Murder in Retribution (15 page)

L
UCKILY
, D
OYLE’S EXCUSE TO AVOID
W
ILLIAMS WAS PLAUSIBLE
as Munoz was indeed available for lunch. As the other girl reached for her mobile, Doyle suggested they keep it just the two of them. “But I’ll treat. Where to, the deli? It’s our last chance before the rain comes.”

“Not off-premises,” said Munoz. “I’m trying to avoid Sergey, and he may be watching for me.”

They made their way upstairs to the canteen, and Doyle eyed her. “The prince fell short?”

Munoz’s jaw was rigid, and waves of chagrin were emanating. “I checked his background; I think he’s a poseur.”

“That’s a shame,” said Doyle neutrally, hoping she’d hear more; she knew that Acton had found this romance of extreme interest—although he didn’t want to let on—so something was up, and in light of recent events she wanted to keep abreast if she was to talk her volatile husband down from the precipice.

“He just kept asking a lot of questions—too many questions.” The other girl looked mulish, and said defensively, “I didn’t tell him anything, of course.”

“Of course,” agreed Doyle. “Was he the one askin’ about Owens?”

Munoz scowled in annoyance. “Isn’t that strange? As if I would know or care what happened to Owens.”

Doyle decided there could not be a surer indication that Sergey was up to no good, and she’d best mention it to Acton—if he didn’t know what was afoot already, that was. It was past time that she was brought up to speed; she may be needed to save Acton from himself.

They arrived at the canteen, and Doyle surveyed the waxed-paper fruit pies yet again. Another one certainly wouldn’t hurt—she didn’t get to finish the last one, after all—and there were so
many
delightful flavors. “What made you decide to check the prince’s background? Did somethin’ give you pause?”

“I wanted to see if he was a potential husband.” With an annoyed gesture, the other girl slid her credit card through the payment machine. “I have to start looking around.”

Doyle blinked, as this was the first time she had ever heard Munoz speak of marriage. On reflection, however, it seemed likely that her own abrupt entry into matrimony had prompted this newfound desire—Munoz was fiercely competitive. Faith, Munoz was fierce, period.

They sat down, and Munoz watched Doyle eat the fruit pie for a moment with thinly-veiled disgust; Munoz had chosen an arugula salad. “Does Acton have any eligible friends?”

Doyle hid her alarm; she wouldn’t willingly pair anyone she cared about with Munoz. Therefore, she equivocated, “They’d be older men, you know.”

The girl tossed her head. “Doesn’t matter; if they have money and would like to spoil a younger girl, I could live with it.”

The only friend of Acton’s Doyle had met—thus far—was Timothy, and Munoz would eat Timothy for breakfast. “I’ll ask Acton,” she temporized, and then ventured against her better judgment, “Habib is single.”

Munoz gave her a withering look and didn’t deign to respond as she addressed her salad. I tried, Habib, Doyle thought; believe me, you’re better off. “Drake?” she suggested next. Doyle was not certain of the exact relationship between Munoz and the other team’s DCI.

“Too much like me,” Munoz replied, and Doyle thought this was very perceptive of her. “Does Williams ever speak of me?”

Another flippin’ minefield. “I don’t think he’s lookin’, just now. He seems a slave to work, anyway.”

Munoz drew her mouth down into a sulk. “It’s not fair.”

“Give it some time. You don’t want to rush into it,” suggested Doyle.

This earned a flare of anger in response. “Why not? You did.”

This was inarguably true, and Doyle retorted with her own heat, “I’m tryin’, Munoz, but you’re not makin’ it easy.”

“I’m the one who should be working the turf war cases; you’ve been sick.”

“I’m not sick anymore, and they’re
my
cases.”

Before they could come to blows, their mobiles rang almost simultaneously. It was Habib, asking them to report to Detention ; an attempt had been made on Solonik, and all available hands were needed to process the scene—Inspector Chiu would take the lead, and they were to report to her.

Annoyed that Munoz was to get her wish, Doyle accompanied the other girl at a brisk pace to Detention, where suspects were held for the brief period allowed by law until the prosecutors decided whether they would be charged with a crime or set free.

By the time they arrived, the solicitor’s briefing room in Detention had already been taped off, and SOCOs were donning their bunny suits, preparing to enter. Samuels was there also, waiting with Inspector Chiu, and once they were assembled the DI informed them that a man posing as Solonik’s solicitor had managed to smuggle a bladed instrument through security. Fortunately, the weapon was necessarily small and Solonik knew how to defend himself; the wound was superficial, but by the time the alarm had been raised, the suspect had fled.

They all listened in surprised silence; such a turn of events was almost unthinkable, here at the Met. Doyle asked, “Is Solonik conscious, ma’am? Was he familiar with the attacker?”

“Yes; he was conscious throughout, but he claims ignorance,” Chiu replied. “They are reviewing CCTV as we speak, and the local PCs have set up a perimeter.”

Doyle did not know Chiu very well, but she felt she should point out what to her seemed rather obvious. “If the suspect wasn’t truly his solicitor, Solonik would have known immediately. Yet he didn’t raise an alarm when the man was shown into the briefin’ room by the guard.”

Munoz brought up another good point, “And all it would have taken was a shout when the attack was attempted; it’s not as though it’s easy to make a quick exit from this place. Solonik must have allowed him time to escape.”

They considered this in silence. “Honor among thieves?” suggested Samuels.

“I don’t know,” said Munoz, dubious. “He tried to kill him; I would think all bets were off.”

This was true, and they all paused, trying to come up with a working theory. The DI, however, must have gone to the school of Acton because she said briskly, “We will gather the evidence and see where it leads. You two; oversee the processing of the scene,” she indicated Doyle and Samuels. “Munoz, oversee what is happening in CCTV and get witness statements—everyone who saw the suspect is already being held in the family waiting room. I’ll have another go at Solonik at the infirmary.”

“Is DCI Acton about?” asked Doyle. Last she was aware, he was here, interrogating Solonik, and no doubt making the man’s future look very bleak. She imagined Acton would like to be the one grilling the Russian at the infirmary, and was rather surprised he wasn’t on the scene.

“No, he is in the field.” The woman gave her a quick, assessing glance. “Carry on, Constable.”

Doyle tried not to be annoyed that the DI thought she was not worthy of Acton—perhaps the woman could compare notes with the SOCO photographer—and stood with Samuels by the briefing room door while they donned paper booties and gloves. “What would you like to take?”

“Bloodstains, I suppose,” said Samuels.

Doyle wished she hadn’t asked, as she liked bloodstains, herself. “Don’t forget to check for inert drops; if the suspect was wounded, we can get a DNA profile.” Knife fights were notoriously messy; oftentimes the attacker cut himself because the blood would make the weapon’s handle slippery. Blood from a standing attacker tended to land in round, inert drops, as opposed to the spray of the victim’s blood.

“Will do,” Samuels agreed, and she could see he was a little annoyed that she thought he needed this obvious instruction. Samuels was not the best detective, though, and the case was too important, so she didn’t care if she offended him.

Whilst Samuels carefully inspected the bloodstains in the room, she helped direct the SOCO team to test the table and chairs for fingerprints, fibers, or other trace evidence. It would be a thankless slog, though; a lot of different people came through the unhappy confines of the solicitor’s briefing room at Detention, and it would be like trying to find a needle in a haystack.

Whilst she was carefully surveying the area under the table, Doyle’s mobile vibrated; it was Acton, and she picked up. “I am knee-deep in Mr. Solonik’s bloodstains.”

“I am at Marta’s residence. She has taken an overdose, and killed herself.”

Doyle leaned back on her heels, stunned. But truly, when you thought about it, not completely unexpected. Turning her head so as to speak quietly, she said as much to Acton. “When she heard you were at the door, she must have known it was over—she would have no chance in court.” England was still England, and no one would look kindly upon a domestic attempting to poison a peeress.

There was only silence in response, and Doyle knew he was profoundly angry; he had been thwarted of whatever action he had wanted to take, which may well be to the good. However, he also was deprived of the chance to find out whether his mother was involved.

“I don’t know if I can come right now,” Doyle cautioned. “I’m processin’ the scene. You’ve heard?”

“Yes,” he said, his tone clipped. “Stay—I have a lot of work to do.”

She didn’t like the way he sounded. “When will you be home?” she persisted.

“Late—you need your rest; don’t wait up.”

She rang off thoughtfully. He was in a state, and it was perplexing that he was at Marta’s house even though he knew Solonik had been attacked. Perhaps he didn’t much care that someone tried to murder Solonik; no doubt Acton had efficiently framed the man for murder already. She froze for a moment, and considered the possibility that Acton had murdered Marta. Acton had disposed of Owens without benefit of authority so that no unwanted attention would be directed at her, and this was a similar situation. He may have wanted to ensure Marta did not implicate his mother, or that the fair Doyle’s testimony would not be required in an attempted murder trial. No, she concluded almost immediately; he didn’t kill Marta—she could sense that he was very unhappy the wretched woman was dead, and that he was without the answers he sought.

“What is it?” asked Samuels, watching her return her mobile to her belt.

“Nothing,” Doyle replied, “I was woolgatherin’ is all.” Samuels was a likeable fellow, but it was a little odd he was a detective—he didn’t have that driving curiosity; indeed, he’d shown little interest in the puzzling circumstances of this attack on Solonik.

After the scene had been thoroughly processed, they returned to their workstations late in the afternoon and began writing up their reports. Hopefully, ERU would come up with
something;
it seemed likely the suspect’s DNA—whoever he was—would be on file because such a bold attack on a kingpin was not your ordinary crime. Munoz had said there was an image on surveillance video, but the suspect had been well-aware of the location of the cameras and a clear shot of his face was never caught; he’d strategically held a folder to obscure his image. He was a bit taller than average, average weight and dark hair—not very helpful. Because he was disguised as a solicitor, security had given him short shrift, and thus he had been able to smuggle in the blade. A very daring attack by someone very desperate, one would think.

Munoz packed up to leave as evening fell; Doyle packed up with her but decided a visit to her errant husband was in order, and they parted at the lobby lifts. Doyle made her way across the walkway, aware that she was tired and not quite recovered from the ordeal of the past week, but also aware that she mustn’t be a baby and keep putting it off—it was her own fault, after all. After contemplating the best way to broach the subjects she needed to broach with Acton, she finally decided she would play it by ear; if he was in one of his black moods, she would proceed cautiously.

His floor was nearly deserted as she approached his office, but his assistant was still at her desk and his door was closed. Doyle had met his assistant only once; at work they moved in different orbits. As she approached, the woman looked up and said quietly, “He has asked not to be disturbed.”

Doyle paused in surprise, thinking that the woman must know that such a stricture shouldn’t be applied to the DCI’s better half. No point in pulling that card, however; his assistant was only doing her job, and loyalty was a virtue. “I’ll check, then,” she replied in a mild tone.

She texted Acton, “I M outside your door.”

Almost immediately, the lock clicked. Doyle couldn’t resist smiling kindly at the assistant as she went in, and intercepted a poorly-concealed flash of envy and resentment. Put that in your pipe, Miss Can’t-Be-Disturbed.

A
CTON HAD BEEN DRINKING, AND SHE HID HER SURPRISE THAT
he would drink this much at work. Occasionally he would drink rather heavily at the flat and sit quietly for a time, watching her. During these occasions, she respected the mood and left him alone. She didn’t drink herself, but didn’t mind when he did; she was Irish, after all. Since her pregnancy, however, these sessions had been few and far between.

She shut the door behind her. Doyle had rarely been in his office, as Acton was constantly busy and was more likely to visit her when time permitted. They also tried to keep their relationship at work on a professional level, so as not to invoke any resentment, and a DC wouldn’t be dropping in to visit a DCI.

He walked away from her and went over to stand by the window, looking out. He was in a crackin’ foul mood, she saw, and didn’t want her to see that he was swilkin’ drunk. This would take some careful handling and so she waited, trying to gauge him.

“I used to watch you come into work,” he said. “I still do.”

“Michael,” she said gently, setting down her rucksack beside his desk, “what is troublin’ you and how can I help?”

He paused, and she thought for a moment he would not answer her, but then he replied a bit abruptly, “You were declining. I had begun to entertain the possibility that you might die.”

“We caught it, though, and I have been eating fruit pies all afternoon. I am well, Michael; my hand on my heart.”

“I wanted to kill her,” he said conversationally.

“I thought perhaps you had,” she admitted.

Surprised, he glanced at her. “No.” It was the truth, but she had already come to this realization.

This was the right tack, she could sense it—to be matter-of-fact and even; he was responding to her, but she wasn’t certain if now was the time to make her confession about Solonik. She wished she knew how best to handle this—unlikely there was a chapter in a marriage manual on the subject. Perhaps she should start with broad generalizations. “You can’t just go about killin’ people, Michael.”

He turned to look out the window again, and she worried that the generalization was perhaps not broad enough. He mused, “I know you are very clever. I don’t know why I underestimate you.”

She realized he was speaking of the aqueduct murder. He knew that she knew, then. “You lost your tiepin, my friend.”

He glanced at her over his shoulder. “Indeed?”

“Indeed,” she replied, imitating him. When he was drunk, he became more aristocratic than his usual—which meant that he tried to tone it down otherwise, so that she wouldn’t feel so much like an unworthy Cinderella in this unorthodox fairy tale. I used to feel that way—like an unworthy Cinderella—she admitted to herself; but not so much anymore. This man and I are very well-matched, but I cannot help but think his wayward ways will come a cropper, sooner or later, and if I can use my influence to prevent such an outcome, I will. Someone like Acton would not do well in prison—there were too many inmates who were already there, courtesy of him. “You must leave retribution to God, Michael.”

He shook his head, and leaned against the windowsill so that she wouldn’t see that he was unsteady on his feet. “No. Not if someone tries to kill you.”

“If you believe that this world is only temporary, and the next one is eternal, then you are servin’ the short-term but sacrificin’ the long-term.” She paused, trying to decide if she had explained it clearly. “It’s a matter of perspective.”

He said nothing, but turned his gaze to the carpeted floor. Faith, he was in a mood. Reaction, probably—the crisis had passed and he had been thwarted of revenge, unless he was going after his mother, and that did not bear thinking about. Tired of standing—she’d had a long day—she moved over to sit at his desk, maintaining her matter-of-fact air and trying to read him despite his best efforts to block her out. Displayed on his laptop screen was a still photograph from the building’s surveillance tape; Sergey meeting her outside at the deli, his face clearly visible. She looked up in surprise. “Do you know him?”

“No.”

She knit her brow, confused. “I wonder why he was so spooked of me, then.” She glanced up. “Munoz says he is a fake.”

“Munoz is right.”

In mock-annoyance, she chided, “Now, there’s a phrase I’d rather not be hearin’ again from you, if you don’t mind.”

But he would not be teased, and lifted his gaze to her. “You must go home and rest. Call the driving service.”

It was said in the form of a command, but she stood her ground. “I’d rather stay with you.”

“I am not good company, Kathleen.”

“Nonsense; you are very appealin’ when you are three sheets to the wind—I have no idea what’s next.” Then an idea dawned on her; why, I know exactly what’s next, she thought. Standing so as to begin unbuttoning her blouse, she issued her own command. “Come over here, husband.”

He was alarmed, and glanced at the exposed windows. “No,” he said firmly.

“No, yourself.” She stepped out of her trousers and laid them over the back of the chair before unhooking her bra. “Either you’re comin’ over here, or I’m goin’ over there and puttin’ on a show for whoever is workin’ late across the way.”

They had not had sex in a week and Acton—being as he was—was ripe for exploitation. “I’m afraid I am drunk.”

“Then I will go door-to-door until I find someone who can perform.” She was down to her knickers, and she could see he was no match for her scantily-clad self; as though mesmerized, he stood upright and approached the desk. Meeting him halfway, she slowly ran her palms up his chest but he was in no mood for foreplay, and caught her hands, pinioning her arms roughly behind her and bringing his mouth down on hers. He was none too gentle and tasted of scotch.

Deciding that she would give as good as she got, she bit his lip, gently, and if it was possible, he pressed her more tightly against him and began to move his hands over her body with some urgency. Ordinarily, he was careful not to escalate his lovemaking until she was ready for him, but he was not possessed of patience at this point and so with little preamble, he hoisted her up against him and lifted her onto his desk.

It was fortunate, she thought as she shifted to accommodate his weight, that he was OCD and the desk was not cluttered. After laying her back, he began kissing her roughly, sliding a hand between them to unfasten his trousers. The heat ignited between them—as always—and she gasped into his mouth with the intensity of it. She could hear him rip her lace knickers aside and then they were joined in their own familiar rhythm; she clinging to him, arms and legs, and panting into his neck.

When the storm was over, she rested her head back on the desktop, his face buried between her neck and shoulder. Staring at the ceiling in satisfaction, she shifted slightly so that his pen set was not poking her. “My favorite knickers,” she lamented.

“I’ll replace them.”

“There’s no point, really.”

She could feel him chuckle in his chest. Good. She said softly into his ear, “Let’s go home and do this properly.”

A bit groggy, he lifted his head and kissed her ear. “I’m afraid I have more work to do.”

“I was thinkin’ I would drive you home.”

“I’m not that drunk,” he protested. She lifted her hand to brush her hair off her forehead, and she could feel the chuckle again as he rested his head against her. Good one, Doyle; you have discovered the cure for the black mood. It is very similar to the cure for morning sickness, only much more vigorous.

Acton suddenly said into her ear, “Promise me something.”

“Anythin’,” she murmured, and meant it.

“If there is a chance I might lose you, you must give me warning.”

“There is no chance, Michael,” she replied with complete sincerity. “I just worry, sometimes.”

He kissed her throat, and said nothing.

No time like the present, she thought. “I have to confess somethin’ to you, and beg your pardon on both knees.”

His fingers stilled on her skin, and she could sense he was struggling to pay attention, aware this was important. “What is it, then?”

She swallowed. “The real reason Owens wanted to kill me was because he wanted you for himself. He didn’t work for Solonik—it was strictly personal. He even apologized.” She could feel the gooseflesh rise on her arms, remembering. “He realized I was a rival, and wanted to eliminate me so that he could take my place.”

Acton lay very still and said nothing. She continued, “I didn’t want to tell you; I was afraid—I was afraid it cut a little too close. And I didn’t think it would matter.”

But it had; Acton had instigated this crackin’ bloodbath and for his final vengeance, had framed Solonik for the murder of his own brother-in-law. Each of the warring tribes would be left in ruins and at least one kingpin would go to prison; it was a brilliant strategy and it had Acton’s fingerprints all over it—not that anyone knew but her. And Williams, apparently. No wonder Williams had been so swiftly promoted; he was Acton’s man, and Acton needed him to rise through the ranks so that he could be of use. She wondered for a moment why someone like Williams would be ripe for such an unorthodox alliance; it did not seem in keeping.

Acton’s voice, resonating next to her head, interrupted her thoughts. “You could not tell me the truth.”

“I am so sorry, Michael. I should have.”

“Not at all; it was my fault, after all, that you couldn’t speak the truth.”

This was unexpected, but very much in keeping with the whole Section Seven thing; she could do no wrong. “No, you knocker—I should have made a clean breast.”

“I will seek therapy; you should not have to guard what you say to me.”

“I’m not leavin’.” She knew instinctively this was why he was making such an effort to be a normal couple; to relinquish his intense privacy. He didn’t want her to abandon ship.

“You should not have to guard what you say to me,” he repeated, his diction very public-school.

“We will see,” she temporized, mainly because she could not be easy about such a plan. It did not seem that this particular secret should be shared with anyone, except maybe a stout-hearted priest.

There was a silence for a few moments, and he evidenced no desire to lift himself off her squashed but compliant body. Smiling to herself, she gently kissed his throat, but it seemed he was not marshaling his energy for another go, but was instead thinking about what she had revealed. “Did you discover why Owens was at the Kempton Park course in the first place? He was a professional—there must have been a reason.”

Leave it to Acton to think of this; she had not considered this particular loose end, what with being shot and then hiding the truth from her husband. She knit her brow, trying to remember what the raving lunatic had said even though she never wanted to think about it again. “He made some comment about infiltratin’ the course for some reason—he was pursuin’ a relationship with the dead trainer for business.”

There was a pause. “Did he mention Savoie?”

“No. What is Sav-waa?” She was not good with words, and this was a strange one.

There was a small pause, and she knew he was in the process of deciding he was too drunk to discuss whatever it was with her, so she threw his own words back at him. “Michael, you shouldn’t have to guard what you say to me.”

“Savoie is a person; a Frenchman.”

This was little enough to go on, but it was enough, and her scalp prickled. “Is this Savoie character a bit reedy, and does he have a tattoo on his neck?”

“Most certainly not. Why?” This was apparently interesting enough to inspire him to rise up on his elbows and look down at her.

“The walk-in—the driver from the course. Munoz said he was wearin’ a fine French watch even though he was a bit rough around the edges. I had the impression he was wary, and he asked if I was married.”

“That is of interest.”

Mother a’ mercy, she thought; were we dealing with the wrong kingpin, all along? Small wonder Lestrade was wary and confused, if Acton was laying waste to the wrong tribe.

Her vengeful-but-mistaken husband had lapsed into silence, and she decided he could do his thinking at home where there was no danger his assistant could walk in at any moment. She helped him to straighten up, kissing him repeatedly, and coaxed him down to the premium garage where the Range Rover was parked. He was a bit unsteady on his feet, and she wondered how much scotch was needed to make him so. Without a protest, he allowed her to seat him in the passenger seat, and then she slid behind the wheel, hoping she wouldn’t crash his fine car between here and home. After adjusting the seat so that she could reach the pedals, she unsuccessfully tried to put the gearshift into reverse. He leaned over and showed her that the device had to be pulled to one side to achieve reverse; she tried and it stalled. Unable to help it, she started to giggle.

“Dosser,” he accused, imitating her accent.

Laughing, she pulled his head to hers to kiss him, openmouthed, and then they were havin’ at it once again, even though there was little enough room in the passenger seat. Thank God the windows are tinted, thought Doyle; the video surveillance people at the Met were not known for their discretion.