Murder in Containment: A Doyle and Acton Mystery

by Anne Cleeland

  “I did. I don’t think she knows anythin’, Michael, but at least now we know why the SOCO had Mrs. Moran’s mobile number. She must have been takin’ snaps of Moran, and accidentally caught somethin’ incriminatin’ on camera—somethin’ that exposed the Wexton Prison corruption case. So she abandoned her assignment from Mrs. Moran, and started pursuin’ the other project, thinkin’ she’d gather more evidence, and then blow the whistle.”

  “So it would seem,” he agreed thoughtfully.

  She glanced over at him as they pulled out into the street. “D’you think Moran was murdered?”

  “There is no indication. I am reluctant to do an exhumation, without more.”

  She eyed him with suspicion, because there was a nuance in his tone that made her think he was not telling her something that he knew. Speaking of which, she remembered how he’d deftly changed the subject when the witness wanted to cast further aspersions on Percy-the-trollop. “Tell me what you know about Morgan Percy, Michael. Did you find out why she was lyin’ to me and Williams?”

  She could see that he was debating whether to tell her, and so she crossed her arms and looked out her window in annoyance. “You never tell me anythin’, Michael.”

  “Only because I met with her off-the-record. I told her I knew she hadn’t been completely forthcoming about her involvement in the corruption scheme.”

  This was of interest, and unable to maintain her sulks, Doyle turned back to him and prompted, “Mrs. Moran said Percy was charged in a criminal case, but I didn’t see anythin’ about that in her record.”

  “She was arrested when a protest got out of hand while she was attending university. She had ambitions to become a judge, and was terrified she had jeopardized all hope of such a career.” He paused. “She was offered an opportunity to have her record expunged.”

  “Mother a’ mercy,” Doyle breathed.

  He tilted his head. “I imagine in light of the lifestyle she was living at school, it didn’t seem such a hard bargain.”

  But Doyle, who’d been living a completely different lifestyle at St. Brigid’s School for Girls, could not fathom it. “Faith, Michael; is anyone not havin’ sex with everyone else, willy-nilly?”

  “I wasn’t, for one. When we were first working together, sex never even crossed your mind.”

  She laughed, and tucked a fond hand under his arm. “I’m sorry; it was not somethin’ that immediately leapt to mind—I was so in awe of you. But if it’s any consolation, now I think about it all the time.”

  “Let’s go home, then. I can spare an hour.” He gave her a look with which she was well-familiar.

  Smiling, she shook her head. “You’ll have to hold that thought, my friend; I’m bein’ interviewed by Gabriel’s little sister for school, and so it’s back to the wretched Met I must go.”

  But now that the idea had been planted, Acton was reluctant to forfeit the proposed tryst. “I’ll call him, and render your excuses.”

  Unfortunately, Doyle also had her own tryst with Savoie to think of, so she leaned over to kiss his neck. “I can’t duck it, Michael. I suppose if you pull over, we can always climb into the back seat.”

  “I may call your bluff.”

  “Whist; not a bluff a’tall—I’d best look lively, to keep you away from the Morgan Percys of the world.”

  With a smile, he looked across at her. “I’ve missed working with you.”

  This seemed a good sign, and she ventured hopefully, “I’m as safe as houses, when I’m in the field with you, Michael. Truly.”

  “Let me think about it,” was all he would say, but she was encouraged; perhaps her cubicle confinement would be lifted—or at least relaxed a bit. She hadn’t had the dream in a couple of nights, after all.

  “Be careful what you say around Gabriel,” he added, as though it was an afterthought. “We’re not to know it, but he’s at the Met undercover, working on the Drake angle.”

  “He is?” She stared at him in astonishment, and then remembered that Acton didn’t necessarily want Drake’s sins unearthed, as it would only rain hellfire down upon the justice system. “Oh—oh Michael; I hope I won’t forget, and say the wrong thing.”

  “I have every confidence,” he replied, and it was not exactly true.

  28

  Doyle made her way up to the third floor canteen, where Williams, Gabriel and his sister were waiting for her, looking out the windows to the street below.

  Gabriel introduced Doyle to Marnie, and they decided to conduct the interview at a table near the windows. With an air of importance, the girl pulled a pink notebook from her school satchel, and Doyle could see that she’d written down prepared questions, presumably with the help of her brother, who hovered behind her.

  “Shall I have the detective inspector fetch us somethin’ to drink, Marnie? This may be thirsty work.”

  Marnie giggled, and acquiesced, and so Doyle sent Williams for a soda and a cup of coffee; she was in need of fortification, after such a nerve-wracking day. She was afraid to even look at Gabriel, for fear she’d give the game away.

  As Williams went to procure the refreshments, Doyle asked Marnie about her school, and the girl readily described her teacher, and the general injustice of not being allowed to play field hockey until next year, even though she was just as good as the older girls. Being in the presence of so much exuberance was a bit exhausting for Doyle, although it was clear that Marnie’s brother had cautioned her to be on her best behavior. Privately, Doyle thought it would be slow going if Marnie continued to giggle every time Doyle said anything—there were not a lot of working-class Irish in her school, apparently.

  After Williams returned with the drinks, Doyle took a fortifying sip, and prompted, “Now then, Marnie, let’s have at it.”

  Marnie considered her notes. “Where were you born?”

  “Dublin, Ireland.”

  Giggling, the girl repeated, “Dublynn Ayerlund.”

  Doyle pretended surprise. “Why Marnie; I’d no idea you were Irish, yourself.”

  The girl giggled with delight, while her embarrassed brother cautioned her not to be rude.

  “How old are you?”

  Doyle tried not to bristle. “Almost twenty-five.”

  Marnie appreciated this. “I’m almost eleven,” she confided.

  “That is excellent,” said Doyle gravely.

  “How long have you been a police officer?”

  “Almost five years. In Ireland, a female police officer is called a banner.” She thought she’d throw that in, for interest.

  “Do you like it?”

  “Yes,” Doyle said promptly. “I like it very much.”

  “What’s the best part?”

  Doyle thought about it. “I have met many fine people, like your brother, who care more about helpin’ people in trouble than they care about their own safety.” This was true, she thought, struck. And it’s why I hate sitting at my desk because I am supposedly in danger; it is not in my nature.

  “And the worst part?”

  “The worst part is when you have to give bad news to nice people.” Doyle realized belatedly that she probably shouldn’t specify the kind of bad news she had to give to the aforementioned nice people. Fortunately, Marnie stuck to her script, and did not follow up.

  “Did you get a medal for being brave?”

  “I did.”

  “Can you please tell me what happened?”

  “Well, another police officer was hurt, and I was afraid she was goin’ to drown. I jumped off a bridge into the Thames to save her.”

  Marnie went off-script, and lifted her gaze, fascinated. “Weren’t you afraid?”

  “I was very much afraid, but there was nothin’ for it.”

  Marnie thought about this, her delicate brow furrowed. “What if you died? Your mother would be so sad.”

  “My mother is never sad; she is abidin’ in heaven.”

  Marnie stared at her blankly, and Gabriel indicated she should get back t
o the script. A non-believer, thought Doyle, and so she explained gently, “My mother died, two years ago.”

  “Oh,” said Marnie. “What was her name?”

  Gabriel looked embarrassed, and bent to say something, but Doyle only smiled and replied, “Mary.”

  “Mary,” Marnie corrected her. “Not ‘Meeary.’”

  “Mary,” said Doyle dutifully, broadening the vowel.

  Marnie was pleased. “You see? You can speak normally, if you try.”

  “It’s truly very hard,” admitted Doyle, and she could hear Williams laughing behind her.

  “Do you have a sister? I have a sister.” The manner in which this was said indicated this was not necessarily a fact to be celebrated.

  “I do not,” Doyle replied, and wondered why her scalp prickled. No question that she didn’t have a sister—who did have a sister?

  “May I see your medal?”

  “Oh—I’m sorry, it’s at home.” She actually wasn’t certain where it was; Acton had put it somewhere.

  Gabriel indicated it was time to wrap it up, so Marnie stood, and solemnly shook Doyle’s hand, as she had obviously been rehearsed to do. “Thank you for your time, Officer Doyle.”

  “The pleasure was mine, Marnie,” replied Doyle in an equally solemn tone.

  Gabriel expressed his appreciation, and the two left. Williams was leaning against the windows with his arms crossed. “Well, that was entertaining.”

  “And you sniggerin’ at me, all the while.”

  “I couldn’t help it; it was just so funny.”

  “I’m not used to children,” Doyle confessed as she hoisted her rucksack. “It’s good practice, I suppose.”

  “You are a natural,” he assured her. “Are you heading home? I can give you a lift.”

  “I have a couple of loose ends I need to tie up, first.” These consisted mainly of figuring out how to shake Acton’s shadow, so as to get to her clandestine meeting with Savoie, but best not give Williams the particulars; she’d already led him on a ragged day.

  He fell into step beside her. “Should I stick around?”

  “You may suit yourself.” I shouldn’t chafe at his concern, she reminded herself; I’m lucky I have an excess of men who want to protect me—a lot of the women we see in this business wind up in the morgue as a result of the tender mercies of their men folk.

  As they approached the lift, she asked thoughtfully, “Who has a sister, Thomas?”

  “A sister?”

  “It was somethin’ Marnie said—it made me think that I’m missin’ somethin’.”

  As always, Williams was willing to humor her, despite this rather disjointed explanation. “Zao has a sister, remember? We had to pick her up, to make sure she was kept safe.”

  But Doyle knit her brow. “I don’t think that’s it. Does the matron have a sister?”

  “Unknown; Munoz did some legwork, and found out her references were all fake—she’s a blank slate, and we have no known associates.”

  Doyle gave him a look. “So; how interestin’ that no one at the prison bothered to check out a matron’s references.”

  “I think we can assume the prison higher-ups knew exactly who she was.”

  To see whether he knew whatever it was that Acton knew, she threw out, “Munoz has a sister who’s workin’ at the council; it seems to me there are some dicey goin’s-on, over there.”

  Williams, as usual, gave nothing away, and replied in an even tone, “Considering the people who are on the council, we can’t just go digging around, Kath.”

  “That’s what the pedophile who was sittin’ on the council counted on, remember? That no one would dare to dig around, despite the rumors.”

  “Then Maguire did everyone a favor when he killed him.”

  Doyle’s scalp prickled again, but she ignored it, because there was no use in getting signals, if you had no idea what they meant—honestly, it was enough to drive a lass to drink. “Murder is murder, Thomas, and there’s no excusin’ it.” Ironic, it was; Doyle was well-aware Acton had helped Williams with his own vigilante murder, and Williams had returned the favor many times over. It was very much like the Wild West, only with Doyle playing the part of the annoying schoolmarm, who goes about lecturing everyone.

  Williams took a casual glance over his shoulder, and lowered his voice. “Speaking of which, have we come any closer to figuring out why Drake was targeted by Maguire?”

  “Now, there’s another situation where it’s not easy to do a bit of diggin’ around.” She paused, thinking about it. “Does Drake have a sister?”

  They’d come to the lift, and Williams pressed the button. “I’ve no idea. Want me to check?”

  “I’ll do it, Thomas.” Quirking her mouth, she looked up at him. “I appreciate how you humor me; never doubt it.”

  “Every day’s a treat, Kath.”

  She gave him a mock-salute, as the doors slid closed.

  29

  Doyle knew a moment’s qualm as she entered the bookstore through the side door; she’d given her shadow the slip the same way she’d done it once before, by taking a circuitous route through the Met’s parking garage. Hopefully he wouldn’t confess this failing to Acton, she’d hate to have him get the sack, poor man.

  She wandered into the religious books aisle, which was where she’d met Savoie in the past, and as usual she arrived first—Savoie was a cautious man, which was no doubt why he’d survived this long, in his questionable business. She pretended an interest in a book of saints, and was not surprised when she felt him sidle up beside her. “Hallo again,” she said, smiling up at him. “Thank you for comin’.”

  His hardened expression did not change, but she was aware he was very pleased to see her. A wonder, it was; he was not one to pursue relationships, was Philippe Savoie, and she could only conclude he was fond of her because she was so completely different from any girl he’d ever known. Of course, she could return this sentiment, in spades.

  “Next time we will meet at my flat, yes?” His pale eyes gleamed. “I will buy the tortes.”

  She frowned at him. “The torts?”

  He made a gesture that generally conveyed the act of eating something messy. “In the paper—yes?”

  “Oh—the fruit pies. Well, Philippe, as delightful as that sounds, I must remind you that I am married, and cannot go about eatin’ pies at your flat.” She paused, and gathered up her courage. “Instead I like to think that we are friends, and that’s why I wanted to meet with you.”

  “We are chalk and cheese.” Very pleased, he was, that he’d remembered the idiom.

  “Well—yes; yes, indeed we are. But nevertheless we are friends, and I need to ask you somethin’ about your brother Gerry—”

  “He tells me you are l’héroïne; that you jumped off the bridge.” Placing a finger on the tip of her nose, he chided, “This is something you did not tell me, little bird.”

  “It was made up to be much more than it truly was,” she replied a bit crossly, as she brushed his finger away. “Please, Philippe; I don’t have much time, and you have to listen to me.”

  “I listen, then.” He leaned a shoulder against the bookcase. “Speak.”

  “I would—well, I suppose I would like to know what your brother Gerry is about.”

  “Ah,” he said, and regarded her thoughtfully.

  As he made no further comment, she ventured, “I’m in a sticky wicket, here; he’s hangin’ about with a minister’s secretary, and I’m worried he’s up to no good, and that maybe you are involved, too. I can’t look the other way, but I thought I’d give you a warnin’, on account of our friendship.” She paused in surprise, because he was very much amused, was Philippe Savoie, even he gave no outward indication.

  He bowed his head gravely. “Bien sûr; you are the good friend.”

  Despite his unalarmed attitude, she persevered, “And Gerry’s doin’ a line with DS Munoz, which—in light of everythin’—makes me very uneasy.”

 
; Savoie cocked his head in puzzlement. “What is this, ‘doin a line’?”

  “Oh—they’re datin’, I suppose you could say, and I can’t think it a good thing.”

  But his reaction was immediate and unmistakable, as his brows came down in angry incredulity. “L’Espagnol?” He stared at her for a moment in shocked disapproval. “Non.”

  Oh-oh, thought Doyle; I hope I haven’t put my foot in it, here. “Well, I think they may be spendin’ some time together, but I’m not altogether certain—”

  He ducked his head, and said some words in French that were probably not meant for polite company, whilst she stared at him in dismay, thinking the situation appeared to be along the lines of Romeo and Juliet, with Doyle and Savoie playing the role of the disapproving parents. “I didn’t realize you didn’t know. I was worried he was workin’ with you and tryin—” here she paused, “— tryin’ to pull some trick on Munoz.”

  He assured her a bit grimly, “No, I did not know of this. I do not pull the trick on Munoz, it is my brother who pulls the trick on me.”

  With a sinking sensation in her midsection, Doyle thought she may as well ask. “Do you pull the trick on Acton?”

  Savoie unbent enough to render his thin smile. “Non. It is Acton who pulls the tricks.”

  This was true, and an enormous relief—although if there was anyone who could outfox Savoie, it was Acton. Thinking of this, she persisted, “Are you certain—” here she paused delicately “—that Acton isn’t pullin’ a trick on you?”

  His amusement returned. “Ah—you will save me from your husband, yes?”

  Having her dilemma put in those terms made her instantly cross, and so she retorted, “I don’t want to be put in that position, Philippe, and there is no point in tryin’ to warn you, if you think it’s all so very amusin’.”

  Apparently he’d recognized that she was fast losing her temper, because he bent his head to her, and explained in a soothing tone, “Acton, he has the wicket that sticks. He asks for my help, and I am like the Saint Bernard; I help him.” With a shrugged shoulder, he tilted his head in a very European gesture. “He is doing a line, and I help him do this line.”