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

by Anne Cleeland

  He idly played with her hand, but brought the conversation back to his objective because he was Acton, and never lost sight of his objective. “Henceforth, could you do your detecting from headquarters, perhaps?”

  She teased, “If you say ‘henceforth’, does that make it an order, Michael?”

  He ran a thumb across the back of her hand. “I do not have the ordering of you, Kathleen.”

  Fondly, she squeezed his arm. “Of course, you do, foolish man. Unless it involves kale—that’s where I draw the line.”

  “Or chamomile tea,” he added.

  “Or chamomile tea,” she agreed, with a conspiratorial glance toward the cup, hidden on the sideboard.

  “Dinner is served,” Reynolds announced from the kitchen. “Salmon filet, with chickpeas.”

  26

  She must have caught wind about the other shadow murder, although it appeared she was not conversant with the facts. This was troubling, as she tended to piece things together. It was extraordinary, really.

  That night, Harding seemed frustrated with her—or at least, more frustrated than his usual—as he stood, shoeless, at his windy outpost.

  “Hubris is what brings the Até,” he explained, as though speaking to a simpleton. Don’t lose sight of the objective—you are too easily distracted.”

  Unhappy with being on the defensive, she groused, “Well, why can’t you be a bit clearer? Mother a’ mercy, but you’re not the right person for this, with all your goddesses, and fancy words.”

  “I’m exactly the right person,” he replied.

  “Oh,” she said, much struck. “That’s never occurred to me. I should find out why.”

  Nodding, he seemed relieved. “Please.”

  She frowned, and made a mighty effort to concentrate. “I think Acton knows about whatever it is, but he doesn’t want me to find out. He wants me well-away from it.”

  “No.” Harding spoke with heavy emphasis. “He doesn’t know, and that’s why you can’t trust him. That’s how Até works—hubris will be your husband’s downfall.”

  “I don’t think I’m acquainted with hubris,” Doyle ventured. “Which one’s he?”

  “It’s not a ‘him’, it’s an ‘it’, and I wish you had more of it. You’ve got the upper hand, so use it.”

  She stared at him in surprise. “Upper hand over who?”

  “Whom,” he corrected.

  Holding onto her temper with both hands, she tried again. “I don’t have the upper hand over anyone—everyone thinks I’m a hero, but its only puffery, and sleight-of-hand.”

  “Classic public projection, and hero-worship,” he agreed. “But the effect is the same, whether its merited or not; you need only assert yourself. Psychological manipulation through covert intimidation.”

  There was a small pause, whilst Doyle tried to make sense of these particular words, in this particular order. “Not a clue,” she finally confessed.

  Exasperated, the ghost demanded, “Didn’t they teach you psyops?”

  Doyle raised her brows. “Oh—well, yes; that was in forensic psychology, but I didn’t pay much attention. I remember the good cop-bad cop stuff, for interrogations.”

  “Psyops,” he repeated firmly. “In this instance, you are the bad cop.”

  “Me?” she asked, with unfeigned astonishment. “There’s not a soul alive who’d believe I’m the bad cop. I hate to assert myself—whether it’s for cyclops, or not.” She paused, thinking about it. “It’s just not in my nature.”

  “Hubris,” he repeated wearily. “Find some, and be quick about it.”

  Suddenly struck, she ventured, “The ghost at Trestles is warnin’ me about somethin’, too—now, there’s a bad cop, if I ever saw one. Are you acquainted with him?”

  Surprised, the psychiatrist uncrossed his arms. “You should pay attention to him; the man’s a warlord.”

  With some surprise, she asked, “Am I at war?”

  With a gasp, Doyle woke, and instinctively tried to sit up, only to discover that it was no easy thing to sit up in one’s third trimester, and so she propped herself up on her elbows, instead.

  “Kathleen?” Acton murmured, and reached to turn on the lamp. “Everything all right?”

  “I had a bad dream.” Then, after a moment’s hesitation, she added, “It was about Dr. Harding.”

  Her sleepy husband stared at her for a moment, and then ran a hand over his eyes. “Dr. Harding?”

  She shifted so that she faced him, and decided there was nothin’ for it; she had to ask. “Who killed him, Michael—Dr. Harding, I mean. Did you? I think it’s important, for some reason.”

  He watched her for a moment, a frown between his brows. “You are mistaken, Kathleen. Harding is not dead.”

  Now it was Doyle’s turn to stare at him. “Oh, yes he is, Michael—my hand on my heart.” She paused, and pushed her hair away from her face. “I think he’s a shadow murder of some sort.”

  There was a small silence, whilst she could feel Acton’s extreme surprise. Candidly, she offered, “We’ve a lot of secrets from each another—you and me—and that’s as it should be, of course; but I think it’s important that I find out what’s happened to Dr. Harding. He certainly seems to think so.” With a small sigh, she fell back into the pillows, and gazed up at the pool of light that was reflected on the ceiling. “What do you know of it? Harding’s disappeared from sight, so somethin’ must have happened to him.”

  Acton spoke in a level tone. “Harding is a key witness to the corruption rig, and so he had little choice but to be put into protective custody, and to be given a different identity.”

  Surprised, she turned her head to face him. “Oh—that’s right; he was in cahoots with the nasty DSC.”

  “Indeed.”

  Frowning, she turned to contemplate the ceiling again. “So—I suppose if he’s had a change of identity, it may not be easy to find out who’s killed him.”

  “Are you completely certain he is dead, Kathleen? I have been informed otherwise.”

  This was a surprise, and she turned to face him again. “You have? Recently?”

  “Yes, recently.”

  With an effort, she propped herself up, yet again. “Then there’s your culprit, Michael; someone’s lyin’ to you, and Harding wants you to know about it.”

  He made no response, and she could sense that he was deeply distracted, thinking. After a moment, she ventured, “I suppose you wouldn’t be interested in tellin’ me who it is—who’s lyin’ to you about Harding?”

  “Williams,” her husband replied.

  27

  Why hadn’t the prosecutors told him that Harding was dead? Could it be that they didn’t know?

  “We’re havin’ lunch, you and me,” Doyle announced to Williams’ recorded message on the phone. “No bunkin’ it, my friend; I’ll meet you at our fish and chips stand—the one on the embankment.”

  She rang off. Williams hadn’t picked up, and although he very well might be busy with field work, she suspicioned that he was avoiding her. Last night, she’d obtained Acton’s promise that he’d let her take a throw at Williams first, and he’d agreed—rather readily, which in turn raised a suspicion that Acton would proceed with his own plan, will-she or nil-she, so she’d best fix the problem, and fix it soon. If Williams was lying to Acton, it was something serious.

  And truth to tell, that was not the only surprise she’d sustained from the late-night discussion; the fact that Acton hadn’t haled off and murdered Hastings himself was nothing short of amazing. Her vengeance-minded husband must have decided that the psychiatrist was too valuable as a witness, and had therefore allowed him to live.

  She paused with this thought, much struck. Faith, it was the same situation with Solonik’s nasty sister; Acton hadn’t strangled her outright, which was an enormous surprise, considering she was another one who was neck-deep in evil schemes.

  Knitting her brow, Doyle stared at her computer screen without really seeing it. So, A
cton’s not killing people, willy-nilly; mayhap this could be interpreted as a good thing—mayhap religious instruction was making a dent, and he was truly trying to be a better person.

  No, her instinct said immediately. That’s not it.

  Fine; she responded a bit crossly. I’ll just add another to the long list of things I’ve got to figure out; Mother a’ mercy—it’s enough to make a saint swear. And for reasons that are unclear, I’ll bet my teeth that all of this is tangled up together, somehow; the shadow murders, and Acton’s unexpected inclination toward mercy.

  Mindful of Acton’s request that she stay close to headquarters, Doyle decided that she’d visit Mary-the-nanny this morning, to see what it was she wanted to talk about, and since the route took her more-or-less near the Santero’s shop—if you weren’t overly-worried about taking the most direct path—she’d have another look-in, there. She’d been distracted, last time, what with Gabriel and Morgan Percy hanging about, and the shop-minder watching them like Athaliah-at-the-gate. Harding was prodding her about loose ends, and since the Santero seemed to be at the center of this shadow-murder puzzle, it would be best to stop by, and see if she could root out a lead.

  The door’s overhead bell rang as Doyle entered the Santero’s shop, and she noted that little had changed since her last visit; the shop-minder was seated in her chair in the corner and doing some sort of tatting-work, her attitude one of grim boredom. She looked up as Doyle came through the door, and then craned her head to see if Doyle had anyone with her. “Where is the young man, today?”

  “He’ll be along,” Doyle replied vaguely. “He enjoyed speakin’ with you—said you reminded him of home.”

  The woman eyed her dubiously. “He told me he was born here.”

  “Oh—oh, is that so? Mayhap instead he said you reminded him of his mother, then, and I am mixin’ it up.”

  This attempt at a recovery seemed to be successful, and the shop-minder smoothed her tatting with a benign hand. “He was respectful. Many of the young men today are not.”

  Doyle sauntered over to a dusty shelf, and fingered a dubious-looking wooden idol. “All too true. I’m a bit worried that he’s bein’ led astray, though. By the young woman who came that day.” Raising her brows, she shot a significant glance at the seated woman.

  The minder’s hands stilled for a moment, and her dark eyes narrowed. “No; with that kind of woman, it means nothing—he amuses himself.”

  “I’d hate it, if he came into the trouble, though.” Doyle lowered her voice. “She may draw him into the trouble, without his knowin’—she’s that kind of girl.” Truer words, never spoken. With a vague gesture toward the stairs, Doyle lowered her head and stage-whispered, “The shoes.”

  The woman sat, stone-faced, and regarded Doyle for a long moment under heavy-lidded eyes. “You have him come speak to me.”

  Doyle nodded quickly, and then looked conscious, as she re-arranged the idol on the shelf. “Right. Best not to say anythin’ more about it—there’s trouble enough.”

  But the woman would not be further drawn, and picked up her tatting again. “Why do you come, this morning?”

  Doyle decided there was no point in being subtle with this particular witness, and so she said bluntly, “I wanted to ask you if you’ve seen anyone goin’ upstairs into the Santero’s rooms since he was arrested, and if you can give me any descriptions.”

  The woman glanced up, as she snipped a skein. “The police were here,” she observed in a flat tone. “Two days, they were here—many of them.”

  “I meant after the police left,” Doyle clarified, although she didn’t think for an instant that the woman needed clarification. “After you started mindin’ the shop.”

  “I saw no one,” she replied calmly, and it was a lie.

  I suppose I can’t blame her for being wary in dealing with the police, Doyle thought; she’s a murderess, after all. “Well, if you do see anythin’ odd, perhaps you could give Officer Gabriel a call. I’ll write his number, here on my card.”

  The woman took the proffered card, and studied it for a moment. “What will happen to the Santero?”

  “Oh—he’s bein’ set for trial today, I think.”

  “It will be good when all this is finished.” Making a moue of distaste, the woman sank back in her chair and gazed around the shabby little room. “I am tired of this shop.”

  Doyle decided there was no need to break it to her gently. “I think he’s goin’ to prison for a long time—may as well lock the place up.”

  “I will wait to hear.” The woman bent her head to resume her tatting. “I made a promise.”

  Once outside, Doyle ducked into a doorway to ring up the driving service, and think about what she’d learned. The shop-minder knew a thing or two, but she wasn’t about to spill it out to the likes of Doyle. It seemed obvious that the shoes had been planted after the fact, to stage the shadow murders that someone was trying to pin on the Santero—the QC and Blakney, thus far, although there might be others—Harding himself serving as a good possibility. It was an excellent scheme, when you thought about it; if they already had a cut-and-dried case against a murderer, law enforcement would be all-too-eager to lay as many cold cases as they could manage at his door—it helped convince the public that the CID never gave up, and any decent piece of evidence would do.

  Doyle paused. Except—except this case truly wasn’t lining up very well, for the shadow-murderer. The shoes would be easily excluded from evidence on a suppression motion—since the flat was left unsecured for days—and the re-search could easily be deemed illegal as well; the shop-minder’s permission wouldn’t hold water.

  And there were no prints, either. Little point in planting evidence, one would think, if there were no prints to tie them to the victims. All in all, it was a sorry excuse for a smoking gun.

  Thinking over these many and puzzling contradictions, Doyle teetered on the edge of calling Gabriel, and asking him to sweet-talk the shop-minder into confessing whatever it was that was going on, but she decided to wait, and think about it a bit. When Gabriel had said that he wasn’t involved in the corruption rig it was the truth, but he was one of those emingnas, or however you said it; a puzzle. Best be cautious.

  The next person on the agenda was not puzzling in the least, and Doyle smiled with genuine pleasure upon greeting Mary, who invited Doyle in to her neat little flat, and poured out tea. As the two women spoke of Doyle’s pregnancy, Doyle noted with a twinge of alarm that Mary was troubled, beneath her serene exterior. Now what? she thought with resignation, as she dutifully sipped the insipid brew. I hope Reynolds hasn’t scared her silly.

  Mary carefully set down her tea cup. “I wanted to let you know that I’m having to look for work, due to the situation. It will be temporary, of course—until Edward is born—but I thought you should be made aware.”

  Doyle examined her memory, and decided that she was truly at sea, and not just forgetting things as was her wont, nowadays. “Remind me what the situation is.”

  Mary stared in surprise. “Oh—oh I’m so sorry; I thought you knew. I’m afraid—well, I’m afraid that my husband has disappeared.”

  Doyle’s mouth went dry, because her scalp was suddenly prickling like a live thing, and her instinct was doing the equivalent of flashing red lights in her face. “Are you—is your husband a QC?”

  With a puzzled smile, Mary confessed, “I’m afraid I don’t know what that means.”

  “No—of course not,” Doyle breathed in relief, and then castigated her stupid instinct for leaping to absurd conclusions. Honestly; everything was not always connected to everything else, and she needed to stop thinking that it was.

  “But no one seems to know where he’s gone to.”

  “Was there—” Doyle asked delicately, “—was there someone else, that he might have been seein’?” It didn’t take long, in detective work, to discover that wives tended to be deaf, blind and dumb when it came to their husband’s misdeeds.

/>   The other woman frowned slightly. “I don’t think so, but I suppose you can never be certain.” She paused, and then added candidly, “He did have money problems, and he was worried about some of the people he dealt with.”

  Gently, Doyle asked, “D’you think he’s taken a bunk, then?” For a moment, Doyle tried to imagine Acton ditching her fair self, but this mental exercise proved too incredible even to contemplate, and so she gave it up.

  “I don’t think so—he is truly fond of little Gemma.”

  Doyle thought about it for a moment. Whilst Mary was indeed concerned, it didn’t seem as though she felt her husband had met a bad end—Doyle had encountered many a desperate, distraught wife, and Mary wasn’t one of them. “I can run a missin’ person’s search, Mary; unless you’d like to keep it private for a bit longer, to give him time to come back.”

  Mary shook her head. “Thank you, but Officer Williams has already run the check for me. He’s been very kind—”

  But Doyle was no longer listening, because she was barely able to think, over the roaring sound in her ears. Williams had been—inexplicitly—keeping in touch with Mary, even though there was no reason to, and Doyle had entertained the uneasy suspicion that he was attracted to the married woman. Holy Mother of God. She shut her eyes tightly, and could feel herself sway. Holy, holy Mother of God.

  Mary leaned to touch her knee, concerned. “Are you all right, Lady Acton?”

  “Yes—yes, sorry.” Doyle pressed her hands to her temples and tried to right herself. Suddenly, all the puzzling loose ends were getting themselves catastrophically tied together, and she fought a feeling of nausea. “I believe—I believe your husband was—is—a pawnbroker.”

  “Yes, William Blakney is his name—I kept my own name, after we married. I’m so sorry you weren’t aware that he’d disappeared; I thought Officer Williams would have told you, but I suppose he was trying to spare my feelings.” She paused, and brightened a bit. “He seemed to think it was a good sign that the search came up empty, and so I’m trying to not worry too much.” A faint trace of color appeared in her cheeks. “Officer Williams told me that there is a police fund to help families in my situation, and that he could arrange for a stipend, but I’ll be all right, once Edward is born—I just need to make ends meet, in the meantime.”