And then she was up, and laughing, and giving him a sly glance about the contraband coffee, and he thought: I am a lucky man. It’s only that Acton is luckier, and that can’t be helped, it’s just fate.
When Acton took him out for a walk, he knew what was coming; they hadn’t discussed it in a while, and the circumstances on the ground had definitely changed.
“I hope you are not too disappointed,” Acton said, half-humorously. “The contingency plan is on hold.”
He smiled in return. “Of course I’m not disappointed; this is the best of all possible outcomes—an uncontested heir. My own claim would have been equivocal, at best.”
They were silent for a moment, as they waited for a pedestrian to pass by, and then Acton continued, “On the contrary, I made certain that your claim would ultimately prevail. There are documents in the archives at Trestles that support you, and Hudson, my steward, would have testified about your supposed branch of the family tree.”
He nodded, unsurprised that Acton would go to such lengths. “Good to know, sir, but fortunately it is all moot, now.”
“It may not be. It is entirely possible that the succession was the reason for the attack.”
In fact, this had already occurred to him, as the attack had happened just after Kath’s pregnancy was made public. “Someone wanted to destroy your heir, and then in due course, destroy you, knowing you are unlikely to remarry.”
“Yes. If that was indeed the motivation, it may be helpful to make your own claim public. On the other hand, your claim relies on the element of surprise—and having the matter set before the right committee judge. If you bring it too early, there is a chance your story may be discredited.”
He nodded, thinking about this. “I’ll do whatever is most likely to keep Lady Acton safe.”
“Good; I would ask that you step down from the CID.”
He’d not been expecting this, and looked over at Acton in surprise. “Step down, sir? I don’t understand; how would that help?”
They walked a few paces before Acton answered. “Another theory would be that the attack was to prevent any further investigation into the corruption scandal. I know too much for certain people to be comfortable.”
“Have you been warned-off?”
“Not as yet. But the detective chief superintendent is involved; he used me to try to frame a Home Office official, who’d caught wind of the scandal. Now that I’ve backed off that arrest, the DCS must be aware that I am suspicious.”
Here was another unpleasant surprise, and he ran his hand through his hair in disbelief. “Christ, the DCS himself is implicated? Are you certain, sir?”
“I am.”
There was a pause, while he considered this daunting problem. “Is the situation salvageable? Or will he need to be eliminated?”
“We shall see. And you should be aware that Philippe Savoie has infiltrated the ring at my request; he’ll be given immunity, once the dust settles.”
This was unwelcome news, and he asked cautiously, “Can you trust Savoie?” He distrusted the Frenchman with good reason; Acton did not know that Savoie had a thing for Kath.
“In this, yes. He has his own interests in the matter.”
This probably meant that Savoie would be allowed to continue the smuggling rig that Solonik had tried to cut in on. It was none of his business, but he hoped that Acton knew what he was doing; it seemed like a volatile mixture of allegiances, to him.
They walked a few moments in silence, and he ventured, “I’m not clear on why I should step down; I thought the long-term plan was to establish me in a policy-making position.”
Acton put his hands in his coat pockets, and raised his gaze to the trees for a moment. “Ours is a dangerous job, and we are making some powerful enemies. I would not be surprised—” here he paused for a moment. “I would not be surprised if someone was attempting to take a vengeance, against me.”
But this seemed implausible, and he allowed his skepticism to show. “Vengeance? Do you really think so, sir? This shooter’s such an amateur, leaving evidence everywhere. And shooting your wife through a stained glass window in broad daylight—it can’t be a career criminal, and who else would be seeking vengeance? The succession theory makes more sense to me.”
“All true. Under either theory, however, I am the ultimate target, and so we must create a protocol in the event he achieves his aim.”
He waited, not certain what was meant. A protocol in the event Acton was murdered?
“If I am killed, you must marry Kathleen.” He said it matter-of-factly, as though they were discussing the weather.
Floored yet again, he struggled with a response. “I will help her in any way I can, of course, but you must know that she’s not one to be talked into such a thing.”
This remark seemed to amuse Acton for some reason, but he continued, “Then you may have to be persistent; it would be the best for her child, after all. You will make known your own claim to the estate, and—if it comes to a court battle over the guardianship of the child—the court would look with favor on such a symmetrical solution.” He paused. “There is a great deal of money at stake.”
He made a movement of protest, but Acton ignored it. “You must see that I have no other solution. My wife. . . despite all appearances, my wife is a timid creature, and I fear she would not be willing to fight the battles that would need to be fought. I would appreciate it if you would set my mind at ease.”
He felt he should state the obvious. “I hope I never have to console her for such a loss, sir.” He meant it sincerely; she would be in agony, and wouldn’t be over it quickly.
“Nevertheless, I would like to have a protocol in place, in the event of such a contingency.” He gave him a glance. “You must keep her away from Savoie.”
So much for having to warn him. “So you want me to step down from the CID, so as to protect me.”
Acton glanced at him in sympathy. “Yes. I know it would not be your choice, but I hate to think what would become of her—and the child—if we were both taken out.”
But he couldn’t like this idea. “My work is important—our work is important; and not just to me. And Kath—Lady Acton will not willingly quit the Met; you must know that as well as I do. I think we should continue with the original plan.”
Acton considered this, as they walked for a few paces. “All right, then. But at the very least, you must pull off the Wexton Prison case, and keep well-away from any fallout.”
“Agreed.” He had a sneaking suspicion that this was Acton’s original goal, and that he’d been manipulated to readily agree, where he’d have put up a strong argument. It didn’t matter; he had a lot to think about. Definitely no longer on the outside looking in; that was for certain.
“Thank you,” said Acton, having apparently settled the matter to his satisfaction.
41
As Munoz and Doyle waited for Acton’s return, Reynolds served up finger sandwiches. Doyle fell upon them like a jackdaw, but Munoz was distracted, texting someone who was apparently not answering. Doyle hoped it wasn’t Lestrade, and tried to think of something to talk about, as she munched on cucumber filling. “Have you seen Drake lately?”
This was apparently a touchy subject, because the girl’s mouth turned mulish. “No. I’m not dating him, if that’s what you mean.”
“I was just wonderin’, Munoz; no need to be so defensive.” Reminded of her suspicions, Doyle decided to take a cast. “Speakin’ of which, were you ever workin’ on the Bennet case for him—the girl who was murdered on the Heath? I remember he wanted you to check on somethin’ on the quiet, and I wondered if that was it.”
Munoz checked her mobile again. “I’m not supposed to talk about it.” Unable to resist, she gave Doyle a sidelong glance. “But I think it was an old girlfriend, and when she was murdered, he was worried the EO might find something connecting him to her.”
“I shouldn’t be surprised, I suppose,” said Doyle in a casual tone,
her suspicions confirmed. “Men; honestly.”
Munoz made a face that indicated her general agreement with this sentiment. “He’s going to get himself into trouble, someday.”
Mainly, thought Doyle, Drake’s lucky that Acton is willing to pull his coals out of the fire—and that Gabriel is apparently willing, too. Assuming a light tone, she teased, “That’s not him you’re hopin’ for a call-back from, is it?”
Munoz dropped her mobile on the table in frustration. “Good God, no. I’m trying to get through to Elena.”
Relieved that the other girl wasn’t reporting back to Drake, Doyle nonetheless felt a small stab of envy. “It must be nice to be Elena, and have your big sister watchin’ over you.”
Munoz gave her a look. “She borrowed my designer purse, and I need it tonight.”
“Ah. I stand corrected.”
“So who is Dr. Harding?”
Doyle regretted mentioning the man’s name in front of Munoz and Reynolds, being as she couldn’t very well explain that Acton had been seeing a psychiatrist because he was a supposedly-recovering Section Seven stalker. Instead, she improvised, “The doctor was a suspect in an assault, but there wasn’t enough to hold him.”
Munoz’s gaze was sharp upon her. “So, do you think he’s the shooter?”
Doyle’s scalp prickled in the affirmative, but she said to Munoz, “I don’t know.” Nothin’ for it; if they arrested Harding, there was no way to prevent Acton’s treatment from being made public. God only knew what revelations were in store, if that particular can of worms were wrest open; she had no idea how much Harding knew.
Fortunately, at this juncture Acton returned with Williams, and Doyle willingly laid the whole at his feet.
“Harding,” said Acton thoughtfully, as he crossed his arms, but Doyle could sense that he was very surprised.
“Shall I bring him in?” asked Williams, who seemed eager to do so. Probably wants to sock him again, thought Doyle.
But Acton shook his head with regret. “We need to place him at the scene, first.”
Doyle kept her gaze on the table, as this statement was not true. Presumably, Acton did not want to discuss the protocol in front of Munoz, being as the protocol would feature Acton-style vengeance-taking.
Acton addressed Williams. “Let’s show a snap of the suspect at the car rental place in Kympton, to see if they remember him—that would be a link.” Turning to Munoz, he nodded. “Good work, Sergeant.”
Munoz, who recognized a dismissal when she heard it, rose to her feet. “Happy to help, sir.”
In response to Acton’s glance, Williams rose also, and offered to walk out with Munoz. The other girl, however, did not appear to appreciate this unlooked-for boon, as she checked her mobile yet again, a small crease between her brows.
Reynolds also recognized his cue, and as soon as the servant shut the door behind him, Doyle apologized to her husband. “I’m wretchedly sorry, Michael; I shouldn’t have said anythin’ in front of the others, but I was that gobsmacked. Blessed saints and holy angels—Harding, of all people.”
But as always, Acton wouldn’t hear of her foolishness. “No, it is I who am sorry; I found him believable when I questioned him—I should have had you listen in.”
Doyle offered, “Well, you can hardly be blamed; he’s a psychiatrist, after all.”
Absently, Acton took hold of her pony tail, and wound it ʼround his hand. “Yes; and not someone who would leave a crime scene cluttered with evidence. There is something here that we are missing.”
“You truly don’t mean to bring him in?”
“No, not as yet—he doesn’t know we’ve twigged him, and I’ll have Williams shadow him, to see where he goes, and with whom he meets.” He released her hair, to watch it spill, and then wound it up again. “Since he spoke with Munoz at the hospital, he knows the attempt was not successful, and will have to make this unhappy report to whomever he is working with. We shall see who he contacts.”
Doyle’s scalp prickled. “Remember the SOCO’s snaps? Holy Trinity Church has cloisters. And Maguire said whether or not someone would commit murder at a church would depend on the church.”
Acton’s hand paused. “Holy Trinity Church also has a permanent seat on the Health Professions Council.”
She considered this interesting little fact in the silence it deserved. “It seems the dots are all gettin’ themselves connected.”
Acton unsheathed his mobile, and texted a message. “It does indeed. Nonetheless, I must go to Trestles.”
This was a bit surprising—that he still wanted to make the trip—and it indicated to Doyle that her unhappy husband wanted to find out whether his assorted relatives were involved in this plot—probably to cover for them in the event they were conniving to murder the incumbent Lady Acton, who had proved inconveniently fertile. That, or Acton was planning to murder them all outright, and stage it as a boating accident, or something.
This unwelcome thought gave her pause, and she offered with false brightness, “Shall I come with you? I could hide on the floorboards of the car, out of sight, or wear a false mustache.”
But he was in no mood, and met her eyes very seriously. “I would ask that instead you stay here, away from the windows, and wearing a vest at all times. Harding is still at large.”
“Aye then,” she sighed with regret. Locked in her tower, she was. Still worried about what he intended to do, she toyed with asking him outright about Harding’s potential accomplices, but lost her nerve, and decided to take a different tack. “Have you thought at all about your father’s appearance in my dream?”
He took a breath, and answered slowly. “I am not discounting it, but I cannot see how it fits in. Even if the attack was about the succession, he no longer has a role.”
She persisted, “It seemed odd that he was there, in the dream. Is there some—I don’t know—some reason that he’d be involved in all this?”
But Acton shook his head. “Successions based on primogeniture are very straightforward.”
Doyle wasn’t certain what the word meant, and so she left it alone, although she knew it was important, for some reason. At present, however, she was too worried about her husband’s unexpected desire to venture off to stupid Trestles, when it truly did not seem necessary. “You will be very careful, Michael? Do you solemnly promise me?”
He must have known that she was worried about his state of mind, because he pulled her over onto his lap, and carefully closed his arms around her. “I do solemnly promise. But I will do whatever is necessary to resolve this matter, so that you may walk the streets again as a free woman.”
She decided to take the bull by the horns, since being tactful never seemed to work out, anyway. “Remember that you mustn’t go about killin’ people.”
“I will keep it to mind.”
She leaned back into his chest as he began the rhythmic stroking that was part of his compulsion, and hoped for the best. “I’ll miss you.” She slipped two fingers between his shirt buttons, fingering his skin. She was feeling well enough for a bout of goodbye sex, and it would be an easy way to redirect her husband’s volatile thoughts.
“And I will miss you. Do you remember about the fungible assets?”
She stilled her fingers. “Michael, you are scarin’ me; have done.” The fungible assets were cash, gold and jewelry he kept in an anonymous safe deposit box. He’d instructed her to access it in the event of his death, so that if his mother and Sir Stephen attempted to tie up the estate, she’d have immediate access to funds.
He gently lifted her bandaged hand to inspect it. “We have a protocol, is all, and I would rest easier if I knew you would follow it.”
“Then rest away; I’ll not forget the stupid protocol.” Impatiently, she slid her fingers between the buttons on his shirt again.
“Let Williams help you.”
“Michael, you give Williams an inch, and he’ll take a mile, believe me.”
It seemed he was going to
say something, then thought the better of it. “All right.”
She decided on the direct approach, and unbuttoned a button to kiss the skin beneath. “Let’s go to bed, husband.”
He tightened his arms. “Are you feeling well enough?”
“As long as you don’t squeeze too hard, my back is still achin’.”
“Then perhaps I should sleep on the sofa,” he teased, as she impatiently unbuttoned more buttons. “To spare your poor back.”
“No, instead it’s your back that can bear the brunt of it, for a change.” After she pulled his head down to kiss him open-mouthed, he needed no further encouragement, and swung her up to carry her off to the bedroom.
A very satisfying hour later, Doyle lay on her side with her back to his chest, sleepy but aware that he was wide awake and thinking—still simmering, he was. She thought about Dr. Harding, and Acton’s neurosis, and reflected that it didn’t seem to be getting any better—perhaps it never would, poor man. Small wonder, with such a set of parents. We are a symmetrical pairing, she thought; I had all hardship and a loving mother, while he had no hardship but unloving parents. It’s easy to see which one was the better; he wanted to name the baby after my unknown mother, and his own parents didn’t warrant a passing thought.
“Do you want to feel Edward?” she asked.
“I do,” he replied, and did.
42
The next morning, Doyle saw Acton off, and then decided she’d best do some work, or the time would hang heavy on her hands. Remembering her conversation with Munoz about Drake’s involvement in the Bennet investigation, she decided to take another look at the long-ago pawn broker shooting, knowing what she now knew.
Murder in Containment: A Doyle and Acton Mystery Page 24
