Her thoughts were interrupted by their arrival at the pub. The crowd was thin—as the weather was cold—and so they easily secured a large corner table. Doyle saved a seat for Williams, who arrived just as the bangers and mash were being served. With a deliberate motion, Doyle began applying peanut butter to toast, and tried to avoid inhaling the scent of the bangers, which were stomach-turningly greasy.
“Do you miss counter-terrorism?” asked Munoz of Gabriel.
He thought about it as he rested a fork. “It’s interesting, but it’s nerve-wracking too. I’m enjoying the change of pace over here, I must say.”
“Do you need to know languages?” asked Doyle, who didn’t, and wished she did. English was tough enough.
“I know Farsi, and Arabic,” he admitted. “It’s helpful, and no doubt one of the main reasons I was recruited.”
“Munoz knows Spanish,” Doyle offered, trying to boost her stock.
But the beauty’s thoughts were clearly elsewhere. “Do you know any French?” she asked with a hint of wistfulness. “I wish I knew some French.”
“Some, but I’m not proficient.” Gabriel turned to Doyle, who was eyeing Munoz with deep dismay. “Do you speak any Gaelic?”
Doyle nodded. “I was taught at school. I’m rusty, though; it isn’t spoken as much in Dublin—mainly in the far west, instead.”
“It’s useful in counter-terrorism; often the communication is in Gaelic, and it’s tough to find a translator who’s willing to grass.”
Doyle tried not to look conscious on behalf of her countrymen, and Mathis, who’d been quiet up to this point, said to Gabriel, “You may not be aware that DS Doyle is married to DCI Acton.”
Gabriel grimaced good-naturedly. “Put a foot in it there; no offense meant. I serve as a translator, myself.”
“Sometimes Acton needs one, with me,” Doyle replied easily, and everyone laughed.
Munoz decided it was time to change the subject to one that featured herself. “I’ve been assigned to a task force that’s supposed to pull together a report and recommendation on how to avoid deaths in custody.”
“There’s nothing worse than a task force,” observed Williams with sympathy. “It’s usually nothing but a time-suck, and no one really wants to hear the truth, anyway. Who’s the lead?”
“I don’t even know yet. The brass are rushing it together to stem the bad press. They want to show that every effort is being made.”
“Best investigate Williams, then,” Doyle pointed out, teasing. “It’s a hazard, he is.”
“I’ve only lost the one,” Williams defended himself. “Surely that’s not so bad.”
“Someone died in custody? What happened?” asked Gabriel.
“A suspect died in the back seat of the unmarked, as I was taking him in for booking. CPR in the back seat; I don’t recommend the experience.”
“Did they find any trace poison on his hands?” asked Doyle.
Williams glanced at Mathis for confirmation. “Not that I am aware.”
Doyle knit her brow. “Oh. I was thinkin’ that maybe he did himself in.”
Mathis offered, “I believe the suspect died of a heart attack, brought on by stress and complications from cancer.”
Interestingly enough, this was not true. In a casual manner, Doyle continued, “Did they autopsy, then?”
Mathis shook her head. “The family requested immediate cremation, and considering his general health, an autopsy wouldn’t have been worth the expense.”
Doyle knew this was not true even without her perceptive ability; Maguire had no family in the picture. I wonder, she thought, what this is all about. She recalled Williams’ hesitant questions about whether Acton would cover up evidence to protect Drake, and decided she’d best find out what her husband was up to—hard to imagine he’d protect Drake, if Drake was a murderer, but on the other hand, it couldn’t be a coincidence that Drake was avoiding her, and Acton’s henchwoman was sitting here, lying about Maguire’s cause of death.
Munoz asked Gabriel, “What type of cases has Drake put you on, so far? Any homicides?” Munoz was always laboring under the conviction that everyone handled homicides except her.
“Yes indeed, although it’s a grisly subject for the lunch table.”
“Do your worst; we can handle it.” Munoz teased him with her slow smile, but Doyle could tell her heart wasn’t in it; she was too busy thinking about her upcoming date with Doyle’s worst nightmare.
“A woman in King’s Cross was murdered for her fetus.”
“Oh,” said Munoz, who despite her brave talk, was a bit shocked. “Did the baby live?”
“We don’t know,” Gabriel admitted. “We haven’t identified the suspect, nor found the baby.”
“First nuns, and now pregnant mothers,” Munoz observed. “What’s with everyone?”
Doyle kept her gaze on the table, and fought nausea. Don’t think about the stolen fetus, she thought, and then naturally could not stop thinking about it. She rose. “I’ll be right back,” she said easily, and made her way to the loo, where she was promptly as sick as a cat.
She was standing before the mirror, patting a wet paper towel on her face and neck, when Munoz entered, looking self-conscious. “Williams said I should check on you. Are you all right?”
“Mornin’ sickness,” Doyle replied with a smile. “Sometimes it hits when you least expect it.”
“What should I do? Do you want to lie down?” Munoz was clearly unused to her role as handmaiden.
“I’ll be all right now; it passes very quickly,” Doyle lied. Best not educate Munoz too thoroughly on the perils of pregnancy.
“You’re pale,” said Munoz critically. “Here, use my lipstick.”
Doyle was touched, and dutifully dabbed on just a bit of color. “Better,” said Munoz. “You’re normally so pale, anyway, that it’s not very noticeable.”
“You’re a rare treat, Munoz,” said Doyle. “I don’t tell you near enough.”
“Just doing what I can,” the other girl replied modestly.
They returned to the table, where Gabriel immediately apologized. “If I’d known you were expecting, believe me, I wouldn’t have said anything.”
“Oh, no,” Doyle assured him. “It’s the smell of the bangers; I’ve been fightin’ it since I walked through the door.”
“When are you due?” asked Mathis.
“Summer,” said Doyle. “I’m waitin’ for the day when I’m not sufferin’ from the mornin’ sickness.”
“Will the baby have a title?” Munoz asked the question with just a tinge of bitterness— she was never going to get over letting Acton slip through her fingers.
“I think it’s an ‘Honorable,’” Doyle replied vaguely. Acton had explained it once, but as she hadn’t been paying attention, she wasn’t certain.
“You don’t know whether boy or girl?” asked Mathis.
“No.” Doyle didn’t want to start discussing ultrasounds, and instead said, “Time will tell.”
Munoz sank back against the seat. “Hard to imagine Holmes with a baby.” “Holmes” was Acton’s nickname, although no one would dare say it to his face.
“Well, you learn quickly,” offered Gabriel with a smile. “I have a baby sister, myself. She was something of a surprise, but we all pitched in to help.”
“How lovely,” Doyle enthused in Munoz’s direction. “A devoted family man.”
But Munoz hadn’t heard, because she was checking her messages, yet again.
18
“What d’you think of Mathis?” Doyle asked Williams, as he drove her to the Dr. Harding interview. Mainly, she wanted to see if Williams was aware of the woman’s role as a fellow doer-of-shadowy-deeds.
Williams, true to form, was reluctant to engage in gossip. “Nice enough. A little dry.”
Doyle teased, “Was she tryin’ to play footsie with you?”
He smiled at the idea. “No.”
“Well, then; not so irresistible.”
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“I already knew I wasn’t irresistible.” He gave her a look.
“Touché,” she replied, proud that she’d used the word correctly, and equally proud that Williams could joke about the subject, after their strained conversation of the day before. She was quiet for a moment, and then asked in a diffident tone, “D’you suppose Mathis would falsify evidence?”
Williams was taken off-guard, and said carefully, “What makes you ask such a thing?”
“Nothing—just a thought.” Williams had given her an equivocal reply, so she already had her answer. Honestly; half of her job was figuring out what her renegade husband was up to, which brought her to the next subject. “Acton said somethin’ about the Wexton Prison case bein’ connected to the immigrant sex slavery case, so you needn’t be worried about sayin’ somethin’ you oughtn’t, anymore.”
“I’m sorry, Kath, but it’s all being kept very quiet.”
“Meaning they’re hopin’ to snag a few big fish, before it’s over.” This was guesswork on her part, but it didn’t take a genius to put two and two together; she hadn’t heard a whisper about this, and Acton was on pins and needles, although he was trying to hide it from her. “Who is havin’ sex with who?”
“Whom, Kath.”
“Fine, then; who is havin’ sex with whom?” Faith, what a bunch of sticklers these stupid English-speakers were.
“I think that is unclear. Or at least, I haven’t been informed.”
This was true. Nevertheless, the scheme was beginning to take shape in her mind, and she began to voice a working theory aloud, just to see how it sounded. “Zao had to cooperate because they’d threatened his sister—presumably with bein’ forced into the sex ring. He also lied about bein’ a citizen at his interview—he’s not really a citizen. I imagine that’s the reason this ring is so hard to crack; they draw immigrants in, with promises of a job in government, and phony citizenship papers, then force them to cooperate in—in whatever the corruption ring has as its aim—by threatenin’ to report them to immigration. Or—if they need to pull out the big guns—threatenin’ to force their wives, daughters or sisters into the sex ring. It’s all done by blackmail—faith, a crackin’ nasty brand of blackmail.”
Warming to this theme, she straightened up in her seat. “That’s why Acton wanted to know about female acquittals; they probably bring the women in on a phony arrest to force the men-folk to do what they’re told. And it’s done right in front of our faces, through government channels, so that everyone else who’s involved can see they mean business, and no one dares to grass on them.”
“That sounds about right,” Williams agreed. “We’re dealing with some very ruthless people.”
“Who?” she asked, frowning. “And what is the object? It seems a lot of trouble to take, just to run a prostitution ring.”
“Money,” said Williams. “Money is always at the root of these rigs—and the complicit judges are being cut in, to get their share.”
But Doyle shook her head slightly. “I think it’s about somethin’ more important than money, Thomas. And I think Acton knows what it is.” Doyle’s scalp prickled, and she remembered Howard, the Home Office official, and the knight who’d visited her dreams at Trestles. “It has to do with the good of the country.”
“The good of the country?” He glanced over at her. “What do you mean?”
“Nothin’,” she said absently, but knew that it wasn’t nothing; knew that it was all connected, somehow—small wonder that Acton was stewing like a barleycorn. “What’s happening with Zao, the prison guard?”
As he slowed to turn onto Harley Street, Williams replied, “There’s a rumor going around that he’s ready to name names—so they’re taking their time to hammer out the plea negotiation.”
She slanted him a glance, because there was something in his tone that made her antennae quiver. “Best hurry along, then; our friend Zao has got a target on his back.”
“I’m sure everyone is aware, and he’s being carefully guarded. And at least the sister is now safe.”
“Good one, Thomas,” she said, smiling at him.
“Sometimes, the good guys win one.”
The witness’s address proved to be an upscale medical offices building, and Doyle read the brass plaque that identified Dr. Harding as a psychiatrist. After entering the tasteful and muted reception area, Doyle spoke to the very refined receptionist, who in turn informed the doctor of their arrival.
When the doctor entered, he looked a bit taken aback, when they introduced themselves. He was a slim, short man, who sported spectacles and a trimmed beard, in the best tradition. “I’m sorry, officer,” he said to Williams. “I should have made it clearer; this is not a police matter, it is a personal matter, and I’m afraid I can speak only to Ms. Doyle.”
This was unexpected, particularly because the doctor was lying when he said it was a personal matter, and Doyle’s scalp was prickling to beat the band. She turned to Williams. “Oh—right, then; would you mind waitin’ for me, Officer Savoie?”
“Right,” he replied, meeting her eyes. She knew he would text her in a few minutes, as she’d asked him to do when she’d met with Savoie. As was the case then, if she didn’t answer, he’d come in to rescue her.
Doyle followed the doctor into his office, her footsteps sounding over-loud in the quiet room, and he indicated a chair across from his desk. I wonder what this is about, she thought. Her instinct was banging about, warning her to be wary, and her instinct was rarely wrong.
He began without preamble, “Your husband was my patient for several months, earlier this year.”
Doyle stared at him in surprise. When she’d been pregnant the first time, Acton decided he should seek treatment for his obsessive condition—which was a measure of his devotion to her, because Acton was a very private person, and with good reason. Although she was not aware of the particulars, the therapy had not gone well; Acton’s drinking had worsened, and finally he’d stopped going altogether.
“I see,” she said to the doctor, although she didn’t see at all. Her mobile vibrated, and she quickly texted “OK” to Williams in reply.
“I am required by law to inform you that—based on a reasonable medical probability—I believe you stand in danger from my former patient.”
Doyle blinked, and then gazed at him blankly. “What?”
With careful fingers, the doctor adjusted the bracket clock on his desk. “Normally, treatment is strictly a private matter between myself and the patient. However, if I believe there is a danger to a specific person, I am obligated by law to inform that person of the potential danger.”
She continued to stare at him. “You’re sayin’ you believe Acton may do me harm.”
“Yes.” He nodded slowly, for emphasis. “I’m sorry to have to tell you, but it is imperative that you be informed. You are in grave danger.”
They regarded each other; Doyle thinking furiously. “I see,” she said again. “And why did you wait so long to be tellin’ me this?”
The man clasped his hands on the desk, and bowed his head. “It has come to my attention that you are pregnant. I believe the pregnancy could trigger a violent reaction.”
But rather than betray any alarm, Doyle asked, “Who else knows of this?”
He adjusted his glasses, puzzled. “I’m—I’m not certain what you mean, Ms. Doyle.”
“Are you required to inform the police, or anyone else of this—this concern of yours?”
This was apparently not the reaction he expected, and he frowned, and cleared his throat. “Well—I am obligated by law to make a record, to show that I made this disclosure to you today, but there is no requirement that I inform law enforcement. That is strictly for you to decide.”
Nothin’ for it, thought Doyle; another flippin’ crisis, and no rest for the weary. “Is this conversation bein’ monitored, or recorded?”
He stared at her for a moment. “No—no; of course not. I’m not sure you understand what
I am telling you—”
“Doctor,” she interrupted, “I am a fair-minded person, and so I will give you one chance to tell me who put you up to this.”
He placed his palms against the surface of the desk, and Doyle knew he was trying to suppress his alarm. “I assure you, Ms. Doyle, it is a valid concern, and the law must be obeyed.” For the first time, his self-possessed manner faltered a bit—not that Doyle needed to confirm what she already knew.
“You should be heartily ashamed of yourself, then, and let this be a lesson to you.” Bending down, she pulled her gun from her ankle holster, and then stood to aim it at him. The doctor gaped at her.
“Keep your hands where I can see them, and stand up slowly.”
“What—what are you doing?” he stammered.
“I’m turnin’ the tables. You’ve assaulted me.” She pulled her ponytail band so that her hair came loose, then pinched the side of her neck.
He stared, blustering and incredulous. “Young woman; it is your word against mine, and I assure you, no one will believe you.”
“You forget that I’m the famous bridge-jumper; there’s not a soul in London who won’t believe me, when you are in the dock for attempted rape.”
He blanched, as she bit her lower lip until she tasted blood. Her mobile vibrated, and she carefully raised it up to her line of sight, next to the gun, and texted: “tcall.” T Call was police shorthand, indicating that an immediate response was required. Within seconds, the office door burst open, and Williams came through, a gun held before him at arm’s length, aimed at the doctor’s forehead. “Police,” he announced unnecessarily; “Don’t move.” There was a small, horrified shriek from the receptionist in the outer room.
“Shut the door,” Doyle directed, and Williams kicked it closed.
She then asked Williams, “Is there a longer sentence for assaultin’ a police officer, or for attempted rape?”
“Assault,” said Williams grimly, and with a click, he pulled the loading mechanism back on his pistol.
“Oh my God,” the doctor gasped, “Wait, she’s lying—”
“I think,” said Doyle thoughtfully, “that he is resistin’ arrest.”
Murder in Containment: A Doyle and Acton Mystery Page 11