“No. But recall—recall that I know it’s the truth.”
Thus reminded, he ran a distracted hand through his hair. “Don’t tell anyone about that, Kath—you shouldn’t have told even me.”
A bit stung, Doyle retorted, “I had to let you know about Percy, Thomas. And we still don’t know exactly how she’s involved in all this.”
“She’s cooperating.”
Doyle decided she’d rather not know exactly how matters were progressing betwixt the two; Williams certainly wasn’t in need of advice, and she wasn’t exactly sure what she wanted to say to him, anyways. She rather liked Percy, but didn’t want to add her to the growing list of friends-who-complicate-the-fair-Doyle’s-life.
On the way upstairs, they grabbed some prepackaged sandwiches, so as to support their story, and then met in Acton’s office, where he firmly closed the door behind them.
“We found the photos in the SOCO’s cat tower,” Doyle announced without preamble. “We didn’t want to say over the phone.” Unlikely that he thought she was truly suggesting a threesome with Williams, but she wanted to make it clear, straightaway, that such was not the case.
Williams was already carefully taking the photos out of the sleeve, and holding them by the edges, but Acton casually reached to take them. “No need to worry about forensics; the only prints will be hers, after all.”
Doyle watched her husband carefully review the photos, one at a time, and although his expression did not change, she could sense that he was immensely surprised. She ventured, “We recognized Moran, and Barayev, and the immigration minister—and Drake, of course, but we didn’t know who the other man was.”
Acton dropped the photos onto his desk. “The other man is Judge Colcombe.”
“Judge Colcombe?” Doyle paused in confusion. “Williams was right, then; the time-stamp dates must be wrong, because Judge Colcombe died, years ago. And the immigration minister killed himself last year.”
But Acton only leaned back against the desk, crossing his arms, as he contemplated the floor for a moment. “I think it more likely the dates are correct.”
33
Acton’s remark was met with silence, until Williams ventured, “Colcombe’s death was a hoax? Is that what you are thinking, sir?”
With a tilt of his head, Acton indicated the photos. “There is nothing of interest, otherwise; nothing incriminating—it could be friends meeting after church, after all. Instead, the SOCO was careful to date-stamp, and to keep the evidence away from the internet, or even a professional developer; she thought it was that white-hot.” He paused. “It seems the only explanation.”
With a growing sense of wonderment, Doyle quoted Maguire. “Some are dead, and some are not.”
“So it would seem,” said Acton.
But Williams did not have the benefit of Maguire’s pronouncements, and was lost. “I don’t understand; how can such a thing happen? Surely their deaths were verified?”
Acton met his eyes. “By whom?”
“The coroner,” breathed Doyle. “Holy Mother of God, Dr. Hsu must be involved in the corruption scheme.” It was something that was drilled into them at the Crime Academy; once a person died, the remains were under the jurisdiction of the coroner, and only the coroner could release a body to the family, or determine whether further investigation was needed. The coroner’s position was a powerful one, and he could countermand even the DCS, if he wished.
Thoughtfully, Acton checked his watch, then gathered up the photos, to slide them into his inner breast pocket. “I imagine this solves the puzzle of why the SOCO’s body was left to be discovered; it was a warning to the coroner. The SOCO may have already approached Dr. Hsu with her suspicions.”
“Are we certain she’s dead?” Williams asked.
“Yes—Acton and I both saw her in the morgue.” Doyle frowned slightly, still trying to come to grips with such an audacious scheme. “Faith, he’s a cool customer, is our coroner. Not a flicker of awareness.”
“I imagine he is not a willing participant, if the SOCO’s body was meant as a warning,” Acton pointed out. “He is no doubt being threatened in some way, as his cooperation is crucial to the scheme.”
“So, when it comes right down to it, they’re launderin’ people, in the same way that money is laundered,” Doyle concluded. “Signin’ off on death certificates, so that the dead could re-emerge with a new identity.”
Acton nodded. “And I imagine it was something similar when it came to the immigrants who were drawn in; no doubt they were promised new identities.”
“Now what, sir?” asked Williams. This was a good question, and Doyle waited to hear how Acton planned to go forward; it was as yet unclear how far up the scheme reached.
But her husband only checked his watch again, and stood. “At present, I have an interview. Kathleen, I would appreciate it if you would accompany me to observe from the gallery.”
“Right, then,” said Doyle with as much wifely supportiveness as she could muster.
Acton turned to Williams. “And I would like you to—quietly—research everything you can find about Barayev’s late wife, and get it to me in two hours.”
Although Williams simply nodded, Doyle was not following, and looked from one to the other in confusion. “Barayev’s dead wife? I don’t understand, Michael; wasn’t Barayev married to Solonik’s sister, before she died?”
“Yes, although she may not actually be dead.”
Williams spoke into the charged silence. “The prison matron is Solonik’s sister?”
“I shouldn’t be surprised,” said Acton, and indicated to Doyle that they should go.
As they walked down the hallway, Doyle tried to match his strides, and was silent for a moment, trying to take it all in—it seemed so incredible. “I suppose this would explain why I kept thinkin’ that Solonik was still involved in all this.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “I imagine Solonik’s sister has been working behind the scenes at the prison, and then stepped into a larger role, when her husband and her brother were both killed.”
“Chershay the fem.” That wasn’t right, but it was close enough.
“Indeed.”
Doyle tried to tamp down a feeling of grave alarm. “Saints, Michael, you killed her menfolk; she can’t be very happy with you.”
“Nor I with her,” he replied.
He subsided into deep thought, and so she respected his mood, and stayed quiet—no easy feat, as she always tended to gabble when she was worried. If the matron was actually Solonik’s sister, this would explain why Doyle had the impression that the fake Mrs. Addersley knew who she was, and heartily disliked her——the woman would be no fan of the House of Acton.
Just before they parted in the hallway, Acton caught her elbow, and bent his head. “I needn’t remind you to say nothing of this—to anyone.”
“I won’t, Michael. I’ll text you, if he says anythin’ of interest.”
“Thank you,” he said, and walked away, still preoccupied.
Doyle entered the gallery to see that Munoz was already there, watching through the glass, and so she made an attempt at unconcerned breeziness. “Ho, Munoz; what brings you here?”
“Drake wants me to listen in.”
This was not welcome news, and Doyle’s breeziness disappeared. “Well, I don’t know why it’s so very necessary, Munoz—it’s all bein’ recorded, after all.”
“Why are you here, then?”
Very much on her dignity, Doyle settled into her chair. “I’m on this case.”
Munoz’s sharp dark eyes slid to hers. “No, you’re not.”
This was, of course, a fair point, and so Doyle retreated to being cross. “Acton wanted me to lend a hand.”
“Oh—did he really?”
The words were heavy with irony, and the girl’s speculative gaze continued to rest on Doyle, who was suddenly aware that Munoz was in a foul mood. “And what’s that supposed to mean, if I may be askin’?”
; The girl shrugged, and with a flip of her hair, turned back to observe the figures seated at the interview table. “Only that I’ve heard some rumors.”
If I strangled her, Doyle thought, there’s not a jury in the world who would convict me. “What sort of rumors? That Acton doesn’t work here anymore?”
The other girl slid her another glance. “Only that’s he’s none too pleased with you, right now.”
This was so unexpected, that Doyle could only stare; the words were true, which meant there was indeed such a rumor floating around. “Faith, Munoz; who’d be sayin’ such a thing?”
But Munoz only lifted a shoulder, as they watched the prison’s medical examiner come in with his solicitor.
Perplexed, Doyle continued, “And how is it you’re not makin’ a smart remark about stealin’ Acton away from me? Are you not feelin’ well?”
“You’re welcome to him. I’ve given up on men.”
Reminded of the girl’s star-crossed situation, Doyle felt a twinge of guilt—Munoz was so very unhappy. “Oh; oh I see—things did not work out with Gerry, then?”
“I’m not going to discuss it.”
“Discuss what?” Gabriel pulled up a chair behind them.
“Poor Munoz needs a bit of cheerin’ up,” Doyle suggested brightly, hoping that Gabriel’s live-in girlfriend was just a rumor—there were untrue rumors flying about, apparently.
“I’m sorry to hear it,” he offered, resting his arms on his knees, so that his head was bent close to Munoz’s. “Be happy to go for a pint, if you’d like to talk about it.”
Doyle stared at him, as it was not true—he wouldn’t be happy to share a pint with Munoz—and she was reminded that Gabriel was here undercover, to investigate Drake. If he wanted to prime Munoz for information, it did not bode well for the other girl’s career—Munoz had done some favors for Drake, on the quiet. In a panic, Doyle chirped, “That’s grand; I should come along, too.”
“Avoiding Acton?” asked Munoz with a knowing look.
“There is nothin’ wrong with my marriage,” Doyle retorted hotly.
Gabriel looked from one to the other in confusion. “Sorry—did I misstep?”
“Shh,” both girls responded, as Acton came into the interview. Doyle, however, was having problems settling down to concentrate; Munoz had been sent by Drake to listen in—because he was obviously worried about what would be revealed—and Gabriel could only be here because he was aware that Drake was involved in this mess. But Acton wanted to keep Drake out of it because—as unlikely as it seemed—the other DCI was secretly passing envelopes of money to the villains by mistake, or something.
Doyle closed her eyes for a moment, and took a deep breath. Faith, she needed to calm herself down; it was not as though Acton was going to start waving the incriminating photographs around, for heaven’s sake.
Acton took the SOCO’s photographs out of his breast pocket, and laid them down on the table before the detainee.
Doyle closed her eyes again, and recalled her job at the fish market with a great deal of fondness.
“May I see these?” asked the solicitor, lifting out of his chair, and craning to see.
But Acton’s gaze rested on the prison medical examiner, who was reviewing the photos with undisguised horror. “Where is she?” Acton asked softly. “Either I get to her first, or you will be the next containment murder.”
“I say; you can’t threaten my client,” blustered the solicitor.
“She’s—she’s staying somewhere to the north of here—” The witness held his head in his hands for a moment, desperate to remember. “I heard them say, once.”
“Stop,” commanded the solicitor, holding up an alarmed hand to his client. “Don’t tell him anything, not until we’ve been given immunity—”
“There’s not enough time,” Acton interrupted, his gaze never leaving the detainee. “We are now in the process of rounding up everyone. It would be a shame if you were all in the same holding cell.”
“Meryton,” the man blurted, raising his head. “I think that’s the place.”
“Mother a’ mercy,” breathed Doyle, watching with acute dismay.
“What is it?” asked Gabriel, like a hound to the point.
“Nothin’,” she managed, but it wasn’t nothing; Meryton was the nearest town to Trestles, and if the matron had gone to ground at Trestles, matters were about to get very dicey indeed.
34
Acton began issuing orders to the CID staff—to keep the prison Medical Examiner in protective custody, and to put out an All Ports Warning for the former Judge Colcombe. Doyle couldn’t help but notice that Drake and the coroner were both missing from the list of suspects to be hauled in, but kept her lip buttoned, because Gabriel and Munoz were still hanging about, and she didn’t want to interfere with her husband’s plan, whatever that plan might be. Knowing her husband, it was no doubt something that would turn her red hair grey.
Acton then paused to check his messages, and looked up. “DS Munoz, please pick up a parolee living in Earl’s Court; we already have her statement, but we’ll need a recorded interview—DI Williams has the particulars. She will also require protective custody.”
“Yes, sir,” said Munoz, turning to go.
“I’d like to have a look at the pertinent autopsy records. DS Doyle, would you accompany me, please?”
Doyle nodded; this seemed to be an excuse to go and confront the coroner, which was probably why Acton wanted the truth-detector to come along, but Gabriel moved toward them, and spoke up in a deferential manner. “May I come along, sir?”
No, no, no, thought Doyle, just as Acton replied, “Certainly.”
Following Acton, Doyle and Gabriel marched down the stairs to the morgue, their footsteps echoing off the walls, and Acton swiped his security card so as to enter the restricted area.
Dr. Hsu was bent over a corpse, dictating a report, and straightened up in surprise, on seeing his unexpected visitors.
“Tell me about DI Chiu,” Acton demanded, as he approached to stand on the other side of the autopsy table. “Quickly.”
Doyle tried not to look as confused as the coroner, which was no small feat.
“I—I don’t understand,” the man faltered, his gloved hands still poised above the corpse. “What do you mean?”
Acton moved his head in an impatient gesture. “The CID is moving in on Judge Colcombe and the others; if you are cooperating under a threat of some sort, I should like to hear the particulars.”
The man’s immediate reaction was to make a panicked lunge across at Acton with his scalpel, causing Acton to jump back, narrowly avoiding the arc of the blade. The man then attempted a desperate dash toward the emergency door, but Acton came around to block him, his hands held out to either side in a placating gesture.
With wary steps, the coroner circled away from Acton to the other side of the autopsy table, still brandishing the scalpel. After an astonished moment, Doyle crouched to retrieve her weapon from her ankle holster, but Acton ordered, “Stand down,” and held out a cautioning hand to Doyle and Gabriel. With a glance, Doyle noted that Gabriel had already drawn a weapon, and was aiming it squarely at the coroner’s head.
The usually unflappable coroner was sweating, and emanating waves of despair, and Doyle could sense he was on the verge of turning the knife on himself. “No; no, please,” she blurted out.
Acton slowly began to approach the doctor, his hands still held out to either side. “It is Chiu, isn’t it?” he asked, as though there was nothing unusual taking place. “They’ve already abused her once; it was why she was AWOL, a month ago.”
The coroner licked his lips, and continued to back away from Acton, circling around the autopsy table, whilst Doyle and Gabriel stood frozen, awaiting an order.
“I can have her brought in, but we’ve got to move quickly. She can no longer work here, but at least she will be safe.”
The coroner paused at this, and Doyle held her breath. After a s
ilent moment, the man lowered the scalpel slightly. “No one can know.”
“They won’t,” Acton agreed. “I will see to it.”
With a frown, Hsu added, “And she must keep her pension.”
For the love of Mike, thought Doyle; just give over, for heaven’s sake. Poor Acton—God only knows where that scalpel’s been.
“She will.”
The coroner took a faltering breath, and gestured with the scalpel. “Call her, now.”
Everyone stood in place, while Acton made the call to DI Chiu, asking her to immediately return to headquarters, and await him in his office. She was not to leave for any reason without his say-so, and she was not to report her whereabouts.
As he sheathed his mobile, Acton addressed the coroner in a brisk tone. “You must put down the scalpel, doctor. Assaulting an officer is a felony, and I’m only willing to overlook the first one.” He then took a firm step toward the man, but the ccoroner raised the blade in warning, and stepped back in turn.
The fluorescent lights glinted off the sheen of perspiration on the Chinese man’s forehead as he faltered, “For what I have done—I do not deserve to live; but I have your promise—I have your promise you will protect DI Chiu.”
Aware that the distraught man was working up the nerve to do himself in, Doyle pleaded, “Please; please don’t do this, Dr. Hsu.”
“I—I do not deserve to live,” the man repeated, and focused, for a moment, on the blade.
“Nonsense,” said Acton. “You were instrumental in bringing the scheme to light. You took information from the SOCO, and then reported it to me.”
Miserable, the man raised his eyes again. “No. That is not true; I let that poor woman die, because I am a coward.”
If it were possible, Acton’s voice became several degrees more stern. “But no one is ever going to know about that, because now you owe me a favor.”
Good one, thought Doyle, as the man stilled for a moment, thinking this over. Turn it into something he understands; a debt of honor.
Acton continued, “You will continue doing your work, say nothing, and refer all inquiries on this matter to me.”
Murder in Containment: A Doyle and Acton Mystery Page 20
