Murder in Thrall (20 page)

C
HAPTER
30

 

Doyle entered the elegant offices and approached the receptionist, a very attractive woman in a Chanel suit who wore expensive eyeglasses that Doyle suspected were not prescription but were simply for effect. The woman smiled at Doyle with perfect, even teeth. “May I help you?”

“Yes,” said Doyle, feeling as though she were a pilgrim visiting a shrine. “I would like to speak to Mr. Layton, please.”

“Do you have an appointment?” The woman continued polite even though she must be fully aware that Doyle was a gatecrashing peasant.

“No, I’m afraid I don’t. But if he could spare a moment of his time, I would appreciate it. It concerns Lord Acton.”

The receptionist was too refined to show any surprise. “And whom may I say is visiting?”

Doyle swallowed. “Lady Acton.”

The receptionist didn’t miss a beat. “If you would please be seated, I will see if Mr. Layton is available.” She walked away, her stiletto heels tapping on the wooden floor, and closed the hallway door behind her with a soft click. Doyle sat on the tasteful leather settee, eyed some very tasteful artwork, and waited, trying to tamp down the anxiety that threatened to rise up.

After only a few minutes, a neat young man in a three-piece suit came through the door and approached her with a smile, the receptionist in tow. Doyle stood to shake his hand. “Mr. Layton?”

“No, I am his assistant; he is tied up at the moment and I thought I would see if I could help you.” Doyle noted the receptionist returned to her desk but didn’t take her eyes off them. She is probably supposed to call security at his signal, thought Doyle; can’t say I blame them.

“You are related to Lord Acton, I understand.”

“Yes.” She tried to conceal her nervousness with only moderate success; she was working very hard to control her accent. “I am Lady Acton.”

The assistant regarded her for a moment with a small smile. He doesn’t think I’m dangerous—just nicked, thought Doyle.

“I believe Lady Acton is an elderly woman who is currently residing in . . . elsewhere.”

Good one, thought Doyle with approval—shouldn’t give out state secrets. “That would be the dowager Lady Acton, Lord Acton’s mother. I am Lord Acton’s wife.” Her voice sounded high to her own ears.

It was clear the young man didn’t believe her and the receptionist just stared, fascinated. Doyle continued a bit desperately. “We were married a few days ago, here in London.” Best not to mention it was the same day her father was murdered—too much information and it would only confuse him. “You probably haven’t heard as yet because it was quite spur o’ the moment, although not on his part, apparently . . .” You are talking too much, my girl, she thought, and firmly closed her lips. They were both watching her as though she were a madwoman.

Remembering her wedding ring, she bent to pull it out from the zipper compartment in her rucksack and noted the movement made her companion start in alarm. She slowed her hands and carefully pulled it out—a small and ancient rose-cut diamond, flanked by even smaller emeralds. Holding it up before him, she explained, “This is my weddin’ ring—Acton said it belonged to his many-times-great-grandmother.” She had a momentary vision of Acton digging through the family vault to find something that suited her so perfectly, and smiled at it. Truly, it was a pretty ring; she had not looked at it since her wedding day because to do so made her feel a little sick.

It may have been the authentic-looking ring—or it may have been the lip gloss—but in any event the assistant agreed to fetch Mr. Layton. Wise of him to pass on this wicket, she thought, sitting herself down again; doesn’t want to kick me out on the chance this fantastic story is true.

While she waited, Doyle thought about her wedding—not your normal nuptials by any measure. While in the car after the Somers Town murders, Acton had wanted her answer with no further discussion and she had simply agreed—she wasn’t even certain why she did; it was as though she went along the path that offered the least resistance. He had assured her that she could become accustomed to the idea at her leisure and that no immediate announcement need be made. He was so calm and matter-of-fact that, strange as it sounded, she felt it would be impolite to refuse.

Acton had put in a call to a priest at St. Cecilia’s Chapel who was apparently already on scramble drill in the event of just such a contingency—Acton didn’t want to give her any time for sober reflection. Upon arrival, Acton took her arm and escorted her from the car to the chapel; she was aware that he was hoping for a
fait accompli
before she came to her senses, which was a very good French phrase, and apt. Much better, for example, than the English phrase,
Marry in haste and repent at leisure
.

There, in the dimly lit chapel, she and Acton had met the priest who had enlisted his secretary as a witness, and the both of them had behaved as though having an Anglican peer demand a Roman Catholic wedding ceremony on a moment’s notice was something quite routine.

She remembered that as they assembled at the altar, the sunlight shafting through the diamond-paned windows, Acton had leaned down and whispered, “Michael” into her ear. Because, you see, she was marrying a man who was not at all certain she knew his first name.

Keeping her gaze locked upon Acton’s, she had remained calm as they recited their vows. He was euphoric; she could feel it, his voice steady and sincere. She had tried to match him in demeanor and was largely successful—the only time she faltered was when he placed the ring on her finger. It was sized perfectly of course—the man probably knew her shoe size, too—but she had to take her eyes off it and draw a deep breath as her knees suddenly went a bit wobbly.

After the ceremony, they had signed the license and thanked the priest and his secretary, Acton handing him an envelope that undoubtedly contained another enormous check; the Catholic Church was making an unholy profit as a result of the chief inspector’s romantic inclinations. Acton had escorted Doyle back to the unmarked—the entire wedding had taken less than thirty minutes—and they sat together in the car for a few silent moments. He had asked gently, “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” she had replied. “I only have to become accustomed, is all.”

“Take as long as you wish; I rushed you.”

Understatement of the century. She didn’t like to think about how she would break the news to Father John that she had married the famed Lord Acton before another priest in another parish without even posting the banns. The whole thing had been surreal; she couldn’t blame Layton’s assistant for thinking it a preposterous tale and for a wild moment, she considered fleeing the scene. Unbidden, she had another memory; that of Acton telling her in no uncertain terms that she was never to imply their marriage was a mésalliance. Lifting her chin, she thought, I will insist on speaking to Layton and I will not take no for an answer. And I will wait until he can get Acton himself on the phone, if necessary. It is that important.

Her resolution was rewarded when an elderly and dignified man preceded the assistant through the door and approached her with his wrinkled features fashioned into a dry smile. “Lady Acton.” He bowed.

Doyle was not certain what she was supposed to do and so she nodded her head but couldn’t contain an irrepressible smile. “You believe me—thank all the saints and holy angels.”

Eyes twinkling, he smiled in return. “You are the former Miss Kathleen Doyle?”

“Yes.” She was that relieved. “So Acton told you.”

“No.” His manner expressed dignified regret. “Lord Acton visited a few weeks ago to name you as the beneficiary of his unentailed assets, but he neglected to mention you were to marry.”

“That is very like him,” she said fondly, but thought to herself, silly, besotted
knocker
.

C
HAPTER
31

 

“I am afraid that my mobile is malfunctionin’ and I do not know the landline number for—the estate.” Doyle didn’t remember what it was called, if she ever knew. She should learn it, mental note. “It is somethin’ of an emergency, I’m afraid.”

“My assistant will be happy to fetch it for you.” Layton gave said assistant a meaningful look, and the man, who was doing only a fair job of hiding his astonishment, pulled himself together and left the room. It was obvious he was not as experienced as Layton in the eccentricities of the aristocracy.

“Please come into my office and make your call; it will give you some privacy. May I offer some refreshment?” After having seen to it that she was comfortable, Layton then closed the door with a soft click and left her alone.

Sinking into the leather armchair, she dialed Acton’s estate number with no further ado. She heard it ring and then the phone was answered by a man who sounded as though he looked exactly like Layton. “Trestles.”

Trestles? The name conjured up visions of Pemberley, and Doyle immediately lost her nerve. “I am sorry to bother you, but this is Detective Constable Doyle from the CID and I am tryin’ to get in touch with the chief inspector—I’m afraid it is important or I wouldn’t be botherin’ him.”

The measured voice on the other end was regretful. “He has gone out to the local town; do you have his mobile number?” The question held the merest hint of incredulity that this avenue hadn’t yet been pursued.

Another danger presented itself, and she was left to explain lamely. “I’m afraid it is important that his mobile not be used at present—we are concerned there is a security leak, so please do not forward my message.”

“I see,” said the retainer, even though he probably didn’t see at all.

“Do you have a pencil?” Doyle stalled, thinking furiously. How should he contact her? Not the old mobile, not the new mobile, not at work, not the hotel—the killer had been in the lobby. How?

“Please tell him my mobile is malfunctioning but that I will leave messages for him periodically on Fiona’s email.” This would answer; any Section Seven worth his salt could hack into Fiona’s email and he had probably already done so as part of the investigation—hopefully they hadn’t closed the address yet. If the killer had been monitoring it before the murder, he would stay well away now for fear of being traced. She would be careful about what she said, regardless.

The retainer on the other end of the line allowed no hint of the confusion he must have been feeling to enter into his tone as he read back her message. She thanked him and hung up, anticipating the day when she would have to meet him in person and his profound shock if he recognized her voice. Which he would, of course—couldn’t hide this accent with a bushel barrel.

She sat in Layton’s impressive office and considered for a moment, feeling very acutely how much one relied on one’s mobile phone functioning properly—it didn’t help that she was utterly paranoid that the killer could monitor all her electronics. Pulling out her tablet from her rucksack, she powered up her email to compose a message but paused yet again. She didn’t know if there was a GPS in her tablet. Acton hadn’t indicated it was a concern and so she didn’t think so, but she was not sure. Cautiously opening the office door, she looked around for Layton; he and his assistant appeared immediately.

“I am not very technical,” she confessed, “and I need to know if this tablet has a GPS.”

Layton professed to be just as ignorant and deferred to his assistant, who sat down with her unit and checked the bios. “Yes—it has a device installed that traces it in the event it is stolen.”

Doyle was glad she asked. “Do you mind if I leave this one here and borrow one of yours?”

They assured her this would not be a problem, and at Layton’s sharp glance, the assistant volunteered his own.

“Thank you so much.” Using the borrowed tablet device, she typed a message to Fiona that said: “I am being shadowed. My mobile is not functioning and I have abandoned it. I am being very cautious and will contact you when you return.”

Re-reading the message, she decided it would put the cat among the pigeons with a vengeance but there was nothing for it. She smiled sweetly. “Is there a back exit?”

“Right this way, my lady.” Layton ushered her toward the back hallway as though it was the most natural thing in the world; she made no attempt to explain her actions and no explanation was demanded. I hope they don’t think I’m playing Acton false, she thought—I’d rather that they thought I was a bit nicked. As she slunk away, she realized there were clear benefits to being Acton’s better half; if it were anyone else, they probably would have called the police in a heartbeat, and she would not have been able to avoid the awkward revelations that would have ensued.

Walking down the alleyway at a rapid pace, she pulled Munoz’s windbreaker out of her backpack and pushed her arms through the sleeves. With the hood up, she donned her sunglasses and kept her head down. Instead of descending into the closest tube station, she walked a few blocks, keeping an eye out and deciding what should be done next. She dared not return to the Met—the killer could be watching for her and he would not be so easily shaken off next time. Best stay away.

She assessed. If he tried to trace her through the mobiles, old or new, or her tablet, he would find a dead end. Although she couldn’t talk directly with Acton, she could reassure him that she was safe until he returned. All in all, the situation seemed secure. The problem was; where should she go until Acton came back? She was afraid to use a credit card and she didn’t have much money in her rucksack—a direct result of staying in fancy hotels and ordering room service on the tab like a pharisee. She considered going to Nellie’s house but discarded it as too obvious; the killer may know her habits, so she needed to stay somewhere no one would think of looking.

Anticipating Acton’s reaction to her message, she suddenly realized that if he was in danger, she may have compounded it—he would return forthwith without first hearing a description of the suspect and so be at a disadvantage. Nor would he wait to be contacted by her; instead he would start looking for her in the usual places and the killer would know it. He could walk into a trap—although she had a very fair idea that Acton was more than a match for even the shrewdest killer. Nonetheless, if she could lay a false trail, it would be helpful and could keep Acton out of trouble—she needed to throw some dust in the suspect’s eyes. And above all, Acton needed a description.

The nearest shop was a nail salon, and she ducked inside to sit for a moment in the waiting room so as to send another email: “Suspect is white male early thirties six foot 180 pounds light blue shirt khaki slacks. I am OK. Will stay at safe place tonight. Will check with the HQ security desk on a secure line to see if you have returned.” She read the message, wishing that she knew how to hack into Fiona’s email herself so as to receive a return message. It didn’t matter; once Acton returned, they would work something out. She then added: “I will lay a false trail, so disregard any contradictory messages.” Biting her nail, she contemplated the last sentence; if the killer figured out how they were communicating, then he would also not be misled by any contradictory messages. Ah well; it couldn’t be helped and it seemed unlikely that he would monitor Fiona’s email—it was a clever idea, if she had to say so herself.

As she signed off, the Chinese receptionist indicated there were personnel at the ready to work on her nails, and Doyle was tempted to lay them before the woman so as to indicate the enormity of the task. At the same time, she saw an opportunity—the desk was cluttered and chaotic, with receipts and tips stacked every which way, a testament to the thriving business. With an easy smile, Doyle stood to lean over the counter so as to display her abused nail beds. With a chuckle, the other made an unintelligible comment and a shooing motion, indicating Doyle was to begone from this place. With a rueful expression, Doyle packed up the tablet and left, but not before she palmed a credit card that had been lying in plain view—she had learned a trick or two whilst rotating through petty thefts.

As she hurried away, she reviewed the card and noted that her name was now Jenny Ho, which seemed unlikely—although she could explain she had married Mr. Ho and they were very happy together. With any luck she could use the card for her purposes before anyone reported the theft.

The next block revealed what she needed: an internet café in a coffeehouse. After noting the locations of the cameras in the area, she slid in the door and made her way to the back of the establishment where the public could have access to desktop computers. Inserting the stolen credit card into the slot, she logged on and opened her work email. Fingers flying, she wrote to Acton, “I’ll meet you there as soon as I can
.
I will check the timetable. All my love to your dear mother.”

There; the killer was obviously aware that she and Acton were together—he knew of the hotel stay. Let him think she was unaware of her danger and was instead sneaking out of work to take the train to Trestles. She had little doubt that Acton would now set up a trap and seizure at the train station; hopefully there was one somewhere near the place, wherever it was.

After logging off, she decided to leave the credit card at the internet station in the hope that the next user was an honest soul and would turn it in—she dared not use it again. As she was making ready to leave, she noted that the woman next to her was functioning under duress, miserable and angry at the same time. Unable to stop herself, Doyle rendered a sympathetic smile as she turned to rise.

“Does he love you?” The woman stared at her with hollowed eyes. Apparently she had read Doyle’s message.

“Yes.” The answer came almost without conscious volition; Doyle needed to leave—not engage in idle conversation with bystanders. Out, she told herself, but could not move.

The woman’s eyes searched Doyle’s. She was middle-aged and unkempt, not on drugs but unable to focus. “Did you make him love you? Did you get pregnant?”

“I’d rather not discuss it,” Doyle said gently. And then, because the other seemed so haunted, she added in the same tone, “I don’t think you can make anyone love you; love is a choice.”

The woman’s expression hardened and she jerked her head toward her screen. “Oh no; I will make him love me—I will give him no choice.”

Doyle’s eyes were drawn to the screen, where a full page of emails had been sent to the same address. Almost immediately she averted her eyes; she knew the messages would be equal parts threatening and cajoling—the woman was a cyberstalker.

“He won’t be my doctor anymore—I wanted to have his baby, but he wouldn’t give me the hormones.”

“Please,” Doyle urged in the same gentle tone, inwardly wincing as she placed a hand on the woman’s arm and perceived the rolling waves of thwarted rage. “You must speak with someone who can help you. There is an anti-stalkin’ law and you wouldn’t want to be arrested.”

“I hope I am arrested.” The woman’s eyes met Doyle’s in defiance. “Then everyone will know; he will finally have to pay attention to me.”

Doyle stared, mesmerized, and her scalp prickled. This is important, she thought; but I don’t know why. “If you call the Department of Health, they can help you with this.” She added as an incentive, “Perhaps they will call him in for counselin’ with you.”

The woman sat back, considering this idea.

Go, thought Doyle. Get out of here, lass—you do not want to start drawing any comparisons here. “I have to leave, I’m afraid. You will call the Health Service?”

“You are a good, kind girl,” the other replied, her haunted eyes fixed once again on Doyle’s. “I hope he doesn’t break your heart.”