a long breath, wishing everything weren’t so complicated. “Recall that I was raised by nuns, and a mother who’d learned a very hard lesson. It’s different for most girls, nowadays.”

  “Then it shouldn’t be. It’s not so hard to make the right choices.”

  Doyle thought about her adventure with Savoie, and how he’d offered his help in exchange for sex. It was true; she couldn’t do it, but she said slowly, “Listen, Thomas, if that was the only way to save Acton, or this baby—or even your fine self, I wouldn’t hesitate.”

  “But you wouldn’t to save yourself from a just punishment; don’t even pretend you would.”

  She had no response. “I’m sorry,” she said gently.

  He contemplated his hands on the table for a moment. “Right. I’ll go ring up Gabriel.”

  “Not just yet; I know who Drake’s second murder was—why Maguire decided to come after him.”

  Fortunately, this turned his thoughts away from Percy-the-jezebel, and his gaze flew to hers. “You do? Who?”

  Leaning forward, she said in a low voice, “One of the vigilante murders was a young woman named Bennet—the murder at the Heath, remember?”

  “An outlier.” Williams nodded slowly. “Different from the others, because she was a female victim, and not killed in a park. Why didn’t that occur to us?”

  She didn’t mention that Maguire was also surprised that this hadn’t occurred to them, but then again, it was true that she’d been distracted at the time, worried that Acton was having an affair with Cassie Masterson. “I don’t know—it seems obvious now, with h
indsight.” Doyle refrained from mentioning what they were both probably thinking—that she’d be very much surprised if it hadn’t occurred to Acton. Instead, she said, “Drake saw the main chance, and committed a shadow murder, whilst we were investigatin’ Maguire. I imagine it was a containment murder of his own; the victim’s mother said she was the violently jealous type, and unable to control herself. He couldn’t take the chance that she’d grass on him.”

  “So now what?” Williams’s gaze rested on her, wary. If Acton wanted to let this particular sleeping dog lie, DI Williams was not going to countermand him.

  “I’ll mention it to Acton, and see what he says. I can’t just do nothin’, Thomas, and look the other way.”

  Williams chose his words carefully. “Murder isn’t always murder, Kath. There may be a greater good at work, here.”

  But Doyle was not having it, as she gathered up her rucksack. “There’s no such thing as an honorable murder, my friend.”

  Williams didn’t bother to make an argument, being as they did not share the same philosophy on this subject. That her husband tended to side with Williams was a bit daunting, but nevertheless, Doyle felt she had to make a push to uphold law and order, like they were all supposedly sworn to do.

  Williams fell into step beside her, and asked with some constraint, “Did Acton say anything about our little problem in the car yesterday?”

  Poor man; he wasn’t one to like coming off looking so badly. “As a matter of fact, he did. Acton was amazed you didn’t give me the back o’ your hand, bein’ as I was so very deservin’ of it.”

  But Williams was not amused. “Not a laughing matter, Kath.”

  Reminded, she stopped short. “I do have a laughin’ matter to attend to; I have to go visit the SOCO’s stupid cat.”

  Williams glanced at her in surprise. “I’m sure he’s doing fine.”

  “Yes, he’s lucky he’s not a person, else he’d be dead, instead of just laughin’ at me. Can you drive me, or should I enlist my shadow to take me over there?”

  Quickly, Williams checked his messages. “I’ll go, but it’s got to be fast.”

  This was nothing more than what she’d expected; Williams was as territorial as Reynolds, in his own way. “That’s grand, Thomas. Let me text Acton, so there are no further misunderstandin’s; I wouldn’t want to be caught in the crossfire.”

  “Not funny, Kath,” he repeated heavily, and pulled out his keys.

  32

  The building manager had been warned they were coming, and so when Doyle and Williams arrived at his door he ushered them in, and asked in his slightly nervous manner, “Have you arrested the murderer yet? The tenants are still a bit on end.”

  “Small blame to them,” Doyle replied. “It’s like someone opened the fourth seal, around here.”

  “Has anyone shown an unusual interest in the crimes, or asked about the woman from the council?” Williams was on a deadline, and didn’t want to make small talk.

  The manager thought about this carefully. “The tenants have been asking about it—and Mrs. Addersley’s nephew, of course.”

  “I meant, anyone who seemed out-of-the-ordinary; who was unusually interested,” said Williams, who was truly a patient man.

  “No, sir.” The manager shook his head. “And no one else has died, since you came last.” He seemed rather pleased to make this report.

  “And how is the cat?” asked Doyle. “Do you still have him?”

  Oh, yes,” the young man nodded. “He likes to sleep in his cat tower—I put it in my bedroom.” He smiled, and indicated the closed door. “Sometimes he jumps on me, when I come into the room, just to give me a fright.”

  “Of course he does,” said Doyle, who had taken her measure of the wretched beast. “Would you mind if I looked in on him?”

  With a touch of alarm, the man asked, “You’ll not be wanting to have him back, now?”

  “Definitely not. But I just wanted to have a look-in, for old time’s sake.”

  After apologizing for the unkempt state of his bedroom, the manager opened the door to reveal the cat tower, taking up a great deal of the available space in the small room. Nestled within one of the carpeted caves near the top, the SOCO’s cat stared at them with an unblinking golden gaze.

  Tentatively, so as to stay well out-of-reach, Doyle ran a finger along the edge of the platform closest to her, her antennae quivering like a tuning fork. “I think we need to search this tower, sir.”

  Williams pointed out, “I’m sure the EO has already gone over it, Sergeant.”

  “Not for forensics; I meant we should search it for a hidin’ place.” Keeping a wary eye on the cat, she began to press along the underside of one of the platforms with more and more confidence. “I think—I think that the SOCO may have hidden somethin’ in this cat tower.”

  On request, the manager coaxed the cat out of its nest, and then stroked it against his thin chest, as Doyle and Williams carefully probed the carpeting that lined the cat tower.

  “Here,” said Williams suddenly. “Here’s something.”

  He worked his fingers under a seam in the carpet that lined the cat’s cave, and carefully extracted a small plastic sleeve.

  “That’s it,” breathed Doyle in excitement. “The SOCO’s photographs.”

  They retreated to the kitchen, where Doyle waited in a fever of impatience whilst Williams donned latex gloves, and carefully pulled out the contents of the sleeve, laying out three photographic prints along the counter. Oddly enough, they appeared to have been taken in a cloisters somewhere—the type of columned walkway that lined a church’s inner courtyard. Framed within the slim columns were depictions of people meeting in a shadowed corner—each print a different group, with the time and date automatically stamped on the prints. The photos appeared to have been taken from a distance, and so the darkened figures were a bit undefined. Judging from their posture and bent heads, it was apparent the participants did not wish to be observed, and the photos were only snapped when one or more were briefly visible between the columns.

  “There’s Moran,” said Williams, indicating the first photo with a finger. “The dates must be wrong, though; the second man is the Minister of Immigration—the one who killed himself.”

  Craning her neck, Doyle peered over his shoulder. “Who’s the third man?” There were four men, who appeared to be in close conversation.

  “Barayev.” With a gloved finger, Williams indicated Solonik’s former brother-in-law, now dead by Acton’s hand.

  Doyle moved around him to lean closer. “Oh; I didn’t recognize him without his face blown off. Who’s the fourth man?”

  “I don’t know.”

  They moved to the second photo. “Look—there’s the matron, d’you see? And the same unknown fourth man, again.”

  “It’s a month later, if the date can be believed,” Williams observed, noting the date stamp. “Barayev and Moran would have died in the meantime.”

  “Why, there’s Mrs. Addersley’s nephew,” said the building manager. He stepped forward to point to a figure in the third photo. “Fancy that.”

  There was a moment of silence. The third photo featured the same unknown man, the matron, and Mrs. Addersley’s erstwhile nephew, who appeared to be handing an envelope over to the matron. Only it wasn’t her nephew at all, it was DCI Drake. And worse yet, the matron appeared to be looking directly at the SOCO’s camera, with an arrested expression.

  Grimly, Williams pulled out his mobile. “I’ll get DCI Acton over here.”

  “No, wait.” Doyle put a hand on his arm. “The SOCO didn’t put any of this on an electronic device, so let’s assume she had good reason. “Let me ring him instead, and I’ll ask if he can meet me for lunch.”

  Williams saw the wisdom of this, and as he was emphatically instructing the manager to stay silent about their find, Doyle rang up Acton. “Hallo, Michael, are you free for lunch?”

  “I am booked, I’m afraid. We’ve brought in the pr
ison’s medical examiner for questioning.”

  As the unknown man in the photos could very well be the self-same medical examiner, she hurriedly improvised, “Well that’s a shame. I was hopin’ to share a bowl of cereal, with you and Williams.”

  As “cereal” was their code word for sex, this pronouncement was met with a moment’s silence. “I can spare you a half-hour, if you’re willing to meet me here, but I can’t hold the detainee much longer.”

  “Done. See you in twenty minutes.”

  As she and Williams drove over to the Met, Doyle tried to make sense of it. “The matron must have twigged the SOCO, tracked her down to her building, copied a key, and laid in wait to kill her. Then she disposed of the darkroom—and any prints that were there—and then was forced to commit a couple of containment murders, because Mrs. Addersley and Mr. Huse knew too much.”

  But Williams pointed out the flaw in this reasoning. “That doesn’t make a lot of sense, Kath. If the matron wanted to scotch any investigation, why didn’t she dispose of the SOCO’s body? Presumably she disposed of Mrs. Addersleys’ body, after all.”

  Doyle frowned out the window, stymied. “Faith—that’s exactly what Acton said, too. Maybe she couldn’t carry the corpse out at the time?”

  “I doubt it; it looks as though she had a lot of help to draw from,” he observed in a grim tone. He glanced over at her. “Your friend Savoie came to London in this same time frame, and I’ll bet anything he’s involved in this too, Kath.”

  Rapidly sorting through what she should and should not tell Williams, she finally gave it up, and simply said, “Savoie is helpin’ Acton on this, Thomas, but Acton doesn’t want me to know. Unless you know that, already, and I’m the only one who supposedly doesn’t know.”

  He thought about this, and she had the impression that he truly hadn’t known of Savoie’s involvement. “How do you know this?”

  Nothin’ for it. “Savoie told me, himself.”

  But DI Williams had apparently learned his lesson, and showed remarkable restraint in not commencing to beat her about the head and shoulders. “I see. And you trust him?” This said with an edge of incredulity.