“I do not wish the English counsel,” the witness replied, his malicious glance resting for a moment on the two barristers present. “Salauds.”
The chairman hurriedly decided not to seek a translation, and instead plowed ahead. “What is your evidence, then?”
“I have the—how do you say? The généologie. The chart of the family.”
“I see.” The chairman leaned back, frowning. “We will need to see this chart, sir.”
“And this man—” Savoie tilted his head negligently toward Acton. “His mother; she can tell you. She speaks with my grande-tante, en Normandie.”
There was a surprised silence. “Your great-aunt, you say?” The chairman looked up, and conceded, “If this is the case, we may have to re-call the dowager Lady Acton.”
This suggestion was met with palpable dismay, and Acton’s counsel stood. “May I, my lord?”
“Please.”
Counsel regarded Savoie with an expression of grave concern, which only prompted another amused smile from the witness. “Mr. Savoie, why has no claim to the title been made before now?”
Savoie slid his malevolent gaze toward Acton. “Me, I did not know this Lord Acton is—how do you say it? Cahoots. A fraud.”
There was a rustling of movement amongst the committee, expressing their well-bred disapproval of such plain speaking against one of their own.
Acton’s counsel continued, “I believe, sir, that you have rather a lengthy history of run-ins with law enforcement. Indeed, you are currently featured on Interpol’s Watch List in connection with black market arms-dealing, and government corruption.”
Several of the committee members were heard to murmur to each other in alarm, but in response, Savoie shrugged. “It is the English policemen who are in prison for corruption, not me, n’est pas?”
“Thanks to Lord Acton,” retorted one of the committee members, with barely-suppressed outrage.
“De vrai,” Savoie agreed mildly, and was seen to reach for his cigarette case before he thought the better of it.
Doyle watched these events with deep admiration, and thought, it’s like that Agatha Christie story; the one where the witness is so unlikeable that no one wants to believe her—the film with that famous German actress. Acton is right—perception will trump the evidence; at the rate things are going, Savoie will be lucky if he gets out of here with a whole skin.
Acton’s counsel then asked, a thread of incredulity in his voice, “Do you seek to take up residence at Trestles, sir?”
But Savoie could be seen to curl his lip at the very idea. “Non; I could not live in England. Instead, I will build a resort—how do you say it? A spa.”
There was a horrified silence. Sir Stephen’s counsel leapt to his feet, and protested, “My lord, we must have a chance to examine the family documents, and verify this man’s story. We’ve been given no foreknowledge of this witness’s testimony—”
“Silence,” ordered the chairman, much shaken. “We will reconvene a week hence, and try to lay this matter to rest.”
23
She would know, of course, that he’d put Savoie up to it, but with any luck, she’d never discover their arrangement. She’d not approve, and he hated to see the disappointment in her eyes.
Doyle had noticed that Munoz’s ACC undercover work always seemed to happen in the afternoons, and so after she returned to headquarters she went to seek out the other girl, to see if an opportunity to spy might present itself.
Mentally, she reminded herself not to mention anything about the committee proceedings to Munoz, who was apparently unaware that her beau was posing as the true pretender in this ridiculous morality play. If nothing else, it showed that Savoie was good at keeping a secret— but Doyle already knew this, since he’d never told anyone about their own little adventure together, and he seemed to have his own code of honor, despite the questionable means by which he earned his living.
As a case-in-point, Doyle knew that Savoie had worked with Acton in bringing down the corruption rig, and now it seemed clear that they were allied, yet again. There must be some aim in putting the Frenchman up as the heir, but she didn’t know what the plan was, which was probably just as well. All in all, it seemed very unlikely that Acton was going to cede his title to the likes of Philippe Savoie—although one never knew, with her wily husband. It would almost be worth it, to see Savoie turn the dowager out, bag and baggage.
Doyle found Munoz seated at her cubicle, typing up a report with a small frown between her brows. “Ho, Munoz. How’s our Elena?” Munoz’s sister had recently married their supervisor, and was expecting her own child. The sister was the one who’d been abducted into the sex slavery ring, and Doyle focused carefully to see if Munoz showed any consciousness of the reason the evildoers had decided to abduct Elena.
Munoz did not deign to stop typing, and replied, “She’s gone to meet Habib’s family, in Pakistan.”
“Holy Mother,” breathed Doyle, distracted by this revelation. “That’s goin’ to be a nine-day’s wonder.”
Apparently resigned to the fact that Doyle was not going to be ignored away, the other girl swiveled around in her chair. “Maybe not. She says his mother is so happy he’s finally got married that nothing else matters.”
Doyle considered this. “I suppose that’s the way it’s always been, and always will be. Mothers get a little less picky, as time goes by.”
“I don’t know; my parents would freak, if they knew about me and Philippe.”
This was of interest, and Doyle ventured, “About his bein’ French, or about his bein’ a criminal kingpin?” It was unclear which would be the worst transgression.
“French. Since he’s rich, they wouldn’t mind the other so much.”
“Well, there’s that, of course. My mother used to say that money can plaster over the deepest cracks.”
The beauty frowned at her. “He talks about you a lot.”
This, of course, was a topic fraught with peril, and so Doyle teased, “Well, it’s very allurin’ to the opposite sex, I am. Especially in my present condition.”
Thus reminded, Munoz eyed Doyle’s pregnant belly. “I don’t think he’s the type to settle down.”
Fairly, Doyle pointed out, “I would have agreed with you, except that he’s devoted to that little boy, which doesn’t seem in keepin’. So, I’ve given up guessin’.”
Absently, Munoz considered this, as she fingered her keyboard. “I might be good for him—I could keep him on the straight and narrow.”
Good luck with that, thought Doyle, who’d been treated to a hearty helping of Savoie underhandedness this very day. Aloud, she ventured, “I don’t know if he’s someone who’d want to change, Munoz.”
Sighing, Munoz wistfully observed, “He’s got that accent.”
“Everyone’s got an accent,” Doyle countered crossly. “It’s annoyin’, is what it is.”
“And it’s so unfair; everything worked out perfectly for you, and you didn’t even try.”
You don’t know the half of it, thought Doyle; my husband’s one step ahead of a Class-A prison sentence, and his ancestral home may very well become a Euro-spa. That, and brassers like Morgan Percy were always doing their level best to steal him away. Suddenly reminded, Doyle asked, “Didn’t you say that Officer Gabriel has a live-in girlfriend?”
“He does. Why?”
“Nothin’. I just thought he was showin’ an interest in someone else, is all.”
Munoz did not find this surprising in the least, and gave her companion a look of superior scorn. “News flash, Doyle; men are men.”
“Well, then mayhap he’ll be susceptible to your fine eyes, Munoz—he seems rather nice. Has a sense of humor, which is always a good sign.”
But the beauty shook her head with real regret. “I’m not ready, yet. I’ve got to have my heart broken, first.”
Doyle offered, “This feelings business is way too complicated.”
“Amen to that.” Munoz
looked up. “Speaking of which, what’s with Williams?”
Williams is miserable, Doyle thought; but he doesn’t want to tell me why. “I don’t know. Maybe he’s under a lot of stress—we’re still so shorthanded.”
“Join the club.” Pointedly, Munoz turned back to her laptop and re-commenced typing.
I need to follow-up on why Williams is miserable, and whether there’s a shadow murder tied up in it, somewhere, Doyle reminded herself; but I’ve a feeling that I’m not going to like what I discover. Mentally girding her loins, she checked the time on her mobile, and then belatedly remembered the whole reason that she’d stopped in to speak with Munoz. “Are you busy this afternoon? I could use a bit of help on the Santero case.”
This caused the other girl to pause, as the Santero case was high-profile, and a good way for an ambitious detective to bring glory upon herself. “Sorry,” she said with real regret. “How about tomorrow?”
“Oh—oh, are you doin’ your ACC work today, then?”
“Yes, but I’ll be free tomorrow, I promise.”
“Right-o,” said Doyle, as she scrolled for Gabriel’s number. “See you then.”
24
He should broach the subject of maternity leave, soon. She was avoiding it, of course.
To his credit, Gabriel willingly abandoned whatever it was he was doing to drive Doyle on her Munoz-shadowing operation, and she thanked him profusely as they waited in an unmarked vehicle outside the parking garage.
“I hope it won’t take too long,” Doyle said. “I truly appreciate it.”
With an easy gesture, Gabriel shrugged. “What’s the protocol?”
Doyle knit her brow. “I just want to see where she goes, and what’s she’s doin’.”
He glanced over at her. “Is this the ACC assignment that you mentioned? What’s your concern?”
She debated what to tell him, since she couldn’t very well say that the ghost of a dead psychiatrist was haunting her. “I’m just a bit worried, is all. She may be bein’ duped.”
Interestingly, he didn’t ask the next obvious question as to who was doing the duping. Instead, he observed, “She doesn’t strike me as someone who’s easy to dupe.”
“No, she’s as shrewd as can stare, that one.”
“Does this involve Morgan Percy?”
Surprised, she turned to look at him. “No, but that seems like an odd thing for you to be askin’. Unsnabble, if you will.”
Again, he shrugged. “I don’t know as I’d trust Morgan Percy.”
But Doyle offered a half-hearted defense of the girl, as she returned her gaze to the parking structure’s exit. “I don’t think she’s a bad sort, truly. She’s got textbook abandonment issues.”
Amused, he lifted a brow. “Does she? Someone was paying attention, in forensic psychology.”
“Not really,” Doyle admitted. “I hated that class.” It was true; there were too many labels and presumptions for someone like her, who could unerringly cut to the nub, all on her own. Not to mention that she had to pretend for the entire class that she couldn’t cut to the nub, all on her own.
“All right, then. We’ll agree to disagree, with respect to Morgan Percy.”
There was a nuance in his tone that prompted her to eye him, sidelong. “Never say you’re doin’ a line with her?”
He smiled. “I can’t; I don’t know what that means.”
Hastily, she took hold of her nosy self. “Never you mind—it’s none of my business, after all.”
“I suppose not,” he agreed, his smile taking the sting out of the snub.
Doyle stared at the parking structure, frozen with surprise. This last comment was a lie. But why on earth would Gabriel’s interest in Morgan Percy be any of her business? And why would he think so? What—whatever could it possibly mean?
“That’s Munoz, isn’t it?” He nodded toward an unmarked vehicle, going through the gate at the garage’s exit.
Pulling herself together, Doyle nodded. “Yes—let’s stay back, and tail her as best we can. I’d rather we lose her than we get twigged.”
He pulled into traffic, keeping an eye on their target. “We could always say we were just out on a date. A perfectly innocent explanation.”
She laughed, and shook her head. “Not a soul would believe it, my friend. I’m a million months pregnant, and I’m married to your CO.”
“All right; instead we can say you think you’re in labor, and I’m driving you to the hospital.”
“Even though we’re goin’ in the wrong direction. You’d have to say the GPS went out, and for some reason you didn’t contact Acton immediately. All in all, that excuse would only make the goin’-out-on-a-date excuse more believable, and I’d wind up in the soup.”
With a smile, he conceded, “Then I’ll just have to make sure we don’t get twigged. She’s heading south, it looks like.”
“Yes,” Doyle mused. “Stay well back, since there’ll be less traffic, soon.” She was still distracted, struggling mightily to figure out how to raise the Morgan Percy topic again, so as to probe why Gabriel thought whatever-it-was that he thought. She hit upon a potential tack to take, and ventured, “Did Percy say anythin’ about gettin’ the Santero’s shoes into evidence?”
Ah—he was suddenly wary, although his relaxed attitude didn’t change. “Not to me.”
“They’re subject to a suppression motion, you know—unless Percy doesn’t care that shadow murders seem to be lyin’ thick on the ground. You’d think she’d care, though—it’s her client that’s gettin’ framed-up for them.”
There was a small silence, and she could tell he was choosing his words carefully, despite his negligent manner. “I suppose we’ll have to wait and see.”
She sank back in the seat, aware that he didn’t like this topic of conversation. “I haven’t had a chance to check—did forensics get anythin’ off the shoes?”
“They were clean; no prints.” He gave her a glance.
She quirked her mouth in acknowledgment. “Naturally; the last place you’d expect prints is on your leather shoes, after usin’ your fingers to pull them on and off, every day.”
They sat for a few moments in silence, processing this very interesting fact as they followed Munoz’s vehicle. Doyle asked, “Remind me; how many of the shoes were odd sizes?”
It was clear that Gabriel had already gone down this path, and he answered readily. “Four. We can presume the expensive Italian ones belonged to the QC; they’re his size.”
“And another pair can be matched to Blakney-the-pawnbroker, I imagine.”
“No doubt,” he replied evenly.
“What is it?” she turned to ask him, alarmed.
He glanced at her in surprise. “What is what?”
“Oh—oh; I just thought—I just thought you knew somethin’ about Blakney, and his shoes.”
He raised his brows. “Do you know something about Blakney and his shoes?”
“No,” she admitted. “But I think I should.” Harding had certainly been banging on about the stupid pawnbroker, but honestly, Doyle didn’t know where to start, and besides, all her spare time had been taken up at Parliament, watching a passel of ridiculous people who were still stuck in the eighteenth century.
On the other hand, she couldn’t shake the nagging conviction that Gabriel knew something that she should make it her business to find out—after all, she’d enlisted him to help shadow Munoz, even though Williams was usually her go-to, in situations such as this. There’s something here, just below the surface, she acknowledged with a touch of bewilderment; but I’m lost, and I don’t know how to lead him into a useful conversation without bringing up stupid Morgan Percy again, which would sound completely daft.
Instead, she decided that she would be as subtle as a serpent. “You aren’t involved in the corruption rig, are you?”
He looked over at her in amused surprise. “No. Are you?”
“No. I just thought I’d make sure.”
Still grinning, he pointed out, “If I were, it’s very unlikely I’d admit to it, Detective Sergeant.”
She smiled in response. “Now, that’s true.”
“If I may say so, sometimes I think you are a little too trusting.”
Again, there was a nuance behind the words, and she exclaimed in exasperation, “Faith, Gabriel; if you’re tryin’ to warn me about someone, you’ve got to say it, straight out—it’s thick as a plank, I am.”
At this, he laughed aloud. “No, no—instead, it’s my turn to apologize, for intruding where I shouldn’t.”
“We’re even, then. I tried to nose my way into your business, first.”
“Then let’s tip our caps and say no more.”
They drove for a few more minutes in silence as they headed toward Surrey, and Doyle wondered aloud, “Where’s she goin’? You wouldn’t think the ACC would be investigatin’ somethin’ so far afield—they’re supposed to worry about corrupt cops at the Met.”
“Well, the whole set-up seems a little bizarre—that the ACC recruited a CID for undercover work. She’s fairly recognizable, after all.”
Doyle immediately perked up. “Oh? D’you think she’s pretty?”
He laughed again. “Wait—I thought I was doing a line with Morgan Percy.”
“Never you mind,” Doyle demurred hastily. “I’m oversteppin’, again.”
But now that he’d mentioned it, Doyle realized this was one of the things that had been bothering her. “You’re right, though; it’s a little strange that they are usin’ someone like her for this—she’s too recognizable. She’s like me; I’m as recognizable as Big Ben, and roughly the same size.”
“I’ll make no comment, other than to agree that your undercover days are probably over.”
She smiled in acknowledgement of this sad fact. “And it’s just as well; it occurs to me that I sound like a fool, tellin’ someone like you how to tail someone.”
Murder in Shadow (The Doyle and Acton Murder Series Book 6) Page 13