Murder in Thrall (11 page)

“Hush,” he said quietly, lifting her palm and kissing it. “Less talk.”

“I talk too much when I’m nervous.”

“I know.” He caught her mouth with his.

He wins, she thought. Snabble it, Doyle.

C
HAPTER
13

 

The following day Doyle arrived at work bright and early, absurdly cheerful—it was amazing what a clandestine relationship could do for one’s spirits. No worry of being bored, that was for certain. Almost immediately, Munoz appeared at the entry to her cubicle. You’re not his type, Munoz, thought Doyle with satisfaction. I—on the other hand—am, as he made quite clear on multiple occasions last night.

“Drake was here looking for you this morning. What would he want with you?” Munoz was annoyed that another chief inspector was beating down Doyle’s door.

“Haven’t a clue,” Doyle replied, curious herself. “What did he say?”

“He wants you to come by to see him. He said it wasn’t urgent.” She paused and then warned, “He’s something of a letch.”

As Munoz was an authority on all things promiscuous, Doyle did not doubt her. “Thanks—I’ll be bringin’ my hatpin, I will.”

She made her way across the walkway and up to Drake’s office; she had never been to Acton’s office and was curious to see how the upper brass lived—she was rather disappointed to find ordinary offices, not quite as cluttered as those on the lower floors but with the same air of busy distraction. The office door was ajar and she knocked, seeing that Drake was inside and on the phone. He smiled and gestured her in.

At his invitation she sat in one of the chairs facing the desk, noting the array of awards displayed on his bookshelves; he was the type of man who would display all awards.

Drake finished his conversation, rang off, and walked around his desk to lean casually against it while he spoke to Doyle, and it was clear that he believed this pose showed him to advantage. He chatted for a few moments and was definitely friendlier than he should have been with a lowly DC from across the metaphorical tracks. Mother of God, she thought in amazement—another one down.

Flashing his even white teeth, he said, “I came by to tell you how much I appreciated your help at the conference on the racecourse murders. Acton is lucky—you do an excellent job.”

I do believe he indicated as much last night, she thought wickedly, but said aloud, “Thank you, sir,” in the manner of a lesser being who is humbly grateful. Faith, it was either feast or famine—she was nearly paralyzed with dread, contemplating what she should say if he asked her out on a date.

He then hung his head in a way she could see that he thought was endearing, “I hope that my remark about the Irish did not offend you.”

Doyle wanted to laugh aloud. Here she was, thinking every man jack had a fatal attraction to her fair self, and instead he was worried about being written up for sensitivity training; it served her right for being such a vain knocker.

She told him with all sincerity, “Please do not think of it again, sir; I assure you I thought nothin’ of it.” She added for good measure, “It’s a sad day when we all can’t tease each other with impunity.” She hoped he was impressed with the fancy word.

“Yes, well, Acton mentioned that I’d best be careful—you never know who might be offended even though no offense was intended.”

Of course he did, thought Doyle—the overprotective meddler. “Chief Inspector Acton was perhaps bein’ too sensitive.” Understatement of the century.

Drake smiled and relaxed. “It’s a good trait, though. Between you and me, he mentioned that he thought Sid had a bit of a problem. I checked into it and he’s agreed to go to rehab. Never would have guessed it, myself.”

Good one, Sid, thought Doyle with satisfaction. And here’s another subject Drake shouldn’t be flapping his jaws about; he was one who didn’t think of such things. “I hope it all works out for him; he had a good idea about the medical personnel at the course.”

“Yes, Acton’s put the new TDC in to help out in Sid’s place, he seems very eager to learn.”

“Owens? I met him at the Somers Town murders. Perhaps I’ll give him my regards.” Poor Owens, she thought—no doubt he would prefer to be learning field work, what with his treatise on bloodstains and all. As for herself, Doyle would rather be tortured than left to do research all day.

“Certainly,” said Drake, who stood when Doyle did. “He’s down in Research—I’m sure he’d appreciate a visitor.”

Thoughtfully, Doyle considered Drake’s tendency to give out state secrets and decided to take a cast. “It’s a difficult case, sir.”

Drake chuckled. “But not on my watch, thank God.”

“Do you think it could be the Russians?”

He tilted his head, thinking about it. “Solonik, you mean? No—he’d never be such a show-off.”

“Ah.”

They shook hands and parted, Drake taking the opportunity to try to glance down her shirt. I don’t think sensitivity training would succeed, she thought as she left. But he may respond to electric shock treatment. Men; honestly.

Doyle then descended the lift to Research, where the poor souls did not even have cubicles but were seated at tables piled high with files and treatises, working away like so many Bob Cratchits. She looked about and saw Owens, who was so absorbed in whatever he was researching that she had to speak to get his attention. “Hallo, Owens—I’m Detective Constable Doyle.”

He started and looked up in surprise. He was not happy to see her.

She was a bit taken aback. “I thought I’d come by and wish you luck. I met you at the Somers Town crime scene with DCI Acton.”

“Yes.” He cleared his throat. “I remember. You were upset.”

She ducked her head in rueful acknowledgment. “That I was.” You are
never
going to live that one down, my girl. “But I was not so upset that I didn’t notice your sharp work—you have a good eye, I think.”

“Thank you.” He did not offer any further conversation.

Prickly, she thought; I’d best soften him up—he’ll not get far thinking he doesn’t need friends and supporters around here. “Chief Inspector Acton was very impressed; he asked if I would have noticed what you did and I had to confess I would not have.”

This seemed to be the correct tack, as Owens visibly unbent and turned around on his stool to face her. “That’s very kind of you. I was happy to help.”

Remembering that Acton wanted her to draw him out, she offered, “I came by because I imagine you’d rather be doin’ field work. If I can get permission, I’ll see if you can come along with me or one of the others when we’re out and about.”

The pale blue eyes brightened. “Thanks—I’d appreciate it. Are you still working that Somers Town case?” He sounded slightly incredulous, which wasn’t very complimentary—not a reservoir of tact, was our Owens.

She replied in a mild tone. “No, I was ignominiously thrown off. But if you’d like, I can find out who is workin’ it, and perhaps you can lend a hand, havin’ opened it up, so to speak.” Doyle well understood the proprietary feeling one got about a case—she was sorry to let it go herself.

“That would be great,” he agreed with equal parts enthusiasm and gratitude. “I would very much like to know how it goes.”

“Do you have security clearance to review the log notes? If you do, you can see who’s on it and how the investigation is goin’.”

“Yes, I do.”

Doyle paused, as this was not true; perhaps he did not want to acknowledge to her that he was not cleared as yet, or it may have been a male-female thing, although she was getting the strong feeling that with him, male-female was not something he was very interested in.

She didn’t argue it. “Well, let me know if you need any help, or I’ll give you a ring, if I may—I need all the help I can get, I’m afraid.”

Chuckling, he shook his head and eyed her. “That’s hard to believe—you’re working with the chief inspector.”

Among other things, she thought, but joked, “That’s why I need all the help.”

He unbent enough to lean forward and offer a conspiratorial smile in acknowledgment. “He’s a little scary.”

“Indeed he is.” You have no idea, my friend.

“You were so lucky; I mean, that he was willing to work with a first-year, given his history.” It was evident that although Owens had not been here long, he had nevertheless managed to plug in to the gossip. “Was there any particular reason he chose you?”

The reason, of course, could not withstand the light of day—or more properly, was best explored at night. “I had a good record with interrogation,” she said instead, which was indeed the truth.

“Oh.” He knit his brow. “I don’t think that’s my strong suit.”

No, thought Doyle, the brusque and bloodstain-obsessed Constable Owens would not be good at handling people. He was much more suited for research—or perhaps forensics. She smiled, “It’s the blarney in me, I suppose; I was fortunate to be given the chance, and I have learned a lot.” Especially last night; I learned a whole lot—stop it, she cautioned herself—you are going to make a mistake and say something aloud that you oughtn’t. Instead she offered, “I should be goin’, I have to work on redeemin’ my sorry self.”

He nodded. “Good luck to you. I really appreciate your coming to see me.”

It was true. Well then, thought Doyle; I’ve charmed him—I’m a charmer, I am.

After exchanging contact information, they parted, and Doyle was so lost in thought on her way back to her building that she almost knocked into Acton, who was coming from the other direction.

“Hallo,” she greeted him, the effervescing happiness within her breast powerful in its intensity. “Fancy meeting you here.” It was no coincidence, of course; she recalled that he could track her through the GPS unit in her mobile.

“Have a moment?” His lovely dark eyes were fastened upon hers.

“Here?” she teased him.

He gave her a disapproving look, then ushered her into an empty conference room. No sexual innuendos at work, she thought; mental note.

He closed the door and they looked at each other for a long moment, the chemistry crackling between them. “How are you?”

“Well,” she answered gravely. “And you?”

He broke eye contact first and ducked his head because he could not contain a smile. “I am well.”

This is fun, thought Doyle; I could do this all day.

He raised his head again and reached into his coat pocket. “I bought you a private mobile.” He handed it to her, coming around so that he could lean against the conference table beside her. She did not own her own mobile phone, as she considered it an unnecessary expense; instead, she used the CID-issued unit. She turned the small, expensive unit over in her hands, noting that it was already charged and programmed. “Thank you.” She knew why he had bought it.

He indicated the contact information, brushing with a forefinger so that it scrolled. “I’ve programmed my work line and my private line.”

Gently, she asked, “How often would you like me to check in?”

He met her eyes and hesitated. “I don’t want to suffocate you.”

“I know,” she replied. “How about every hour? We’ll try to work on trimmin’ it down over time.”

“Thank you,” he said quietly. “I appreciate it.”

She was thoughtful. “I will be the percentage sign—my very own secret symbol.”

“All right—although in an emergency, text an exclamation point on the private line.” He was dead serious.

Interesting, she thought. I wonder what’s afoot; he’s definitely spooked, although at dinner last night he said it was nothing he could identify. She put the unit in her pocket, hoping that his anxiety would decrease once they became more accustomed to each other. It could be that his—condition—had intensified simply because their relationship had intensified. No question that he was anxious and striving mightily to hide it.

“Any leads on Capper?” She threw him a look. “Real ones, I mean.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “As a matter of fact, we have information that he is rooming with Willard Smythe’s relatives. He’ll be brought in any time.”

She mused, “Smythe was the barkeeper—it’s a small cast of characters.”

“I’ll give you a ring when he’s in so that you may observe the interrogation.”

“Done.” He needed a truth detector, then. “D’you mind if I ask Owens along? I was just speakin’ to him.”

He crossed his arms. “Were you? What do you think of him?”

Doyle didn’t want to queer the pitch if Acton thought Owens would make a good detective; on the other hand, she wanted to be honest. “He’ll never make chief inspector. He’s a bit rude—says things he oughtn’t.”

“Not like me,” Acton teased her.

“Not at all like you,” she protested. “You are unfailingly polite and I’ll not hear a word against you.”

“Bring Owens,” Acton said, standing up to leave. “But don’t devote too much time or energy on him; the jury’s still out.”

“Don’t worry, he’s not my type.” She added the unspoken thought, I believe it’s a situation where you are his type—those
beaux yeux
.

C
HAPTER
14

 

Doyle spent the greater part of the day doing background work and phoning potential witnesses who were by and large unhelpful. She texted her symbol to Acton on the hour and wondered if he would want to see her again tonight or if he was too busy catching up with his caseload, what with the recent spate of murders—perhaps there was to be no fieldwork today. Unless he had gone out without her. This thought gave her pause and she decided to ring him; she phoned him on his business line and he answered immediately.

“Constable.”

There must be others about. If she was truly wicked, she would say something provocative. She was not, however, and so didn’t. “I’ve been lookin’ into Smythe and Capper. While Smythe is a known associate of the trainer, Capper is not, and his phone records show no contact.”

“I see.”

I am telling him nothing he doesn’t already know, she thought. Exasperating man.

She persisted. “Which brings us back to your question—why would Capper risk so much to talk to the trainer in person?” After a moment’s hesitation, she suggested, “Perhaps Capper was the killer, after all.” This would contradict all working theories, but it would certainly tie up the cases nicely.

“Any indication that the trainer had a falling-out with anyone recently?”

“Not as yet; or no one wants to speak of it leastways. As it turns out, there is a connection with Giselle, however. The trainer was goin’ to visit her folks’ house in Yorkshire, according to one of the owners.”

“Was he indeed?”

Ah; here was something the omniscient DCI did not already know. Pleased she had been of some use and had also managed a vocabulary word, Doyle continued, “It’s a wrinkle—by all accounts he was gay and there is no indication the acquaintance was long-standin’.”

Acton’s tone was thoughtful on the other end. “It is interesting. Perhaps he felt he had to go to ground where he couldn’t be easily found; I imagine Giselle had a connection to the track.”

“A beautician, she was,” Doyle pointed out doubtfully. “Unless she was braidin’ the horses’ tails or somethin’.”

“We’ll see; it’s a significant fact, that he may have been trying to go to ground—it means he knew he was a target. Good work.”

Doyle made a wry mouth into the mobile. “Then he should have gone to ground sooner, and recall that you are not to humor me.”

“I am not humoring you,” he protested, and it was the truth.

She could hear voices in the background that sounded a lot like a field team, and debated for a moment whether to ask, then decided there was nothin’ for it. “Where are you, then?”

“We’ve pinned down Capper and are waiting for a warrant.”

“Are you? Well, that is excellent.”

He must have heard her carefully concealed disappointment. “I’ll need you in the gallery for his questioning.”

“Of course. Give me a ring; I’ll be here. ”

She rang off and contemplated her mobile’s blank screen. She wished he had asked her to go with him, mainly because she would have overseen Capper’s arrest with relish after the trick he had pulled on her. Acton knew this, of course, but didn’t ask her to come. On the other hand, it was undeniable that Acton would have her close to hand at all times if he had his druthers. So—she thought with an attempt at stoicism—there is a reason I was not asked
,
and I have to try not to be such a baby about it. I have to be careful not to start thinking I have the ordering of him; it is that personal versus professional thing again.

“Who was that?” Munoz asked through the partition.

All it needed was Munoz, needling her. “You shouldn’t eavesdrop, Munoz. It is impolite.”

“You sounded as though you were trying to make it up to Acton.”

“I’ll not dignify that remark with a response.”

Munoz appeared over the partition. She is the only person I know, thought Doyle, who still looks good under fluorescent lights.

“What did Drake want?”

Doyle made a face. “To look down my top, mainly.”

Munoz laughed, swinging her long hair back. “I told you. Did you let him?”

“No.”

“I don’t know why he bothered, there isn’t much to see.” Munoz had a very fine figure.

Doyle remembered that a certain chief inspector had found nothing to complain about and felt generous. “I can’t hold a candle to you.”

Habib appeared in Doyle’s entryway, his dark eyes bright. “What is this? Do I hear that Munoz bests you, Doyle?” He was trying to be funny in his own awkward way—he had a giant crackin’ crush on Munoz, as did everyone else with an XY chromosome. Except Williams, apparently. And Acton, of course.

Munoz gave Doyle a sidelong look. “We were speaking of my spreadsheets, which are far superior.”

“Sad but true,” Doyle conceded. “Many admire them.”

Pleased to be participating in the banter, Habib spoke to Doyle but allowed his eyes to stray to Munoz. “You can better yourself.”

Gravely, Doyle demurred, “I think not, sir; it’s a gift, is what it is.”

Munoz could not contain herself and sank down, away from sight.

With regret, Habib dragged his gaze back to Doyle. “I am hearing the chief inspector will bring in the prime witness on the Kempton Park racecourse murder.”

“Yes, sir. I am hearin’ the same—he has requested that I attend.” This so that Munoz would not have the satisfaction of thinking she was in the doghouse.

“Has a link been established between the cases?” He fixed his dark eyes on her.

He is like Acton, she thought; it is hard to tell what he is thinking. “Other than the second victim was shot shortly after speakin’ to us, no.”

“He was on the scene for both, though. The witness.”

Doyle knit her brow. “I don’t know if we have him on the scene in Giselle’s flat as yet, sir. Not enough to pin him down for a time frame.”

Habib tilted his head in a gentle admonition. “Nevertheless, sometimes the best suspect is the most obvious.”

This was inarguable and a basic tenet they taught you on day one at the Crime Academy—that, along with the dire consequences of becoming sexually involved with a superior officer. “Do you want me to ring you when the interrogation goes forward, sir?”

“Oh, no, no,” he said immediately, shaking his head. I am only interested from afar.” He withdrew.

A very odd duck, thought Doyle; I’m having my share of them today.

Munoz’s voice was heard. “I’d like to attend the interrogation. Let me know.”

Doyle had the immediate conviction that Munoz was casting a proprietary eye on her case and bristled. “Why?”

“I’d like to watch Acton’s technique.” Munoz’s tone was as mild as milk. It was true; Acton was famous for his interrogations.

Doyle was reminded, “I should call Owens, too. He’d like to work on his interrogation technique.”

“Who is Owens?”

“A new TDC.” Doyle hid a smile. “I think you’ll like him.”