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

by Anne Cleeland

  Thoroughly alarmed by this equivocal response, she straightened up. “Shall I speak with him? Does he—does he need help?”

  Acton brought her fingers to his mouth, to kiss them. “You may handle it as you wish, although I doubt you will discover anything of interest.”

  “I’m pretty good at discoverin’ things I oughtn’t,” she reminded him in all modesty.

  “I cannot argue.”

  Mustering up her courage, she asked in an even tone, “Is Williams in danger, Michael?” Unspoken were the additional words, “from you.”

  “No,” he said immediately, and it was true. “But I wish you hadn’t told him.”

  She traced a finger on his chin, feeling the end-of-the-day stubble. “He never mentions it. If it makes you feel better, he scolded me for tellin’ him about it, too.”

  Gently, he drew her head down, to lay it on his chest. “That does make me feel better.”

  Unfortunately, this was not true.

  13

  He would have to be eliminated, of course. No one else could know about her abilities—the risk was too great.

  “The Santero thought I was like Nemorcis,” Doyle explained. “But I’m not, I’m just a foot soldier. I’m someone who needs direction.”

  “It’s Nemesis, not Nemorcis,” Harding corrected. “And you’ve got it all wrong; it’s not you that’s the Nemesis. And that’s not what’s important, anyway; what’s important is who is the Até.”

  “The Ah-tay?” she asked in confusion. Yet again, she was confronted by the dead psychiatrist in his windy setting, and oddly enough, she felt as though she was on the defensive, this time, and so she was trying to be a bit nicer to him. “I’m truly doin’ my best, but there’s so much to keep straight—as soon as I start in on one thing, another pops up.” Frowning, she thought about it. “I think there’s a pattern, but I’m too busy puttin’ out fires to see it.”

  “Find the Até,” he repeated.

  Bewildered, she shook her head in apology. “But I don’t know anythin’ about goddesses, and such—I’m as thick as a plank. I’m the weak link, in all this.”

  “No, you aren’t,” he replied in a firm tone. “You just think you are.”

  “Faith, you’ve got me mixed-up with some other brassy shant. I’m not one to assert myself.”

  With an ironic air, he lifted his brows. “I beg to disagree.”

  A bit discomfited by this reminder—she didn’t know if it was bad manners to remind a ghost of his earthly failings—she stammered, “Oh—oh; well, I suppose your case was an exception. I knew you were tryin’ to frame-up Acton, and I couldn’t let you do it.”

  “Exactly,” he nodded, very pleased.

  There was a pause, whilst the wind blew, and Doyle was reluctant to ask him what he meant, since he seemed to think she was finally catching on and she didn’t want to admit that she was as lost as Jonah, adrift on the deep blue sea. Casting about for a new topic, she asked, “Whatever happened to your shoes?”

  “That,” he said, “is an excellent question.”

  “You’re no help at all,” she complained, and wished she could press her hands to her temples. “Can’t you just tell me plainly? I’ve too much to think about, just now.”

  “Thinking is overrated.”

  She stared in surprise. “Why, that’s what I always say; you shouldn’t be the one who’s sayin’ it.”

  But the ghost shrugged. “On the contrary, psychiatry is all about perception. That, and helping patients avoid desperate measures.”

  Slowly, she repeated what she’d said in her earlier conversation with Reynolds. “There’re a lot of people out there who are desperate to fix their problems, any way they can.”

  “Exactly.” He nodded in approval, once again.

  Struggling mightily, Doyle tried to pull together her elusive thoughts. “So, I need to find out why the villains seized Elena, why the shoes are missin’, and who’s desperate to fix their problems.”

  Harding leaned forward. “Not necessarily in that order.”

  Doyle woke suddenly, and stared at the darkened bedroom wall. Figure it out, she thought; and with a mighty effort, closed her eyes tightly in an attempt to piece it together. Why would it be Harding—of all people—trying to send a message? Why had he no shoes—was he a victim of the Santero, also? But that made no sense; the Santero didn’t kill the QC in the first place. And anyways, Doyle was certain that Acton had killed Harding—or had arranged to have him killed—and you could hardly blame the man, after what Harding had done. So, what was it—did Harding have something else in common with these other, shoeless victims?

  And was there some sort of connection, between Munoz’s sister and these murders? This seemed very unlikely, but—if her instinct could be trusted—this seemed to be the tale being told to her.

  Shifting her bulky body with an effort, she rolled onto her back, and frowned at the ceiling. Was Williams mixed up in any of this? He was hiding something, and Acton had been grave—so whatever it was, it was serious. Not to mention Acton had been setting a trap for someone, when he was burning the midnight oil the other night—could it be for Williams?

  No, she thought immediately; Acton wouldn’t hurt Williams, and for no other reason than he knew that Williams was dear to her—in Acton’s world, that was enough.

  It’s all too complicated, she thought crossly, as she re-positioned the pillow beneath her head. And I’m not sure whether I should ask Acton about these many and mysterious things, so I suppose I’ll have go to another well of knowledge.

  Therefore, the next morning she waited until Acton was taking a conference call in the bedroom before asking Reynolds in a casual tone, “D’you know who ‘Até’ is, Reynolds?”

  The servant paused in taking away her plate. “Até, madam?”

  “Yes.” She frowned, but was certain she had it right. “If someone said, ‘Why, that’s not Nemesis at all; that’s Até’, what would they mean?”

  The servant attempted to hide his astonishment with only limited success. “I suppose the difference would be that Nemesis seeks to bestow justice, while Até seeks to bestow ruin.”

  With a knit brow, she tried to puzzle this out. “So, Nemesis has good intentions, but Até does not.”

  But the servant raised a brow in dignified disagreement. “Not exactly, madam; both goddesses intend to bring harm to their victims, but for different reasons. Nemesis brings justice, while Até brings ruination—usually as a result of the hero’s own hubris.”

  She stared at him, trying to decide if it was even worth asking what “hubris” meant.

  “Shakespeare refers to Até quite often, madam.”

  “Ah,” she replied. “Of course, he does.”

  The servant continued on his way over to the sink. “I didn’t realize that you were familiar with the classics, madam.”

  “No,” Doyle agreed glumly. “Neither did I. For the love o’ Mike, why can’t he just tell me plainly? It’s like tryin’ to puzzle out the seven scrolls, where everythin’ is so deep and mysterious that you just want to be done with it, and take your chances.”

  “Certainly, madam.” The servant said no more on the subject.

  With a small frown, Doyle considered the view out the window for a moment, and then scrolled up Williams’ number, to buzz him. “Hey.”

  “Hey, yourself. Everything all right?”

  “Never finer; except that I’m scarin’ the dickens out of everyone.”

  “Let’s not do that again.”

  “No argument, here.”

  There was a slight pause. “Everything else all right?”

  Interesting, she thought; he’s expecting bad news. “Everything is crackin’ excellent, my friend. Although I’m lookin’ for an assignment from my CSM, bein’ as I’m a good foot soldier, when I’m not busy bein’ a weak link.”

  “Right, then; I was just thinking that we may need another look-in at the Santero’s shop, so I’ll hand it off to y
ou, if you’re willing.”

  “I’m willin’ indeed; I’ve never been to a witch doctor’s shop—mayhap I can pick up a potion or two, on the sly.”

  “No tampering with the evidence,” he joked, and to her surprise, her scalped prickled.

  14

  He was very close to pulling the net in on the ACC—only a few more loose ends. It had to be carefully done, of course, with an ironclad case lined up against them. There would be but one opportunity.

  At least now I’ve got some direction, Doyle mused, as she and Officer Gabriel knocked on the door of the Santero’s shop. Yesterday, Acton had asked—idly, it had seemed at the time—whether the shop had been searched, and now Williams had sent her to do a re-search. It wasn’t a coincidence, of course; lately, it seemed that nothing was.

  As they waited on the doorstep, Doyle thought over these events, and remarked, “Here we are yet again, you and me.”

  Gabriel smiled. “You aren’t going to say it’s the blind leading the blind, again, are you? That one still stings.”

  But Doyle was unrepentant. “We’re not a case-breakin’ team, my friend—we’re only the supportin’ cast. I wonder what’s afoot?”

  Any further discussion was curtailed by the door curtain’s being twitched aside so that a harassed, older woman could indicate that the shop was not yet open to the public. Doyle held up her warrant card, and with an open show of distaste, the woman unlocked the door.

  As they crossed the threshold, the woman eyed them with extreme misgiving. “Why are you here? The police have already come and gone.”

  “Just a follow-up, ma’am; it shouldn’t take long.” Doyle made the introductions, and discovered that the woman had been minding the shop since the Santero’s arrest, but—as was only to be expected—business had slowed to a crawl since Scotland Yard’s finest had taken such a keen interest in the place.

  As they spoke, Doyle looked around and decided that it was exactly the type of shop that one would anticipate; crowded with questionable religious items, and a bit shabby. The shelves behind the counter were conspicuously empty by contrast, and Doyle surmised that the various potions and artifacts that had been for sale were now awaiting their moment at trial in the Met’s evidence locker.

  “I have to keep the accounts on a pad of paper,” the woman complained. “The police took the register, and the ledgers.” Very much put-upon, she held up a flowered bag with a drawstring. “I keep the money in here.”

  Doyle offered cold comfort. “I imagine the place won’t be open much longer.”

  But Gabriel seemed sympathetic to the woman’s plight, and asked, “How long have you known the Santero?”

  “No questions, or I will call a lawyer,” the woman threatened, shaking a finger at him. “You will not arrest me, too.”

  Gabriel then said something in another language, his tone soothing, and whilst Doyle watched in surprise, the woman grudgingly responded in kind. They conversed for a few minutes, the woman becoming more talkative as she complained to her sympathetic listener, her agitated hand gestures conveying the depths of her annoyance.

  Whilst they spoke, Doyle decided to be useful, and began a discreet search—although she very quickly realized she wouldn’t recognize a clue if it reared up and bit her; there was too much clutter, and the objects themselves were unfamiliar to her. She tapped on floorboards with her boot heel, and eyed the walls and shelves to judge whether there was room for a hidden cavity, but finally decided it was a futile endeavor; the SOCOs made their bread and butter doing this sort of thing, and had already come up empty.

  Gabriel called out, “She says the Santero’s rooms are above-stairs. They’ve already been searched, but we can take another look, if we’d like.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Doyle said in her best respectful-of-foreigners voice, and then as she mounted the stairs with Gabriel, asked in a low tone, “What was that all about?”

  “She speaks Farsi; she’s Persian. It seemed a little odd to me; I wondered why she’d be affiliated with the Santero. I also wondered how she was being paid for her services, if he’s in custody.”

  Much struck, Doyle could see his point. “Good one; what did she say?”

  “She said he’d once done a favor for her and that she was happy to help him out, only she didn’t want to do it for much longer. She wanted to know whether I thought he’d be out on bail, soon.”

  They paused before the Santero’s living quarters, and Doyle gave a perfunctory knock on the door. “That’s a good question actually. They can’t hold him much longer, so they need to charge him with murder but everyone’s afraid to grass, due to a dread fear of evil spirits.”

  Gabriel raised his dark brows. “Are they? I know someone who will grass.”

  Doyle paused in surprise. “You do? Who?”

  With a smile, Gabriel nodded his head down the stairs, where the woman could be seen, idly peering out one of the smudged windows. “She will. The Santero’s favor was that he killed her husband for her. The husband wanted to take her back to the old country, she didn’t want to go, and so she had him killed.”

  Agape, Doyle stared at him. “She told you that? Without battin’ an eyelash?”

  He grinned. “She did. People like to talk.”

  But after a moment’s consideration, Doyle shook her head with regret. “I don’t think we can use it, Gabriel; she wasn’t read the caution.”

  The young officer shrugged. “Who’s to say that she wasn’t read the caution?”

  This attitude was not surprising, it was rumored that MI 5 people played a bit fast and loose with the protocols, being as—in their minds—the ends justified the means. “I’m to say, I’m afraid.”

  He accepted this intrusion of the rule of law with good grace, and shrugged. “All right.”

  It did seem a shame, so she offered, “We can always caution her, and try again.”

  “If you’d like,” he agreed, but she could tell that he didn’t think they’d get the confession again, after taking such an alarming and pointed step.

  Tentatively, Doyle pushed open the door to the Santero’s rooms, and braced herself, expecting the atmosphere within to be very uncomfortable for her, considering the recent contretemps in the interview room. With some relief, however, she realized that there was no such feeling—she’d no sense that the occupant was an evildoer, doing evil deeds. Instead, the place was small, spare and rather tidy, with a kettle on the ancient stove that still showed traces of fingerprint powder.

  They stood for a moment, taking in the layout, and then Doyle suggested that Gabriel search the bedroom, whilst she took the kitchen and the small sitting room. It seemed unlikely that the task would take long; the rooms were shabby and small, and there were clear signs that the SOCOs had already done their very thorough job.

  They were thus engaged for perhaps fifteen minutes when the shop’s bell rang, and the woman downstairs could be heard speaking to a newcomer. Ah, thought Doyle, raising her head to listen. The plot thickens, yet again.

  She went over to the doorway and called down, “We’re up here, Ms. Percy.”

  “Who is it?” asked Gabriel, who was going through the drawers in the bedroom.

  “Morgan Percy; she’s the junior barrister representin’ the Santero.”

  The young woman appeared at the doorway, looking cool, professional, and none too happy. “Have you obtained a warrant for an additional search, Officer Doyle?”

  “We had permission,” Doyle replied, and belatedly realized that the permission of the temporary volunteer below may not be legally sufficient.

  Fortunately, it seemed that Percy was willing to let it go, as she moved on to her next pointed complaint. “Am I not aware of new evidence?” Any material evidence found by the prosecution had to be shared with the defense team, and it was clear that Percy was worried she’d been left out of the loop.

  “We’re planting evidence,” Gabriel explained in a cheerful tone, as he leaned against the do
or jamb.

  Hastily, Doyle intervened. “Officer Gabriel is on loan from MI 5; please forgive him.” To Gabriel, she said, “Can’t joke around about such things, officer. Our Ms. Percy may look like a kind woman, but she’ll have you thrown off this case in a pig’s whisker.”

  Unabashed, he raised his dark brows. “Am I on this case?”

  “No,” Doyle conceded. “For that matter, neither am I.”

  Yet again, Percy seemed inclined to overlook these various irregularities, and positioned herself against the wall. “I’ll observe, if you don’t mind.”

  But Doyle was not quite such a fool, and declined this offer. “I’m afraid I can’t have any contamination of the site.”

  Percy lifted an elegant palm. “What contamination? The site’s been searched and released, already.”

  “Sorry; rules are rules—you’ll have to wait outside.” This was not exactly true, but Doyle had the niggling suspicion that Percy was worried, for some reason, that Doyle was going to find something useful, which was exactly the impression she’d got from Williams, who also seemed to think she’d find something useful on this otherwise sleeveless errand. If I didn’t know better, she thought a bit crossly, I’d think that everyone—including Acton—is standing back and waiting for the fair Doyle to put two and two together.

  She and Gabriel continued the search without speaking, finding little of interest amongst the man’s personal effects. Doyle was in the washroom and Gabriel was standing in the small closet when he called out, “Not much, I’m afraid—although it looks as though some clothes have been removed.”

  Straightening up, Doyle replied, “Yes—the poor SOCOs thought they had him dead to rights because they’d found traces of blood on one of his robes, but it turned out to be animal blood.”

  “Sorry I mentioned it,” said Gabriel. “Nasty customer.”

  Blowing a tendril of hair from her face, Doyle braced her hands against her back and walked over to join him. “I haven’t seen anythin’ that’s even worth baggin’ to take back. How about you?”