Murder in Shadow (The Doyle and Acton Murder Series Book 6)

by Anne Cleeland

  I’d be the worst client ever, in that department, Doyle thought; I’d be gabbling like a jackdaw, and confessing to crimes I hadn’t committed.

  In any event, counsel’s admonition didn’t seem to carry much weight because yet again, the suspect’s gaze slid sidelong over toward the glass partition, the whites of his eyes showing in stark contrast to his dark skin.

  Mayhap he’s aware that DCI Acton has taken an interest, and he’s nervous about what Acton knows, Doyle surmised. I can relate; I know the feeling well.

  “Shall we begin?” said Acton to Williams. “Sergeant, if you will please remain here, and observe?”

  “Yes sir,” Doyle responded, and settled in to listen as the two men left the gallery. Hopefully, Acton could make some headway; they’d only two more days to charge the suspect with murder—otherwise, he’d be free to go home on bail, since his other crimes weren’t major ones.

  Acton and Williams entered the interview room, and took their seats across the table from the suspect and his solicitor. Acton made the preliminary statements for the recording, whilst the Santero sat with a clenched jaw, staring at the opposite corner of the room, away from the glass panel. He’s anxious, and trying to hide it, thought Doyle; he can’t be much of an underworld-spirit-summoner, if he can barely hold it together before questioning begins.

  Acton watched him for a long moment, and then said, “I understand you have been selling illegal supplements in Lambeth and Southwark.”

  With a recalcitrant witness, a favored interrogation technique was to come in hot, so to speak, so as to shake up the interviewee and make him think that law enforcement knew all his secrets.

  Counsel sat up a little straighter. “I am aware of no charge—”

  The suspect, for his own part, kept his rigid gaze fixed on the far corner of the room. “You speak of that which you do not understand.”

  His solicitor leaned forward. “Answer the question—yes or no.”

  The suspect nodded, once. “Yes.”

  “And in these supplements, you pass off opiates as herbs.”

  Swallowing, the witness nodded. “Yes.”

  Faith; he doesn’t much seem like a ruthless Santeria kingpin, thought Doyle, watching him with surprise. Seems more like a thoroughly nervous Neddy.

  Acton produced a photograph of the QC’s body, lying in the Lambeth alley. “Do you know this man?”

  Reluctantly, the man glanced at the photograph, then returned his gaze to the opposite wall. A sheen of perspiration had appeared on his balding forehead. “No.”

  “Do you know who killed him?”

  “No.” Unfortunately, this was true—so much for Doyle’s theory that there was some sort of connection.

  Acton paused for a moment, his gaze fixed on the suspect. This was also an interrogation technique, as nervous people tended to fill in any prolonged silences by talking too much. Acton must have seen that the suspect was a bundle of nerves, and so he was hoping for a lapse in composure. However, the suspect remained silent, so Acton continued, his finger tapping the photograph. “It is believed he was last seen leaving your shop.”

  Doyle sat up, as this was an interesting wrinkle, mainly because it seemed to her that Acton didn’t think it was true. Perhaps he was trying to shake the witness somehow—he’d definitely surprised Williams, if she could gauge by the jolt of emotion that emanated from the calmly-sitting detective inspector.

  The Santero bared his teeth for a moment, and then shook his head from side to side, as he recited in a high-pitched voice, “I had nothing to do with—with this man’s death. Nothing.”

  This was not exactly true and not exactly false, and Doyle frowned, leaning forward to concentrate.

  Acton glanced at his watch. “May we have five minutes?”

  Doyle blinked, as this was unexpected. Quickly, she texted, “Mixed signals, but NTK”—not the killer. Usually, Acton didn’t want her sending him any messages during an interrogation, so that no one would wonder why the illustrious DCI was taking cues from his better half. Perhaps he was needing to touch base with her, for some reason.

  The solicitor glanced at his own watch. “So long as we wrap it up before noon.”

  His fists clenched, the suspect lowered his gaze to the table, and Doyle idly watched him, as she waited for Acton to make his way into the gallery.

  Her husband came in, closed the door behind him, then pulled up a chair, lowering his head to hers. “What do you think of the solicitor?”

  Staring at him, she repeated blankly, “The solicitor?”

  Acton turned his gaze toward the tableau before them, where the solicitor was checking his mobile for messages whilst his client sat, rigid and unmoving. “He isn’t doing a very good job, is he?”

  The penny dropped, and Doyle nodded. “Faith, you’re right; he’s top-drawer, after all, and he should have been instructin’ his client not to respond to you, with all your fishin’ for uncharged crimes.”

  Acton added thoughtfully, “He seems a bit nervous, to me.”

  “Oh—oh, I haven’t noticed, Michael; I’m too caught up in our strange-fish suspect. I’ll pay closer attention.”

  “If you would,” asked her husband in a mild tone. “And what do you think of our suspect?”

  Unfortunately, Doyle couldn’t take this opportunity to redeem herself. “It was true that he didn’t kill the QC, but when he said he had no connection to the crime, that wasn’t true, so there’s somethin’ there. It’s a bit hard to get a read on him—he’s—” she knit her brow, trying to explain. “He’s all over the place. He’s having trouble concentratin’, which makes it hard for me to concentrate.”

  Acton thought about this for a moment. “Could it be that the killer is an associate of his?”

  “I don’t know.” Slowly, she added, “I don’t think so, but it’s possible.”

  Acton raised his head to review the two men seated at the table, and said nothing further.

  She respected the silence for a small space, and then offered, “I’m that sorry I’m not much help, Michael, but now that I’m alerted, I’ll pay closer attention to the solicitor.”

  He brought his gaze to hers. “Would it help to be in the room, perhaps? I can say I asked for a list of known associates, and once you bring it in, I can ask him about each one, to see if you can catch a sense. We would very much like to charge him with a homicide, even if it’s conspiracy.”

  She nodded. “All right. Do you have such a list?”

  “Here’s one.” He handed her a print-out, from his folder of notes.

  Williams came through the door, holding two cups of coffee. “What do we think?”

  “Creepy,” declared Doyle.

  “Definitely,” Williams agreed, as he handed a cup to Acton.

  “What d’you think of the solicitor?” asked Doyle. “D’you think he’s nervous?”

  Williams shrugged. “Didn’t seem so, to me.”

  This, interestingly enough, was not true, which meant that dim-bulb Doyle was the only person who hadn’t noticed, and so she resolved to focus, and be a helpmeet to her poor husband who was apparently wary about something above and beyond a creepy Santeria suspect. In her best reliable-detective-sergeant voice, she asked him, “How long shall I wait before I come in, sir?”

  “Give it a few minutes,” Acton instructed, and with a nod to Williams, the two men left.

  Doyle watched as they re-commenced the interview, and began stating the preliminaries again for the record. Then she hoisted herself to her feet, printout in hand, and noted that the suspect glanced up at the glass panel—almost as if he could see her moving. Creepy, she thought again, suppressing a shudder. Like a nasty spider.

  She explained to the guard who was manning the door that Acton needed the list, and then entered the room quietly, pretending as though she was looking for an opportunity to hand it to Acton, but actually focused like a laser beam on the solicitor, who had looked up, briefly, upon her entry into the r
oom.

  But his reaction was nothing compared to that of his client, who knocked over his chair as he leapt to his feet, and backed against the far wall, his horrified gaze fixed on Doyle.

  “Away! Away! Ah-no! Osorbo!

  Acton had risen to stand before Doyle and call out, “Guard!” although it was hardly necessary, as the PC had already burst through the door at the first shout.

  “It’s the red hair,” Williams declared loudly. “He believes red-heads are cursed.”

  “Good heavens; I beg your pardon, officer.” The astonished solicitor stood aside as the Santero was bundled away, the suspect frantically making the sign against the evil eye even though his hands were cuffed.

  12

  So; Williams knows. She must have told him.

  “It was just so—so creepy, Reynolds. Sellin’ potions, and grindin’ up bones. Acton thinks even the man’s solicitor is afraid of him.” After having raised such a ruckus, Acton sent his red-headed sergeant home early, and she was now reciting the morning’s events to the servant, who was reacting with predictable distaste, which was half the reason that she liked to tell him things.

  “Deplorable, madam. A reign of terror.”

  She propped her elbows on the table. “Well, the terror didn’t rain down on me—I wasn’t afraid of him. Instead I think—I think I felt a bit sorry for him, which doesn’t make much sense, but there it is.” Her scalp prickled.

  Reynolds pressed his lips together “I’m afraid I have no sympathy, madam. A good riddance, I say.”

  She teased, “Well, now where’s everyone goin’ to buy their ground-up kitten bones?”

  “I’d rather not think about such things, madam. I am amazed such practices still persist.”

  With a wry mouth, she advised, “Whist, Reynolds; this may not be a news flash, but there’re a lot of people out there who are desperate to fix their problems, any way they can.” She then paused, because her instinct had given her such a jolt that she had to hold on to the table edge for a moment, to steady herself. What? Who was desperate to fix their problems? The solicitor? He didn’t seem very significant to her, at all. Trying to grasp hold of the elusive thought, she closed her eyes tightly, and concentrated.

  “Are you unwell, madam?” The servant hovered, worried mainly because he knew that if any ill befell her on his watch, there would be swift and terrible repercussions.

  Opening her eyes, Doyle sighed. “No; I was just tryin’ to think of somethin’, and away it went.”

  The servant nodded. “A will o’ the wisp.”

  “A willow what?”

  “A will o’ the wisp, madam—an elusive thought.”

  “Like a phantom,” she offered.

  “No, madam, I’m afraid a phantom is not quite the same.”

  She sighed again. “And a leopard doesn’t have spots.”

  “Leopards have rosettes, madam.”

  Doyle regarded him, all admiration. “Faith, Reynolds; we should pair you up with Munoz. She could hardly do worse.”

  The servant paused beside the sink. “It is hard to imagine that the detective sergeant suffers from a lack of suitors, madam.”

  Doyle hid a smile. Munoz had come over to their flat to sketch a suspect, once, and apparently Reynolds was as susceptible as the rest of the male population. “It’s not about quantity so much as it’s about quality, my friend.” Which reminded her that she should find out about stupid Munoz’s ACC assignment, so that stupid Harding wouldn’t plague her dreams any more. Not to mention she had to trot up to Trestles, and soothe the stupid knight—faith; the dead were causing her more trouble than the living, which was truly a sorry state of affairs. Although the Santero wasn’t dead, he was still alive—but not for long. She lifted her head at this thought, and wondered why she was so certain that the Santero’s days on earth were numbered.

  “Will Lord Acton be arriving soon, madam? Shall I prepare dinner?”

  Resting her chin in her hands, Doyle considered this request thoughtfully. There was little doubt that Acton would be all on end, after today’s battle of the witch doctors, and the last needful thing was to force him to make idle chit-chat beneath the servant’s watchful eye. “Just ice cream, Reynolds. And then you should probably make yourself scarce.”

  The servant adopted a wooden expression, and bowed slightly. “Certainly, madam.”

  He probably thinks I’m planning something kinky, she thought with amusement; although that’s not such a bad idea—after all, Acton may be second-thoughting his whole marriage-to-a-diviner-of-ghosts.

  And so, as Acton came through the door, his wife was lying naked on the sofa, eating a bowl of ice cream that was balanced on her pregnant belly.

  He paused at the threshold. “Reynolds has left?”

  “He has. I tried to talk him into naked ice cream, but he said that was a bridge too far.”

  Her husband smiled, and loosened his tie as he approached to lean down and kiss her. “I would pay good money.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t. D’you want ice cream first, or a dramatic reenactment of this morning’s events?”

  “Neither,” he replied, and bestowed a lingering kiss on her neck.

  “I see where this is goin’,” she sighed, and lifted her chin so as to grant him greater access. “I am such a sexy thing.”

  “Magnificent,” he murmured into her throat, a hand on a breast.

  Laughing, she placed her hand over his. “Remember when you could cover this one completely with one hand?”

  “I can. I can’t decide which size I like better.”

  “Liar.” She giggled, and pulled his head down for another kiss. “It’s lush, I am; like that Indian goddess, with all the arms.”

  “Durga.”

  “Faith, you’re worse than Reynolds; is there anythin’ you don’t know?”

  His mouth moved along her collarbone, as he shrugged out of his shirt. “I don’t know how to get you to stop talking.”

  She giggled again. “Oh, yes, you do.”

  As his mouth moved southward, she sighed with bliss and sank down into the sofa. “Cover your ears, Edward; your mother’s about to stop talkin’.”

  A very satisfying space of time later, they were lying on the rug, sharing the melted ice cream and watching Doyle’s abdomen shift and move. “That’s got to be an elbow. Or a knee.”

  Acton ran a finger over the protruding lump. “I woke him up. Sorry.”

  “You’re not sorry a’tall, husband.”

  He met her eyes. “Can we discuss it now, or would you rather not discuss it at all?”

  She sighed in mock-resignation. “I see how it is, you were tryin’ to soften me up, before hittin’ me with an interrogation.”

  With a small smile, he drew a finger down her belly. “I beg to differ; I think I was the one being softened up.”

  “Caught me out,” she confessed without a trace of shame. “I have to use whatever arrows I have in my quiver, my friend—can’t have you throwin’ me out, this late in the game.”

  Acton leaned back on the rug, an arm bent back to cradle his head, and regarded her with an unreadable expression. “It appears that the Santero is not a fraud, after all.”

  She tilted her head in agreement, as she sucked on the spoon. “You could’ve knocked me over with a feather, Michael.”

  He lifted a tendril of her hair and watched it fall. “You terrified him.”

  “Well—I am terrifyin’.” She reached across him for another bite of ice cream. “Mayhap he’ll turn over a new leaf, and start evangelizin’, once he gets to prison.” This, in reference to the former detective chief superintendent of the CID, who’d been convicted on corruption charges and was now participating in prison ministry.

  But Acton was not distracted by her breezy manner, and continued to gently probe. “Why was he so frightened? Do you know?”

  “I think—” she paused, and steeled herself, because it was always difficult for her to speak of her perceptive abilit
ies. “I think he was worried that his chickens were comin’ home to roost—that all his misdeeds had caught up with him.”

  Acton thought about this. “So—we’ve the wrong goddess; instead of Durga, you are Nemesis.”

  She smiled, and fed him a spoonful. “Not a clue what that means, Michael.”

  He pulled gently on another tendril of hair. “Nemesis is implacable justice.”

  Leaning over him, she helped herself to another bite. “Still no clue.”

  “She follows wrongdoers around, and makes them pay for their sins.”

  Doyle paused, much struck. “Faith, wouldn’t that be grand? I could shake my chains, and right all wrongs.”

  He offered up a half-smile, but she could see that he was worried, behind his calm façade. “Can you give me any other insights? Or would you rather not speak about it?”

  Lowering her hands, she blew out a breath. “No—no insights, I’m afraid. I was as gob-smacked as everyone else.”

  There was a small pause. “I believe that not everyone was gob-smacked.”

  She bent her head to finger the spoon. “I’m sorry, Michael, but I had to tell Williams about—about it. It was important, at the time, but I’d rather not say why.”

  He was not happy with her, was Acton, and he placed a finger under her chin to lift her face. “No one should know of it, Kathleen; no one at all. Surely you can see this?”

  But she met his eyes a bit stubbornly. “I had to, Michael; it was important. And I think we can trust Williams.”

  He made no reply, and in the sudden silence, she stared at him in startled dismay. “Mother a’ mercy, Michael; never say—never say that’s not true? What’s he done?”

  “I’d rather not tell you, I’m afraid.”

  Astonished, she remembered the fleeting feeling that she’d had—that Williams was trying to hide something, and that Acton was unhappy with him. “He—he respects you so, Michael. He’d never move against you—it’s not in his nature.”

  “On the whole, I would agree.”