Murder in Thrall (23 page)

Amazed, she asked, “Are you sure it is me?” Oh Acton, Acton, she thought in horror—you have sealed my flippin’ fate.

“Yes, I’m sure—don’t be so stupid.” He tried to control his anger. “Can’t you see the irony? He is just like me. He is just like me only it’s you he wants.”

No, Doyle thought, recoiling. He is not just like you. He is not.

“I have photos of him. But he has photos of you. ” Owens was angry, thinking about the nude photographs, and she knew he was working himself into pulling the trigger. “So first you have to be taken out, and then Williams has to be taken out, and then he will work with me and I will show him—” he took a long, steadying breath; the hint of an accent back in his voice, “—that we should be together. He will replace your photos with mine.”

Doyle recognized she was out of time and that she somehow had to get a shot off. If I’m going, she thought grimly, I’m taking him with me. Trying to appear puzzled, she absently rubbed her left leg with her left hand. “I don’t understand it, Owens. Perhaps he means to sell my snaps on the Internet or somethin’—I always assumed he was gay.”

Ah, this got his immediate attention and he stilled. “No—he fancies you.” But there was the slightest questioning in his tone, the slightest hint of incredulous hope.

Doyle leaned forward as if to share a deep secret. “I’m not
that
thick, Owens—I’ve seen gay porn on his laptop. Here—I’ll bet there’s some in that one over there and I’ll prove it.” She made as if to move toward the desk by the windows while he stood, frozen. As she turned, she drew her weapon from its holster, unlatched the safety with her thumb, aimed, and shot in one smooth movement, guessing at the trajectory. Throwing herself on the floor as the report sounded, she rolled, clutching her gun and tensing for his return shot as she scrambled behind the sofa. No return shot was heard. Instead, Owens fell backward and hit the floor like a board, a bullet hole between his eyes. Silence reigned.

“Good one, Doyle,” she said aloud.

C
HAPTER
35

 

After a brief moment of sheer exhilaration, Doyle clenched her teeth in agony and clutched at her right leg, rocking back in forth in reaction to the searing pain. The bullet had first passed through her right calf before it had hit Owens. Groaning aloud, she pulled up her trouser and examined the wound. Blood was flowing around her ankle and dripping onto the floor. A through-and-through—it was bleeding but not arterial, which was good; otherwise she would have to tourniquet it. Think—first aid. Elevate the leg and apply pressure to stop the bleeding. She struggled to her feet and hopped into the nearby guest bathroom, which was wonderfully elegant and did not go unappreciated. She sat on the floor and elevated her right ankle by bracing it on the sink, snatching several guest towels off the rack to staunch the flow of blood. Grimly noting the gunshot residue all over her inner right calf, she decided she would worry about infection later, after she had managed to stem the carnage.

After taking some deep breaths, she assessed the situation. She didn’t seem to be in danger of bleeding to death or passing out. Best not to make an emergency call; she didn’t even want to think about the scandal this little scenario would create for the worthy chief inspector. I will contact him, and wait—it is my only option. She rested her forehead against her knee, in intense pain and sickened by the thought—it would all come out: Owens’s obsession, their hole-in-corner marriage, her father’s murder, her own murder of Owens. Nothin’ for it—would rather be alive, all in all. Thank You, she offered up; in all things, give thanks.

After the bleeding had slowed, she struggled to her feet, trying to keep the leg elevated in front of her. She braced herself against the wall and noted with a grimace that she left bloody handprints, so she paused to wash her hands before she hopped across the room to where she had dropped her rucksack. Steadying herself by hanging on to the back of the sofa, she eased herself to the floor, propping her leg up on the sofa as she pulled out the assistant’s tablet, half dreading it would be out of battery which would be very much in keeping with her luck. No, she immediately corrected herself; I am the luckiest lass alive. Thankfully, the tablet worked and she wrote to Fiona: Call your flat immediately. Urgent.

She then hopped over to the telephone mounted on the kitchen wall and called work, leaving a message on both his voice mail and her own voice mail. “Acton, it’s me. Please call your flat as soon as possible.”

No fear of being monitored anymore; it was a mournful shame she didn’t know Acton’s mobile number. Her wound had started bleeding again, so she returned to sit on the floor, propping her leg up against the sofa again and pressing both her palms as hard as she could against the hand towel she had tied around her calf. She felt a little dizzy for a moment—don’t faint, you knocker. Think about something else. Make a report.

The first item on the agenda was to wonder how a candidate like Owens had managed to pass all the screenings that were required to be a constable, for the love o’ Mike. But it hadn’t been obvious—he was smart, a smart psycho; he had certainly fooled her and she was not easily fooled. Not to mention he apparently enjoyed creating a thorny crime scene so that he could observe Acton at work. I had a feeling it was something like that, she remembered. But I never would have guessed it was all about Acton. Munoz is right once again; we were puzzling over patterns, profiles
,
and motivation
—
but it was really all about sex.

Carefully shifting her weight, she lifted the towel to peer at the oozing wound. Not a good idea, she thought, replacing the towel and taking deep breaths. No more peeking; it was amazing how different it felt when the wound was one’s own rather than on a corpse.

To take her mind off it, she resumed her narrative. Owens watched Capper’s interview and decided to kill Capper and Smythe so as to eliminate anyone else who could identify him, and at the same time to throw dust in the CID’s eyes so it would close the case. But Acton had known it was staged and had alerted Fiona to comb the bodies for third-party evidence. A hair was found; unfortunately, Acton did not know that Owens was monitoring his mobile and when Fiona informed him of the find, she had sealed her own fate. She would have kept the evidence with her; it wasn’t logged in because Acton was going to kill Owens himself with no one the wiser.

She gazed out over the lights of the city, trying not to think of the body cooling off a few feet away or the stain on Acton’s fancy throw rug. Her father’s murder served two different desires for Owens—it drew Acton’s attention to himself with some clever detective work and it was supposed to force Acton’s current favorite to take a leave of absence. In Owens’s fantasy, he would then present himself as a substitute for Doyle, and he and Acton would have begun a relationship. Doyle ran her hands gently over the hand towel. But when she hadn’t reacted as planned to the death of her father, Owens had not escalated his plan to remove her because Acton had pulled her off of the cases; he had placed enough distance between them so that Owens no longer considered her an obstacle—it had probably saved her life, until the discovery of the nude photographs, that is. Seventeen photographs, some nude—it was hard to believe Acton could be so reckless. Poor Owens, it must have been quite a shock. No, she corrected; Owens no longer deserves my sympathy; he can beg for mercy from God.

A dark thought was hovering around the edges of her mind, but she refused to allow it entry. There was nothing to compare between the two; have done, Doyle.

Remembering the questions Acton had asked her about Owens as they left the Somers Town crime scene (en route to their wedding), she realized that he must have known straight off that it was staged and by whom. Owens was right; Acton is a genius, she thought in admiration. He must have been keeping a sharp eye on Owens all along, giving him an assignment to keep him close and collecting a DNA sample, then waiting for him to make a mistake that would confirm him as the killer. He never mentioned his suspicions to Doyle, probably because Owens was slated to simply disappear along with any chance that her father’s identity would be revealed. And now she had killed Owens, just like that. He had been alive and now he was dead, thanks to her. She was almost surprised to realize she felt no remorse—a good riddance, it was.

The bleeding seemed to have stopped, but she nevertheless avoided lifting the towel. Although she was somewhat thirsty, she didn’t have the wherewithal to make her way to the kitchen, and so stayed where she was. All she could do, it seemed, was wait. And admire the view. She thought about her mother and she thought about Acton, and how wonderful it was to be alive. Owens wasn’t given another glance. Hurry, Acton, she thought—I don’t want to spend the night here with him.

Blessedly, the phone rang about ten minutes later. She had taken the receiver to the floor with her and answered it before it completed its first ring. “Hallo?”

“Kathleen.”

“Michael,” she breathed, a world of relief in her voice. He was silent. Pull yourself together, Doyle, she thought—you’re not out of the woods yet. She was suddenly conscious of the fact the call could show up in a later investigation and said only, “Could you please come here as soon as possible?”

“Is he there?” Acton’s words were clipped.

No need to identify who, thought Doyle. “Not anymore.”

He paused. “Is your hair in your eyes?”

“No, there’s no trap; he’s really not here.” She added, “Anymore.”

“I’ll be over immediately. Don’t unlock the door for anyone but me.”

“Not a chance,” she replied, eyeing the body on the rug.

C
HAPTER
36

 

While she waited for Acton, Doyle had a chance to think about his probable reaction to this latest disaster. As a result, she pulled her trouser leg down over the bloody towel and hopped up to array herself on the sofa so that she would not appear quite so
hors de combat
. Listen to me, she thought a bit giddily, livin’ in a palace and talkin’ like a nob.

In short order, Doyle heard Acton inserting his key into the slot. As he entered the room, his eyes were drawn to her position curled on the sofa and then, to the body lying on the rug. He halted for a moment in surprise. She mustered up a smile. “I’m afraid we have a bit of a problem.”

He walked to her, ran his hand over her head, and leaned over to kiss her. After running his hand over her head a second time, he then crouched down beside Owens and took a long look. “Well done.”

“I’ll have no more o’ your aspersions about my shootin’ skills.”

He smiled without answering and casually pulled the .45 from Owens’s hand. He wasn’t wearing gloves, and Doyle’s well-trained sensibilities were a little shocked by the application of his bare hand to the weapon.

Steeling herself, she said, “I have somethin’ to tell you and you must promise me, on your honor, you won’t be overreactin’ or runnin’ amok.”

Acton fixed his sharp eyes upon her, still crouching with his forearms on his knees. “It doesn’t matter if he raped you, Kathleen.”

“Michael,” she said in exasperation. “He didn’t rape me—he was gay, for heaven’s sake.”

He bent his head for a moment and Doyle thought he was hiding his relief. Oh, she realized; I am ovulating—small wonder he was worried.

Lifting his gaze to meet hers, he asked, “What is it, then?”

“I had to shoot myself through the leg to shoot him.” She didn’t think she needed to tell him it was unintentional—that part would be her own little secret.

He stared at her for a moment and then rose. “Show me.”

She propped up her knee and rolled up her trouser leg to expose the bloody towel. He came to sit near her feet on the sofa and helped her gently pull the cloth from the wound, as it had begun to stick.

She said suddenly, “I think I am goin’ to be sick.”

He deftly pulled a wastebasket over and held her hair back while she was sick as a cat. “Sorry.” She was embarrassed. “I was goin’ grand ‘till now.”

Running his hands down the sides of her head, he said, “You are going wonderfully. Let me get you a cloth and some water.” Seeing that he was headed into the elegant bathroom, she winced and called after him, “Sorry about the mess in there.”

When he returned, he said only, “I thought you were going to stop apologizing to me.”

She smiled, relieved. He was handling this better than she had expected; good one, Acton.

He helped her to tidy up and she drank the water—she was thirsty from the loss of blood. As she lay back on the sofa, he asked, “Ready?”

She nodded, and he carefully eased the cloth away from the wound with gentle fingers. She decided that this time she would watch him and not look at the wound; in the future she resolved to be more sympathetic to the witnesses at the crime scenes who were apt to become green around the gills.

Acton examined her, scrutinizing the area carefully. “This will require some attention.”

Not a surprise—she already knew this; she hated doctors and the very thought of needles. And there was another problem, too. In a small voice, she noted, “It’s a gunshot wound, Michael.” Any medical practitioner was bound by law to contact the police.

“Yes, it is.” Pulling out his mobile, he scrolled through his programmed numbers while she watched him.

After ringing a number, he spoke into the mobile. “Timothy, it’s Michael. I wonder if you can come to my flat at your earliest convenience.” He paused. “Thank you. Best bring your bag.” There was another pause while Acton glanced at Doyle. He added into the phone, “The surgery kit may be necessary—B positive.” He disconnected.

Doyle attempted a false heartiness. “Shouldn’t I be drinkin’ brandy or holding a bullet in my teeth or somethin’?”

He smiled, but only to humor her. “I’m going to move TDC Owens into the spare bedroom before the doctor arrives.” Without ceremony, Owens’s body was then rolled up into the rug it lay upon and dragged into the spare bedroom. When Acton reemerged, she could see that he was deep in thought—planning logistics, no doubt, being as how there was a dead body in the flat and the place was awash with security. It had been apparent from the moment he took Owens’s weapon that he had no intention of contacting law enforcement.

Doyle could not endure the silence and spoke into it. “The doctor is a friend o’ yours?”

Pulled from his abstraction, he answered, “Yes. A good friend. A mackerel snapper like yourself.”

“Well then—if all else fails, he can administer last rites.”

Acton did not respond to her teasing, did not even lift his head, but she was suddenly aware of the effort this was costing him. Don’t be flippant, she cautioned herself—let him know you’re going to be all right.

Coming back over to stand beside her, he resumed stroking her hair—it appeared he could not stop touching her head with his hands. Overcome with emotion, she had to bite her lip to keep it from trembling. I don’t know which of us to feel sorrier for, she thought unsteadily. Wrapping an arm around his hips, she pulled him to her, resting her head against him. She tried not to think about what would have happened had Owens killed her and Acton come home to witness the aftermath. Life was so very precious.

He continued the stroking. “The doctor should be here in thirty minutes or so.”

“Time enough.” With a sudden movement, she lifted her head and began pulling at his belt to unfasten it. “Come here, husband.”

Surprised, he grasped her hands with his to still them. “Not such a good idea, Kathleen.”

“Michael,” she said through her teeth. “Do this or I will shoot you as I did Owens.”

Still holding her hands, he crouched down to look up into her eyes, smiling to reassure her. She was not fooled. “Later, perhaps.”

It was a lie. “Do as you are told, Michael.” She pulled him to her, her mouth seeking his.

He resisted. “Kathleen,” he said gently. “I don’t know if I can—I’m not a performing bear, you know.”

It was funny and so—
aristocratic
that she began to laugh, which was what he had intended. Then she began to cry; huge gulping sobs she couldn’t control. He put his arms around her and she clung to him and caught his mouth with hers for a moment, then broke away so she could gasp for air and sob. Murmuring endearments, he carefully climbed atop her, pulled away the clothing that was impeding him, and performed very well indeed.

Afterward, as they lay spent, Doyle thought about what she had learned this evening. Acton was, in fact, all too willing to whisper sweet nothings to her during sex but only if first, she had been shot, and second, she cried about it. Mental note. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” He kissed her mouth and then her eyelids. “Now may I straighten up?”

“Yes. Will you fetch me a brush, please?”

She made herself presentable as best she could, hoping the doctor wouldn’t guess what they’d been at—there would be enough explaining to do as it was. To this end, she tried to come up with a plausible explanation for her wound and drew a blank. Ah, well; he was Acton’s friend, let Acton explain. Speaking of which, she asked, “Where were you?” She regretted the words as soon as they were out; she didn’t want him to feel guilty.

“I was out looking for you. I’m afraid Nellie may be alarmed.”

“Not to worry. I’ll call her. How ironic that I was here and this is the last place you’d think I would be.”

“He lured you here?” Poor man; she could see he didn’t want to talk about it, but he wanted to know how this had all come about.

She responded in a level tone—hopefully she would not fall into hysterics again, although the cure for the hysterics was not unwelcome. “Yes—he left a note with Habib pretending it was you. I should have been more wary; I knew I was next on his list.”

He pulled up a leather chair so it was next to her and sat down. “How did you know that?”

“My mobile stopped workin’. I remembered the other victims’ mobiles stopped workin’—and I just knew.”

He nodded, well-aware of how sometimes she just knew. “Did he say anything?”

Here was a crackin’ minefield—the persistent dark thought still hovered around the edges of her mind; Owens had compared himself to Acton, saying Acton was just like him. He was not, but she was not even going to allow the comparison to be raised, so instead she answered, “He said he killed a lot of people—I think he was some sort of assassin.”

Acton was watching her response, and she had the impression he was aware she was leaving something out. It was hard to put anything past this husband of hers; mental note. “Did he say for whom?”

“No, he didn’t.” Leaning back against the cushions, she attempted to look wan. “Could we not talk about this just now?”

Immediately he moved to her and held her head in his hands again. “Of course; forgive me.”

The buzzer rang. Saved by the bell, she thought.