Murder in Containment: A Doyle and Acton Mystery

by Anne Cleeland

  Slowly, the other man lowered the scalpel in wonder. “You would do this for me?”

  “No,” said Acton bluntly. “But I cannot afford to allow the particulars of this scandal—and the people involved in it—become public knowledge.” For the slightest moment, his gaze rested on Gabriel, who still held his weapon at the ready. “Now, come with me, and we will record your statement.”

  As though sleepwalking, the man carefully placed the scalpel on the stainless steel tray with a small clink, and then covered the corpse with a sheet. “What will I say, in a statement?”

  “I will tell you on the way over,” said Acton. “Come along; we’ve no time to lose.” He looked up at Doyle and Gabriel, as he ushered the doctor toward the door. “If you both would stay close to hand, I would appreciate it.”

  “Never a dull moment,” Gabriel remarked in an aside to Doyle, as he sheathed his weapon.

  But for once, Doyle could not come up with an equally flippant reply. She could not be easy with Gabriel’s being a witness to what had just transpired, and as they ascended the stairs and made their way toward the interview rooms, she waited with some trepidation for the young man to ask a few pointed questions. None, however, were forthcoming; instead, Acton took Gabriel aside, and spoke to him in a quiet tone for a few moments, as the technicians readied Hsu for his statement, and then Gabriel left, saying nothing further to anyone.

  Doyle knew without being told that Acton would want her to stay within arm’s length of him until all the villains were rounded up—their m.o. was to threaten women, after all—and so she sat in the interview room and pretended to take notes, while the coroner’s statement was recorded. Without a blink, he testified that the SOCO had come to him with information that death certificates had been falsified without his knowledge, and that when she’d been murdered, he immediately contacted DCI Acton with what he’d learned.

  Once the statement was locked down, Doyle then went upstairs to sit for an uncomfortable twenty minutes with Acton’s assistant, while her husband spoke privately with DI Chiu in his office.

  “Congratulations,” said the assistant, eying Doyle in a speculative way.

  “I didn’t do much,” Doyle confessed. “The SOCO broke the case, really.”

  “I meant, on your pregnancy.”

  “Oh—oh, yes; thank you.”

  “Rather a surprise, I understand.” There was an innuendo underlying the words that Doyle could not like; almost as though—almost as though she’d heard the same rumors as Munoz; that Acton was unhappy with her.

  Reining in her temper, Doyle instead smiled benignly. “Here’s hopin’ that you’ll start your own family, someday.”

  “Not yet, DCI Acton keeps me too busy,” the girl replied with her own benign smile. “It’s rather a shame; he spends more time with me, than with you.”

  I’d push her out of her chair, but her skirt is so short she’d be exposed to the elements, and probably catch cold, Doyle thought crossly. I’ve got to remember not to engage with her type; I rise to the bait every time and I never learn. With a monumental effort, she offered with all sincerity, “He appreciates you, he does. He says you do excellent work.”

  “I just try to keep up,” the other replied, losing interest, and turning back to her typing.

  To fill the awkward silence, Doyle pretended to be texting messages until Acton opened the door to his office, and said to his assistant. “DI Williams will be here shortly. He will escort DI Chiu to HR.”

  As he quietly closed the door behind him, Doyle caught a glimpse of Chiu, seated within and unmoving, her head bent forward; emanating a strange mixture of sadness and relief.

  Acton’s assistant stood. “Yes, sir. Shall I fetch coffee?”

  “I’d rather you didn’t disturb DI Chiu until DI Williams arrives. Allow no one else to enter.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Acton then took Doyle’s elbow. “If anyone inquires, we will be in the canteen.”

  Doyle blinked. Acton never went to the canteen, being as he was the next thing to a hillside hermit. “We will? Why is that?”

  “I am hungry,” he offered in a mild tone. It was not true, but Doyle did not demur when, with a nod to his assistant, he led her away.

  35

  Acton barely waited to be out of earshot before he asked, “What did my assistant say to you?”

  Doyle tried not to look self-conscious, but knew she fell short. “Nothin’ much. Why?”

  “You look a bit pulled about.”

  Trust him to read her like the back of his hand; it was a shame that his wife had all the self-restraint of a three year old. “It’s nothin’, Michael. Truly.”

  But he wouldn’t let it go, and she could hear the displeasure in his voice. “She shouldn’t disrespect you. You are my wife.”

  She eyed him sidelong, as they approached the lift. “Would you fire her, if I asked?”

  “In an instant.” It was the truth.

  She shook her head in gentle censure. “Knocker; its back to Dr. Harding with you.”

  With a grim gesture, he pressed the button for the lift. “Dr. Harding is lucky he still has his license.”

  Because she sensed that he was in a mood—and Acton in a mood was a fearsome sight to behold—she teased, “I’ll admit I was impressed by your restraint with respect to Dr. Harding, my friend. If you don’t watch out, you’ll become a kind and generous man.”

  Success—his mood lightened a bit. “No chance of that.”

  Agog with curiosity, she ventured, “Can you tell me what is between Hsu and Chiu? Are they related? Or sweethearts?”

  “There is nothing between them.”

  This seemed implausible, and she stared at him. “But how can that be, Michael? They were threatenin’ him with her.”

  He leaned in so as to speak quietly. “They told him that she’d been forced into the sex ring, and that they would continue to abuse her unless he did as they asked. Remember that she has a royal attribute; such a thing is important to the Chinese.”

  “Poor Chiu,” Doyle breathed, profoundly shocked. “And poor Hsu, thinkin’ he was the only thing between her and—and degratation.” At his barely-perceptible reaction, she glanced up with a wry smile. “That wasn’t right, was it?”

  “Degradation. But I knew what you meant.”

  “You always do,” she said fondly, and took his arm to squeeze it. “But then why is it necessary that Chiu resign from the force? She’s no longer under threat, now that the case has been broken.”

  Acton paused as he opened the canteen door for her, and she could sense he was debating whether to tell her. In the end, he said slowly, “She wasn’t being forced into it; she was a willing participant.”

  Doyle stopped dead in her tracks in the entryway, and stared at him for a moment. “Mother a’ mercy,” she breathed. “Truly?”

  “Indeed,” he affirmed, and then urged her forward, because others in the area were covertly or not-so-covertly watching them. “She emigrated from Canton, and apparently has been involved in high-level prostitution since childhood.”

  Thinking over this unexpected revelation, Doyle had a sudden memory of Chiu, carefully checking her appearance before her meeting with Acton, and decided that the tale was not as implausible as it seemed. Acton must have known all along, of course, and that was why he’d kept Chiu close at hand, these last few days. He’d done the same thing with raving-lunatic Owens; kept the trainee close by so as to monitor him, all unknowing. Her husband was a wily one; mental note for the thousandth time.

  Having purchased her fruit pie, Doyle seated herself across the table from him. “I still feel that sorry for Chiu; she may not have had much choice.”

  Acton, however, was short on sympathy, as he unwrapped the cellophane from his sandwich. “She may well be a co-conspirator, planted in the CID to discover who had vulnerable relatives to exploit.”

  “Oh.” This hadn’t even occurred to Doyle, and it gave her pause. “That�
�s despicable, Michael; will you be chargin’ her, if that’s the case?”

  “No. I promised Hsu I would not.”

  Doyle subsided, but was conflicted about this outcome; Acton obviously thought it was more useful, for his purposes, to have the coroner in his pocket than to prosecute a suspect. Again, he was making decisions that should best be left to a judge and jury, and she could not be easy with his causal assumption of such power. It was very wearing, always having to be the annoying schoolmarm.

  Along those lines, she was reminded to ask, “And what about Gabriel? Won’t he report what he witnessed, so that all your fine maneuverin’ is for naught?”

  But her husband seemed unconcerned, as he took another bite of his sandwich—he wasn’t enjoying it, she saw, he was just going through the motions. “I told Gabriel that it would be best if these developments were kept quiet. I also told him DCI Drake was working only to infiltrate, off the books, because he was concerned that higher-ups at the CID may be involved.”

  Doyle gave him a skeptical look. “Did he believe you?”

  “No. But he’ll maintain the fiction.”

  This pronouncement created a flare of anxiety in Doyle’s breast. “Can you trust him?”

  “We shall see.” Seeing her concern, he leaned in to remind her, “Officer Gabriel is from counter-terrorism. Their stock-in-trade is keeping information away from the public.”

  “Oh. I suppose you’re right.”

  Acton handed her a napkin, as she’d dropped some cherry filling on her sleeve. “Not to mention he will be content to have something to hold over me, if necessary.”

  This seemed a bit alarming, and made her pause in wiping up the stain. “And that’s a good thing?”

  “Certainly. I have something to hold over him, after all.”

  Doyle could only shake her head in abject disapproval as she re-addressed her fruit pie. “I canno’ like it, Michael. You shouldn’t take such decisions on to yourselves—neither of you. It undermines the system.”

  “I will take that under advisement.”

  She gave up; no point in hashing out the subject yet again in the CID canteen, but then his mobile pinged, and he listened to the call with an expression of satisfaction. “Take him to Detention; I’ll be down shortly.” He rang off. “They’ve caught Judge Colcombe.”

  Doyle was duly impressed. “Faith; that quickly?”

  But Acton was unsurprised. “It was a simple catch; he hadn’t caught wind that we knew his new identity, and the prison medical examiner had his mobile number. Whitteside is also being brought in, before he catches wind.”

  “Their brand-new judge? He’ll be unhappy, poor man; having to go to prison along with the rest, even though he’s not had a chance to reap the benefits.”

  “Perhaps he’ll turn on everyone; we shall see.”

  “It’s quite the reunion; all that’s missin’ is our matron.” Doyle eyed her husband, well-aware that he’d not mentioned her, or her vicinity to Trestles. And despite having an obvious opportunity, he’d made no attempt to set up a trap and seizure for the matron. Instead, he’d moved in on everyone else, and with lightning speed. No doubt he didn’t want anyone putting two and two together, when it came to the matron’s nearness to the Acton ancestral estate.

  Considering the news he’d just received, Acton seemed remarkably uninterested in facing down the villains, and so she offered, “If you want to go down to Detention, I’ll go to my desk and not stir a step, I promise. Unless you’d like me to stick to you like a burr.” She was a bit weary, but knew Acton would not want her to be left vulnerable, even with Trenton on the job.

  “We’ll wait here a bit,” was all he said, as he watched her eat the last bite of her pie.

  Thoughtfully, she raised her gaze to his for a moment. “Are we here because we’re showin’ everyone that all’s right with Lord and Lady Acton?”

  A look of annoyance crossed his face. “I wish you hadn’t heard.”

  She reached to take his hand. “Faith, Michael; it doesn’t matter a pin. There’re always rumors; and we’re an odd couplin’, after all.”

  “Nonsense; I find that we are very well-suited.”

  “We’re the only ones who seem to think so,” she pointed out.

  “We’re the only ones who matter,” he replied. “May I offer you coffee?”

  36

  Doyle walked with Nellie, pew by pew, restacking the missals after mass. St. Michael’s was the not-very-affluent parish church she’d attended before Acton turned her life upside-down, so in a way, it was the one constant she could cling to. Acton was taking instruction from Father John, and his routine was to meet in Father John’s office after the late morning service. Acton was to be confirmed at Easter, so now the meetings between the two were on a more-or-less weekly basis, depending on Acton’s caseload.

  The Wexton Prison case seemed to be entering its final throes; the minister of immigration’s secretary had resigned, along with half the Prison Board, but the coverage in the papers had been upstaged by the latest royal mishap, so it did seem that the corruption scandal would die a quiet death—thanks to the SOCO, and the laughing cat that had managed to land on its feet.

  “Which of the churches around here have cloisters, Nellie?” The question had been niggling at Doyle ever since the SOCO’s photos had come to light, and usually when something niggled at her, it was for a good reason.

  “Cloisters?” Nellie moved on to the next pew as she considered the question. “Westminster Abbey.”

  “No, not the Abbey. Smaller cloisters; and the stone is light in color.”

  “Holy Trinity?” Nellie offered. “They have cloisters—Holy Trinity’s very fancy.” This said in tones of disapproval; Holy Trinity was technically Doyle’s new parish, since it served Acton’s upscale neighborhood, but Doyle hadn’t any desire to darken its fancy doors with the likes of her unfancy self.

  “I bet they never have to stoop to hostin’ bingo games in the hall,” Doyle teased. Nellie was a Filipino immigrant who helped manage the parish. In truth, it had been an enormous challenge, pre-Acton, since the church building was old and in need of repair, and the parish was poor and in need of cash. Post-Acton, things had improved greatly; he had paid for a new roof, and it seemed he was soon to pay for a new heating system, if Doyle was any judge.

  Nellie moved to the next pew and shook her head. “The bingo’s not much of a money-maker, in itself. I think I will suggest that a raffle be arranged, with door prizes—or maybe a half-and-half drawing.”

  “Nellie, Acton will gladly pay for the new heatin’ system, I promise you.”

  But Nellie sighed with resignation. “No—he has been so generous already; we cannot continue begging from him, for every hardship.”

  Doyle knelt to pick up a pencil from the floor. “Oh, I don’t know, Nellie; he may be offended if you don’t ask him. The aristocracy feels obligated about helpin’ out. It’s that—that nobles oblige thing.” Doyle wasn’t sure she got the words right, but Nellie would know what she meant. Nellie, like many immigrants, was fascinated by the aristocracy, and was hugely disappointed when Doyle was forced to confess that she didn’t own a tiara.

  “Oh, I see,” said Nellie thoughtfully. “Well, I wouldn’t want to offer him insult.”

  “Let me talk to him, then.” Doyle could sense Nellie’s satisfaction, and smiled to herself; there had been no doubt about the eventual outcome, but the proprieties had to be observed. A wily one, was Nellie.

  To add to her general relief about the tying-up of the Wexton Prison case, Doyle was feeling better every day. She was doggedly eating the various peanut butter dishes Reynolds dreamed up, and their visit to the doctor had gone well. Dr. Easton, usually rather brusque, had been very kind to her, and no needles were flourished. Acton has spoken to him, she thought, and for once she was not exasperated with her over-protective husband.

  She made her way up the side aisle, illuminated by the weak sunshine that was stream
ing in through the stained-glass windows along the wall. This window was her favorite; St. Michael was slaying the serpent, the blues and greens rich and vibrant, the dark serpent writhing in frustrated agony.

  Suddenly, there was a horrendous crash, and as she watched, the window shattered and collapsed. The force of it propelled her against the end of the pew, and then threw her down to the floor, as shards of colored glass showered all around her. Instinctively, she tried to leap up to see if Nellie was all right, but found that her body did not want to respond to command. Instead, she could hear Nellie scream, as the older woman dropped to her knees beside Doyle, her shaking hands held up in horror.

  “Get up, take cover,” Doyle tried to say, but only a croaking sound emerged. I can’t breathe, she thought in surprise, and fought panic.

  The floor beneath her began to vibrate with pounding footsteps, as she stared up at Nellie’s sobbing face, which was cut and bleeding. The deacon’s face then came into view, an older man, who’d been straightening up the altar. “Now then, you’re all right, lassie,” he said in his calm voice, but he was shocked, Doyle could tell. He pulled a weeping Nellie away by the shoulders as Doyle fought for breath; odd, rasping sounds emerging from her mouth.

  Holy Mother of God, she thought; where is Acton? Groping, she raised an arm to pull herself up by the pew, and then stared in surprise to see that her hand was covered with blood. Then Acton’s face—strangely pale—appeared above her, as he handed his mobile to the deacon. “Stay on the line if they need further direction. An ambulance is on the way.”

  Doyle made a croaking sound, and Acton seemed to understand that she needed to sit up. He pulled her up to a sitting position, and draped her against his chest, while he indicated that the deacon should help him take off her coat. “Shallow breaths,” he directed. “Don’t panic.”

  Easier said than done, thought Doyle. Saints and holy angels, what’s happened?

  The deacon said, “I’ve a handkerchief; should we bind up her hand?” At Acton’s nod, the deacon handed the mobile to Nellie, who held it stupidly, her face bloody, and her eyes wide and frightened.