Murder in Thrall (21 page)

C
HAPTER
32

 

Doyle exited out the back way and into the alley, having snatched a hooded sweatshirt that was laid across the back of a chair. It’s a cutpurse, I am, she thought. It must be in the blood; back to confession I go. Or reconciliation, or whatever it is.

Folding Munoz’s windbreaker into her rucksack, she pulled on the new one so as to provide a different appearance in the event the killer was reviewing the CCTV feed. I am giving him way too much credit, she thought as she carefully covered her hair, but I would rather not find out the hard way that I underestimated him.

She was trying not to think about her encounter with the cyberstalker or her instinctive reaction to the woman—as though what she had said was somehow tied to Doyle’s current troubles. It was
not
a reminder of Acton’s own neurosis; not the same thing, at all—the woman was a head case, and it was obvious that Acton was not a head case—case closed. Only the case wasn’t closed, and the experience had affected her more than she cared to admit; no denying she had felt the same sensations she always experienced when she was making an intuitive connection, but what was the connection? With complete certainty, she knew that Acton was not a potential danger to her—the same instinct told her this. Then why was she uneasy? Walking along, she remembered to take another covert survey of the passersby and decided it had something to do with the woman’s fatalism, her defiance. Again, the connection eluded her and she gave herself a mental shake. Best to concentrate on the task at hand, which was to stay alive until Acton came into contact. She would call the security desk at work on various landlines to check for his arrival, which seemed the best option. He wouldn’t go to his flat, as he worried it was not secure, and she hoped he wouldn’t go back to the hotel, because the killer had been in the lobby. Assuming it was the killer, of course. There was still the possibility it was Acton’s man, shadowing her, and the killer was someone else.

Pointless to speculate; she needed to go to ground and find a place to spend the night, if necessary. An idea had already presented itself, but she was trying not to think about that particular option. And although she was hungry and had little money, she was tired of stealing things; therefore, the best option was to drown her troubles in some blessed, blessed coffee.

Spotting a franchise coffeehouse, she entered the door and breathed in the aroma, feeling like a castaway washing up on shore. Counting out her cash, she ordered a latte and found a stool toward the back, away from the windows. Opening up her borrowed tablet, she emailed Fiona: “I am OK
.”
She checked the time on the screen; it was going to be a long day and she probably shouldn’t stay in any particular place very long. After hunching a shoulder so that her face was not visible from the door, Doyle decided she may as well put together a theory on these cases so as to help pass the time. To this end, she visited various crime news sites to see if there had been any breaks in Fiona’s case since last night. It did not appear so; there was an article about Fiona and her fine work at the CID; she had been a brilliant scholar and devoted to her job, teaching classes on forensic techniques. It appeared she had never married.

Frowning at the screen, Doyle thought it over. So the killer had killed Fiona, had shot at Acton’s mother, and was now after her. Perhaps it was the alternate pattern that Acton had mentioned—the one that he had discounted; the killer was after the women in his life. But he was right in that this seemed unlikely; Acton had no connection with the trainer or Giselle, after all. And Fiona was murdered because she was carrying evidence—evidence that would have implicated the killer. And the dowager was shot at so as to draw Acton away from Doyle—if he had wanted to kill the wretched woman, he wouldn’t have missed. But this latest development cast some doubt on Acton’s working theory—that the profile was a defensive one; that the killer was not acting as much as he was
reacting
to protect himself. Putting a period to the fair Doyle would not protect him, one would think—unless his aim was to take her hostage and obtain leverage over Acton.

She rested her chin on her hand, stymied. The problem with this stupid case was there were no consistent threads—small wonder they couldn’t come up with a working theory. Suddenly struck, she raised her head off her hand and contemplated the biggest inconsistency of all—why would this killer decide at this late date to set his sights on her? Why did he delve into her file, then kill her long-lost father instead of her in the first place? The answer presented itself almost immediately; due to events after her father’s killing, she had become Acton’s weakness—the killer knew of their liaison at the hotel, after all. It must be a trap for Acton, and she was the bait.

It was a sobering theory, but even this theory made no sense as it came back to her father’s murder; the killer couldn’t have known of her importance to Acton the morning her father was killed in Somers Town—faith, she had only found out herself the night before, at the fake stakeout on Grantham Street. Who would have known? She couldn’t imagine that Acton had discussed her with anyone—except Layton, apparently, and he seemed very discreet and an unlikely candidate, not to mention he probably couldn’t heft a large-caliber weapon without assistance.

Flummoxed again, she concluded, and abandoned the effort. The whole thing made absolutely no sense, and maybe they were all trying to find a pattern where none, in fact, existed. Wouldn’t it be grand if it was all a flight of fancy—Fiona’s killer was already in custody and Doyle had a mobile phone with defective circuitry. Acton would be amused at her fears and he would help her go crawling back to Layton’s to return the tablet and offer up her apologies. Unfortunately, pigs would fly first. She knew—the way she knew things—that she was next on the list of faceless dead women. I thank You for the warning, she offered up; let’s hope I can outfox him.

Since it wasn’t her tablet, she was tempted by the opportunity to do some research on stalking behavior with Acton none the wiser. Scrolling, she began to read of schizoaffective and erotomaniac delusions and almost immediately hit the “delete browsing history” function. I can’t do this, she thought. On a fundamental level she didn’t want to know what made Acton tick; any analysis would be trumped by her formidable instinct, which told her that their pairing was for the better—there was nothing truly evil within him, and she was good for him. Doyle closed down the tablet and began to trace a pattern in the moisture on the countertop with her finger, wishing that the time would pass faster. She was longing to speak to Acton and he must be climbing the walls after her long silence. By now, the retainer at Trestles—the butler? Master of the Chalice?—had given him the message and Acton had read her emails. He would set up the trap and seizure and then return in short order; she hoped he wouldn’t crash his fine car in the process.

Keeping her head down and covered, she made her way to the pay phone in the back as Acton had done that night after church—she was grateful that places such as this still had public phones. After dialing headquarters, she asked to be put through to the security desk.

The operator explained that there was no one stationed at the security desk; due to the murder, all personnel had been advanced to the perimeter. This meant that all security personnel were manning the entrances and the metal detectors. Wonderful, Doyle thought. “Are there any messages for me?” She knew as soon as she asked that Acton would not have trusted any third party with a message. No, there were not.

She rang off and girded her loins for the next call. There was nothin’ for it.

“Munoz.”

“It’s Doyle.”

“Well, well, well; how nice of you to call. You left your mobile in your desk drawer and it’s been ringing constantly, so I finally turned it off. Habib has been looking for you and so have Drake and Williams. I’m sick of covering for you and making excuses, so get your skinny Irish behind back in here—”

Doyle interrupted the diatribe. “Munoz, I need to ask a big favor of you. I can’t go home and I need to stay at your flat.”

There was a long pause at the other end. “Trouble with the text-man?”

“In a way. It’s very important you don’t tell anyone.” Munoz was thinking. “What do I tell Habib?”

“Nothin’. You haven’t heard from me. Please, Izzy; it’s
imperative
that you say nothin’ to anyone.”

“You’ll be sacked,” Munoz observed with no small satisfaction.

I doubt it, Doyle thought—I have just had my first lesson in the power of the peerage. “Please, Izzy.”

“All right. Do you know my address?”

“I know the buildin’. Can I meet you in front after work?”

“I’ll leave early, then. I’ll be there around four.”

“Thanks, I owe you.” Doyle hung up. Hoisting her rucksack, she made her way out the back exit—best not stay after making the calls. After she walked for a few blocks toward the Knightsbridge area, she spotted a sports bar on the corner. Once again, she found a stool at the rear of the establishment and tried not to smell the chips sizzling as they cooked in wonderfully greasy oil. Rummaging around in her rucksack, she managed to come up with a few spare coins and ordered a plain cup of coffee. Ironic, is what this is, she thought. I imagine I am rich, if Acton’s wardrobe and his car are any indication. Thinking along these lines, she pulled out the assistant’s tablet and looked up “Trestles” on the internet. There was a photograph of the main building, along with a recitation of the family honors and a synopsis of the history of the House of Acton, starting with the Conquest. “Mother of God,” she said aloud, dismayed to the core.

One of her neighbors, a man in a knit cap who was watching the football game on the telly, interpreted her comment as an overture. He sidled up to her, giving her the once-over. Thank the holy saints, she thought; I don’t have to do this anymore.

“Are you all alone, then?”

“No.” She smiled. “I am waitin’ for my husband.”

C
HAPTER
33

 

The afternoon dragged on while Doyle nursed her pathetic little coffee and pretended an acute interest in the outcome of whatever sporting event was being televised. Finally at a quarter to four, Doyle took a careful look about and walked in the direction of Munoz’s flat, five or six blocks away in Knightsbridge. She kept her head down and her hands in her pockets, occasionally glancing behind her. When she arrived at the Edwardian building, she didn’t see Munoz and so she leaned into an alcove across the street, waiting for the other girl to appear and keeping her face averted.

“Where’s my windbreaker?”

Doyle nearly jumped out of her skin. Munoz was standing beside her, smirking.

“Don’t be scarin’ me like that.” Doyle was annoyed that Munoz could approach her unseen, but on the other hand, Munoz was an excellent detective.

“Enough with the cloak-and-dagger stuff, Doyle—you are overreacting to whatever it is and I’m ashamed of you.”

“Can we just go in?” Doyle was in no mood.

The two girls crossed the street to the building, and Munoz gave Doyle a sharp glance as she ran her security card through the building’s front door slot. “I thought you said you didn’t have a boyfriend.”

“I don’t and I never will again.”

Munoz shook her head in disgust. “Well, that’s a good attitude—you finally convinced someone to have sex with you and now you’ve ruined it.”

Doyle recalled with an effort that Munoz was taking her in and she shouldn’t commit mayhem; at least not in a public place.

They rode up in the lift and neither girl spoke. Doyle had been concocting a story in the event Munoz demanded an explanation, but no questions were asked. She thinks I am in trouble with a man, thought Doyle, which is just as well—it explains my odd behavior and at the same time boosts me in her estimation.

Munoz unlocked her door and walked in before her as Doyle hid her surprise; it was a very nice flat, spacious and with expensive furnishings. As Munoz made the same money she did, Doyle surmised that she must either have some financial help from another source or she made some money on the side. It would be surprising, taking into account the long hours of her primary job—as for herself, Doyle never seemed to have a spare minute.

“A very nice place, Munoz,” she said with good grace.

“Don’t think you’ll be staying here long,” Munoz cautioned with an admonitory glance. “I like to live alone.”

So did I, thought Doyle. But not anymore—getting married throws a rare wrench into it; you start to think you wouldn’t mind following him around all day. I miss you, Acton—it’s a sad case I am.

“Make yourself at home.” Munoz went into the kitchen, took an apple from the basket on the counter, and disappeared into the bedroom. Doyle set down her rucksack and realized that she was very tired—comes from having a rare case o’ the willies all day, she thought. Wandering over to look out the kitchen window, she noticed that over the sink hung a small charcoal sketch of the Madonna’s head. It was lovely; profound and delicate—Doyle thought it might have been an excerpt from a larger drawing by a master. She was scrutinizing it as Munoz returned to the kitchen, munching the apple.

“She’s my hero.” Munoz indicated the drawing.

When Doyle found her voice again, she said, “Me too,” and resolved that in the future she should do a little less judging and a little more judging not. To this end, she tempered her comments. “Thank you so much for doin’ this—I’m afraid I don’t have a toothbrush or anythin’.”

“As long as you have my windbreaker, I don’t care.”

Pulling the windbreaker from her rucksack, Doyle handed it over. “Thanks,” she said again, and wished she could think of something else to say.

“When Habib asked me where you were, I told him you were holed up with Prickett. I think he swallowed his tongue.”

Doyle stared at her in horror, her color rising. “Tell me you are jokin’.”

Munoz chuckled. “No worries—I just wanted to make sure you were still in there.”

“You can be as unpleasant as you like,” retorted Doyle with some fire, “as long as you give me somethin’ to eat—I’m starvin’.”

“Help yourself.” Munoz tilted her head toward the refrigerator.

Doyle dove in and pulled out makings for a sandwich, which she carried over to the counter under Munoz’s amused eye. “Prickett’s been fired, I hear.”

“Of course; they can’t be too careful, what with sexual harassment claims looming. I wonder what he was thinking, being so reckless.”

Doyle recalled a certain chief inspector’s behavior at a certain crime scene and prudently held her tongue while she bit into her sandwich. She thought about it between gulps of orange juice. “Forensics will be depleted, with Fiona’s death still unsolved—they’ll need more personnel.”

Munoz shrugged, her long hair sliding over her shoulders. “They’re hard to come by; Forensics people are odd. Which reminds me, Owens came by to look for you—if he’s the best you can do, it’s no wonder you are hiding out.”

“For heaven’s sake, Munoz; give over. What did he want?”

“I wasn’t about to ask him, thank you very much. I told him you were gone and had left your mobile behind. He was followed by Drake and then Williams, who were told the same story. Between the visitors and your buzzing mobile, I felt like your receptionist.”

“I’m sorry. I hope I’m not in Habib’s black book.”

“Just tell him you have female troubles; men never want to hear of it.”

This was inarguably true, and sound advice. “Have you heard anything about Fiona’s murder?”

“There’s precious little evidence. I think the theory is she was a chance victim, or at least that’s what Williams is saying.” Munoz indicated a blanket and a pillow she had left on a chair. “You can sleep on the sofa. There’s an extra toothbrush in the bathroom drawer, and you can sleep in one of my T-shirts.” She checked her watch. “I’m going to meet up with some friends for dinner—you are welcome to come along.”

This was true and Doyle was touched. “I appreciate it, but I am that tired and cross. I wouldn’t be good company.”

Munoz regarded her with an unreadable expression. “Should I stay and hand you tissues or something?”

“Please don’t—I am goin’ to lie on your fine sofa and watch the telly.”

“Right, then, I may be late. Eat whatever you can find and don’t take any clothes—they wouldn’t fit anyway.”

Doyle said dryly, “I truly appreciate it.”

“Tell me the details someday,” said Munoz, and she was gone.

The details, thought Doyle as she locked the door, will definitely be worth the price of admission.

She lay on the sofa and tried to watch the telly as the light faded and evening set in. She emailed Fiona to say she was safe and sound, and wished she was clever enough to figure out how to read a response. I should work on educating myself, she thought—he is miles smarter than me. With an inward smile, she remembered that he had said she was not to change anything on his account, as it would be a waste of time. I miss that man—I hope one or more of us is not going to be murdered before our one
-
week anniversary.

Made restless by the reminder, she stood and paced, wishing she knew what was happening and hoping Acton had a plan, as she was fresh out. She paused in her pacing and considered whether it would be safe to check in with Habib for news of Acton’s return; Habib was likely to still be at work. Acton was surely back by now and would be bent—as only Acton could be bent—on finding her. It would be a shame to make him worry, and surely no one could trace her here to Munoz’s if she called Habib’s landline on Munoz’s landline. She debated, biting her nails and worrying she would make a stupid decision like the heroine always seemed to do in mystery novels. Picking up the phone, she finally decided it would do no harm to ring Habib; he may have left already anyway.

She dialed his extension and Habib answered and identified himself. Doyle realized belatedly that she was probably
persona non grata
(a good phrase, and apt) with her supervisor at present. She swallowed. “Hallo, sir, this is Doyle.”

“Constable Doyle, we have been worried about you.” It was said in a scolding tone and, thankfully, not in what one would call a sacking tone.

“I am so sorry, sir; I had to leave work and was unable to return.” Remembering Munoz’s advice, she implied female troubles.

“Many people are wondering what has happened to you. Indeed, I have a note from Chief Inspector Acton.”

Doyle’s heart skipped a beat. “What does it say, sir?”

“It says that if you call, I am to tell you that everything is clear and he will meet you at his flat.” Habib sounded disapproving. “He said you would know the address.”

“Yes.” Relief washed over her, almost overwhelming in its intensity. Let Habib think whatever he chose—they would all know soon enough; Acton was on a campaign. “Thank you,” she responded happily, unable to contain her reaction. “I will be in tomorrow, I promise.”

She rang off. Thank the saints, the coast was clear. Acton must have gotten to the killer, or neutralized him in some other manner. She was in a fever to know the details—perhaps her false trail about the train station had borne fruit; Acton would be that proud of her. This long and miserable day was finally,
finally
over.

Opening drawers, Doyle looked about her for materials so as to write a quick note to Munoz and found paper and a pencil. She then paused; the paper was sketching paper, the pencil was an artist’s charcoal pencil. Doyle slowly lifted her gaze to the sketch of the Madonna, transfixed. Mother a’ mercy—and I mean that literally, she thought. That’s how she can afford this place.

Controlling her bemusement, she wrote a short note explaining she needed to leave and once again conveying her thanks. She then paused long enough to brush her hair before she pulled Acton’s address from the zipper compartment of her rucksack where she kept her wedding ring. After puzzling out the best way to get there, she left the flat, her spirits high—no need for the sweatshirt and sunglasses; she was no longer incognito. As she rode on the tube to her destination she remembered with regret that it was not the right time for sex. Vixen, she thought; take hold of your lustful self.