After running an archives search for female suspects, acquitted or dismissed in Colcombe’s court where Drake was involved in the prosecution, she came up with three names, none of them Bennet. One, however, fit the murdered girl’s general age and description, and so Doyle leaned in to study the case sheet. The female suspect was arrested for shoplifting, and held without bail—which was a little strange, unless it was a repeat offense, but there was no such indication. The arraignment was delayed, and after the suspect had been held in gaol for a week, the charges were dismissed without comment.
Doyle then pulled up the report about Drake’s shooting of the pawn broker. The dead man was survived by a wife. Doyle noted that Drake had killed the pawn broker during the same time period that the female shoplifting suspect had been held in custody, and it wasn’t a hardship to draw the conclusion that needed to be drawn; the imprisoned wife was Bennet—they must have used an alias, so as to obscure her connection to the slain pawn broker. It appeared that the woman had been tucked away in gaol, while her extraneous husband was set up to be murdered.
Doyle raised her head to stare into space for a moment, because she couldn’t see how Acton’s theory that Drake was an unwitting participant could possibly be true—certainly Maguire thought the worst. When Acton had said it, however, she knew that he’d believed it to be true. With a small frown, she closed the files, and wished she had a bit more information. Unfortunately, she couldn’t very well ring up Drake and ask him outright, and now both the husband and the wife in this sordid little scenario were conveniently dead.
Her fingers stilled, as she entertained an idea. If Muhammad couldn’t go to the mountain, she decided, the mountain would have to be invited over. She dialed Morgan Percy’s number.
The girl answered, and Doyle affected a casual air. “I was wonderin’ if you would mind comin’ over to my flat for lunch. I’m stuck at home, and starvin’ for company.”
Percy was not buying it. “If its information you want, I’d like some information in return.”
Doyle thought it over. “Done. But I reserve the right to hold back state secrets.”
After ringing off, she blandly informed Reynolds that she was to have a guest for lunch.
He eyed her with misgiving, but didn’t demur. “What shall I serve, madam?”
“I’ll be happy to eat anythin’. She’ll have some sort of fancy salad; she’s that type.” Doyle then called the concierge and Trenton to inform them of the coming guest, and wandered off to make herself presentable.
Upon her entrance to the flat, Percy paused on the threshold, and had the same reaction everyone always did. “Wow, what a view. No wonder you chose Acton.”
“I love my husband,” Doyle protested mildly, and decided not to add that she hadn’t seen where he lived until after they’d been married almost a week. Too much information, and it would only confuse the issue.
Percy looked her over. “What happened to you?”
“A window fell on me.” This was more or less the truth.
“Bad luck,” the other girl commented dryly, obviously aware there was more to the story.
I’d forgotten that she’s very sharp, thought Doyle; best watch myself.
Reynolds served them lunch, and at its conclusion, Doyle met his eyes, and he willingly retreated to the far corner of the kitchen.
“So,” said Percy.
“I think you killed Mr. Moran, to save him,” said Doyle.
If she was surprised by this accusation, Percy hid it well; instead, she merely regarded Doyle with an amused expression. “I’d never admit to such a thing.”
“It’s loyalty to the extreme. I can’t approve, but I can understand.”
The other girl’s delicately arched brows drew together, as she absently turned her gaze to the windows. “He was such a great man—such an amazing legal intellect. But he was drinking too much, and he couldn’t stop talking about the sex ring.”
“Guilt, d’you think?”
Percy shrugged. “Perhaps. It would have killed his wife, had she ever found out.”
Not true, thought Doyle; Mrs. Moran had taken matters into her own hands, had hired the SOCO, and in doing so, had triggered this whole sequence of events. “What do you know about a woman named Bennet, who was arrested on a made-up charge of shopliftin’?”
Percy eyed her shrewdly. “My turn, first.”
“Ask away,” said Doyle with an air of resignation. She’d a very good guess as to the topic of inquiry.
“Have you slept with Officer Williams?”
“No.”
“Do you plan to?”
“No.” Doyle was a bit shocked. “Recall that I am a married woman.”
Percy gave her the same look Acton gave her, when he teased her about being a Puritan. “He behaves as though there is something between you.”
“There is; he is my dearest friend, and I’ll never find another like him.”
The other girl’s eyes narrowed. “You seem to have a great deal of influence.”
But Doyle shook her head. “No, you are mistakin’ the matter. He is his own man—faith, we’re always comin’ to cuffs.” Best not to mention the subject of those arguments.
Percy regarded her silently for a moment. “Does he speak of me?”
Doyle was not fooled; this was the important question. “Yes,” she answered carefully. “He has mentioned you, and more than once.”
Percy digested this. “And?”
“I’m afraid I’d rather not say; it would be betrayin’ a confidence.”
The other girl lowered her eyes and said nothing for a moment. When she spoke again, Doyle knew that she was being completely honest, for once. “Do you think it’s hopeless, then?”
Doyle thought about it. “No,” she said. “I don’t.” Otherwise Williams wouldn’t be so bothered about her.
Percy apparently felt that Doyle had upheld her end of the deal, and so clasped her hands on the table in a businesslike gesture. “Aboudihaj was before my time, but I heard Mr. Moran speak of it—speak of how it was a miracle they’d pulled it off.”
Doyle sat up; Aboudihaj was the dead pawn broker. “What happened?”
“A detective on the police force was having an affair with the wife, but the husband found out. The husband was Muslim; the penalty for adultery is stoning, and he was furious—he was going to drag her back to his home country, to seek the death penalty. The detective arranged with Colcombe to set up a fake prosecution, and hold her in custody until they could take out the husband.”
“Saints,” breathed Doyle. She’d guessed as much, but nonetheless was taken aback by the audacity of such a scheme.
Percy shrugged a shoulder. “It was wrong, of course, but the object was to stop something that would have been far worse.”
“There’s no such thing as an honorable murder,” Doyle retorted. “And that’s somethin’ both sides in this cautionary tale should have remembered.”
But Percy—who had, after all, decided that her old lover had to die to protect his reputation—was not the type to wax philosophical. “What’s done is done. And word spread like wildfire amongst the immigrant population; if you were willing to sleep with the right men, you wouldn’t go to jail. The next thing you knew, there were people taking advantage of it, and then other people setting up a blackmail ring against the men who’d indulged.”
Focusing carefully on the other girl’s reaction, Doyle offered diffidently, “Judge Whitteside, for one.”
The other girl emanated a flare of hostility and chagrin, but calmly replied, “I would not be surprised.”
“I was wonderin’—I was wonderin’ if perhaps there was somethin’ between the two of you.”
The girl pressed her lips together. “Not anymore. After he was appointed to the bench, he was full of himself—started acting like a skiver, so I broke it off.”
Now, there’s a good word, thought Doyle; I’ll have to file it away for future use, once I figure out
what it means. “Probably just as well, if he’s involved in this mess.” And this would explain why Percy was not at all sorry that she’d twigged them out; she must have been having an affair with Whitteside, and he’d thrown her over for the next dewy-eyed junior barrister. That, and I believe—although I may be too optimistic, here—I believe that she’s rather sick of all the debauchery.
The girl leaned back, trying to disguise her intense interest behind an offhand manner. “I understand that Whitteside’s already been called in for questioning.”
You don’t know the half of it, thought Doyle; so has the long-dead Judge Colcombe. Aloud, she replied, “I’m afraid I can’t be discussin’ a pendin’ investigation.”
Percy conceded with a shrug. “Fair enough—I understand the need for discretion. And speaking of which, I owe your husband a huge debt of gratitude; he’s not at all what I expected. What’s it like, being married to him?”
Doyle gave her stock answer. “He’s very private, I’m afraid.”
43
After Percy left, Doyle sat and stared at nothing in particular, thinking over what she’d learned. Her mobile pinged, and she saw that it was Williams—speak o’ the devil and up he pops. She answered, “Hey.”
“Hey, yourself. How are you feeling?”
“Come visit; I’ve discovered somethin’ of interest, and I’ll be needin’ your excellent input.”
“Can’t you tell me now?”
“Well, all right, if you’re so very busy.”
“It’s not that I’m busy, it’s that your servant wants to shoot me.”
“His name is Reynolds, and don’t say ‘your servant’; it makes me very uncomfortable.”
“Reynolds wants to shoot me.”
“He knows you’re nothin’ but trouble, Thomas Williams.”
“All right, tell him to lock and load—I’m on my way.”
She giggled, and after ringing off, approached Reynolds. “DI Williams will be visitin’, and I’d be grateful if you didn’t glower at him.”
Reynolds was slightly taken aback, as she’d never reprimanded him before. “Did I glower?”
“Yes, you did. Acton will do the glowerin’, if glowerin’ is called for.”
Reynolds was immediately contrite, and bowed his head. “I beg your pardon, madam. I misunderstood the situation.”
“That’s all right, Reynolds, I don’t truly understand the situation, myself. But Williams is a good man, and Acton trusts him completely, as do I.”
He bowed. “Very good, madam.”
When Williams arrived, Reynolds took his coat very respectfully, served them pound cake, and then retreated out of earshot. Williams shot her a look, as he picked up a slice, and she admitted, “I did say somethin’. He shouldn’t be offerin’ you insult.”
“I’m impressed; that is not your style at all.”
“No one mistreats you on my watch, DI Williams.”
He smiled at her with such a warm light in his eyes that she decided she’d best change the topic, or she’d be sorry she’d snubbed Reynolds. “I’ve discovered what Maguire knew about Drake.”
She recited the story that Percy had told her, and he listened without comment. At its conclusion, she reflected, “So now we know Drake’s original motive, and how the corruption ring started, and I think Acton knows how far up it reaches, but he doesn’t want me to know, which is a bit alarmin’.”
“I would not be surprised,” Williams offered in a neutral tone, “if he is hoping to contain the fallout.”
Hearing the nuance, she eyed him with suspicion. “Do you know somethin’? Who else is involved—never say it’s anyone at CID?”
“Can’t say,” he replied, and left it at that.
“All right, then,” she returned a bit crossly. Faith, you’d think he’d toss her a bone, just once in a while; he was as bad as Acton.
Affecting a negligent air, he picked up another slice. “So—you spoke to Percy at some length?”
“I did. I wanted some more information, so I invited her over for lunch. She’s a bit of a puzzle.” Doyle waited for the inevitable question, and felt a little sorry for him as he tried to resist asking, but couldn’t.
“Did I come up as a subject of conversation?”
“Indeed, you did.”
He gave her a look which indicated he did not appreciate having to prod her. “And?”
“And why don’t you ask her yourself—I’d rather not be tellin’ tales.”
He was annoyed, both at her and at himself for betraying his interest, and lifted his coffee cup to drink. “Never mind, then.”
Annoyed in turn, she retorted, “I forgot; she’s a jezebel, and unworthy of Saint Thomas.”
But this touched a sore point, apparently, and he lowered his cup to the table with a click. “I’d rather not be number one hundred in a long list. You wouldn’t understand.”
“I’m thinkin’ I’m more understandin’ than some, if you don’t mind my sayin’.”
“You have no frame of reference, and have no idea what you are talking about.” He was very cross with her, was DI Williams.
“I do so have a frame of reference; I know that if I was number one hundred in Acton’s long list, it wouldn’t matter a pin to me.”
He said stiffly, “It’s different for a man.”
She made a sound indicating extreme impatience, and against her better judgment, retorted, “You are such a flippin’ hypocrite.”
He replied with grim dignity, “I’m not a hypocrite; I have standards, and I’m amazed that you of all people don’t understand this.”
From the corner of her eye, Doyle noted that Reynolds, hearing the raised voices, opened the laundry room door and then, seeing the combatants glaring at each other, quietly retreated. Lowering her voice, she nevertheless persisted, “You are a hypocrite; if I wanted to have an affair with you, I can’t imagine you’d put up much of a resistance, even though it would be wrong on at least ten different levels. So do not preach to me of your standards.”
Their gazes remained locked for an intense moment, and then he stood abruptly. “I should go.” With an angry gesture, he pushed in his chair.
She sprang to her feet, aghast, and instantly remorseful. “Thomas—oh, Thomas, I am wretchedly sorry; please forgive my miserable tongue.”
He bent his head and braced his arms against the chair back for a moment, as he teetered on the edge of storming out.
“Please,” she pleaded; “I shouldn’t have goaded you about her, after I told you I wouldn’t. And I broke my own rule about not talkin’ to you about sex. I am the hypocrite here, truly.”
He lifted his eyes to hers—they were very blue. “You have a rule?”
“Of course I do,” she admitted crossly. “You have a crackin’ fine body, and I’m only flesh and blood.”
He suddenly started to laugh, and she couldn’t resist joining in. After their mutual amusement was spent, he pulled the chair out, and sat down again. “I’m sorry, too, Kath. I don’t know why she bothers me so much.”
“Don’t listen to me, I was bein’ vicious. For what it’s worth, I agree that she is not your type, even though I rather like her.”
But he was unwilling to let her off the hook so easily. “I remember your lashing out at me, once, for trying to run your life.”
“I was wrong, wrong, wrong. The worst friend ever.”
He smiled his lopsided smile. “Maybe not the worst.”
“I’m just hatin’ bein’ under lock and key, Thomas, and I kept pushin’ your buttons. Tell me what I should do to gain your forgiveness, except for that which must not be spoken of.”
“There is nothing to forgive,” he said generously. You were right; you almost always are.”
“Almost?” she teased.
“You were right about Marnie.”
She met his eyes, which were suddenly serious. “Is she going to be all right?”
“Gabriel called, very shaken up. He explained it wa
sn’t diabetes, but a rare type of leukemia. Too early to know, but at least she has a fighting chance.”
So, the dream was true. “Holy Mother, Thomas.”
“Good catch,” he said somberly.
“I’m only glad I could help—poor Marnie.” They sat in silence for a moment, and yet again, she was grateful that he didn’t ask any questions about her intuitive abilities, even though he must have had many. To change the subject, she asked, “What do you know about him—about Gabriel?”
He looked up. “Not a lot, why?”
This was true, and indicated that Williams was not privy to the fallout from the showdown at the morgue, and that the fair Doyle had best be careful what she said. “He seems a good sort, is all.” She certainly hoped that Gabriel was a good sort, if Acton was willing to trust him. Although she was fast coming to the conclusion that Acton trusted no one, except perhaps her fair self. Her scalp prickled, and she wondered why this was important.
“I should go. Are we all right?”
“Of course we are, Thomas. Never better.”
He grinned. “Except for the occasional fisticuffs.”
“Faith, Thomas; it’s clear you’ve never lived amongst the Irish.” She walked him to the door. “Now be gone with you, before I start in again.”
“I will keep you posted.”
“That’s a lie, my friend; no one ever keeps me posted.”
“I will do my best to keep you fully informed, then.”
Interestingly enough, this was not true, which probably meant Williams knew a thing or two about whatever Acton was up to. After closing the door behind him, she decided that it was a wonder she didn’t start shooting out a few windows, herself.
44
After her visit with Williams, Doyle decided she needed to call Acton, who never got into shouting matches with her.
He picked up, but said, “Is it an emergency, or may I ring you back?”
“Just checkin’ in,” she replied easily, and rang off. She contemplated her mobile, trying to decide if it was a good thing or a bad thing that he was involved in something that was more important than easing her boredom. With a small sigh, she decided to reapply ointment to her cuts, and was engaged in this mundane task when Reynolds cleared his throat to get her attention. With a smile, she glanced up. “Hallo, Reynolds; you were so quiet, I forgot you were here.”
Murder in Containment: A Doyle and Acton Mystery Page 25
