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

by Anne Cleeland

  With warm sympathy, the flight attendant asked Doyle, “How are you, ma’am? Any more contractions?”

  “Ouch,” said Doyle, reminded. “Stay close, please.”

  “Of course. Please don’t worry, I’m sure it will all go well.”

  “Here’s hopin’,” Doyle replied in a grim tone.

  In a few minutes, the ambulance pulled up, and Doyle was loaded within as the crowd of well-wishers watched, and the desk sergeant called out, “Good luck!”

  Once Doyle’s gurney was secured inside, she was unsurprised to note that Gabriel and the flight attendant had disappeared in the general confusion, but she didn’t have much time to think about it, because the doors had slammed shut, and Acton was bending his head close to hers, waiting.

  There was truly nothin’ for it, and here they were, having yet another heart-to-heart discussion in the back of a wretched ambulance, and the fact that she’d never been within hailing distance of an ambulance before she’d met Acton should be counted as yet another black mark to be laid firmly at his door.

  In a rush, the words came tumbling out, her voice low so that the medic couldn’t hear them. “I’m not truly in labor, Michael; I had to warn you—” Pausing, she tried to gather up her disjointed thoughts. “The Até is the ACC; the villains are weavin’ a web to bring you down, and it has to do with your gun-runnin’ rig.”

  There it was. And it was the reason that she couldn’t stop thinking about the conversation she’d overheard at Trestles—the one where Acton, Savoie and Solonik’s sister were all speaking in French. They’d been cutting a deal on the smuggling operation going forward, and small wonder the knight was beside himself, poor ghost. Lord Acton of Trestles should not be collaborating with the enemy, no matter how lucrative the deal.

  Acton was silent, and she could sense his abject surprise.

  She swallowed. “I know you didn’t want me to know about the smugglin’, Michael, but that’s the key, here. The ACC is settin’ you up, so that when you move against them, you’ll be exposed and no one will believe you anymore. They’re framin’ you for the shadow murders, to boot. And just to seal the deal, Munoz and Williams are slated to give reluctant testimony against you, but they’ll be believed, because they’re my friends.”

  There was a beat, whilst Acton was silent, but then he asked, “Do you need to go to the hospital? I must take care of this, and I’d rather you were home.”

  She blinked, because he didn’t seem overly-thrown—faith, she’d be wailing like a banshee and drumming her heels, if she were in his place. “No—home is fine. I only pretended I was in labor because Gabriel was worried about getting the witness away safely—she’s the QC’s girlfriend, and she told me the QC wanted to set up a meetin’ with you. He must have found out about the plot, and wanted to warn you about it, which is why they killed him. Gabriel said the ACC was monitorin’ my conversation with the girlfriend, and so he wanted to whisk her away before the same thing happened to her.”

  Struck with sudden dismay, she clutched at his arm. “Mother a’ mercy, Michael—if the girlfriend’s in danger, then Munoz and William are, too; they’ve each been given parts to play in this wretched plot, and the evildoers may not be comfortable about that, if it all comes crashin’ down around their heads.”

  Acton nodded, and pulled his mobile. “I’ll send them over to the flat, to stay with you.”

  He was emanating calm confidence, and she felt immeasurably relieved. “Faith, I knew there was somethin’ smoky about Munoz’s assignment—that’s the willow-wisk that I was tryin’ to remember; you told me that Trenton was at the racecourse to watch Munoz, but Munoz said that the ACC wanted her to monitor Trenton, which shows you they must have known that he was your man.” She contemplated this belated realization with a full measure of self-disgust. “Munoz is right; I’m not a very good detective.”

  “Nonsense,” said Acton, who—even in a crisis—would not allow any disparagement of his better half.

  “Sir,” ventured the medic, who had been visibly dismayed by the appearance of Acton’s mobile phone. “I must request—”

  “Police business,” they both responded in unison, having done this before.

  “Oh. Right, then,” the man said doubtfully, and leaned back into his seat.

  Just as they were pulling into the emergency entrance at the hospital, Acton opened the communication window, and informed the driver that there’d been a change of plans, and that the patient would instead be delivered to her residence. “If you would pull through the basement, and out the other side, I think that would be the most expedient route.”

  And so it was that a short while later, Doyle was comfortably arrayed on the sofa in their flat, with Reynolds brewing coffee as he listened to Acton’s instructions. Munoz and Williams would be by, but no one else was to leave or enter until he’d returned.

  “Very good, sir,” said the servant, who gave no indication that he felt the situation was the least bit unusual, or that Doyle should not be drinking coffee.

  Acton braced his hands on the sofa’s back, and leaned in to give Doyle a long, assessing look. “Tell me the truth; are you all right?”

  “I am,” she said, because she was. It was so very gratifying, to hand this disaster over to her very capable—albeit law-breaking—husband, and trust him to handle it.

  No, her instinct told her. You can’t just trust Acton—not this time.

  Frowning, she wondered what Harding had meant, and what she was supposed to do—she’d little choice but to trust Acton to set it all to rights. She’d winkled out what the plot was—and hopefully in the nick of time—although there was no telling what the ACC had up its sleeve, and whether even the mighty Acton could temper the damage that had already been done.

  Her husband dropped a kiss on her forehead, and as he did, she ventured, “Are we worried that someone will show up with a search warrant?”

  “No,” he replied, and she could see he was amused. “We are not.”

  “Well, that’s a relief. Can’t imagine Reynolds is any good at hand-to-hand.”

  With a small smile, he straightened up. “Please stay here, and I will be back as soon as I am able.”

  He walked over to the bedroom, to make a call that he didn’t want her to hear—Savoie, she guessed. He had to let the Frenchman know that the rig’s up, and it was time to go doggo—mayhap retreat back to the continent, which seemed to be the plan, anyway.

  She watched her husband carefully for a moment, as he spoke on the phone whilst pulling a light jacket from the closet. He did seem confident— although truthfully, she’d never seen him when he wasn’t confident. He may not have known about the ACC plot, but nevertheless, he seemed well-able to deal with the fallout—no doubt he’d a plan already in place, in the event anyone managed to twig on to the extraordinary idea that the acclaimed Lord Acton was running a massive weapons-smuggling rig.

  His assurance in turn re-assured her, and she wondered why she still felt a bit uneasy. He’d turn the tables, somehow—although this time, it would be quite the trick, as he hadn’t seen it coming. Apparently, she should have seen it coming, but she hadn’t been able to understand the message, which seemed to consist mainly of psychological gobbledygook, and references to Greek fairy tales.

  She paused, and her scalp prickled. So; she’d been warned and re-warned—by Harding and by the rampaging knight at Trestles—because they believed it was up to her to somehow spike the ACC’s guns.

  How? She thought in bewilderment. I’m a million months pregnant, and Acton is miles better at thinking on his feet than I am. Acton’s got connections, too—the fact that he was certain no one would issue a search warrant served as an excellent example—and it was apparent that he’d gamed this out; he had a contingency plan, in the event the long arm of the law caught wind of his dark doings. But the plot against him seemed equally gamed-out, and perhaps that was what made her feel uneasy; the villains had laid a careful trap, and had only
to pull up the strings—it was as though they were all caught up in a spider’s web, helpless, and waiting for the boom to be lowered.

  Suddenly, an idea began to take shape in her mind, and she slowly straightened up on the sofa. Yes—they were caught up in a spider’s web, but the spider was just as caught up in it as they were. And actually—for once—she was not the weak link. Apparently, it was time for the fair Doyle to perform yet another rescue, only this one would be a tough wicket, because some guileful maneuvering would be necessary, and the fair Doyle did not excel at maneuvering, guileful or otherwise.

  Her husband strode over to bid her goodbye, and casually lifted his field kit as he passed. “Don’t forget that Trenton is outside, if you need anything.”

  Trenton, Doyle remembered with extreme annoyance. Forgot about stupid Trenton—which meant that yet another layer of guileful maneuvering would be needful. Stupid Trenton.

  At the door, Acton paused to remind her, “I should return soon; don’t go anywhere, please.”

  For the first time that she could remember, Doyle told her husband an out-and-out lie. “I won’t, Michael.”

  40

  Interesting, that she’d known about his enterprise, all along. She was immensely clever.

  Reynold’s loyalty was immediately tested, as the concierge buzzed to let them know that there was an Officer Gabriel in the lobby, and that he was looking to come up.

  “I’m afraid we are not at home to Officer Gabriel,” said Reynolds into the intercom. “Thank you all the same.”

  “He’s all right,” Doyle insisted in the background, but Reynolds had already turned off the device.

  “I have my orders, madam.”

  Disappointed, Doyle sank back into the sofa. “Acton wouldn’t have minded, Reynolds, and I wanted to hear what he had to say.”

  “Perhaps the officer could telephone, madam.”

  “No—he’s worried that he’s being surveilled by the higher-ups at the Yard.”

  “Ah. I see,” Reynolds replied, which wasn’t necessarily the truth, but small blame to him, for not wanting to know the details.

  They settled into a silence that was broken a few moments later, when there was a soft knock at the door. “Anyone within? It’s the unwelcome guest.”

  Ably trying to hide his alarm, the servant slid a hand into his coat pocket, but Doyle cautioned him as she struggled to her feet. “Don’t shoot him, Reynolds; I promise Acton won’t be angry if you let him in.”

  Uncertain, the servant looked from Doyle to the door. “I cannot like it, madam. How did he get past the concierge?”

  “He’s MI 5,” Doyle explained, as she lumbered toward the entry. “They’re wily, like that.”

  Reynolds could be seen to take a deep breath, but remained resolute. “I have my orders, madam.”

  “Well, you may shoot Gabriel with my blessin’ if he makes a false move, but in the meantime, I’m dyin’ to hear what’s happened.”

  With no further ado, she opened the door. “Hallo, Gabriel. Where’s our witness?”

  Gabriel gave the wary Reynolds a friendly nod, and then followed Doyle toward the kitchen table. “I took her to the airport, and told her to hop on any outbound flight—she doesn’t have to be listed on the manifest. I told her we’d let her know when the coast was clear.”

  “Good one,” said Doyle, all admiration. “Although I don’t think she knows much.”

  “They don’t know that, though.” Casually, he took a glance around the flat. “I was hoping to speak with your husband.”

  “He’ll be back soon, but I’m glad you’re here. I’ll be needin’ your help with a plan that I’m cookin’ up, and I haven’t much time to execute it.”

  With a raised brow, he sank into a kitchen chair. “Oh? I thought we were the blind leading the blind.”

  She gave him a look. “You’re as sharp as can stare, my friend, and don’t think that I haven’t realized it. But I’ve got to nip down to the holdin’ cells, and have a chat with the Santero. I suppose you might say that it’s time to shake some of my own skulls.”

  For once, he seemed to be at a loss, and regarded her blankly. “What’s this?”

  Doyle repeated, “I need to speak with the Santero. And I need to do it in an attorney conference room, so there’s no surveillance.”

  Gabriel shifted, and leaned an arm across the chair’s back. “Well, setting aside the fact that your husband would strip me of my pension, if I helped you do such a thing, you can’t just wander in and speak with a suspect, DS Doyle.”

  But Doyle had already considered this undeniable hurdle. “I can if he’s got counsel present, and I know just the girl who’s willin’ to bend the rules a bit—Morgan Percy.” She paused, thinking about it. “But I’ve got to make it worth her while, and since I can’t hand Acton over to her, Williams will have to be the Percy-bait.”

  “I’ll be your Percy-bait,” Gabriel offered promptly. “It would be my pleasure.”

  But Doyle shook her head. “Percy’s not mad for you, Gabriel. She’s just tryin’ to make Williams jealous.”

  “Well, that’s a blow to my ego. But I am worried that Williams is compromised.” He met her eyes.

  Exasperated, Doyle blew a tendril of hair off her face. “No, he’s not; he’s just bein’ Williams, and all noble-like. He needs a good shakin’, is what he needs. I hope he gets here soon—I don’t know how long Acton will be gone, and I’ve got to shake my stumps and save the day.”

  Reynolds cleared his throat. “Am I given to understand, madam, that you intend to depart from the premises?”

  “I’m the get-away driver,” Gabriel informed him cheerfully. “I’m not handsome enough for any other role.”

  “Don’t worry, Reynolds—” Doyle began, but they were interrupted when the concierge buzzed to inform them there was an Officer Munoz in the lobby.

  “Good—send her up,” Doyle asked the servant.

  Reynolds did so, and then was seen to hover near the door, so as to open it the moment Munoz knocked. “Miss Munoz; may I take your coat?”

  “What’s all this about?” Munoz asked without preamble.

  Doyle decided there was no harm in summing it all up. “The ACC is bent, and they’re tryin’ to frame Acton.”

  The girl was seen to roll her eyes, as Reynolds reverently escorted her toward a seat. “Not a surprise—I’d guessed as much. They were trying to make me believe that Acton’s working with Savoie, on some massive smuggling rig.”

  “Ridiculous,” Doyle scoffed.

  “They should have come up with a better story,” Gabriel agreed with a smile.

  Oh-oh, thought Doyle, with a healthy dose of dismay. Oh-oh.

  “Do we have anything to eat?” asked Munoz, who was not above taking gross advantage of Reynolds’ infatuation.

  “No eatin’ yet,” Doyle declared firmly, trying to decide how to handle this latest setback. “Remember my security fellow? I need to give him the slip, and I need your help.”

  Whilst Reynolds made a small sound of acute dismay, Munoz’s eyes narrowed. “Oh? And why is that?”

  Doyle quickly discarded any explanation that would involve a clandestine affair—considering how swollen her feet were—and decided she’d little choice but to fall back on the truth. “Gabriel’s goin’ to take me to meet someone without Acton’s knowin’. Please, Munoz; I wouldn’t ask, except it’s very important.” She decided to add, “It has to do with spikin’ the frame-up against Acton.”

  Thoughtfully, Munoz considered this. “How much time do you need?”

  “Just long enough to slip by him, is all, although if you can divest him of his mobile phone, that would be a topper.”

  “No, Doyle, you idiot; that would raise a huge red flag.” Munoz’s dark eyes slid in a speculative manner toward Gabriel. “He’s going with you?”

  “Well, I can’t be the one to distract the security fellow,” Gabriel explained. “I’m not as pretty.”

  “Chee
k,” Munoz declared without rancor, and walked over to the windows. “All right. Trenton’s below?”

  “Yes, probably watchin’ the entry. Don’t pretend to be someone else, he already knows who you are.”

  “Of course, he does.” The other girl seemed a bit affronted that Doyle would assume otherwise. “I’ll do an enlistment diversion, instead.”

  An enlistment diversion was a tactic whereby the police officer pretended to need a civilian’s assistance, so as to distract them.

  “That is excellent, Munoz; go down to the lobby, and then wait for my signal—I’ll have Reynolds buzz the concierge.”

  Munoz pulled out her compact to check her lipstick. “Got it.”

  “And if you see Williams, tell him we’re comin’ right down, so don’t bother comin’ up.”

  “Cheers.” Munoz lifted her fingers to them, as Reynolds escorted her out.

  “All right; time to move.” Rising, Doyle made her way over to the laundry room, and glanced at Reynolds as he closed the entry door after Munoz. “Were you expecting Mr. Rooke, Reynolds? I hope he’s not detained, again.”

  There was the barest pause, before Reynolds bowed his head, his expression wooden. “I should not be surprised, madam.” Mr. Rooke was the visiting nurse they’d locked in the laundry room, on a best-be-forgotten occasion, and hopefully Reynolds had received the unspoken message.

  Doyle reached for a small box that was perched high on the laundry room shelf, and since he was closest to her, Gabriel sprang up to help her. “Here, I’ll get it.”

  “Thanks.”

  As he stepped into the small room to reach for the box, she drew back, and slammed the door shut.

  41

  He informed Savoie that the contingency plan was now underway, and then went to Layton’s office, to secure the funds.

  With a twist of her wrist, Doyle locked the laundry room door, and there was a small silence from within. “What’s this?”

  She called out apologetically, “I’m not sure I can trust you, Gabriel, and I can’t be takin’ the chance.”