Murder in Thrall (19 page)

C
HAPTER
28

 

Acton anticipated her approach to the hotel room door and opened it just as Doyle arrived. She walked into his arms and they stood for a moment, embracing, while the door closed behind her.

“I am so sorry,” she whispered. “Not a happy birthday.”

He said nothing but rested his chin on the top of her head. She could feel him take a long breath. “That was good work, today.”

“More like luck, really. What did he say?”

Acton indicated she should sit on the sofa in the suite’s main room and then sat beside her, absently caressing the back of her hand with his thumb. The tropical fish meandered around their tank, undisturbed.

“I confronted him in my office, and implied I knew more than I did. He blustered for a while but eventually confessed he had been using the lab for sexual liaisons with at least two employees that he would admit to—I imagine there are more. When he heard word of Fiona’s murder, he knew the lab would be scrutinized for clues and so he panicked and scrubbed it down. Any potential evidence was destroyed.”

Doyle took this in for a moment and then observed, much struck, “Munoz was right—it was about sex.”

Acton tilted his head, trying to make sense of this non sequitur. “I thought you didn’t care for Munoz.”

“Doesn’t mean she’s never right. So Prickett was sacked?”

“Yes; the DCS was furious. But it didn’t change the fact that the lab has been compromised.”

But to Doyle, this seemed the least of their concerns. “This killer wouldn’t have left any evidence behind anyway, Michael.”

He said nothing and continued brushing the back of her hand, but she had intercepted a brief leap of emotion from him. “What?”

His eyes met hers. “I beg your pardon?”

“What did he leave behind? What is it you know?”

He turned her hand over, as though examining it. She hoped he didn’t notice that she had been biting her nails again—not a good day to give up the habit. After waiting a moment while she could see he debated telling her, she prompted, “Fiona was examinin’ some evidence, only off the books.” Acton, the tiresome knocker, was going to be careful with what he told her again—she could feel it.

“Yes.”

She closed her eyes briefly. “Michael,” she pleaded. “Just tell me—I promise I won’t have the vapors.”

He lifted his head. “She was going to report to me when she made the match, but she never made the report.”

“Who is it?” Clearly it was someone from whom Acton already had sample DNA, or they wouldn’t be attempting a match.

“I’d rather not say.”

At least it was the truth and he didn’t attempt to fob her off. He didn’t want to tell her because he was going to kill the killer, if the killer didn’t kill him first. She could have remonstrated with him once again about the evils of vigilantism but refrained; the memory of Fiona’s body was too fresh for her words to have much of an impact. The whole thing made her very uneasy, particularly since Fiona was killed despite Acton’s best efforts. “Do you think he is after you? Is that why we are here?”

She tried to ask in a neutral tone and thought she had been largely successful except that he gathered her in his arms and embraced her, saying into her ear, “Please don’t worry—I am not taking any chances is all.”

She nodded, closing her eyes briefly as she rested her chin on his shoulder. “So we are playin’ least-in-sight for the time bein’?”

He paused, and she could feel his chest expand as he took a breath. “I believe Fiona’s communications with me may have been monitored—it is the only explanation for the surgical strike at exactly the right time.”

Yes, Doyle had already guessed as much when he had asked her to leave her mobile behind—although it was fortunate they communicated using symbols; the killer wouldn’t know what to make of it.

Disengaging from her, he reached into his coat pocket. “I have acquired new mobiles—yours is programmed with my new number.”

She glanced at it—it was exactly like the last one and she bent to slide it into her rucksack. “Do I keep textin’ to check in?”

He hesitated. “Yes, if you don’t mind.”

She nodded without comment and hoped it was the right thing to do—if the killer had figured out the last set, he may well figure out these, too, but Acton needed to know she was safe, her sweet Section Seven. Trying to sound reassured, she said, “All right. Are you hungry?” She was starving; Munoz was not good at the sandwich-choosing.

With real regret, he shook his head. “I can’t stay.”

Struggling with it, she decided she couldn’t not say. “You must promise you will be very careful, Michael.”

He bent his head to meet her eyes so as to reassure her. “I don’t think he’s after me, for the same reason you didn’t think he was after you. If he wanted to kill me, he could have already done so—especially early on, when we didn’t know what we were dealing with.”

She knit her brow, considering this. “But he’s monitorin’ you—or at least you think he is. That seems rather ominous.”

“He’s protecting himself. That’s the pattern—he was protecting himself when he killed the trainer, and Giselle, and Capper, and Smythe, and Fiona. The only one that does not fit the pattern—”

“Is Somers Town,” she concluded for him. “My father.”

“And he may yet have been protecting himself, but we are not aware what was at stake, there—or at least not yet. He’s been on the defensive, Kathleen, not the offensive; therefore, he’s not a lone wolf. I believe he is aligned with outside forces.”

Stupid Ruskies, she thought. Muckin’ up my love life.

He touched her face briefly, then withdrew his hand—she could sense that he was trying to avoid becoming aroused, probably because when he became aroused, Katy bar the door. “I am afraid I must drive to my estate and speak with my mother.”

Doyle was silent for a moment and then decided she hadn’t heard him aright. Now? With all hell breaking loose on this case?

He frowned, considering her. “I can’t decide if it would be best for you to accompany me.”

Doyle was certain that she paled—she could feel it—and all her fine resolutions about facing the music flew out the window as she stared at him in dismay. But surely it couldn’t be a social visit—something else must be at play. “What’s afoot, my friend?”

He waited for a few beats, then reluctantly revealed, “My mother claims she was shot at today.”

Utterly astonished, Doyle breathed, “Mother a’
mercy
.”

“Not exactly.”

She stared at him, nonplussed. “Michael, do not joke; d’you think she’s a target?”

He was going to say something unkind, she could see, but checked himself. “I doubt it. If it actually happened at all.”

Now, here was a fine insight into the Acton family tree that was nothing short of alarming. “Do you think she made it up, then?”

“Perhaps. It is my birthday, after all.”

At a loss, she sensed she was treading into dangerous waters and proceeded with caution. “Is your mother—mentally unbalanced?”

“Not clinically.”

Doyle reflected that she shouldn’t have asked him, as perhaps he was not the best judge of such things.

“She is very difficult,” he explained, and it was true.

Thinking of her own gentle and self-effacing parent, Doyle could not relate but did not doubt him. “I see.”

His brows drew together. “Unfortunately, I cannot ignore the small chance that it is true and that this may be part of a different pattern altogether.”

“Yes.” She was suddenly sober. “He is targetin’ the women in your life.” Although Acton’s relationship with Fiona was not generally known. Not true, she corrected herself—Munoz certainly knew of the rumor, which meant anyone could have known. She tried not to dwell on the undeniable fact that at present, her own fair self was the center of Acton’s universe.

“Or it may just have been a poacher.”

This was exactly what was needed to make her laugh out loud—it felt good to laugh. “A poacher? Will you be puttin’ him in the stocks?”

“No.” With a small smile, he leaned in to kiss her. “I’m afraid there are no stocks.”

Thankfully, she managed to dissuade him from the idea that she accompany him to confront his difficult mother. “I promise I will be very careful, Michael—do I come here after work or do I go to your flat?”

The light mood vanished. “Here. I am concerned my flat is no longer secure.”

It was quite a thing to admit; Acton was the grand master of security. “You can’t be certain?”

“No. He is very good at covering his tracks.” Reminded, he pulled a slip of paper from his inside coat pocket and handed it to her, bending his head as he did so to look up into her face. “This is my address—you really did not know it?”

“No,” she admitted, thinking that he probably knew every address she’d ever had, as well as the latitude and longitude. “HR would never give it out without your permission.”

There was a long moment while his dark eyes held hers. “I love you. I didn’t really say it before.”

She was touched; he wasn’t good at this. “I know it,” she said gently. “You don’t have to say—not to me.”

“Nevertheless.”

C
HAPTER
29

 

It felt strange having the whole extravagant bed to herself. Doyle missed Acton, which was a novel experience for her, having lived alone and well-content for so long. It was nothing short of amazing that they had found one another—that they were so good together. Although it sounded strange, she felt she could be her true self with him; he was a devoted man and it seemed that nothing she could do could shake that devotion—in fact, her many foibles only seemed to endear her to him. And unlike the other relationships she had attempted, she rarely knew what he was thinking, which actually made the whole endeavor much more enjoyable. He, in turn, was beginning to allow glimpses of his true self; he had been much less guarded during their last conversation, which meant he was becoming more confident that she was not going to flee the scene. I suppose we are each relinquishing ourselves, she thought, remembering his apt use of the word, and it seems to be working. With a mental shake, she swung her legs out of bed. Try to maintain some dignity, silly mawker; next you’ll be writing sappy poetry.

She pondered dropping by her poor neglected flat to pick up a change of clothes but decided that Acton would not want her to do so—even though he seemed to believe there was no elevated threat level. Best take no chances; she had promised to be careful. In any event, no one was going to notice if she was wearing the same clothes as yesterday, and she was longing to nip into work to find out if there were any new developments on Fiona’s murder. Perhaps Williams would know—she thought about texting him on the new mobile but decided she would keep all communications to a minimum; she didn’t like the idea that she had been monitored yesterday, if indeed she had been.

The doorman touched his hat as she headed to the hotel’s revolving front door, and Doyle suppressed a desire to flash her identification so that he wouldn’t think she was a brasser, leaving in the same clothes she had come in. Instead, she gave a guilty glance around the lobby to make certain she was unobserved and found that such was not the case.

There was a man leaning against the concierge desk and dressed in casual business clothes. He was reading the newspaper. Doyle’s gaze rested on him for the smallest instant, but as she continued out the door she knew with certainty that he had been in the tube behind her the day before. He had the look of a man here on business, but any businessman staying at this grand hotel would not be riding on the tube. Her mouth dry, she walked down the pavement and forced herself to think, not panic. He was white, about six feet tall, and in his early thirties. He did not seem familiar, although she didn’t get a good look at him. Test it out, she thought.

There was a newsstand on the corner, and she stopped and bought a granola bar although she positively ached for her frosty flakes. As she paid, she pushed her sunglasses behind a stack of magazines. She then began to walk to the tube stop, peeling back the wrapper on the granola bar and eating it with as much nonchalance as she could muster. Abruptly stopping, she turned around to head back to the newsstand, as though she had just remembered her glasses.

She caught a glimpse of him, his head bowed down, turning aside in the crowd to shadow her change of direction. In an odd way, she felt relieved; he was indeed following her and he didn’t know she knew. That was to the good; she had an advantage. After recovering her glasses, she retraced her steps toward the tube.

Weighing her options, she decided she should continue toward headquarters since there was presumably no safer place—Fiona notwithstanding. In the meantime, she would make certain that she was never in an isolated area with him. To this end, she was careful to mix in with the crowd of commuters, for once grateful for the humanity pressing in around her. The man boarded the same train as she did but continued reading his newspaper and seemed completely uninterested in her. Eyeing him from behind her sunglasses, she noted that he didn’t seem menacing in the least, but then she reminded herself that Giselle was shot at close range by someone she was not afraid of. Best be safe.

Casually pulling out her mobile, she thought about what she should text Acton, but the new unit wasn’t fully charged and didn’t come on. As she returned it to her rucksack, she was struck with another possibility—that Acton had hired the man to watch over her. This gave her pause; she had initially considered alerting security once inside her building, where he could not follow. Security could set up a trap and seizure, and they could take him in for questioning. If the man was indeed working privately for Acton, however, such a course would result in some very awkward revelations for the renowned chief inspector.

So, she should contact Acton and ask him about it, but that presented another problem; if he
hadn’t
hired her shadower, Acton would come pelting back in a rare lather and no mistaking, leaving his mother exposed. As she entered the building with an inward sigh of relief, she decided there was nothin’ for it. If her shadow was not Acton’s man, Acton needed to be informed immediately—it was too dangerous to wait, and the man might present an opportunity to catch the killer; indeed, he could be the killer himself. She wondered if she should try to engage him in conversation in an attempt to read him but discarded the idea; Acton would slay her for taking such a risk. The best course was to call Acton and advise him of the situation; if she kept the conversation very short, it might go under the radar, so to speak.

Upon arrival at her desk, she unloaded her rucksack; her old mobile phone lay where she had left it in the top drawer. Don’t mix them up, she warned herself as she attached the battery recharger to the new one. As she did so, however, the screen remained blank, which didn’t seem right—it should indicate that it was charging. Stymied, she held it in her hand and willed it to work—if her mobile was malfunctioning, it would be another trigger that could send Acton pelting back. Hopefully he would assume she wasn’t yet awake and all would be well. Wiggling the contacts and then the plug, she made another attempt to engage the power. Nothing. Saints and holy angels, she thought in extreme annoyance; don’t be defective, wretched thing. Ten minutes of relentless attempts later, she still had a dead phone.

On pins and needles and hoping Acton wouldn’t start to worry, Doyle pounced on Munoz when she arrived. “Do you have an extra mobile phone battery, Munoz? Mine appears to be defective.”

Munoz took a quick look at the mobile in Doyle’s hand. “Not my brand.” She gave Doyle an assessing glance and added, “Too expensive.”

“How about lettin’ me use your recharger?” Perhaps this was the cause of the problem—she was willing to grasp at straws at this point.

“Suit yourself.” Munoz pulled the unit from her rucksack and watched in silence as Doyle hooked it up and then stared in frustration at the uncooperative screen. “You’re out of luck,” pronounced her companion.

Distracted, Doyle replied shortly, “Shoot—I have to make some calls.”

“Use your desk phone, idiot.”

Doyle looked up and had the distinct impression Munoz was eyeing her rather speculatively. “Yes, I will—it’s only so much less convenient; I have to look up the numbers.” It was more than inconvenient, of course—Acton’s new mobile number was programmed into the phone and she had no idea what it was. How could she contact him? Even assuming he had given his new number to his assistant—which he may not yet have done—that worthy was not going to hand over his personal number to the likes of Doyle, a lowly DC she’d never met before.

I’m flummoxed, thought Doyle in frustration as she bent her head, thinking. Munoz interrupted her thoughts by observing in a suggestive tone, “Must have had quite a date; you are wearing the same outfit you were wearing yesterday.”

Doyle blushed to the roots of her hair and retorted, “None of your business, Munoz.”

Munoz chuckled in a patronizing manner. “Did you leave something at his house and you don’t remember his number? Is that what this is all about?”

Doyle did not deign to reply and instead stalked back to her cubicle.

Munoz’s voice could be heard, full of amusement. “I must say I am impressed—I didn’t think you had it in you.”

Doyle ignored her and sank into her chair as she considered her options. Impossible to ask HR for Acton’s personal number—they would laugh in her face, if they didn’t write her up, and there was no saying they even had it as yet. She could leave a message on his work number, but she remained uneasy about his belief that his communications were being monitored; no matter how cryptic she made the message, it would give the game away and any chance to catch the man would be lost. If there was a danger to Acton, she didn’t want to add to it.

However much she hated the idea, she would have to try to call him at his estate on a landline. Unfortunately, this was another number that his assistant and HR were unlikely to relinquish to her. If Doyle didn’t check in soon, Acton would wonder why—although, if it was his man shadowing her, he could simply check with him. How annoying that she didn’t know if the shadow was friend or foe and how annoying that the wretched,
wretched
new phone didn’t work. She pondered her best course.

An option presented itself, even though it nearly made her groan aloud. Nothin’ for it, she thought with resignation. “Munoz, let me borrow your windbreaker.” Munoz kept a windbreaker at her desk for unexpected trips into the field.

“No one is going to notice your outfit, Doyle. No one cares.”

With an effort, Doyle held on to her temper. “No—it’s not that. I have to go out on an errand and I’m a bit chilly.” This was patently untrue, as it was a glorious day outside.

Munoz’s head appeared over the partition. “What kind of errand?” She was clearly hoping to hear revelations about the alleged date.

“It’s only for a case, Munoz.” This was more or less true, and the other girl predictably lost interest and handed the windbreaker over with poor grace. “Don’t get it dirty.”

“Thanks.” Doyle pushed her arms through the sleeves of the zip-up, pulling up the hood and carefully tucking in her hair, which was a giveaway. Donning her sunglasses, she waited near the lift but out of the view of the security camera until a group assembled to wait for it. She then walked forward to board the lift with the group, keeping her face averted. Ascending to the canteen with them, she disembarked with the group, then ducked into the nearest stairwell to descend to the underground parking garage. Opening the door with confidence, she kept her head down and threaded through the cars, trying not to think about poor Fiona or about the security cameras that were undoubtedly watching her every move. Hopefully she hadn’t given the shadow enough time to track her, and since he wasn’t aware she had twigged him, he would not be expecting such an early escape.

Arriving at a side door to the garage, she took a deep breath and emerged onto the street near the back of the building. Without looking up, she continued walking briskly to the busy Victoria tube stop and down the steps. While waiting on the platform, she cautiously looked around for the first time and congratulated herself—her shadow was nowhere in sight.

Once on the tube, she thought it all over again and came to the same decision; she needed to contact Acton and as soon as possible to determine if her shadow was a danger. If he wasn’t, there was no harm done. If he was, Acton would create a protocol—unlikely he would want the police involved; as far as everyone knew, the case was closed. A seat opened up and she took it, mainly to get away from the woman behind her who was radiating despair.

As she headed into the business district, Doyle took a moment to congratulate herself on learning her lessons; she felt she had handled this latest situation well, considering how it had all started when the culchie had locked her in the tack room. Small wonder Acton had been unhappy with her—she was lucky Capper wasn’t the killer. Well, not lucky for him, of course; crackin’ bad luck, as a matter of fact, since he had been doing Giselle a favor, going to the racecourse to speak to the trainer even though he was banned. The trainer’s mobile had stopped working.

Doyle sat very still, her scalp prickling. The trainer’s mobile had stopped working. Giselle’s mobile had stopped working. Quickly reaching into her rucksack, she pulled out the new mobile and dropped it on the seat beside her as though it were a venomous object, then stood and pushed others aside to go and wait by the door, in a fever of impatience. When the next stop finally came, she could not exit fast enough. Holy Mother of God; he was after her. Acton didn’t think so because that was the plan—Acton has been made complacent and drawn away from her. The man following her this morning was the killer.

All right, she thought, willing herself to calm down as she emerged into the sunlight again, her head down. Think about this; he doesn’t know you’ve twigged him. He doesn’t know you’ve left the building unless he is monitoring your GPS the way Acton does. She was not certain if the GPS functioned when the phone was dead and wondered if perhaps she shouldn’t have left it on the tube. Too late for second thoughts; stick with the original plan and speak to Acton.

When she reached her downtown destination, she stood across the street for a moment, canvassing the area and gathering up her courage. Noting the location of the CCTV cameras, she averted her face and walked into the lobby of the building, then took off Munoz’s windbreaker, folding it into her rucksack. After deciding it would be prudent to apply lip gloss, she then walked into Acton’s banker’s offices with all the confidence she could muster.