Murder in Containment: A Doyle and Acton Mystery

by Anne Cleeland

  Doyle asked, “Did you leave the key with anyone else, whilst you were away?”

  Impatient, the man glanced toward the cordoned-off door at the end of the hall. “Don’t be daft; of course not. The cat’s not dead too, is he?”

  Doyle decided to cut to the nub of this little encounter. “Would it be possible for you to take the cat in, Mr. Huse? He has no home, and I’m thinkin’ it would be a great kindness.”

  The man took an embarrassed glance down the hall toward his own flat, his cheeks a bit pink. “Never had a cat—but he was a nice animal. I suppose I could, if no one else will.”

  “Well, it’s a kind man, you are. Should I retrieve him from the shelter, and bring him back, then?”

  The man nodded briefly, his spare frame emanating carefully suppressed pleasure. “Can you bring him tomorrow? Give me a day to buy the necessary.”

  Chiu was barely suppressing her irritation at this deviation from the task at hand. “Mr. Huse; did you ever see any men, coming in or out of the decedent’s flat?”

  “Oh, no,” he said bluntly, with a definitive shake of his head. “She liked the film stars; would never make a push at a real man.”

  Much struck by this, Doyle could only agree; the SOCO photographer was the type to fantasize, rather than focus on an eligible man—her crush on Acton only served as an example. After confirming Huse’s phone number against the preliminary report, Doyle congratulated herself on having a ready excuse to come back tomorrow without Chiu. Something was very smoky here, starting with the serial liar living next door to the kill site.

  5

  Once out on the pavement, Chiu paused for a moment. “You believed Mr. Huse about the boyfriend, rather than Mrs. Addersley. Why was this?”

  As this question was one that should not be answered honestly, Doyle hedged. “I don’t know, ma’am—it seemed strange that Mrs. Addersley opened the door to us without first checkin’ who it was, considerin’ there’s an unsolved murder, right next door.”

  But Chiu did not deem this significant. “She probably heard us knocking about, and had an ear to the door.”

  Doyle persisted, “And the preliminary report said she was elderly.”

  “Did it? She may have refused to state her age. And if it was a young PC, he probably thought anyone over thirty was elderly.”

  “I suppose.” Doyle gave it up, and instead offered, “I knew the SOCO—not well, but well enough—and I think Mr. Huse had the right of it. I doubt very much she had a boyfriend, and Mr. Huse is just the type who’d be keepin’ a close eye on the comin’s and goin’s.” Much struck, she added, “And if there was a boyfriend, wouldn’t he have been the one asked to care for the cat?”

  Chiu conceded this point with a slight nod. “True. What of the argument in the hallway, then? Who was that?”

  Doyle frowned, thinking about it. “It was someone she didn’t want to allow into her flat; otherwise she’d have moved the brangle inside, so as to keep it quiet. It may have been someone she feared, and since she wound up dead, it may well have been the killer.”

  Chiu thought this over. “Mrs. Addersley seemed credible, but go ahead and run a background on her to see what comes up—and may as well add everyone else in the building, since we haven’t a lead. And please check for CCTV at the street level—men coming in who weren’t tenants.”

  “Yes ma’am; that seems a good place to start.” Doyle wanted to sound willing, since thus far she’d been a bit contrary, and she truly didn’t want to be thrown off this case; not until she’d had a chance to come back, and nose around.

  Apparently, Chiu was also worried that she was being too hard on her junior colleague, especially considering her junior colleague had some illustrious connections. Therefore, in a semi-friendly fashion, she offered, “Can I give you a lift back to the Met?”

  “Yes, if you wouldn’t mind; I should meet up with DCI Acton.” Doyle was in a fever to fill him in on the strange matter of the lying next door neighbor.

  But as they opened the doors to the unmarked, Chiu gave her a glance. “Isn’t he at Wexton?”

  At Doyle’s blank look, Chiu explained, “You haven’t heard? There was a murder in the holding area at Wexton Prison.”

  Doyle paused in surprise. “No ma’am; I hadn’t heard.” The prison was a medium security facility not far from London, and there had long been rumors of corruption in connection with it. Thus far, however, there’d been a code of silence amongst the prison personnel, and little progress had been made. Acton was patient, though; in this type of situation, all it took was for one nervous Nelly to start talking in exchange for leniency, and the other suspects would immediately fall in line, so as not to be the last one left, with nothing to offer the police. A murder in prison was, unfortunately, not a rarity, but since Acton had jumped on this one, he must believe that it was connected to his corruption case. It also meant he’d have no time to listen to her paltry concerns about a lying witness; best put it aside for the moment, and offer to help him. As Chiu drove out into traffic, Doyle texted, “Need me?”

  Within seconds, Acton rang her up. “I’ll have a suspect in Detention in twenty minutes, and I’d like to go after him as soon as possible. Can you observe from the gallery?”

  This meant that Acton needed a truth-detector, and Doyle replied, “Let me check with DI Chiu.” She turned to Chiu, who gave her a look that indicated she was well-aware her permission was superfluous. “Right; I’ll be there.”

  “Is DI Chiu available? She may be of use.”

  Doyle covered the mobile, and asked, “Can you come in to help DCI Acton with an interrogation?”

  “Of course.”

  Doyle informed Acton they were on their way, and then rang off. Doyle knew Chiu was not happy about being called in to help Acton, although you wouldn’t know it from her demeanor. After a small silence, the woman remarked, “The suspect must be Chinese.”

  Here was a flippin’ minefield, and Doyle wasn’t certain what was best to say. “Oh—d’you think so?”

  But her superior officer had already thought the better of her remark, and glanced over at Doyle. “It’s a good tactic, if that is the case. DCI Acton knows what he’s doing.”

  “No argument here, ma’am.” Prickly, she is, thought Doyle; and wary about having the DCI’s annoying wife on the case, but aware that the aforesaid annoying wife had a record of solving a thorny case or two.

  “Do you think Mr. Huse is harmless? He did have a key.”

  “I do, ma’am,” said Doyle absently, gazing out the window because they’d turned into the utility parking garage, and the smell of gas fumes always made her feel nauseous. “I think the SOCO enlisted his help with her cat, because she knew that he was lonely.”

  “Are you really going to bring him the cat?” Chiu glanced at her with a hint of incredulity.

  “I am,” said Doyle. “It’s important.” She paused, her scalp prickling as it did when her intuition was making a leap. Surprised, she tried to catch at the elusive feeling—why would it be important that the cat be given to the neighbor?

  Chiu interrupted her thoughts. “Definitely important for the cat; they don’t last long at the Metro shelter.” Rather abruptly, she then asked, “Have you worked on the Wexton Prison corruption case?”

  Thankfully, they’d parked the car, and immediately Doyle got out and stood up, breathing in the musty concrete smell and rummaging in her rucksack for a lemon drop, which sometimes seemed to help. “No, I haven’t, ma’am; DI Williams has been doin’ the legwork, with an assist from DS Munoz.”

  Chiu opened the car door, and took a quick look in the rear view mirror, to smooth her hair back. “I wish I had some background on the case, but I suppose DCI Acton will fill me in.”

  Why, I believe she’s a bit nervous, thought Doyle; I always forget that everyone is terrified of Acton, except me. Again, her scalp prickled, but this thought didn’t seem very significant; small wonder everyone was terrified of Acton, they called
him “Holmes” behind his back, and he was not one to fraternize with the foot soldiers.

  As she accompanied Chiu over to the lift, Doyle strove to remember what her better half had said about the Wexton Prison investigation—unfortunately, she tended to not pay close attention, when she didn’t think it was important. Or when she wasn’t feeling well, which was nearly all the time, nowadays. “It’s a bribery-corruption case; they’re keepin’ it fairly quiet, because Acton thinks at least one judge is involved.” This, of course, was a matter for no little concern; the public needed to have the general conviction that the justice system was indeed just. A corruption scandal such as this one would undermine everyone’s faith in law enforcement, and a cynical public could react by second-guessing every action taken by the Crown’s prosecutors for years to come. “And I think they’re havin’ trouble finding a suspect who’s willin’ to grass, so we must be dealin’ with some ugly customers.”

  “Does he have a working theory?”

  “I’m not sure. I imagine it’s your usual rig, though; money is bein’ channeled to certain persons in exchange for lenient sentences, or outright acquittals.” Doyle knit her brow, trying to remember what Acton had intimated. “It’s a tough case to crack, because the reason that a criminal is given a soft sentence—or gets off on an acquittal—is not usually a matter of record. You have to try to weed out those cases where the prosecution genuinely overestimated the strength of its evidence, or where a key witness genuinely changed his story, and instead try to find cases where an acquittal or light sentence seemed to come from out of the clear blue.”

  DI Chiu stepped into the garage lift and pressed the button. “I have every confidence that DCI Acton will sort it out.”

  Doyle stood beside her in silence, surprised to discover that this testament of faith was not exactly true.

  6

  “R U here?”

  Doyle had settled into the gallery next to the interrogation room, watching Acton and Chiu through the one-way mirror and wishing she felt better—once something triggered the nausea, it was tough to shake it, and sooner or later she’d be retching miserably in a corner somewhere. Meanwhile, Acton had paused to text her, in between having a low-voiced conversation with the suspect’s solicitor.

  “Yes, sir,” she texted back.

  “Did U eat?”

  Knocker, she thought. “Yes. Pay attention.”

  He looked up again, and listened to whatever it was the solicitor was telling him. Interesting, she thought; the solicitor seemed nervous to her—usually defense solicitors were hard to shake, as false bravado was their stock-in-trade.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the entrance into the gallery of Detective Sergeant Isabel Munoz, who immediately affected outrage. “What are you doing here? This is my case.”

  Doyle wasn’t having it, being as she didn’t feel well enough to humor stupid Munoz. “No, this is Williams’s case, and I’ll listen to the interrogation if I feel like it.”

  But a new hazard had appeared on the horizon, as Munoz paused to frown incredulously at the tableau beyond the glass. “Why is Chiu in on the interrogation?”

  “Because she’s Chinese, apparently.”

  Munoz sank down, emanating rage and chagrin. “That is so unfair. She’s on probation.”

  Doyle raised her brows. “Is she?”

  “Well; that’s the rumor, anyway—dereliction of duty. Don’t say I said.”

  Seizing on the chance to feel superior, Doyle remonstrated, “The reason you are not in on the interrogation, Munoz, is because you blurt out things like that.”

  The other girl tossed her hair over her shoulders, unrepentant. “You should know all the rumors; you’re married to Acton.”

  “He never speaks of such things, and I’ve told you a million times, Izzy.”

  “Speaks of what things?” DI Williams approached to pull up a chair on the tier behind them.

  “Nothing,” said both girls immediately.

  To change the subject, Doyle asked, “Who was killed at Wexton Prison today, d’you know?”

  Williams leaned in so his head was between them, as they watched the figures in the interrogation room. “A new prisoner was being processed, and there are reports that he was demanding to speak to the women’s matron. Next thing we know, he’s dead on the floor of the holding cell—took a shiv in the back.”

  This was not exactly shocking; they’d heard many a tale about the arsenal of weapons that could be unearthed in any garden-variety Class B prison. Munoz tilted her head toward the table in the interrogation room, beyond the glass. “So who’s the suspect, then? Another prisoner?”

  “No—that’s the twist. Supposedly, no one was in the holding cell with the victim, no one claims to have heard or seen anything, and the CCTV was not functioning. But an alert prison officer noticed inert drops of blood on another guard’s trouser cuff, and placed him under arrest. The trousers are being tested for a match to the victim’s blood; and the guard immediately lawyered up. He’s the one being interrogated.”

  “Acton must think it’s a containment murder, then,” Munoz decided. “The prisoner who was killed was about to reveal something about the corruption scandal, and had to be silenced by someone on the inside.”

  “That seems to be the theory,” Williams agreed.

  Doyle made a face. “Faith, it doesn’t look good—yet another death in custody.”

  Williams shrugged. “This one’s not on the Yard’s watch, at least. And it may be the break we needed on this case; this seems a little too panicky, and Acton wants to see if he can shake the suspect by moving on it quickly.”

  “What was the victim going to prison for?” asked Munoz, which seemed a very good question, and Doyle was annoyed she hadn’t asked this herself.

  “White-collar embezzlement. Three year sentence.”

  “And why would a male detainee want to be seein’ a prison matron?” added Doyle. “That seems odd.” Wexton Prison had separate facilities for female inmates, but the men greatly outnumbered the women.

  “We’re bringing in the matron, to find out if she can shed some light. There’s no obvious connection; she’s not a relative, or a known acquaintance.”

  “Can I be in on that interrogation, or is she Chinese, too?” Munoz was sulking to beat the band, although to give the devil her due, she always managed to look sultry whilst sulking.

  But Williams was immune to sulking, as Doyle knew from past experience. “Give it up, Munoz; have you noticed that it’s my case, and even I’m not in on this interrogation? Besides, you do better with men; women are intimidated by you.”

  Slightly mollified, Munoz leaned back into her chair, which had the added benefit of brushing her arm against Williams’ leg. “A prison matron? Unlikely she’s the type to be intimidated by anything.”

  “Whist, here comes the suspect,” Doyle warned. She needed to concentrate, and oftentimes it was difficult from this distance; she wanted no distractions.

  The suspect was escorted into the interrogation room, wearing the standard-issue prisoner’s jump suit, since his uniform had been confiscated. He did appear to be of Chinese ancestry; a stocky, mid-sized man whose stoic appearance concealed what Doyle knew was his abject misery. Acton introduced himself and Chiu, and then began his interrogation.

  “Officer Zao, how long have you been a British citizen?”

  The suspect raised his eyes briefly from the table; a bit startled. Oftentimes an interrogation would commence with a diversion—not what the suspect was expecting, so as to shake him up a bit. Doyle had to admit she wasn’t expecting this particular question, either.

  After glancing for a moment at his solicitor, the man reluctantly answered, “Three years.”

  Surprised, Doyle leaned forward so as to focus. It was not true, which seemed a foolish move on the suspect’s part; such a thing was easily verifiable.

  Acton, however, made no attempt to pursue this topic, and instead asked, “You have a si
ster who is living in Epping, I understand.” For the briefest moment, he glanced at Chiu, giving the impression that she’d verified this fact.

  Doyle knew the suspect was startled, even though his expression did not change, and the man’s gaze rested on Chiu for the first time. For her part, the DI did not betray by the flicker of an eyelash that she had no idea what Acton was talking about.

  “And how is this relevant?” Doyle could sense that the solicitor was very uneasy, although his manner was slightly bored.

  But Acton was on to the next topic. “A death in custody is a matter of grave concern. Are you aware of any other deaths at Wexton Prison, Officer Zao?”

  The solicitor made an incredulous sound of impatience. “How is this relevant?”

  Acton answered without taking his gaze from the suspect’s. “I am looking for a pattern.”

  “Answer,” advised the solicitor, with a careless shrug meant to indicate that they were on a wild goose chase.

  But Doyle was aware that the solicitor was shaken, and listening very carefully to his client’s answers. Acton knows something, she thought; and the solicitor is very much afraid about whatever it is.

  The prisoner replied with palpable reluctance. “There was a death—on the women’s side, last year.” He paused, his gaze fixed on the table. “A prisoner fight; but I had nothing to do with it.” This was not true.

  Acton added, almost matter-of-factly, “And Solonik. Solonik was killed, also.”

  Doyle blinked, as this seemed off-topic. Solonik had been a Russian crime syndicate kingpin, dabbling in blackmail and weapons smuggling. The man had crossed swords with Acton—never a good idea—and had wound up in prison, sentenced for a murder he didn’t actually commit. Unfortunately, this gave the aforesaid Solonik plenty of time to plot his revenge, and he’d been masterminding a plan to ruin Acton by trying to blackmail the fair Doyle. Just when she feared she’d have to confess what had been going on to Acton, the mighty Solonik had been killed in prison, and all vengeance plots had died along with him. It was amazing, sometimes, how things just worked out for the best.