Murder in Hindsight (24 page)

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Authors: Anne Cleeland

Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #General

BOOK: Murder in Hindsight
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C
HAPTER
45
H
E WAITED, AND WHILE HE WAITED HE ADMIRED THE VIEW, BEING
careful to stand back so as not to be seen. It was dark early at this time of year, and the lamps were lit on the street below. The alarm system had been a challenge; it was intricate and customized, one of the best he’d seen. He did not mind; he was a patient man.
He heard the lift land at the floor, and he turned his head, listening, although the sound was barely perceptible. He had always had exceptional hearing. He had to.
Softly, he stepped over to his position and waited, balanced on the balls of his feet. A key card was placed in the slot and he drew a breath and held it; it was always the first few seconds that were crucial. The door opened and Acton stepped in, then turned to the wall to switch on the light.
He stepped behind Acton and let him feel the barrel of the gun at his head. “Do not move. I am a friend to your wife, and I must speak to you. Do not set off the alarm.”
Acton had frozen at the first movement. He now said slowly, “Right, then.”
“I will not take your gun, but you must not reach for it; understood?”
“I am unarmed.”
This falsehood was unworthy of such a one, and he made a derisive noise of disapproval.
“I beg your pardon—I will not draw. May I move, now?”
He stepped back. “Yes. Slowly.”
Acton turned and looked at him, carefully lowering his hands.
“Do you know who I am?”
“Yes,” Acton said. “Where is my wife?”
“She is at work. She does not know we are cahoots.”
There was a small silence while they measured each other, and he allowed Acton to recover from the surprise. This was important; if things happened too quickly, men became nervous. This one was also tall, like the blond man. She needed a man closer to her height—she was not so tall.
“How do you know my wife?”
“She was fighting un violeur, but she was going to lose.”
Acton had an involuntary reaction; a slight movement in his facial muscles he could not control. So; he did not like to hear this about his wife.
“I took care of this problem for her.”
“Merci,” said Acton.
He smiled. This was a courtesy, to use his language, and it was appreciated.
“Why do you help my wife?”
He shrugged, and quoted what she had said to the tall blond man. “Believe it or not, she is a friend.” He paused and added regretfully, “Nothing more; she is not that kind.”
“No,” agreed Acton.
“She has another problem, that one.” He added, gently scolding, “I think that you do not keep track of her as you should.”
There was a small pause, and then Acton bowed his head in acknowledgment. “No doubt.”
“Solonik is after her—he is the wolf wearing the clothes from the lambs. He asked that I bring her to him—to meet.”
Acton listened and said nothing.
Watching him in return, he observed, “Your wife, she was not afraid of him. She says that Solonik is taking your goat.”
Again, there was a small pause before Acton nodded in agreement. “That does sound like something she would say.”
He shrugged a shoulder. “She is a comic, that one.”
“Yes.” Acton smiled slightly in return.
“She says Solonik is having la revanche, but does not want you to see that it is him.”
“I see.”
This seemed too measured a reaction, in light of the nature of the disclosure, and so he explained plainly, “The woman at the newspaper—Solonik sent her to your bed.”
Acton nodded. “Yes.”
So—he already knew of this. This was interesting; perhaps his wife had told him of the photos—although she did not seem the type to confront him. She would be a sad little bird, instead. He continued, “Solonik asked me to do terrible things—and take photographs. When I do not do them, he will find someone else.”
“Then he must die,” said Acton.
“Yes.” As it turned out, Acton was an easy man to speak to.
“Name your price.”
He looked at Acton thoughtfully for a moment. “This wife of yours; you tire of her—yes? There are many other women; perhaps you will set her aside.”
There it was again; the involuntary movement of the face. “No.”
He conceded with good grace, and named a sum, instead. He could see, now that he had met him, that Acton wanted his wife, although she did not seem to his taste. It had been a chance, only, and he was a patient man. Although he would not want Acton angry at him; he measured men for a living, and this was not one to cross.
“Shall I pay you now?”
He was sorry to put an end to this pleasant conversation, but the time had come to address that which was unpleasant. “I must ask you for information, first.”
Acton’s posture shifted slightly. “I’m afraid I cannot share any official—”
He shook his head impatiently. “No; not that kind of information. I would like to know what happened to my brother.”
Acton was silent.
“I think you know who I mean; you brought him into your office. He thought you did not guess, but I think to myself—why would such a man take such an interest in one such as him? So I think you knew.”
Acton said only, “What information would you like about him?”
“I believe he last came here, to this flat; but your wife says you did not kill him.” He tilted his head. “I believe her, because she does not make a good liar.”
“No, she doesn’t,” Acton agreed.
“But I think she knows more than she says.”
Acton contemplated him gravely for a moment. “Yes; she knows who killed him, but she does not wish to cause you pain.”
So—it was true that Emile was dead. This was not unexpected, but was not welcome news, nevertheless. He took a breath. “You will tell me what you know, if you please. I would like to know what happened to my brother.”
Acton bowed his head and said without emotion, “Your brother was a man who preferred the company of men.”
This was not a surprise. “Yes.”
“There was another policeman who pursued your brother, but your brother was no longer interested. The other came to deliver evidence to me—evidence of correspondence between Rourke and Solonik. Your brother was here, also, and there was a quarrel—”
He lifted his brows in surprise. “They fought here? In your home?”
Acton explained, “I was not here, but my wife was.” He paused, and offered in apology, “I had to hush it up; my wife would have been involved in the scandal.”
“Of course,” he said slowly. “I understand this.”
“Please accept my condolences for your loss.”
He nodded, absently, and then focused, lowering his brows. “You will tell me who killed him—who this other policeman was.”
Acton lifted a hand in apology. “Surely you see that I cannot.”
There was a small silence. “If it was your brother, you would wish me to say.”
“I would,” Acton agreed. “But you would not tell me, either.”
Dropping his gaze to the floor, he pretended to shrug in concession. “Perhaps not.” It did not matter; it would not be so very difficult to discover the name of the policeman who had delivered such evidence.
“May I fetch your funds, now?”
He nodded, and followed the other through a door to the back of the flat.
Acton asked, “How did you get past the alarm?”
He shrugged. “I would rather not say.” He watched his host deactivate another alarm and open a wall safe, so that he could plainly see what was inside. There were rows of weapons, and Acton paused and met his eyes for a moment. “If you are available for a project, I could use some assistance.”
His gaze rested thoughtfully on the cache of weapons in the safe. “Tell me of this.”
“Someone is not telling me the truth at the Home Office; someone who can be influenced by outside interests.” Acton pulled a stack of bills out of a small strongbox, and casually handed him the stack without counting them.
“This is so? It is a shame that no one can be trusted in the government, in these times. It is the same in my country. They are knockers, I think.”
“Perhaps,” said Acton, shutting the safe, “we can speak again soon.”
“Done,” he said. “But first, I would have one more thing from you.”
Acton waited, showing no concern.
“I have too much information for you to be easy, so you must swear on the soul of your wife that you will not come after me.”
“I swear it,” said Acton immediately. “I owe you a debt I can never repay.” He offered his hand.
He appreciated the handshake and felt generous. “There is a flaw in the third redundancy,” he disclosed, referring to the alarm system. “The electromagnetic pulse is intermittent.”
“Merci,” said Acton.
C
HAPTER
46
D
OYLE IDLY WANDERED DOWN THE AISLE FOR THE THIRD OR
fourth time, so bored that she actually was tempted to buy a book. Annoying, it was, that she had no way to check with Savoie to see if he’d been called away by some other, more pressing skullduggery. Just as she was checking the time on her mobile, he appeared at the end of the aisle, his pale eyes upon hers and his hands in his pockets. “Greetin’s,” she offered with false heartiness. “Are you here for your pound o’ flesh?”
In an unexpected gesture, he reached to take her hand. “Ah—we would be good together, little bird. You will change your mind?”
Resisting an urge to snatch her hand away, she replied, “We would be like chalk and cheese, my friend.”
He cocked his head as he puzzled it out. “Very different.”
“Yes; and I would spend all my days prayin’ for your poor soul.”
He laughed aloud at this, the sound a little harsh, as though he did not laugh often. He was in a festive mood, she saw. “I will speak to Solonik; I will tell him to leave you alone.”
Doyle stared at him in surprise. “And he will? Just like that?”
“
Mais oui
,” he said easily, and relinquished her hand.
She harbored an uneasy suspicion that this casual reassurance deliberately omitted her better half. “Will he leave Acton alone, too?”
“
Bien sûr
.”
Doyle took this to be an affirmation, but was understandably skeptical of this unlooked-for turn of events. “Why would you help me, if I have no money?”
“I help myself,” he corrected her with a thin smile. “I have interests, you remember.”
Recalling his involvement in the contraband rig, she wisely refrained from asking any more questions—she shouldn’t withhold that type of information from Acton, so it was better if she didn’t know any of the illicit particulars.
Savoie regarded her, a trace of amusement still lingering in his gaze. “Solonik telephoned me this day—he is very unhappy.”
With some surprise, she stared at him. “Surely he’s not allowed to make calls in prison?”
He smiled at her as though she were a very amusing child, and did not deign to reply. “He says Acton is upsetting his plans. Acton is taking the newspaper woman’s goat, is he not?”
With great satisfaction, Doyle affirmed, “Indeed he is. He is cookin’ her goose.”
He laughed aloud again. “Then you have no more troubles.”
With all sincerity, she thanked him. “I appreciate it so very much; you have saved me in more ways than one.”
His eyes gleamed. “I am one of your saints, then.”
“Oh, I don’t know if heaven is ready for the likes of you, Philippe.”
“That is good; I am not ready for heaven.” Leaning in, he kissed her gently.
She stood still and acquiesced, although she could feel herself blushing furiously and hoped there were no security cameras capturing this marital lapse. But the kiss was chaste and brief, and then he pulled away and lifted a plain card out of his pocket. On it was penned an international telephone number next to a hand-sketch of a goat. “If you wish to speak to me, call this number and follow instructions. But tell no one else of it, if you please.”
Looking at it, she nodded. “Will you go back home?”
“Perhaps, perhaps not; I may stay here for a time.”
This raised a twinge of alarm within her breast, and she felt she should warn him, “I can’t help you if you run into trouble, and I can’t ask Acton to help you.”
He was amused for some reason, but said gravely, “I understand.”
They regarded each other for a moment, and she thought of her baby, and how much easier everything seemed, all of a sudden. “Please stay in contact, if you’d like. I will always stand your friend.”
He held her chin between his thumb and forefinger and shook it slightly. “Try very hard to stay out of trouble.”
“Done,” she teased, and he released her.
C
HAPTER
47
D
OYLE CHECKED THE TIME AS SHE CAME UP THE LIFT TO THE
flat. She was not later than her usual, despite all that had been accomplished on this tumultuous day. She was hungry, which was to the good—perhaps she wouldn’t lose her appetite, this time. Leastways, no one was poisoning her, which was a step up from the last time.
As she entered, Acton looked up from across the room where he sat at his desk. She knew straightaway that he had been drinking, and felt a frozen moment of fear. Although if there was bad news he would not be drinking so heavily; instead he would stay alert and focused—he only overdid it after the crisis had passed.
She crossed over to him, and he lifted his head to receive her kiss. His laptop was open on the desk, displaying her location on a GPS monitor. Laying a finger on the screen, she pointed to the indicator. “Look, here I am.”
He smiled and took her hand. “You had a good day?”
“Very good indeed; I have a million things to be tellin’ you.”
“I am at your disposal.”
But she knelt down before him, still holding his hand. “What’s happened?” she asked gently, looking up into his face. “Should I start barricadin’ the door?”
He loosened his hand to stroke her head. “Sorry—I don’t mean to upset you. I kept telling myself that I wouldn’t pour another glass, and then I did.”
She was getting mixed messages, and couldn’t decide why this was. “Should I leave you to it, then? You know I don’t mind.”
“No. Stay with me, I want to look at you.” Obligingly, she rested her head against his knee, and he stroked her hair for a few moments. “You have solved the case?”
Without preamble, she told him, “It’s Kevin Maguire, from the paper. It’s dyin’, he is, and he’s tryin’ to right past wrongs.”
There was a pause, while Acton’s hand rested on her head. “It fits. Have we any evidence?”
“None.” Best not to mention she’d had a nice little chat with the murderer this fine day. “But I think we can set up a trap and seizure, if I can figure out who the next victim is.”
There was a small silence. “You are certain he is the killer?”
“I am.” Warily, she lifted her head to eye him. “Remember, you are not to take matters into your own hands, Michael. I can catch him; I have one of my feelin’s, I do.”
“Fair enough,” he replied mildly.
She laid her head down again. “Williams was reconnoiter-in’ over at the
World News
, and says that Masterson was sacked.”
“Yes, she was. And apparently, she was in such a temper that the suggestion of mental imbalance had immediate credence.”
Doyle wasn’t certain what “credence” meant, but she understood the gist. “Well, thank the saints and holy martyrs. And a good riddance—you can do much better than her, Michael.”
But he didn’t chuckle in response, instead fingering her hair absently. “I will bring some pressure to bear so that she does not attempt to tell her tales elsewhere, or sue the paper.”
Doyle hadn’t thought of this, as she worried about only one crisis at a time. Fortunately, Acton was good at crisis multitasking. “
Do
you have pressure to bear?”
“Yes,” he replied, and offered nothing more.
She was all admiration. “Is there
anythin’
you don’t know?”
“Apparently so.”
A bit surprised by the nuance in his tone, she glanced up at him, but he did not elaborate, as his hand moved from her hair to gently lift her chin. “Your face is so beautiful.” He brushed her cheekbone with a thumb.
She knew where this was leading, but desperately needed sustenance. “Hold that thought, Michael—d’you mind if I make somethin’ to eat? Then we can pick up where we left off.”
Standing a bit unsteadily, he accompanied her into the kitchen, and paused at the sink to splash water on his face and lean on his arms, trying to gather himself. She wished he would tell her what was bothering him, but knew better than to ask him again directly; he would tell her only if he wanted, and apparently, he didn’t want to.
Since she didn’t feel ambitious, she decided to put together a ham and butter sandwich, which required neither time nor expertise. Her slightly-more-sober husband came over to stand behind her, stroking her arms as she buttered the bread. “The bruises have all faded—from the night you were attacked.”
“Finally; this skin of mine is a blessin’ and a curse.”
He put his arms around her waist and rested his chin on her shoulder. “That’s just it—you are so appealing. It is at the same time a blessing and a curse.”
“You need to work on your compliments, Michael,” she noted in a dry tone. He smelt of scotch.
“Men want to take care of you.”
She hoped they were not wandering into the subject of Williams, and said merely, “I’m not so very helpless, my friend.”
“No—in fact, I think you try to protect me. I had not realized it before, but it explains a great deal.”
She paused in her sandwich-making and grasped his hands at her waist. “Of course I do, Michael. I love, love, love you and I don’t want you to be unhappy.” She paused and leaned her head back so that her face rested against his. “As you are now.”
“Can you guess,” he said softly, kissing her neck, “what would make me happy?”
With a smile, she turned to face him. She knew his heart wasn’t in it, but he was going to make an effort and so she would play along—if she was needed to render aid and comfort, the pitiful sandwich could wait.
He ran his mouth along her collarbone and she clung to him as he lifted her onto the counter and began to unfasten her trousers. Here is something new, she thought with interest as she carefully slid the butter knife away from the immediate area. The session in the tack room had apparently inspired a new trend; next he’d be wanting to have at it in the morgue, or something.
Later, they sat before the fire, eating the sandwiches, with Acton’s mood much improved. The remedy, Doyle thought with satisfaction; works every time—a shame I can’t bottle it up and sell it. Reminded of her promise to Munoz, she licked her fingers and ventured, “I told Munoz that I would ask you if you knew of any eligible men.”
Leaning back on his hands, he gazed at her, amused. “Eligible, meaning without the common sense to run in the opposite direction.”
“Exactly.” He gave her a look and she began to laugh, because it truly was funny. “I just need to tell her that I asked, is all.”
“How about Williams? It would take his mind off waiting to outlive me.”
“Michael,” she admonished, gently punching him on the shoulder. “Don’t be givin’ the few men in
my
quiver over to Munoz, for heaven’s sake. Besides, Munoz has already made an unsuccessful run.”
“Williams resisted? Good man.”
Best not to mention Williams’s other little liaison—that one would probably not sit so well with Acton. “I won’t poke fun at Williams; he had my back on this vigilante case, and it was much appreciated.”
Suddenly serious, Acton straightened up to take her hand in his, and ducked his head for a moment, gathering his thoughts. “Perhaps in the future, you will not hesitate to tell me if you encounter a problem, Kathleen. I won’t berate you—I promise; I only want to know so that I can help.”
Oh-oh, she thought in a panic—which of my many transgressions has he unearthed? “You make me very uneasy, Michael,” she hedged. “What’s afoot?”
“Nothing,” he said gently. “I just wanted to say.”
This was not exactly true, and she was quiet, feeling guilty.
“I would forgive you anything, you know.”
She lifted a corner of her mouth. “That’s perhaps not the wisest thing to be sayin’ to one’s wife, Michael.”
“Yes; especially one as charming as you. But it is the truth, nevertheless.”
She knit her brow, suddenly. “Does this work both ways? Am I to know the next time you are smokin’ with a brasser for all the world to think that you are cheatin’ on me?”
There was a small silence; he was startled by her outburst, and small blame to him—she was startled, herself. “I’m sorry I’m soundin’ like an archwife, Michael. Apparently, that still rankles.”
His arms came around her, and he rested his cheek on her head. “No, you are exactly right—forgive me. It should work both ways, but there are times I must alone decide what is best for the both of us. I must reserve that right.”
She sighed; he was right—it was probably best she did not know the details about some of his doings. “Aye, then,” she conceded. “This marriage business is a rare crack, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” he agreed. “It is. And I must make a better effort at it.”
Wickedly, she teased, “I don’t know—any more effortin’ and I’ll be worn to a thread.”
“Just so,” he replied, and ran a well-satisfied hand up her arm—proud of it, he was. “I will take you to out to dinner tomorrow night. Where would you like to go?”
Quirking her mouth, she gave him a look of extreme skepticism. “Saints, Michael; just as though we were an ordinary mister and missus?”
“We can do it if we put our minds to it.” He bent his head to murmur against her neck. “Will you wear your dress?”
Very pleased by this show of husbandly interest, she teased, “And where will I be puttin’ my gun? I can’t very well put it in my bosom—there’s no place to hide it.”
With gentle pressure, he pushed her so that she lay back down on the rug. “Let me search for a good place.”
Giggling, she acquiesced. Apparently, her worries that she’d served her purpose—and that now his fixation on her would dissipate—were without foundation. Or at least for the next twenty minutes or so.

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