Murder in Containment: A Doyle and Acton Mystery

by Anne Cleeland

  “This afternoon, perhaps,” he replied. “I confess I can sympathize with him.”

  He then walked into the bedroom to engage in the next low-voiced phone conversation, out of earshot. It must be Savoie, Doyle surmised. That, or he was speaking about something he thought might upset her. I do believe I’m past being upset, though; must be a symptom of being shot in the chest.

  When Acton came back, he was emanating satisfaction. “What do we have?” she asked hopefully.

  “A partial plate and a footprint. A casing.”

  This was a surprise, and she stated the obvious. “He’s an amateur, then.” Someone who was proficient at this type of thing would never have left such a wealth of evidence, lying about.

  She caught a flare of exasperation from him. “Unfortunately, the church has no security cameras.”

  “No. And they’ll be needin’ a new heatin’ system, and a stained glass window, too.”

  Amused, he ran a fond hand over her head. “You are catching me at a weak moment.”

  “My mother didn’t raise a fool.”

  He bent to kiss her, and examine the bandage on her hand. “Does it hurt?”

  “What hurts the most is my back, of all things. You didn’t cancel Reynolds, did you? I am starvin’ for bacon and eggs.”

  He paused to look at her in surprise. “Are you indeed?”

  She teased, “Indeed.”

  Smiling, he leaned over to kiss her again. “A silver lining, then.”

  “I prefer the old cure, myself.”

  His mobile pinged, and he was back at it. Despite his seemingly benign mood, she was not fooled; this amateur attacker would never see the inside of a holding cell, because Acton would kill him, and not kindly. Father John would be disappointed, but the Seven Spiritual Acts of Mercy were no match for the crackin’ bruise on her breastbone. Again, her scalp prickled and she ignored it, exasperated.

  Reynolds arrived, and was equal parts dismayed by her scratched-up appearance and delighted to hear that Doyle was hungry. “Bacon and eggs, please,” she requested. “And toast with strawberry jam.”

  Acton hung up, and came to sit with her, indicating to Reynolds that he’d have what his wife was having. “No prints on the casing,” he reported to her. “A shame, but not unexpected. If it was an amateur, he probably panicked in vacating the scene, and didn’t realize the casing was still on the ground.”

  While Reynolds bustled around the kitchen, Doyle indicated the servant with her eyes, and lowered her voice. “Do we need to get our story straight?”

  Acton said merely, “The paper will report that vandals shot out the window, and that you were injured by the glass.”

  She nodded. “What caliber was the bullet?”

  “.243; so presumably, a bolt-action hunting rifle.”

  “A hunting rifle?” This was in keeping with the theory that the shooter was an amateur, and would therefore get himself caught by making amateur mistakes. On the other hand, if he was not a habitual criminal, it meant they’d have no likely suspects, and nothing on file to compare any prints to.

  While the aroma of frying bacon filled the flat, she watched Acton scroll through the messages on his mobile, and was cautiously optimistic; he seemed confident, which meant that she’d probably be allowed to see the light of day in a few short years.

  “Maguire was in my dream, again.” Acton had not inquired about her dream, no doubt because he didn’t want to discuss how he’d murdered his father, and small blame to him. Nevertheless, the dream could be important; it had been important before, and she regretted that she hadn’t thanked Maguire for saving their lives when she’d had the chance—it was such a struggle to have a normal conversation. “When I asked how someone could kill someone in a church, he said that it depended on the church.”

  Acton looked up at this, thinking, and she ventured, “D’you think he was referring to Grady? There must be hunting rifles at Trestles.” Grady was the Irish stableman who was from Ulster, which meant he was Protestant, and not a fan of Doyle-the-mackerel-snapper.

  “I will make some inquires. Did Maguire say anything else?”

  “He said somethin’ that didn’t make a lot of sense, when you consider that it was him, sayin’ it. He said, ‘The problem with vengeance is that it never ends.’”

  Acton looked out the windows for a moment, whilst Reynolds served up the hot plates, and with one eye on her husband, Doyle tucked into her breakfast with a gusto that had been lacking for several months.

  “You said you ran into Cassie Masterson when you were with Williams the other day.”

  She paused, mid-forkful, because it did seem that the disgraced reporter was a prime candidate for vengeance-taking. “Yes, when we were at the Metro animal shelter.”

  Slowly, he asked, “Can you be absolutely certain that the meeting wasn’t contrived? Perhaps she’s been monitoring your movements.”

  Doyle considered this, then shook her head. “I don’t think so, Michael; she was truly surprised to see me.” No question that Acton would believe this; sometimes it seemed that he trusted her perceptive abilities more than she did.

  He nodded. “Nevertheless, I’ll have a look. Anything else?”

  She thought about it, and shook her head again. Other than Maguire telling her that she was brave, she couldn’t remember anything else. She didn’t want to tell Acton about this last little detail, however, since she had the feeling that Maguire had said it because more bravery would soon be needed, and the last thing she wanted was to be fitted out in Kevlar from head to toe.

  39

  Doyle spent the rest of the morning bored and lying on the sofa, hoping this was not to be her foreseeable future. “Any chance we can have bangers and mash?” she asked Reynolds hopefully, as she positioned her pillow. “The kind with the hard skin?”

  “Certainly, madam,” he replied without a flicker, and Doyle sighed in happy anticipation—nothin’ like getting your appetite back, with a vengeance. She hoped Reynolds knew enough to fry the bangers in oil, rather than steam them, like the stupid English did, but decided she’d best mention it, just in case.

  After lunch, she dozed for a bit on the sofa, and then woke to see that Acton and Williams were seated at the table, conferring quietly. With an effort to appear cheerful, she sat herself up. “I’m awake; hallo, Williams.”

  “Hey, Doyle: I brought you something.” With a gesture, he indicated a latte, sitting on the counter, and then met her eyes. “Don’t worry, it’s decaffeinated.”

  This was a lie, and hiding a delighted smile, she replied, “That is so good of you, Williams. Heat it up, Reynolds, I’ll drink it down.”

  Ruthlessly pulling her wayward hair into a pony tail, she joined them at the table, as Reynolds brought over the coffee drink. It was too hot to drink right away, and so she blew on it impatiently.

  “How are you feeling?” Williams asked. He was tired and upset, poor man, and trying to hide it.

  “As well as can be expected, I suppose. I told Acton that my hand doesn’t hurt so much, it’s my back that hurts the most.”

  “How’d you hurt your back?”

  “The force of the shot threw me into the end of the pew.” She paused, as he’d lowered his gaze, and was struggling. Knocker, she thought; you’re making Williams miserable. She changed the subject, “Is there an ID on the plate yet?”

  Williams glanced at Acton. “Yes—rental car, and we’ve traced it to Kympton.”

  “And where is that?” Geography wasn’t Doyle’s strong suit.

  “It’s up by Meryton,” Acton explained into the silence.

  “Oh.” Doyle tried to hide her alarm, since she was aware—as Williams was not—that the disposable cell call to Dr. Harding was also from the Meryton area. All in all, it was beginning to look like someone from Trestles had conspired with the missing matron to do away with the fair Doyle—Grady the stableman was not the criminal mastermind type, after all—and Doyle eyed Acton with some misg
iving. If the dowager or Sir Stephen were involved, she didn’t know what he’d do—he’d killed his father, after all. She knew without a doubt that Acton would want to keep it quiet; she knew that Trestles, with its long and storied history, was very important to him—almost as important as she was. Her scalp prickled.

  Acton rose. “I’ll make a call to Hudson, to see if he’s aware of anything unusual going forward.”

  Doyle was going to comment that it would be difficult to distinguish the unusual from the usual in that household, but refrained in front of Williams, who didn’t need to hear of family matters.

  After Acton retreated to the bedroom to make the call, Williams leaned forward, and indicted her hands. “No stitches?”

  “Not a one.” She offered them up for inspection. “Nellie needed stitches for one cut, but overall, we were lucky.”

  He was going to argue, then bit it back.

  “I think I’ll have a permanent bruise on my poor chest,” she teased. “You know me.”

  “Stop; I don’t want to even think about it.” He paused, absently holding her hands in his. “Don’t make a habit of this, please.”

  “No argument here. At least I volunteered for the bridge jump.”

  “Another medal?” he teased, the blue eyes glinting up at her.

  “I don’t think they give you a medal for bein’ shot in church, Thomas.”

  Reynolds abruptly appeared, and set a plate of biscuits before them. He then lingered and asked Williams about his participation in the bridge-jumping incident, whilst Doyle hid a smile; the servant had apparently decided that a chaperone was needful. During the conversation, Williams met her eye with a quick gleam of amusement, and made no further attempt to touch her.

  Once Reynolds had exhausted the subject, and retreated to the kitchen again, Williams switched to a less objectionable topic. “I wanted to report success about the Marnie situation.”

  Saints, she’d almost forgotten about the Marnie situation. Doyle sat up, despite the effort it cost her. “Good work, Thomas; what’s happened?”

  “I rang up Gabriel, and spoke to him. He was concerned, of course, and I emphasized that she needed to see a good internist, not just her regular pediatrician.”

  “Because her regular doctor hadn’t noticed. Very good, Thomas.”

  “She’ll go in tomorrow.”

  “I’m that relieved.” She’d done all that she could; perhaps it was nothing, after all.

  In an overly-casual manner, Williams drew a finger along the table edge. “Remember when you called me, and asked if I needed help, or if I thought that someone would want to kill me?”

  She could see where this was going, and hurried to reassure him. “No, I’ve had no crazed premonitions about you, Thomas. I was just misunderstandin’ somethin’.”

  “All right. Thought I’d check.”

  Acton returned to the room, and announced, “I will leave for Trestles tomorrow morning. If you would, Williams, please help Trenton keep an eye on my wife; I will try to be home before nightfall.”

  “Yes, sir. Would it be possible to pull DI Chiu over to the stolen fetus case? We haven’t had any leads, and we’ll need more personnel.”

  “I regret to say that DI Chiu has withdrawn from the force,” Acton replied, and offered no further explanation. “Instead, I will double-assign DI Habib.”

  Poor Habib, thought Doyle; his sweet side won’t be likin’ that case.

  Nodding, Williams moved to stand by the windows, as he and Acton discussed what needed to be done on some of Acton’s more pressing cases. Doyle could feel her pulse quicken, and her palms sweat, as she struggled to stay calm. “Williams,” she finally said, “D’you think you could step away from the window?”

  Glancing up in surprise, Williams stepped back, and then Acton came over to stand behind her, his reassuring hands on her shoulders.

  “Sorry,” she said, embarrassed. “Not over it yet, I guess.”

  Acton asked gently, “Would you like to rest for a bit? We’ll go for a walk, and leave you in peace.”

  “I would,” she replied readily, trying to make light of it. “I’ll go off to bed, and pull the covers over my head.”

  She watched them go with interest; the only reason her husband would leave her side, just now, was because he didn’t want her to hear whatever it was he had to say to Williams. She was not surprised; no doubt they were coordinating what was to be done, depending on who the Trestles-shooter was, and it wouldn’t do to have the disapproving schoolmarm listening in to plans for yet another vigilante murder.

  Reynolds came over to wipe the already-wiped tabletop with his tea towel, and bestow a sharp look from the corner of his eye. “A dedicated fellow, the detective inspector.”

  “That he is,” she replied in an absent tone. “I’m tryin’ to find him a girl, Reynolds; let me know if you come across one.”

  Doyle’s mobile pinged, and when she saw that it was Munoz, she picked up. “Hallo, Munoz.”

  “Who is supposed to be covering your desk?”

  “Don’t fret yourself, there’s nothin’ to cover. I’ve no field assignments, so I’ll do research from home.” Doyle was touched; Munoz was worried about her, and being obnoxious was her way of showing it.

  “I almost forgot; you don’t have to work, you’re having Acton’s baby.”

  Doyle smiled. “I’m all right, Izzy. Truly.”

  “Williams is not telling me anything.”

  “There’s not much to tell; some scratches and cuts. A through-and-through near my thumb, but no real harm done. I went to the hospital so they could check me out, but I was fine.”

  “I went to the hospital, but you’d already gone,” the other girl admitted.

  “Thank you Munoz, that was kind.”

  “It was only fair; you visited me after the bridge jump. While I was there, I met your pediatrician, but I can’t say I was impressed. He made a run at me, which seemed poor form, under the circumstances.”

  Doyle knit her brow in puzzlement. “I don’t have a pediatrician.”

  “That’ll be news to him. He seemed to know a lot about what happened.”

  Doyle froze. “Faith, Munoz, what did he look like?”

  “Like a pediatrician,” she replied. “Why, what is it?”

  Doyle sat up, alert. Obviously it wasn’t Grady, since the stableman was unmistakably Irish. “Can you come here, to my flat? I need you to make a sketch of him—it’s very important.”

  “All right; let me check with Habib.”

  “No—no; don’t mention it to anyone, Izzy, please.”

  Munoz was no fool, and immediately became briskly business-like. “Give me your address, and I’ll be right over.”

  Doyle rang off, and debated whether or not to call Acton, then decided there was nothing to tell, as yet. Twenty minutes later, Munoz was at the door. “DS Munoz is an artist,” Doyle explained to Reynolds, as she escorted the other girl over to the table.

  Munoz, however, was too distracted to notice the servant’s polite greeting. “Look at this place,” she said bitterly. “Oh my God.”

  The last needful thing was to have Munoz vent about letting Acton slip through her fingers in front of Reynolds, so Doyle prompted, “Please Munoz, try to sketch the man. And make notes so you remember exactly what he said—Acton will want to know.”

  Munoz sat at the table and sketched, occasionally stopping to think. Her hand moved deftly, and the outline of a man’s face soon appeared.

  We can send it out to all the local station houses, thought Doyle as she watched her work. We might be able to make a visual ID, even if he hasn’t got a record, and his prints aren’t in the index. The other girl began to fill in the details: eyebrows, eyes, hairline. As she watched, Doyle’s scalp began to prickle. “Saints and holy angels,” she breathed.

  “Who is it, madam?” asked Reynolds, leaning over in fascination.

  “Why, it’s Dr. Harding,” said Doyle, astonished.


  40

  He could still remember his reaction when he got the call. He was worried, nonsensically, that Acton wasn’t telling him the truth; that she was dead. Not the case, but indicative of the unfamiliar panic that had enveloped him.

  He tried to focus on evidence recovery; he bullied the best crew to come in, even though it was Sunday. He supervised the site, and painstakingly pieced together the results, all the while fighting an urge to leave it all and go to her. Ridiculous; she was not his to go to.

  The blood on the site had shaken him; if the vest had caught the bullet, why was there so much blood? Perhaps there was another bullet, one that had gone unnoticed. The panic rose again, and he shook his head to clear it; Acton would have made sure. An older Scottish man gave his account; he’d been a witness. The blessed lassie and another woman had been cut by the falling glass. Her hand had been shot through; she must have been holding it in front of her.

  “How was she when the ambulance took her?”

  “Good,” the man said. “She’s a braw lass—a policewoman, you know, and wasn’t it a miracle that she was wearing her bullet proof vest? Saints be praised.” He left to help the priest board up the window.

  There was enough evidence to be very optimistic. They would soon know who’d done this; he had complete faith in Acton. He decided that as soon as he finished up, he would go to the hospital, just to check in for a moment—just to see. She didn’t like doctors, and he may be needed to cheer her along. He wondered if she would have surgery on her hand, and debated calling Acton again. Then she called to reassure him, because she knew, even with her crisis, that he needed reassurance. She knew him better than anyone, except his mother, who would ask him if he had met any nice girls with a knowing concern in her eyes.

  He put his mind to following the leads, and putting together a report for Acton. He’d see her tomorrow, and she’d need some coffee.

  When he came to the flat in the morning, Acton anticipated him, and opened the door, indicating that she was asleep on the sofa. He looked her over as he walked by; she was on her side with her hands curled level with her chin, one heavily bandaged. There were cuts on her face and her hands. He had to fight the urge to lift the blanket and climb in; to stay beside her for a few days, just holding her safe. He was being ridiculous again, and this was neither the time nor the place—there was a shooter to be apprehended, and work to do. Despite his best efforts, however, he felt a bit bleak; it had never been clearer that he was on the outside, looking in.