Murder in Thrall (15 page)

C
HAPTER
20

 

Doyle picked up the dead man’s laptop from Munoz’s desk and went to search out Habib, who was in his office doing scheduling. He looked up as she stood at the doorway, his dark eyes opaque and unreadable.

“How are you at hackin’ into computers, sir?”

Habib looked a little affronted. “I hope you are not making a stereotypical assumption based upon my heritage, DC Doyle.”

“Not at all,” Doyle soothed, reflecting that personally, she’d much rather be typecast as a computer wizard than a terrorist, which was the lot of the Irish. “I’m just not very strong on it and I need to know who is.”

“Forensics has IT people,” he replied shortly, turning back to his task. “Ask them.”

“Yes, sir.” She wondered why he was annoyed with her—perhaps it was because she was now the apple of the chief inspector’s eye. “All right, if Munoz phones in to check on my progress, tell her I’m working on it.”

Habib looked up. “You are helping Munoz? I understand she is in the field with Williams.”

Ah, thought Doyle, seeing an explanation for his foul mood. Munoz, Munoz; another one down. “I think she was walkin’ out to return to the scene, sir. She asked if I would look into this.”

His manner became more conciliatory. “I’m sorry, DC Doyle; actually I’m not very good at IT.” He attempted a joke. “It is my only lack, I believe.”

Feeling a bit sorry for him, she rallied. “Never say so, sir—you are without a weakness.” Except one very unprincipled DC who shall remain nameless but with whom you stand absolutely no crackin’ chance. Doyle wasn’t sure why she thought Habib might be a suspect—other than he was unreadable and a little odd—but when he had claimed no expertise in tech, he was telling the truth, so he wasn’t the infiltrator and therefore presumably not the killer. As she walked away, she thought about Habib’s unhappy distraction and decided it served her right for thinking everything was always about her. This inspired another train of thought and made her wonder if perhaps Acton was looking at this puzzle from the wrong angle.

Making a long and meandering progress down to Forensics IT, she stopped occasionally to ask various personnel the same questions about hacking into the laptop. Although some admitted to an expertise, she did not get the feeling anyone was a potential suspect. I should stop, she thought reluctantly; if Acton knew I was doing this, he would be most unhappy with my sidelined self.

She thought about her idea and debated whether she should bother Acton before tonight—assuming he would see her tonight—no plans had been made as yet. He would see her, though, and all there was to see besides, because he wouldn’t be able to stay away, the poor, crazed man. Her mobile vibrated and she smiled.

“Cereal?”

“Very hungry,” she texted back rather daringly. That should give him something to think about in her absence, what wi’ Munoz at the scene and swingin’ her hips about.

There was one more person Doyle wanted to test out before she took the laptop to Forensics IT. Entering the research room she saw Owens, sitting on his stool and absorbed in his task.

“Hallo, Owens,” she said cheerfully as she approached him.

“DC Doyle.” Not as unhappy to see her this time—the fruit of good works.

“Are you interruptible?”

“Always,” he replied with relative good grace. “What’s up?”

“Do you know how to hack through a password?” She indicated the laptop under her arm.

“Let me see.” He cleared a space on the table, moving various dry-looking treatises aside, and glanced up at her. “Is this sequestered evidence? Do I have to worry about proper protocol?”

“Well—not exactly.” She gave him a conspiratorial look. “I’m supposed to take it to Forensics IT, but it’s already been dusted for prints and I would so like to have a look at it first—it belonged to one of the victims from Leadenhall.”

He began to fiddle with the keys and glanced at her again. “Trying to impress Holmes?”

She smiled that he knew the nickname already. “Yes,” she admitted. “It’s dog-eat-dog in the lair of the DCs. Any advantage is a boon.”

“I am sorry you fell from grace.”

This wasn’t true, which meant that Owens now counted himself among the dogs in the lair. Everyone must think she was in Acton’s black book and, like Munoz, hoped to gain an advantage from the situation. “I hope it’s only temporary—I miss fieldwork.”

“I think he’s put Williams on this case in your place. Do you know Williams?” Owens looked up to her, curious.

Doyle said only, “Williams does fine work.”

Owens gave her a half-smile and returned to his task. “You are too nice, I think.”

“Whist, Owens—as if there is such a thing. We’re all workin’ to the same end.”

The man’s fingers flew on the keyboard as he tried different approaches—he definitely knew his way around the binary system. “Have you heard anything from the scene?”

“No. The field personnel aren’t back, so there’s no news circulatin’ as yet. I doubt there’s been a big break, though—we’d have heard. It does appear as though our prime suspect has saved us a lot of trouble by bein’ kind enough to get himself killed.”

Owens shrugged as he continued his work. “I don’t know how much trouble it would have been anyway—he seemed the obvious choice. The trainer was probably muscling in on his numbers gig, and then after he killed him, the girlfriend was going to grass to the police—or blackmail him or something. Motive and opportunity; the door seems slammed shut.”

“I suppose,” she conceded, thinking this did make sense for those who were not privy to information about the eerily clean scenes or the carcass of her dear departed da. “It just seemed a little too obvious to me.”

Smiling indulgently, he glanced up at her. “You read too many mysteries, maybe.”

“Maybe,” she agreed. Although not a lot of reading going on lately.

“What does Holmes think? Does he think the case is put to bed?”

Making a rueful face, she reminded him, “I am not privy, I’m afraid.”

“Chin up,” he rallied her. “Will you meet him for lunch? Perhaps you will hear something then.”

It seemed an odd assumption, considering she was in supposed disgrace and Acton was at the scene. “I imagine he’s too busy. If I do hear anythin’, though, I will let you know.”

He eyed her, tilting his head. “If you get the chance, put in a good word.”

“Oh, he is well-aware you are talented, my friend. Perhaps I shouldn’t be too nice.”

Smiling in appreciation, he worked for a few more moments until he gave up and shrugged his shoulders. “I’m sorry. It has a sophisticated encrypter. They’ll have the program in IT.”

“Ah well—thanks for tryin’. I’ll let you get back to it—sorry to interrupt.”

“Always a pleasure.”

At long last Doyle arrived at Forensics. Owens was an odd one—and keen on Acton besides—but she had canvassed him as carefully as she was able and hadn’t noticed anything amiss.

She would have liked to linger in Forensics IT, as this would presumably be an excellent place to find an IT hacker who was well versed in forensics and had access to her file. However, she wasn’t on friendly terms with any of the personnel, and her attempts to cast a few lures at the personable young men met with little success. In the time-honored manner of tech people, they were abrupt to the point of being rude and had little interest in discussing the murders with her fair self. Although she said her name to the evidence custodian a little too loudly, no one showed a special interest in her or even looked up as she relinquished the laptop and explained what was needed. Filling out the forms with a sigh, she asked if someone could be sent to fetch the tablet and returned to her cubicle; it had been an unproductive hour and she needed to get some work done.

It was almost eerily quiet in her area—Munoz was in the field, which brought the noise level down considerably. Apparently all available hands were working on the murders; Acton wanted this case solved, no doubt so they could establish some sort of normal routine consisting of early evenings and a lot of carnal goings-on. Also, he was well aware she hated deskwork and it wasn’t where her talents lay; the city would suffer if she weren’t out in the field, asking questions of its citizenry.

After calling the commercial cleaning companies, she caught a break; there was a crew who would have been finishing up on the lower floors around one o’clock because they worked from the top floor down. She contacted the individual workers and struggled a bit as each side tried to understand the other’s unintelligible accent. Interesting, she thought as she rang off—another item to report to Acton. Hopefully she could draw out her report long enough to avoid having to cook something; she wasn’t much of a cook.

Doyle decided there was no time like the present to delve into Acton’s homicide docket—and it may also be interesting to have a look at Acton’s Class A cold cases while she was at it. Class A cases were old cases that had turned up some promising evidence but not enough to prosecute. The Class B cold cases were literally hopeless, with little evidence and no real suspects. Both classes remained on inactive status in the event someone had an attack of conscience or a newer case revealed a connection. Although she checked in with Acton on the hour, he did not respond; he would be frenetically busy, as was always the case in the first twenty-four hours of a homicide. She fidgeted and chafed at her assignment—it was hard to bear, not knowing what was happening in the field. Solve the problem, Acton
,
she pleaded mentally; I’m wasting away here
.

When it was late afternoon, she was surprised to see the messenger who brought her the lattes in the mornings come by, holding a plain envelope. “For you, miss.”

Within was a hotel room key card and a note in Acton’s writing that said
Grenoble Hotel, room 1200.
She turned it over, but that was the extent of it. For a wary moment she hesitated, but she recognized Acton’s distinctive handwriting and the usual messenger, and decided she would like nothing better than to escape her cubicle, exile, and find out what the cryptic note meant. Packing up swiftly, she headed out, deciding against checking the hotel’s location on her laptop. Acton had warned her that she should assume everything she did on the device was being monitored, just to be on the safe side. She had the strong impression it was something he knew about firsthand, in his career as a Section Seven.

C
HAPTER
21

 

The Grenoble Hotel was an exclusive establishment, small, elegant, and understated, located in the Kensington district. Doyle could feel her color rise as she passed through the revolving door entrance into the marbled lobby—she felt out of place and half-expected the fancy doorman to seize her and push her out again. As this did not occur, she found the lift and inserted her key card so as to have access to the twelfth floor. Room 1200 turned out to be a palatial suite the likes of which she had never seen before but probably would become accustomed to if she indeed clung to Acton like a barnacle. Standing on the threshold, she tentatively spoke his name aloud, but she already knew he wasn’t there. With an air of bemusement, she then wandered through the sumptuous rooms and duly noted that the bedroom alone was larger than her entire flat. A huge fish tank complete with exotic tropical fish was prominently featured in the main room, and the furnishings were beautiful; every detail reflected an understated luxury. She was a stranger in a strange land.

A bouquet of roses resided on the parquetry table in the bedroom. Propped beside it was a note that read,
I’ll be there as soon as I can. Order something.

Doyle held the note against her mouth to hide a smile and considered her reflection in the huge gilt mirror on the opposite wall. Apparently the reward for telling a man you loved him was a night in the lap o’ luxury. Mental note.

After showering at leisure, she wrapped herself in one of the hotel’s luxurious robes to lie propped up against the many pillows on the bed, fiddling with the remote controls and reading the room service menu. Although she was hungry, she decided she would wait for Acton, as she didn’t know if she had the wherewithal to deal with the hotel personnel just yet. Instead, she passed the time watching television until she heard a card in the door. Clicking off the telly, she arranged herself on the bed, pulling her hair in front of her shoulders and running her fingers through it. Acton appeared at the bedroom door and was brought up short.

“You are a sight.” He approached to put his hands on either side of her so as to lean in and kiss her. He then collapsed and lay back into the pillows beside her, exhaling slowly and loosening his tie as he kicked off his shoes. They regarded each other for a moment, both sunk into the pillows. “I’m sorry I kept you waiting. It’s been a long day.”

With an effort, she refrained from replying that she had spent the most tedious day imaginable and instead said, “Not to worry. I’ve been entertainin’ myself feedin’ gold nuggets to the tropical fish.”

He was on alert and gave her a searching look.

“It’s so wonderfully grand, Michael. Watch this.” Sitting up, she pressed the remote button that made the bedroom’s elaborate fireplace burst into gas-furnished flames. Another button caused the lights to dim. She did not look at him but sat with her arms around her bent knees, watching the flames. His hand reached to stroke her back and she knew he was watching her, unsure of her mood. Don’t spoil this, knocker
,
she thought with a mental shake. Face facts
.
Turning to him, she drew up a corner of her mouth. “Am I bein’ transitioned, then?”

He paused, gauging what to say. “Yes. I would like to give you the choice, but I can’t.”

Placing a palm against his cheek, she assured him, “You didn’t have to do this, Michael—I understand. Better to just tell me what you need from me—I will come around, I promise. Remember you are not to be careful with me.”

The dark eyes watched hers, the intensity of the emotion behind them very powerful. “I wanted to give us a chance to be away from it for a night. I wanted to give you something.”

It was the second time he had said such a thing to her, and she considered this, her brow knit as she traced a finger on her knee. “I think I am afraid to accept anythin’. I am afraid about what I spoke of the other night but I am not supposed to say again.”

“You are afraid to relinquish yourself to me because you may be hurt.”

That was exactly it. “Yes. Apparently I have my own demons.”

With a gentle hand, he pulled on her so that she lay back and settled into his arms. He didn’t try to convince or cajole her, but instead kissed her temple. “All right.”

He knows me very, very well, she thought, breathing in his scent like an addict. If we go on like this, I am going to get overly emotional again as I did this morning—I hardly recognize myself. To get past the moment, she dug her chin into his chest and addressed him in a tart tone. “If you think I am goin’ to be content to bill and coo all night in this remarkable bed, Michael, you have another think comin’. I am dyin’ to talk to you about the case and hear what has happened.”

He lifted his hand and ran his fingertips down the base of her throat and between the overlapping edges of the robe, where it fell away from her breasts. “Could the billing and cooing come first?”

“Done.” She shrugged off the robe.

Later, they lay together, she in the crook of his arm, watching the fire. It did seem a million miles away from her poor flat in Chelsea and two million from the kill site at the alley.

“Michael.” She pulled gently on the hair on his chest. “Have
you
told anyone about us?”

He was suddenly alert and wary; she could feel it. “Why?”

“I was thinkin’ that you may be lookin’ at it from the wrong end—perhaps it was someone from your set who dropped the information, albeit innocently.” She hoped he appreciated the deft use of “albeit.” “That is, if we assume my father’s murder was connected in some way to my relationship with you.”

He was silent for a long moment. “I did tell someone, but I did not disclose your identity.”

Her ears perked up; here was an item of interest. “Drake?” she guessed.

“Good God, no. Why would I tell Drake?”

At his reaction, Doyle smiled into the side of his chest. “I am told on reliable authority that men boast to each other of their conquests.”

“You are not a conquest.” His tone brooked no argument.

“I don’t know,” she teased him, “I feel as though I may as well be drawin’ up terms of surrender.”

He ignored the remark. “I had a casual relationship with a woman at work—we are old friends, and occasionally we would meet for sex. It stopped about six months ago.”

Doyle was surprised but not, on reflection, too surprised. It was clear he knew what he was about in the bedroom, and as he had not been linked publicly to any particular woman, that left clandestine affairs or prostitutes. She much preferred the thought of clandestine affairs.

His arm tightened around her. “It was nothing like this.”

She had to smile again. “God have mercy if it was. I’m not jealous, Michael, nor even surprised.”

The arm relaxed. “I’d rather not tell you her identity.”

Ah. Always the gentleman, he was. She countered, “As long as it’s not Munoz, I don’t care.”

“Good God,” he said again, and she chuckled. She didn’t want to know. Whoever she was, however, Acton’s summarization of their casual relationship was way off the mark—there was not a woman alive who would willingly relinquish him to another, however friendly the context. Doyle hoped he wasn’t overlooking a potential motive, but decided he wasn’t that dense.

“Do you have any leads?” She wanted to hear his thoughts and hoped that she had put him in a compliant mood. It had certainly seemed that way a few minutes ago.

“They are developing.”

She made a wry mouth, remembering that she should not take advantage of the personal relationship to obtain an advantage in the professional. One could hope to be thrown a bone, however, and surely there must be
something
he could tell her. “Do you think the danger to me may be still lurkin’ about?”

He chose his words carefully. “I believe not; the investigation is going in a different direction.”

This obscure response prompted some prompting, and she raised herself up on an elbow to look at him. “But you don’t believe the deaths of Capper and Smythe were a kill-on-kill; you think it was the handiwork of the original killer, who tried to make it appear as though it were a kill-on-kill.” This only made sense; Capper and Smythe were mates and unlikely to engage in a gunfight in such an unlikely place, even if they had had a falling-out. She remembered Acton’s remark at the scene to that effect, back when she was sulking and not paying attention—no question that this was his working theory.

But his response was cautious. “We will see where the evidence leads.”

This, of course, was not how she plied her trade as she was more a leaper to conclusions; but she had to concede that a chief inspector did not have that luxury. Impatient with such niceties, she cut to the nub of the matter. “Can I go back into the field, please?”

“Not as yet—soon.” He began to trace her fingers, which were spread out on his chest.

This seemed encouraging, so she decided to leave well enough alone and change the subject. “Do you think Capper’s interrogation spooked the killer—made him decide to take him out?”

“Possibly.”

Twining her fingers with his, she offered, “I wondered about it—I wondered if it could be someone on the inside.”

She felt him become wary again. “It could be someone who has infiltrated, yes.”

With a small frown, she suddenly realized that he was answering in equivocations so that she could not spot what was true and what was not, which seemed a bit counterproductive;—oftentimes they reached a very satisfactory result when they brainstormed together, and this was not the case for him to decide to play it close to the vest. Soldiering on, she offered another item of interest. “There was a cleanin’ crew in the lower floors at the estimated time of death. They would have heard the shots, one would think, but they heard nothin’.” No question but that the shots should have been noticeable in such a quiet neighborhood and at such a quiet time. The obvious conclusion was that a silencer was used, which again would support the theory that it had all been staged by the true killer.

He began to gently stroke the arm that lay across his chest, back and forth—she noted this was a habit he had developed; he hardly seemed aware he did it. As the stroking continued, she reasoned aloud, “The real killer is hopin’ we’ll close the case, the same as Somers Town.”

“Perhaps.”

Trying to control her annoyance, she remembered what Drake had said and took a cast. “Do you think Solonik is behind it?”

There was a moment of surprise, quickly suppressed. “There are times,” he mused, “—when you are almost frightening.”

She lay back down and retorted crossly, “Remember that, if you please, the next time you make me play twenty questions to winkle a decent answer from you. Honestly, Michael.”

Thus admonished, he gave her an honest answer but with palpable reluctance. “It is not Solonik’s style, but I believe it is possible that he may be involved. Or the interests he works for may be involved.”

She considered this revelation in surprised silence because it pointed back to the original theory of an assassin, a professional killer. That in itself wasn’t so strange, certainly; a racecourse was historically attractive to the organized underworld, and although she had never worked those kinds of cases, Acton certainly had and knew of what he spoke. Sensing there was something he was not telling her, she wondered for a moment why he was so reticent, but then the penny dropped and she remembered why this one was different—she was such a knocker sometimes. “So, how does my departed da fit in?”

He hesitated and again chose his words with care. “I believe it may have been a bit of egotism. A chance to show off his abilities.”

But she remembered that Drake had said Solonik—whoever he was—was not a show-off. She frowned into the darkness. Better research Solonik and who he worked for—mental note—and in the meantime try to puzzle out Acton’s unwillingness to throw her a flippin’ bone. If she didn’t know better, she’d be tempted to leap to the conclusion that Acton knew the killer’s identity but did not want to disclose it, which made little sense. If the killer was hired by an underworld figure, why not just say so? Although perhaps it had something to do with Acton’s own dark doings, which would explain why he didn’t want to tell her. The wretched man didn’t realize she’d already guessed about the gun-running and was doing her best not to think about it—one crisis at a time.

While she was puzzling this out, a silver lining presented itself. “If that is the case, Acton, then it was nothin’ personal—I’m not in danger.” And can I please, please go back into the field with you, she pleaded mentally—and make sexual innuendos just so you will disapprove. Faith, it would be heaven.

“Perhaps.”

She made a sound of extreme impatience.