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

by Anne Cleeland

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Percy replied in sullen tone, and it was a lie.

  “Well, it’s all goin’ to come crashin’ down, and you’d be an easy scapegoat, considerin’ who it is that we’re dealin’ with. Best be careful.”

  The girl was silent for a moment, watching Williams, and so Doyle suggested, “Make a clean breast; tell them you were blackmailed—or pressured, or somethin’—and then grass the livin’ daylights out of everyone else. There’s a different justice system for pretty young women—you know it, as well as I do. I can’t imagine you’d do any hard time.”

  Percy refused to look at her. “It’s not that simple. You wouldn’t understand.”

  Doyle sighed with sympathy. “It’s simple, indeed; it’s just not easy, and that’s always the rub, isn’t it?” She thought of Acton, and his doings, and how he was the furthest thing from a simple creature imaginable. Mayhap I’m wrong, she admitted, quirking her mouth; mayhap it is like the Wild West, and those of us who stand in the background, timidly pointing at the rule of law, are rightly and roundly ignored. Aloud, she said, “I can’t imagine that we’re supposed to live every man for himself.”

  “No,” Dr. Harding agreed.

  With some surprise, Doyle realized that the ghost was seated on the bench to her right. “Oh—oh; it’s you. Am I dreamin’?”

  “No; but I thought I’d take the opportunity to bid you goodbye.”

  She smiled, slightly. “You’ve redeemed yourself, then?”

  He crossed his arms. “In a manner of speaking. I’ve replaced myself with the Santero, and so now it is he who will testify at the criminal trials.”

  “Is that so? So—we’ve replaced one witch doctor with another?”

  He didn’t respond to the barb, but glanced around with an expression of mild distaste. “I don’t have fond memories of this place.”

  “Well, there’s some brass, for you—considerin’ it’s me, sittin’ right here. This place was nothin’ more than what you deserved. Faith, the irony is thick on the ground, isn’t it?”

  “No,” he replied. “Nothing is ironic. It is only true.”

  With a knit brow, she thought this over, then gave up. “Fah; that’s too deep, for the likes of me.”

  “Perhaps.”

  They sat in silence for a moment, and despite having said his goodbyes, he seemed disinclined to leave. She offered, “Acton’s not strokin’ my arms, anymore.”

  “Abreaction.” He nodded. “Good.”

  Since they were on the subject, she thought she may as well ask, “D’you think there’s any chance he’ll be over his—his fixation, some day?”

  The psychiatrist sank his chin into his chest. “It seems unlikely, to me. The child’s birth is a pressure point, of course.”

  But she shook her head. “He’s not goin’ to hurt Edward. I’ll not believe it.”

  “No, but it may trigger a crisis.”

  “Excellent,” she said. “And here I was startin’ to run low on crisises.”

  “Crises,” he corrected. “And if you don’t like dealing with crises, you’ve chosen the wrong husband, and the wrong line of work. It’s a volatile mixture.”

  “I thank you for the advice,” she replied with heavy irony. “It means a great deal, comin’ from you.”

  “I remedied this situation,” he defended himself. “Quite satisfactorily.”

  She decided that this was more-or-less the truth, and that she shouldn’t berate him any further. “Well, now that the Até is bein’ roundly clobbered by the Nemesis, shouldn’t you be leavin’, to go off and study the classics, somewhere?”

  “In a moment.”

  Percy suddenly spoke, from Doyle’s other side. “I was going to warn Acton before they tried to arrest him—warn him to stand down. Because you and I are friends.”

  Interestingly enough, this was true, and Doyle thought it best not to mention that no doubt an integral part of the “standing down” would involve Acton’s being unfaithful to his wedded wife—which just went to show you that Percy was far and away out of her league, if she thought Acton would allow himself to be manipulated in such a way. Instead, Doyle replied in a mild tone. “I appreciate it, Morgan, but he’s not someone who’s the stand-down type. Mayhap it’s you who should stand-down, instead. I don’t think you’re very happy, doing all this plottin’ and manuverin’. It’s a way of compensatin’ for abandonment issues—reactive attachment disorder.”

  The girl turned to stare at her. “What?”

  “We’re rather alike, you know—our fathers left us to fend for ourselves. But we handled it differently; you were desperate for men to pay attention to you, whilst I wanted no one to pay attention to me. Both are common reactions.”

  The other girl frowned incredulously at her. “I don’t need a psychiatry session, thank you very much.”

  “A psychiatry session may actually be helpful; abreaction may be very therapeutic.”

  Angry, the girl turned a shoulder to her. “How I manage my affairs is none of your business.”

  Surprised at herself, Doyle glanced to her right, but found that the bench was now empty. With a sigh, she leaned back, resting her head against the wall as she contemplated the ceiling. “No, I suppose that’s true. You’ll find someone, Morgan, but it can’t be Acton, and it can’t be Williams. You’re like a bird, beatin’ her wings against a window, trying to prove somethin’ that doesn’t need provin’ in the first place.”

  The girl made no reply, although Doyle could feel a sudden jolt of sad awareness. There, she thought, and closed her eyes for a moment. I may not know the fancy names for things, but I know people.

  Hard on this thought, another voice was heard. “Hey.”

  Doyle lifted her head to see that Gabriel now stood before them, his hands in his pockets. “I got tired of waiting in the car. What’s up?”

  Glancing down the hall, she could see that Williams was now speaking on his mobile, his attitude one of frustrated anxiety. “The boom is gettin’ itself lowered,” Doyle explained. “Like a mighty, winnowin’ wind.”

  Lifting his brows, Gabriel followed her gaze. “Oh? Maybe I should go back to the car, then.” He addressed Percy. “Are you grounded, or would you care to join me? I’m sure we could come up with some way to pass the time.”

  With an ironic smile, Percy declined. “No thanks; I have the lowering feeling that you were just priming me for information.”

  But Gabriel only flashed his charming smile. “What? Was that wrong? You were priming me for information, too.”

  “I suppose that’s only fair,” Doyle offered, hoping to avoid yet another clash, on this cataclysmic day.

  “I enjoyed the priming, myself,” Gabriel added. “Wouldn’t mind some more priming, in fact.”

  Percy regarded Gabriel, her eyes narrowing. “I’m still not sure where you fit in.”

  But as always, Gabriel had a ready answer. “I’m on the team that doesn’t want to wind up being a shadow murder.”

  “Amen,” said Doyle fervently. “Aren’t we all.”

  44

  There; the parameters of the story were nailed down, and all should play out satisfactorily. There were a few troubling loose ends, of course, but nothing that could not be easily resolved.

  When Williams escorted Doyle back to her flat, they were treated to the sight of Munoz, seated at the kitchen table and watching Reynolds as he served up a hot dish. The flat smelt of peppers, and Munoz was wearing Doyle’s new boots.

  “Reynolds,” Doyle exclaimed, dropping her rucksack on the floor in outrage. “For the love of all that is holy, you can’t be lettin’ Munoz look through my wardrobe.”

  “Well, you can’t wear them,” the girl remarked, and propped the boots up on the opposite chair, one at a time. “Someone should.”

  Whilst Reynolds avoided Doyle’s accusing eye, Williams pulled out his own chair. “I’ll have some of whatever that is.”

  “It’s paella,
sir,” said Reynolds. “Let me fetch a plate.”

  “It needs a side of queso manchego,” Munoz offered. “But other than that, it’s very good.”

  “It is difficult to procure queso manchego, locally,” Reynolds apologized.

  “Where am I?” Doyle groused, as she sank into the sofa. “Good God; I think I’ve gone through the lookin’-glass.”

  Reynolds regarded her with an assessing eye. “May I make you some tea, madam?”

  “Tea is not goin’ to do it, today—I’ll have the coffee, instead, and Edward will just have to get over it. What’s happened to Trenton?”

  “He’s still outside, and none the wiser,” Munoz reported with an air of satisfaction. “Am I getting paid for this?”

  “You’re gettin’ fed,” Doyle pointed out crossly.

  “May I bring you a plate, madam?”

  “No thanks, Reynolds—I’d have heartburn for days.” Sighing, Doyle leaned forward as far as she was able, and rubbed her temples. “Saints and holy angels; I can’t wait ’till I can eat like a dockman again.”

  “You’ll have to go on a diet, once you have the baby,” Munoz pointed out, savoring another bite. “All that baby fat.”

  Williams asked Reynolds, “You don’t happen to have a spare beer?”

  Doyle lifted her head and frowned. “Aren’t we on-duty?”

  Williams thanked Reynolds, and twisted off the bottle-cap. “I’ll vote for no.”

  Munoz eyed him, as she accepted her own bottle. “You’re in a state. What’s happened?”

  Williams seemed disinclined to answer, so Doyle offered, “They’re doin’ a huge sweep on the ACC, because the Santero confessed that they were pinnin’ a bunch of shadow murders on him. It’s a lot like the harrowin’ of hell, only with flexcuffs.”

  Munoz brought her boots down, and sat up. “Really? Who’s going down?” Munoz wanted details, and small blame to her; she’d been a pawn in their game, and it was lucky she’d never let her guard down—a wily one, was Munoz.

  “I don’t think I can say who’s under suspicion—not until the sweep’s been completed,” Doyle explained, and carefully did not look at Williams. “But the prosecutors may want you to testify about how they were tryin’ to frame-up Acton.”

  “That won’t go over well,” said Munoz, addressing her plate again. “The public will be up in arms—Acton’s their hero.”

  And yet again, thought Doyle, the irony is thick on the ground.

  Munoz paused to take a pull from her bottle. “Well, if you can’t say who the suspects are, can you tell me who the victims were?”

  “I don’t know everythin’,” Doyle admitted, “but I do know that the ACC was killin’ people who’d twigged their involvement in the corruption rig. Remember the QC—the one that was killed in the alley? He was one.” In deference to Williams, she didn’t mention any others.

  Frowning, Munoz reached for a piece of flat bread, and broke it in her hands. “And why would the Santero stand for that?”

  This was, of course, an excellent question—all the more so, since it hadn’t yet occurred to Doyle. There was no question that the Santero was a seething mass of resentment, so why had he signed on, in the first place?

  Williams spoke up. “They threatened his girlfriend.”

  This was unlooked-for, and Doyle regarded him in surprise. “The Santero has a girlfriend?”

  “Yes; the woman who was minding his shop.”

  “Oh,” said Doyle, much struck. “Oh—of course she was.” After all, the woman had sat in that miserable shop, day after day—not to mention that the Santero had killed her very inconvenient husband. “Well—knock me down. He didn’t seem the romantic type.”

  Williams gazed out the picture windows, to consider the view. “That’s how the corruption rig operated—they threatened female relatives.”

  There was a thread of constraint in his voice, and Doyle easily surmised that—aside from threatening to tell Mary about his role in Blakney’s death—they must have threatened to harm Mary, or even the fair Doyle, herself, to get Williams to cooperate.

  Poor Thomas, thought Doyle; they had him over a barrel, and small wonder he was desperate to get out from under—although she was mixing her metaphors, again. Hopefully, when Morgan Percy had passed along the information she’d gleaned from Williams, the girl didn’t actually know the level of evil she was dealing with—but then again, perhaps Doyle was being naïve, which was her usual state of awareness. There were a lot of people out there who felt that the ends always justified the means, with Doyle’s better half serving as an excellent example.

  And Williams had been too ashamed to go to Acton, because then he’d have to confess that he’d succumbed to wicked Morgan Percy’s wicked wiles. Not to mention he didn’t want Acton to know about his feelings for Mary—or Doyle, for that matter. Foolish man; Acton knew everything—well, except for the parameters of this nasty ACC plot, but lucky for him, he’d a very useful wife, who was willing to throw around a curse or two, herself.

  Her mobile pinged, and she saw that the text was from Acton. “Who?”

  “M and W,” she texted. “Eating something spicy.”

  “Home soon,” he replied.

  Thoughtfully, she rang off, wondering who it was that Acton was checking for. Percy, mayhap; or even Savoie himself, bold as brass—it would be just like him, to saunter into Acton’s flat without so much as a by-your-leave. With this thought, she stilled for a moment. Whilst Acton may be working some miracle to avoid his own ruination, Savoie may not escape a similar fate; Savoie had instigated the racecourse smuggling rig in the first place, after all. For Munoz’s sake, she hoped he’d escaped to the continent—hard to imagine Savoie in prison; they probably wouldn’t let him smoke there, either.

  “Acton’s comin’ soon,” she warned. “The general debauchery should be toned down a bit.”

  Immediately, Williams looked up. “Did he say anything?”

  “No,” she replied. “Although he didn’t make a snipers-to-the-roof order, so I’ll take that as a good sign.”

  Munoz signaled for Reynolds to take her plate. “Should I go?”

  “Not without Acton’s say-so,” Doyle cautioned. “You may still be in danger.”

  “Is that so?” asked Reynolds, pausing in alarm. “Perhaps I should make up the spare bedroom.”

  Doyle threw him a sour look. “Just put her in mine, Reynolds; that way she can look through my jewelry, if she wants.”

  “You don’t have any decent jewelry,” Munoz noted, as she regretfully unzipped the boots. “I already looked.”

  Acton’s card could be heard in the slot, and the two detectives stood upon his entry, as Reynolds hurried over to take his jacket. Doyle didn’t rise, as she was almost certainly on maternity leave, starting from the moment she’d exited the Santero’s interview room.

  “At ease,” Acton said.

  “We weren’t sure if we were on-duty, or off-duty,” Doyle explained. “Therefore, there was only some minor beer-drinkin’, as opposed to serious whiskey-drinkin’.”

  “Off-duty,” Acton decided. “Is that gazpacho?”

  “Paella, rather,” said Reynolds, with deep regret. “And I’m afraid we’re all out, sir.”

  “Munoz ate it all up,” Doyle disclosed helpfully. “Reynolds has been ministerin’ to her, out of the kindness of his heart.”

  Munoz slid her a malicious glance behind Acton’s back, and reached for her rucksack. “Do I have orders, sir?”

  “Yes; there is a PC waiting downstairs who will escort you to headquarters. Please report to the acting superintendent as soon as possible; they’ll want to hear what you have to say.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Munoz, with a great deal of satisfaction.

  As of yet, Acton had said nothing to Williams, and Doyle could see that beneath the young man’s stoic demeanor, he was emanating massive amounts of anxiety. “Might I be of some use, sir? Perhaps I could escort DS Munoz—”


  In a rare display, Acton placed his hand on the back of Williams’ neck, the soothing gesture similar to the one he’d used with Doyle, outside the interview room. “Go home, and sleep. That’s an order, Inspector.”

  45

  She’d gone to church alone, which was unexpected. Perhaps she’d heard the news, then.

  Doyle sat in a pew at St. Michael’s, watching as the new deacon went about turning on the lights in the empty church, as the evening fell. Hope he’s a nice fellow, she thought; we’re due for a change of luck—although if I were a decent RC, I wouldn’t be counting on luck, which is superstitious, and would make me no better than the Santero’s customers. Instead, I should be giving thanks in all things, even when the “all things” seems to consist mainly of bad luck. I wish there was a potion you could use against sadness.

  Even without looking, she knew when Acton entered through the doors behind her, and so she didn’t look up when he slid in to sit beside her.

  “Everything all right, Kathleen?”

  She blew out a breath. “No, everythin’s not all right. I went to pay a visit to Morgan Percy, just now.”

  He was silent.

  “Just tell me that it wasn’t your doin’, husband.”

  “No,” he said immediately. “She was a problem, but I did not want her dead.”

  This was true, and she felt a small measure of relief—although she hadn’t truly believed that Acton had killed Morgan Percy. She’d realized that in Acton’s world, the few people that Doyle counted as friends were untouchable. “She’d hate it, lying there under the fluorescent lights. She was always so careful about her appearance.”

  “I will see to it that her release from the morgue is expedited.”

  Doyle nodded; it went without saying that the coroner would do whatever Acton asked. “They’re sayin’ she’s another victim of the Santero’s minions—a containment murder, like the QC—but you and I both know that the Santero wasn’t behind this, because he’s terrified I’ll rain down hellfire on his poor head.”