Murder in Retribution (24 page)
Read Murder in Retribution Online
Authors: Anne Cleeland
Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #International Mystery & Crime, #Police Procedural, #Traditional, #Traditional British
D
OYLE SAT AT THE TABLE WITH HER FEET CURLED BENEATH HER
and waited; thinking of nothing in particular, until Acton finally appeared, looking weary as he came through the door. The ultimate in a dedicated man, she thought as she turned her head to watch him approach. I have a surfeit of champions, whether I wish them or no.
His sharp eyes were upon her, assessing, then he ran a hand over her head and picked up the brandy bottle. “What’s this?”
“You’ve driven me to drink, my friend. It was only a matter of time.”
He said mildly, “I’ll join you,” and went to the liquor cabinet to address the scotch bottle; she noted that he took the brandy bottle with him.
“How is Timothy?”
“Bad,” he replied shortly, and poured himself a tall glass of scotch. He didn’t want to talk about it, which was no surprise, and so instead she asked the question she had been wondering all evening.
“How did you know?”
He glanced over at her as he took a seat at the table. “Caroline knew our new domestic was a ‘he’ and not a ‘she’; so she must have been the one at the door when Reynolds answered.”
Doyle stared in surprise at the simple explanation. “You are
somethin’,
Michael.”
Acton took a healthy swallow from his glass and leaned back in his chair, his gaze resting on its contents. He was alert and wary, despite his relaxed pose, and she decided that it served him right; she truly should be railing and throwing things if she had any self-respect at all. On the other hand, this certainly felt like a discussion, which was a promising sign. He must be remorseful—or, she amended, at least remorseful about putting her though it. She doubted he harbored a flicker of remorse for all the various and sundry murders.
He continued, “Aiki tried to tell you.”
“
Aiki
did?” She was at sea.
“Yes; you described what he said, but you misunderstood. He was saying ‘
votre amie
.’ It means ‘your friend’ in French.”
“Oh—I see. That would clinch it; I suppose, after Reynolds verified the photo.”
He lifted his gaze to hers, and immediately she realized her error—the wretched brandy was goofing her up. “I browbeat him into the admission, Michael; I knew somethin’ was up, and I came home for lunch to discover what it was. Please don’t be angry or fire him; he so loves saying ‘Lord Acton.’ ”
Acton considered. “Do you think we can trust him?”
She nodded. “I do. Believe me, you will be the first to know if he puts a foot wrong; we can’t have another snake livin’ in the chicken coop.”
“There is no one,” he pronounced slowly, “who can turn a phrase quite like you.”
“I’m a corker,” she agreed.
Cradling his glass, he bowed his head. “Reynolds should not have disobeyed me.” He paused. “And now he may piece together what has occurred.”
Doyle hadn’t thought of this, but remained unalarmed. “Unlikely,” she insisted. “I’m the only one who pieces things together.” She paused. “Aside from you, of course—you take the palm.”
“You are extraordinary.”
She had the feeling that he was referring to her current state of restraint as much as her intuitive ability, but what else could she do? She loved the man, and at least it all made some sense, finally. Cautiously, she tried to keep this fragile discussion going. “And I suppose Marta didn’t truly kill herself.”
He nodded. “Timothy must have told Caroline about the poisoning, and she killed Marta so as to silence her and give us a likely suspect at the same time—the case would be closed.” He paused, contemplating what was left of the scotch in his glass. “Caroline was unhappy we married.”
“Yes—already aware of that, Michael.”
“Are you unhappy we married?”
Ah, she thought; here we go. “No, I am not unhappy we married—I think it is the best and greatest thing I have ever done.” She took a sip of the brandy because she’d forgotten how foul it was, and then added fairly, “thus far.” Dropping her head, she traced her finger in a water drop on the table. “Although I will admit that some days are better than others.”
He leaned forward and covered her hand with his. “Do you remember when you told me that you had no choice but to jump off the bridge?”
“Yes.” She lifted her face and understood what he was trying to tell her. “I see.”
“I am sorry.” The truth rang like a clear bell, and his relief was palpable. “I will do whatever is necessary so that—so that this is not so difficult for you.”
But this was the wrong tack, and she made a sound of frustration. “You are not to be careful around me, Michael—I hate it, remember? Just—let’s just try to make certain there aren’t any more days like today.” She met his eyes. “Although nothin’ will make me change my mind, Michael—truly.” Fingers crossed, she thought; living with this man was not for the faint of heart.
He made no response, but she was heartened—he was allowing her glimpses within, and even though he hated to speak of it, they were making progress; they were sorting out how they were to deal with each other. In the end, this was surely not much different than what every other new married couple had to do. Except for the forensics, of course. “Will there be an investigation, do you think?”
“No.”
“How can you be so certain, Michael?” She allowed her voice to reveal her uneasiness.
“I am very good at what I do.”
This was inarguably true. And it would never cross anyone’s mind to suspect him in the first place; it would take some very serious digging to come up with evidence of Acton’s dark doings, and no one would even think of trying. “Then we should be havin’ no more problems like this one.”
“I hope not,” he agreed.
It was the truth, and she was relieved; in the back of her mind was the unspoken concern that he enjoyed this—that it was a symptom of his condition. Things could get very dicey if he was going to start wreaking revenge on anyone who bumped into her on the sidewalk. “I suppose our trip to Brighton is postponed, then?”
“Yes. I’m sorry, Kathleen; I’m to help Timothy with the funeral.”
She sighed philosophically. “I’ll help you do it; you don’t speak RC very well, after all.” She wondered if he would ever make a real confession—Father John would fall out of his chair.
They sat in silence for a few minutes, and then she asked, “Have they found Rourke’s body, yet?”
“Not as yet.” He lifted his gaze to hers, curious. “Any ideas?”
“No,” she confessed. “I’m afraid it doesn’t work like that.” Since he’d given her a glimpse, she’d return the favor. “Any leads on motive?”
Acton leaned back and crossed his long legs at the ankles; he was able to relax, now that he knew she wasn’t going to brain him with a joint stool. “I think so—we discovered some encrypted e-mails that indicate the Rourkes and Solonik were in league together, agreeing to cut each other in on a new contraband operation.”
Doyle blinked in surprise. “Holy Mother—truly? That seems unlikely, they are sworn enemies.” Then she remembered his theory. “A mutual secret, just as you thought—neither the Rourkes nor Solonik could allow their people to learn they’d been conspiring against them with the enemy.” She remembered Habib had said something to this effect—speculating that Solonik’s refusal to identify his attacker stemmed from a business decision, and not necessarily a tribal allegiance. “What was the rig they wanted to run, do you know?”
“Solonik runs a contraband operation, and the Rourkes were going to siphon money off their track earnings to fund a mutual operation on the side—it is unclear exactly what it was.”
“Skimmin’,” quoted Doyle, her brow clearing. “Our Mr. Thackeray was right.” She paused because her scalp was tingling, and she wasn’t sure whether it was just the brandy. “Thackeray also said there were an unusual amount of horse trailers, going in and out.”
Acton slowly pulled his legs in and sat up. “Did he indeed?”
With some excitement, Doyle played her trump. “Remember the wary walk-in—the one with the fancy French watch—he said he was a driver; they must be smugglin’ contraband in the horse trailers. It would be a simple way to regularly transport somethin’ almost anywhere in the country without raisin’ suspicion.”
“Savoie,” Acton mused.
Doyle blinked, as this seemed a non sequitur, and just when she was solving the case like a house afire. “What?”
Acton tilted his head, contemplating the view out the window. “No wonder Solonik wanted assurances; they were both trying to cut in on Savoie.”
But Doyle was having some trouble keeping up. “Remind me who Savoie is, Michael—another kingpin?”
He glanced at her, debating what to say, and she was reminded that he had his own little black market enterprise on the side, which she was not to know about. “Savoie is a major international player, and very dangerous. I imagine he caught wind of the Solonik-Rourke plan, and to warn them off, deposited Rourke’s body at Newmarket.” He paused, and added almost unnecessarily, “Savoie is not someone you cross.”
“Neither are you,” Doyle pointed out, thinking of Barayev’s grisly corpse. “And here I thought it was you that had Rourke killed.”
But this was a discussion too far, apparently, and instead of responding, he pulled his mobile and called Williams to let him know that the body of the missing Rourke would no doubt also be found on Newmarket heath near where his brother’s body had been found, and that a search team should be sent in the morning.
“Another retribution murder,” she observed as he rang off. “Faith, you need a spreadsheet to keep track.”
Acton leaned back again, well-satisfied. “I will look into this in the morning—the horse-trailer theory seems very sound; if we play our cards right, we may be able to bring in even more players, once we see how the operation works.”
Yes, she thought; whether or not you approved of Acton’s methods, there was no arguing that all the evildoers had been thoroughly thwarted—or killed, one or the other. “The DCS should give Thackeray a commendation—or at least deputize him; he twigged the whole case, he just didn’t know it. I wonder why Solonik was there in the first place.”
“He no doubt felt that such an out-of-the-way place was a safe venue to meet with Rourke.”
Doyle had to smile at the irony. “Far from it, as it turned out.” She thought about it for a moment, and then wondered aloud, “If Solonik thought the Rourkes had killed his brother-in-law, why would he even agree to meet with them?”
Acton set his glass down. “Solonik never thought the Rourkes were responsible for killing his brother-in-law.”
Yes, of course; she’d forgotten that Barayev was killed in retribution for Owens shooting
her;
Acton would have made certain to let Solonik know this—no point in going to all the trouble of a retribution murder, one would think, unless the target was aware it was a retribution murder. You almost felt sorry for Solonik, who—as it turned out—had nothing to do with Owens shooting her, and must have been bewildered by Acton’s wholesale vengeance-seeking.
But any stab of sympathy quickly dissipated; after all, the Solonik-Rourke allegiance may well have been hatched as a way to team up against Acton as much as against this Savoie character, and there was no question Solonik deserved to be in prison. A good riddance, she decided; but Acton could not go on as he was—perhaps therapy was not necessarily a bad idea.
“Is it time for bed?” Her husband’s gaze rested on the dé-colletage of her robe, as apparently this night’s crime-solving was fast coming to an end.
“It is,” she agreed. “This day cannot be over fast enough.”
His arm around her waist, Acton led her to the bedroom. “Tell me of your interview with the reporter; what was your concern?”
“It turned out to be nothin’, Michael; I just panicked a bit. I talk too much when I’m nervous.”
“Is that so?” he teased.
“The reporter is a wily one, though; best to avoid him. He’s determined to make us a page-seven story.” She glanced up at him sidelong. “Not that anyone would believe it.”
“Nonsense,” he said, pausing to kiss her. “Nothing to see, here.”
Keep reading for a sneak peek At Acton and Doyle’s next adventure MURDER IN HINDSIGHT
D
ETECTIVE
S
ERGEANT
K
ATHLEEN
D
OYLE WAS FRETTING; FRET
ting and stalling until Detective Chief Inspector Acton could make an appearance whilst she tried to appear calm and composed in front of the Scene of the Crime Officers. As a newly-promoted DS, she should maintain a certain dignity and display her leadership abilities, even though she was longing to bite her nails and peer over the hedgerow toward the park entrance. The various Scotland Yard forensics personnel were impatiently waiting because Acton was delayed, and Doyle had a good guess as to why he was delayed. One of these fine days, someone else may make the same guess and then the wretched cat would be among the wretched pigeons—although the mind boggled, trying to imagine Acton being called on the carpet by Professional Standards. Pulling out her mobile, she pretended to make a call just to appear busy.
“I’ll lose the light soon, ma’am.” The SOCO photographer approached, cold and unhappy, and small blame to her; Doyle was equally cold and unhappy, but with better reason.
“Ten more minutes,” Doyle assured her, holding a hand over her mobile so as to interrupt her pretend-conversation. “Then we’ll move forward—whether DCI Acton makes it or no.” She wanted Acton to have a look before the corpse was processed and removed, but she could always show him the photos.
The woman immediately plucked up. “No hurry; we can wait, if the DCI is on his way.”
Has a crush on him, the brasser, thought Doyle. Join the club, my friend; the woman probably had some private photographs she’d be all too happy to show Acton in her spare time. The SOCO photographer used to treat Doyle with barely-concealed contempt, but her attitude had improved remarkably after the bridge-jumping incident. A few months ago, Doyle had jumped off Greyfriars Bridge into the Thames to save a colleague, and was now a celebrated hero. All in all, it was a mixed blessing, because Doyle was not one who craved the spotlight and now she was perceived as sort of a female version of St. George—except that she’d rescued the dragon instead of the maiden, when you thought about it.
Irish by birth and fey by nature, Doyle had an uncanny ability to read people, and in particular she could recognize a lie when she heard it. This perceptive ability had launched her career as a detective, but it also made her reclusive by nature—it was no easy thing, to be able to pick up on the currents and crosscurrents of emotion swirling around her. The SOCO photographer, for example, was lusting after the vaunted chief inspector but bore Doyle no particular ill-will for being married to him, since she was the heroic bridge-jumper and thus above reproach.
With a nod of her head, the photographer gestured toward the victim, being as she didn’t want to take her hands out of her pockets until it was necessary. “Is there something special about this one, then?”
There was, but Doyle did not want to say, especially before the loose-lipped SOCOs who were notoriously inclined to blather when in their cups—it came from wading knee-deep in guts all the livelong day. So instead, she equivocated, “There are a few details that are worrisome, is all. I wanted the DCI to have a quick look.”
As it appeared to be an ordinary case of a bad ’un coming to an only-to-be-expected bad end in this part of town, this pronouncement would ordinarily hold little water, but because the photographer was anticipating a chance to bat her eyes at Acton, no demur was raised. Doyle was reminded that on the aqueduct case, this particular photographer had withheld evidence at Acton’s request, and wondered at such foolish devotion. Then she recalled that it was a case of the pot and the kettle—Doyle herself was an aider and abettor, after all—and so she tempered her scorn. Although she was married to him, Acton was in many respects a mystery to her as few were; he abided by his own notions of justice, and was not above manipulating the means to achieve the ends he desired—not something one would expect from a well-respected DCI at the Met. But the fact that no one would expect it was—ironically—the very reason he got away with murder on certain memorable occasions; his reputation acted as a shield. Any suggestion that the celebrated Lord Acton was running illegal weapons, dispatching villains, or manipulating evidence would be met with disbelief and derision, as well he knew. In the meantime, his better half was left to hang on to his coat tails and try to curb his wayward ways—it was no easy task, and Doyle reluctantly rang off from her pretend-conversation so as to decide how best to proceed without him.
After peering over the hedgerow yet again, she blew into her hands because she’d forgotten her gloves, and reflected that the cold was actually a blessing because the recently departed wouldn’t be further decomposing whilst they cooled their heels—she truly shouldn’t delay for much longer, or the senior investigating officer might think they’d all gone for a pub crawl.
“Here he comes, ma’am,” the photographer chirped happily, and with a great deal of relief, Doyle looked up to see that Acton was indeed approaching; his tall, over-coated figure emerging from the evening fog. In such a setting he appeared larger-than-life, and small wonder that female underlings harbored a crush, or that the younger detectives at the Met called him “Holmes” behind his back. He was a local legend, which only made her fret all the more whilst she entertained the bleak conviction that the whole thing was about to come crashing down around their heads.
“DS Doyle.” He nodded to her. “Have you an ID?”
“I do indeed, sir.” They kept up a professional façade when they were dealing with each other at work, but she met his eyes and felt the chemistry crackling between them like an electrical charge. No one could fathom why the great Chief Inspector Acton had married the lowly likes of her, and literally on a moment’s notice. She could fathom it, however, and did—sometimes twice a day. Thus far in their short marriage they were very happy together, despite the occasional crisis. “He’s twenty-three years old with a record of petty thefts and drug-dealin’—nothing major—but he was a suspect in an arson homicide about eight years ago.” She paused significantly, and Acton met her eyes with interest. He then stepped carefully over to the body, lying next to the hedgerow, and she followed to crouch down beside him and contemplate the victim’s remains for a silent moment. The victim had been shot in back of the head, and there were no signs of a defensive struggle.
She continued, “No sign of robbery, and he was armed—had a .38 revolver tucked into the back of his belt.” That it was illegal went without saying; guns were carefully controlled in Britain, but the black market flourished, particularly among the criminal classes. Lowering her voice, she indicated with a finger, “The entry wound is angled, and there’s no visible residue, so it’s at mid-close range—no more than a foot or so. Another shot from behind, but not a professional hit.”
He began to pull off his leather gloves by the fingers. “Allow me to lend you my gloves.”
“You mustn’t,” she warned. “I’ll never learn, else.”
“Your fingers are white.”
“Are you
listenin’
to me?”
“Yes.” He glanced up at her. “He used a different weapon, this time, and shot from the opposite side in an attempt to obscure his identity.”
“I think so,” she agreed, mollified that he was paying attention and had come to the same conclusion as she had. “He’s trying to disguise it, but it’s the same killer. And the victim has another cold case connection.”
They rose, and Acton stood next to her, his breath making a cloud in the chill air.
In a low tone, she ventured, “Perhaps you should button your coat, my friend—and try not to be breathin’ on anyone.”
There was a pause. “Is it so obvious?” he asked quietly.
“Only to me,” she assured him. “Was it completely wretched?”
“I’ve been admonished not to discuss it with you, but the answer is yes.”
“Grand,” she observed dryly.
He continued in a neutral tone, “I am asked a great many questions about my mother and about you.”
“Whist, Michael,” she scoffed. “As if that has
anythin’
to do wi’ it.”
He chuckled, which was a good sign, and she chuckled with him, not caring what the impatient SOCO team would think to see the CID detectives amusing themselves over the remains of the decedent. Acton had begun therapy for an obsessive condition, the object of his obsession being her fair self. He had developed a fixation for his first-year colleague, and by the time Doyle had become aware of it, he’d convinced her to marry him—which she had, in a pig’s whisper, which only spoke to the state of her own mental faculties. To make a try at a normal life he was seeing a therapist, hoping to learn techniques to control his symptoms without necessarily disclosing the reason. Apparently, the therapist had not been misled.
“So you’ve been ser vin’ yourself some self-help,” she concluded. After his sessions, Acton would drink impressive quantities of scotch. He was not one to refrain, even under normal conditions, but it seemed to Doyle that the therapy was only making matters worse.
“We’re losing the light, sir,” the photographer ventured from a respectful distance.
Thus reminded, Acton called the SOCO team over and began giving instructions; particular care was to be given to physical evidence at the site, although there was little to hope for, with the ground so cold. Because the killer was using a variety of murder weapons to disguise his involvement, any footprints or trace evidence they could scrounge up might provide a means to link this murder to the others; by all appearances, they were dealing with a serial killer.
While they watched the forensics team go to work, Acton lifted his head to survey the area and observe the placement of the CCTV cameras. “Tell me about the cold case that is connected to this one.”
“Unsolved double murder by arson. Our victim here was the chief suspect, eight years ago, but there was little evidence and he had a lot of sympathetic press coverage, bein’ so young.” There was a pause.
“Eight years; a strange sort of vigilante, who abides for such a length of time.”
“Aye, that,” she teased solemnly. When Acton drank, his tone and language reverted to House of Lords, and so she reverted to hardscrabble Dublin so as to counter him.
Amused, he turned to meet her eyes and said sincerely, “This was very good work.”
She shrugged, nonetheless pleased by the compliment. “Lucky, more like. And give yourself some credit; it all came of you throwin’ me off the cases.” Acton had been concerned—and rightly so—that Doyle was in danger when they were investigating the Kempton Park racecourse murders. He had taken her out of the field, and instead placed her on thankless and uninteresting cold case duty, locked in the CID basement and looking through dusty boxes of unsolved homicides. Thoroughly frustrated and resentful, she had nevertheless used the time to review and index Acton’s cold case files, and had noticed a link between a recent string of apparently unconnected murders and some of the unsolved cold cases. Her intuition came to the conclusion that someone was murdering killers who had previously escaped justice—a vigilante was at work. This latest victim would appear to confirm her theory.
A PC who was monitoring the cordon came over to have a word with Acton. “Sir, there is a reporter who would like to have a word.”
Doyle caught a quick flash of annoyance from her husband, but there was nothin’ for it; if you tried to avoid the pests, it would only make them think you were hiding massive police abuse. Cooperating with the fourth estate was a necessary evil, especially in this day and age, but on the other hand, Acton was not one to suffer fools. This attitude worked only to enhance his standing with the public, who followed his career with avid interest—not that he cared or noticed. He signaled for Doyle to accompany him, and so she followed him as he went to address the reporter, a woman who stood with her arms crossed against the cold despite wearing a fine cashmere coat—reporting must pay well. She was from the London World News, a paper that had often been critical of the Met. Recently, however, an uneasy truce had been achieved and the detective chief superintendent had cautioned them that the Home Secretary desired as much cooperation with the press as possible. Doyle was nervous; Acton was very self-possessed and she doubted that anyone else could tell that he had been drinking, but if the interview did not go well she’d have to create some sort of distraction—perhaps another pretend phone call.
The reporter seemed a very competent woman in her midthirties, brimming with confidence, Doyle could see; someone who would never forget her gloves on such a day. Holding out a hand to shake his, she threw Acton a friendly smile that held a touch of flirtatiousness, not an uncommon occurrence as the SOCO photographer was also attempting to sidle up next to him on the pretext of waiting to be discharged. You’re not his type—neither of you, Doyle thought; his type was shy redheads who nonetheless tended to fly off the handle on occasion. She was resigned, though; Acton was titled, handsome, rich, and unattainable, a combination that was apparently fatally attractive to the general female population. Male
,
too
,
she amended, remembering Owens, the detective trainee who had harbored an unhealthy obsession for him. She was lucky Acton was literally crazy about her; there was a lot of temptation lyin’ about.
Acton didn’t introduce her, and so Doyle stayed back, monitoring the conversation between the two and wondering if she had the wherewithal to step in, if the need arose. Judging by the questions, however, it didn’t appear that the reporter was yet aware of the pattern that pointed to a serial killer, and so Doyle relaxed a bit. As the scene had been cordoned off in a public place and there had been a delay in waiting for Acton, no doubt the press had merely caught wind of it and had come to see if there was a story. Serial killers were tricky; although there were times when the public should be warned there was such a killer afoot, in cases like this, when it seemed unlikely the killer was aware they had twigged him, discretion was the better option—all the better to set up a trap and seizure.
