“A primary motivation for murder,” he agreed.
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“That’s what they tell you in the Crime Academy—it’s almost always about money, or sex.”
“There’s a lesson, there.” This said with a great deal of meaning, as he bent to rest his mouth against her neck.
Laughing, she took his hand, and willingly turned toward the bedroom. “Then come along, husband; I haven’t any money, so you’ll have to settle for the next best thing.”
“We don’t want to bring on childbirth,” he warned, although his protest was clearly a sham, as he was unbuttoning his shirt with no further ado.
“I’m willin’ to test it.”
And so she was, if for no other reason than to take her mind off their conversation. There’d been something there— something unsettling, in what Acton had said about the Old Testament, and money being a prime motivator. And on top of that, there was something in the way he’d spoken of the dead charwoman, who’d been caught in her own fire—surely, he’d known that the wife of his bosom would be extremely interested in the Holy Trinity arson case, but it seemed he’d been hoping the aforesaid wife wouldn’t catch wind of the particulars, since she was stuck here at home, watching Emile bounce off the walls.
Mother a’ mercy, she thought with some annoyance, as she tried to wriggle her jumper over her head—please tell me that I’m not slated to unravel yet another Acton-scheme that may-or-may-not involve a major crime? Enough is enough is enough.
“I’m stuck,” she announced in exasperation. “Help me get this stupid thing off, and then tilt me onto the bed.”
“In a moment; I’m asking Reynolds to take the long route home.”
She giggled as she peered at him though an armhole. “He’ll be scandalized, Michael.”
“Let him be; he’s getting paid enough. Now, raise your arms, please.”
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Chapter 4
All was in readiness, and they’d only to wait.
Hudson had prepared a room at Trestles to use as a surgery, if necessary. The Caesarean rate was over twenty-five percent, for first-time mothers, and she was a small person.
T he following morning, Acton was reviewing the morning’s updates on his caseload. Because it was quieter, his desk had been moved into their bedroom, and Doyle watched
him sleepily from the bed whilst Emile and Reynolds could be heard in the kitchen, preparing breakfast.
She offered, “I thought I’d walk over to have a coffee with Williams, before goin’ over to the church.”
Acton tended to keep track of her movements through her mobile phone’s GPS function—especially now that she was full term—and she didn’t want him to worry about what she was up to. Firmly, she quashed down an ironic acknowledgment that she was indeed up to something; she was only looking into the suicide so as to help out a grieving couple, and bestow absolution if it was warranted. Doing the work of the angels, she was, and if it happened to give her a much-appreciated project, that was only an added bonus. No need to burden Acton, who was busy enough.
He shut his laptop, and turned to face her. “Best do it first thing, he’ll be needed to testify, after lunch.”
She nodded in acknowledgement. Detective Inspector Williams had been a key player in bringing down the corruption rig that had devastated the ranks of the CID—although Acton
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had been required to extricate Williams from a trap he’d fallen into, in the process. It was another shrine-worthy miracle that Williams wasn’t currently spending his days shackled-up in Detention, alongside the other blacklegs, and Doyle thanked all available saints and angels that everything had worked out so that the correct people were in prison, instead of her nearest and dearest.
Williams could probably be described as Doyle’s closest friend; they’d come up together through the Crime Academy, and it was only after her hasty marriage to Acton that she’d discovered Williams had been romantically interested in her, himself. Fortunately, the awkwardness of all this had more-or-less smoothed itself out—although the poor man often had divided loyalties, in that he was Doyle’s friend but he was also Acton’s henchman in helping him manipulate evidence so that the proper people went to prison. Despite all this, Doyle trusted Williams; trusted him so much, in fact, that he was the only person aside from Acton who knew about her perceptive abilities, because she’d had to save him from Morgan Percy’s wiles, once—the same Morgan Percy who’d got herself murdered, recently. Percy had been knee-deep in the corruption rig, and so it was truly no surprise that someone had decided to silence the young woman—the old saying about lying down with dogs came to mind. It was a shame, though, because despite everything, Doyle had rather liked her.
Williams wasn’t the one who’d killed Percy—or so Doyle stoutly assured herself—but it wouldn’t hurt to see if he’d heard anything new on the young woman’s unsolved case, and that was one of the reasons she’d wanted to meet with him today.
Acton rose from his desk, and came over to kiss her goodbye. “Shall I come home for lunch?”
She brushed her tousled hair away from her face. “Faith, that would be grand, Michael—so long as you’re not too busy.
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Gemma’s not here today, and Emile will be drivin’ ʼem mad at Wexton Prison, so it should be peaceful, for a change.”
“Is there anything special that you’d like Reynolds to prepare?”
“No—you may suit yourself.” She hadn’t been very hungry, these last couple of days.
Her husband left for work, and, after stretching for a moment, Doyle sat herself up, then maneuvered down to sit on the foot of her bed, and look out the windows for a bit. Nowadays, any activity had to be done in stages, and anyways, she was reluctant to get up. Something’s up, she acknowledged to herself a bit crossly, and I’ll be happy to put off the next flippin’ crisis for as long as I possibly can.
Emile bounded into the bedroom, and announced, “Reynolds said to tell you that the cinnamon pastries are ready.” With a mighty effort, Doyle cast off her sulks. “I guessed
this,” she acknowledged with a smile. “They smell lovely.”
“I helped ice them,” he declared importantly. “I used a spatula.”
“Well, good on you, for convincin’ the man that we need to eat somethin’ sticky, now and again.”
Grinning, the boy dropped onto the foot of the bed beside her. “I like the way they smell—they remind me of St. Petersburg.”
“Do they indeed?” Doyle had forgotten that, until recently, the boy had lived in Russia.
Emile nodded, as he gazed down into the park across the street. “We’d walk over—the boys in my school—to buy bulochki from the vendor, by the pond. Sometimes they’d let us feed the ducks.”
Doyle leaned back on her hands beside him, and considered the view. “Aye—there’s nothin’ like a scent, to bring back a memory. I was raised in Dublin, myself. My mother used to take
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me to feed the ducks in the River Liffey, but they were a different sort of duck than the ones they have here.”
The boy turned to look at her, curious. “What sort of ducks were they?”
As Doyle didn’t know, she improvised, “Irish ducks. Dublin’s in Ireland.”
He considered this. “Do you ever go back to visit? I’m going back to St. Petersburg, soon.”
Diplomatically, Doyle did not cast cold water on this fond hope, but instead replied, “No—I’ve never been back since I left, one fine mornin’.”
Reynolds appeared in the doorway to prod the window-gazers along. “Madam, if you are hungry, we’ve prepared a treat for breakfast this morning.”
“That is excellent.” Doyle hoisted herself up just as the concierge buzzed, to announce that a Miss Mathis was in the lobby.
“She’s early,” noted Reynolds
, with a tinge of disapproval. “I haven’t packed Master Emile’s rucksack.”
“Don’t throw any contraband in there,” Doyle warned, as she wrapped her robe around her expanded girth. “We’ll wind up in the soup.”
“Certainly not, madam,” said Reynolds, the tinge of disapproval still in evidence. Reynolds was not a joking-about-prison-visits type of person.
“What’s ‘contraband’?” asked Emile.
“Oh—just some things that your Papa’s not allowed to have,” Doyle said vaguely, wishing she hasn’t brought it up.
The boy suddenly looked conscious, and ducked his head, his face the clear picture of guilt.
Alarmed, Doyle asked, “What is it, Emile? Did your Papa ask you to bring him somethin’? Don’t be afraid, you can tell me.”
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Stricken, he raised his head to meet her eyes. “I’m not supposed to say,” he whispered.
Adopting a joking demeanor, Doyle laughed, and ran a hand over the boy’s head. “Cigarettes, I imagine.”
Relieved, the boy nodded. “Lord Acton told me it was all right, that the guards wouldn’t mind, but I shouldn’t say anything, since they could get in trouble.”
“Where’re they hidden?” asked Doyle casually. “In your socks?”
Looking from Doyle to Reynolds, the boy confessed, “My jacket pocket.”
Amused, Doyle lifted her brows. “Oh? Must be a whole pack, then.”
The boy nodded. “I’m not to open it, or to say anything.”
Of course, not, thought Doyle, because I’ll bet my teeth there’s a mobile phone in there—or plastic explosives, or something—heaven only knew. “Well, your secret’s safe with me and Reynolds, Emile. Mum’s the word.”
Mathis knocked on the door, and Reynolds hurried over to let her in. Mathis was a young woman about Doyle’s age, and since she was miles smarter than Doyle—and didn’t have much of a sense of humor—the two girls had little in common.
“Hallo, Master Emile,” the girl offered, in her grave voice. “Do you remember me?”
“No,” said Emile bluntly. “Are you going to take me to see my Papa?”
“Not until you mind your manners, Master Emile,” Reynolds warned.
Self-consciously, the boy amended, “How do you do?” and offered his hand.
“I am well, thank you,” the girl replied. “Have you your jacket? We mustn’t forget it.”
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With a mighty effort, Doyle refrained from exchanging a glance with Reynolds, as the servant fetched the contraband-jacket from the hall closet, and then handed the boy his rucksack.
“There are cinnamon pastries within, Miss Mathis, and an apple,” the servant informed her. “He tends to be hungry.”
“I drew a picture,” Emile reminded the servant.
“Ah; yes. Here it is—it is a dragon,” Reynolds offered smoothly, as this fact wasn’t at all clear.
The boy had made an attempt to sign his name, and Mathis said kindly, “That is a very good ‘E’. My name starts with an ‘E’, too.”
“Sometimes, I’m Jonathan,” Emile confessed, looking conscious. “That’s my old name.”
“Right, then,” said Doyle brightly, and ushered them toward the door. “Give us a warnin’ when you’re headed back.” Emile may have been adopted by the imprisoned Savoie, but his true father had been a Russian underworld kingpin named Solonik, who’d been killed—coincidentally—in Wexton Prison, where Savoie now resided. Savoie had changed the boy’s name, and it was not clear if the adoption was legal. Honestly, if Doyle had known that she’d be trying to keep all the various international underworld figures straight—including her own husband, she might add—she would have stayed in Dublin, feeding the stupid ducks.
After closing the door behind them, Doyle advised, “Best not to mention the cigarettes, Reynolds. Acton wouldn’t like bein’ found out so easily.”
“It is already forgotten, madam,” the servant assured her with a wooden expression, and ushered her toward the breakfast table.
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Chapter 5
It was very satisfying, to settle all outstanding accounts.
Snap, went another trap.
W hen Doyle arrived at the local coffee house—which was a bit snobbish for her taste, but needs must, in this posh neighborhood—Williams was already there,
a small cup of coffee at the ready. She’d taken to drinking coffee again—her only vice, truly—now that both Reynolds and Acton seemed to have tacitly decided it was too late in the game to make much of a difference to the anticipated heir. That, or they’d realized she tended to be even more cross without it, and that such a state of affairs was to be avoided at all costs.
“Hey,” she greeted Williams, lowering herself into the chair. “Hey, yourself. It’s good to see you, Kath.”
One of the reasons Williams was such an exemplary friend was because he knew she was pig-sick of everyone’s asking questions about how she felt. “And it’s good to see you, Thomas. Mainly, I’m dyin’ to hear about an interestin’ homicide case—it’s utterly wretched, bein’ sidelined like this. I wasn’t cut out to be one of your idle-rich, and I don’t know how they bear it.”
Williams sat back, and thoughtfully sipped from his own cup. “Can you help Acton with his caseload? He could probably use it.”
“He’s lettin’ me work his cold cases, which makes sense, since I’m not able to go out in the field, but it’s so flippin’ tedious, Thomas—readin’ dull reports, and followin’ up on social media, to see what the suspects are up to, nowadays. I do think I
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unearthed a misdirection murder, though, so there’s a small feather in my sidelined cap.”
With a show of interest, he leaned forward again—a solved cold case was always good for department morale. “Oh? What was the gambit?” A misdirection murder was where the murderer set up the situation so as to mislead law enforcement with respect to the true nature of the crime.
“Acton suspected the husband had killed the wife, but they couldn’t prove it, and they couldn’t find a body. The suspect had a greedy girlfriend, on the side, and it was the usual story—faith, we’ve seen it a hundred times—but the CID couldn’t come up with enough to nick ʼim. Since the heat was on, he took the girlfriend and moved to the Bahamas, but I noticed there were never any snaps of her on his social media—and that he still wore the same weddin’ ring, even though there was no record he’d married again.”
Williams whistled in dawning comprehension. “So; it was all a debt-avoidance scam?”
“Aye—it was all a sham. He’d a business that was goin’ under, and so he and the missus cooked-up her murder, and then used the insurance money to bankroll their retirement in the Bahamas.”
“Good catch, Kath. Did they nick them?”
“They did—the insurance company was on it in an instant.” Bemused, she shook her head in wonder. “Hard to imagine, that someone didn’t mind bein’ thought a wife-killer, just so as to have some extra money in the bank.”
But Williams took a more cynical view. “News flash, Kath; a lot of people are greedy. Especially if they don’t feel that they’re stealing the money from anyone in particular—that’s why insurance scams are so tempting.”
Doyle frowned as she contemplated her cup, because her instinct was prodding her yet again, and she didn’t know why.
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“Yes—I was just talkin’ about it with Father John. Greed is a terrible driver.”
Williams shrugged. “I’ll second that. Although a lot of times the end game is the power that money can buy, and not necessarily the money, in and of itself.”
She looked up. “Speakin’ of such, Acton says you’re testifyin’ in the corruption pre-lims, later today.”
“All too true. I’ll be glad when it’s all over.”
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