Murder in Thrall (25 page)
C
HAPTER
39
HAPTER
39
H
E WAS TIRED BUT HE LAY AWAKE, PLANNING
.
E WAS TIRED BUT HE LAY AWAKE, PLANNING
.
Doyle awoke in the middle of the morning, which was late for her. Stretching her arms over her head, she flinched as she moved her leg and was reminded of her wound. Acton was up already, of course—the man was like a cat, needing little sleep. She wondered if he was hungover. Carefully swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she tested her weight on the right one. Not too bad, she decided, and stood. Hopping over to the master bathroom, she shut the door, taking a few seconds to figure out how to turn on the elaborate shower. She was wrapping a small towel around the dressing on her calf when Acton knocked on the bathroom door. “Are you all right?”
“Perfectly.” She pronounced it ‘Paarfectly.’ “How do you ever bring yourself to get out of this shower?”
“Don’t wet your leg,” he warned.
“I won’t, but I will die if I don’t wash my hair in the next two minutes.”
She took a steaming hot shower, keeping her right leg out of the water as best she could. Then, wrapped in a towel, she opened the bathroom door and discovered he was sitting on the bed, watching the door. His eyes ran over her towel, and she could see that divertive tactics would be needed.
“Do you have a shirt I can borrow? I don’t want to wear those clothes again. Ever.”
He went to his wardrobe and pulled out a crisp, boxed shirt. She retreated back to the bathroom to put it on; the sleeves hung over her hands, and so she rolled them up. As she combed out her wet hair, she paused for a moment, regarding herself in the mirror. She opened the door and leaned out. “Do you have a thermometer?”
He smiled at her. “Let’s give it one more day—we can do it if we put our minds to it.”
“If you say,” she offered dubiously, and was rewarded with another smile. He put his arm around her to assist her hopping progress to the kitchen, and she took the opportunity to assess him. He was out of the dismals, and a good thing; hopefully there would be no more discussions about the decedent’s motivations. He seated her at the kitchen table, the weak sunlight intensified through the windows so that it was warm on her back. Her leg throbbed a bit, but she didn’t want to take any more pills and so she ignored it. She wondered if she had set the standard now—no matter what happened to her, she could always think that it was nothing like getting shot up.
“What would you like for breakfast?”
“Do you have frosty flakes?” This had to be the longest she had ever gone without.
Leaning against the counter, he shook his head with regret. “No. But I’ll put them on the list for Marta.”
“Oh—does Marta live here?”
“No, she comes in three days a week to keep house. She’s very efficient.”
Wait until Marta was informed of the latest news, she thought with some misgiving. Not to mention that I am not one who would be comfortable with a servant seeing to me. Ah, well; things had changed. Understatement of the century.
In fact, things had changed so much that it hadn’t occurred to her until just now that it was well past the time she was usually at work. “Did you call Habib?”
“Yes.” He said nothing more and she could see that he was hiding a smile.
“Unsnabble, wretched man—what did he say?”
Acton thought about it. “He said all that was proper.”
“Poleaxed,” she guessed.
“Yes.” Acton smiled his rare smile. “I quite enjoyed it.”
She buried her face in her hands. “I will be a freak at the circus.” She peered at him covertly through her fingers. “It is just as well I will be leavin’ the CID.”
“No.” He was serious again. “You are not leaving.”
“I have quite made up my mind, Michael,” she said firmly. “I cannot put you through this.”
“No,” he replied, and just as firmly. “I was drunk and inconsiderate. I apologize.”
They regarded each other and much was unspoken. “We are at an impasse.” Another vocabulary word—honestly, soon she would be spoutin’ them off like Shakespeare.
“You are a good detective.”
“I’d rather be good to you.” She was almost surprised at herself—the personal was apparently more important than the professional, after all. Mental note.
He bent his head for a moment, thinking. “I can control what assignments you take; I may avoid those I believe are most dangerous.”
“Done.”
“I now know that you are capable of defending yourself.”
“Indeed.” She vowed he would never know how lucky the shot was. Best get to practice; she’d never be that lucky again.
He met her eyes. “You have a tendency to be reckless.”
This seemed unfair. “I will try to be more careful, Michael, but recall that we would not be married and havin’ this fine conversation, else.”
He bowed his head in acknowledgment. “Touché.”
She wasn’t certain what this meant but let it pass.
There was a pause. She knew he would worry about her, but what were the chances something like this would ever happen again? Slim to none. “Are we finished having yet another tedious discussion? I’m a hungry casualty, I am.”
He made toast and jam and then joined her to eat. Despite everything, she was very, very happy, sitting here with him with the warm sun on her back. This is a good place, she thought, I can feel it. She marveled at the difference twenty-four hours could make; just yesterday she had realized she was being shadowed, and now she sat with her new husband having breakfast, her old life abandoned without a second thought, all corpses efficiently disposed of, all wounds bound. “I suppose today is our honeymoon, only without the sex.”
“Tomorrow,” he assured her, “there will be an excess of sex.”
Blushing, she laughed and thought he seemed very much at ease with her. We are compatible, just as he had pointed out when he made his proposal on that fateful night. Now my task is to see to it that he does not descend into any more black moods. “When is Doctor Timothy due?”
Apparently, Acton liked strawberry jam as much as she did, as he reached for another. “He has surgeries this morning, so he will phone this afternoon when he is available.”
“Do you think that I could have you fetch some other clothes from my flat?” She didn’t want to be meeting the good doctor in nothing more than Acton’s shirt; the man must already wonder how on earth this had all come about. She couldn’t let him think Acton was taken in by a brasser.
“We can look on-line and then order some clothes from the stores near here; they will deliver.”
Bemused, she reflected, “I am like Cinderella, except for the gunshot residue.”
He lifted her hand and kissed the palm. “No. You are more along the lines of a
deus ex machina,
or I suppose more properly a
dea ex machina
.”
deus ex machina,
or I suppose more properly a
dea ex machina
.”
She regarded him for a moment. “I don’t know what that means,” she confessed.
“Just as well. You’re better off.”
“I’m better off betterin’ myself, I am.”
“You couldn’t be better.”
He meant it. Amazing man, she thought. Truly nicked.
They ordered her some clothes and then she made a list of items she would need immediately before she was able to fetch things from her flat. Acton explained that the building’s concierge would send someone to buy the items for them, and after they had dispatched this commission, she asked thoughtfully, “The gentleman who was my shadow—who does he work for?”
He was going to be coy, she could feel it. “Not CID.”
“Huge surprise, Michael. Are you goin’ to be tiresome about this?”
He thought about it. “Yes.”
And there would be no more said on the subject, she knew. Interesting—she’d best be learning how to bake a cake.
His mobile rang and he checked the ID but didn’t pick up. Reminded, she informed him, “I’ll need to fetch my old mobile. And I need to give Layton’s assistant his tablet back.”
He observed her for a long and silent moment in the way that she used to think was disconcerting but now she realized was just a symptom of his condition—he was studying her. He finally said, “I think I would like to hear about everything you did yesterday.”
“It’s a grand tale, Michael.” And she told it to him.
His mobile vibrated again and this time he answered it—it sounded like it was his assistant at headquarters. He listened for a moment and then said, “Thank you.”
Every man jack is going to be congratulating him, Doyle realized—he’ll not like all the attention given to him these next few weeks. I will have to cheer him along even though I feel the same way—we would rather be left alone. There’s nothin’ for it; we’d best get our story straight.
Acton gave some instruction about cases that needed attention and then listened again. He said he would be into the office for only a brief time tomorrow afternoon and that no meetings should be scheduled. His eyes moved to Doyle, who knew exactly what he was thinking and blushed. He then ended the call, and she realized he had received bad news.
Standing, he walked over to look out the windows, his hands in his pockets. “Fiona’s funeral is the day after tomorrow. I’m to give the eulogy.”
“I will come with you.”
He was uncertain and glanced her way. “You may not be well enough.”
“Nonsense,” she said stoutly. “I am comin’, whether you want me or no.”
“Thank you.”
She hoped she could conceal any limp. It would not do at all to appear at the funeral newly married and limping. Munoz would never let her live it down.
E
PILOGUE
PILOGUE
H
E WAS DRINKING MORE THAN HE OUGHT
. H
E NEEDED TO DRINK TO
sleep, and even then he did not sleep well. He supposed a therapist would say he was clinically depressed, not that he would ever see a therapist. He found he did not want to speak to anyone outside of work; he had simply lost interest. Old friends were concerned, but he could not muster up enough emotion to mollify them. He spent long hours at work and there was little else.
E WAS DRINKING MORE THAN HE OUGHT
. H
E NEEDED TO DRINK TO
sleep, and even then he did not sleep well. He supposed a therapist would say he was clinically depressed, not that he would ever see a therapist. He found he did not want to speak to anyone outside of work; he had simply lost interest. Old friends were concerned, but he could not muster up enough emotion to mollify them. He spent long hours at work and there was little else.
He was in the habit of having his assistant come in early to go over his appointments for the day. He would reassess the priority of the cases and decide what needed to be done. His assistant had indicated, in the way that women do, that she was available to him. He was not interested; he had little interest in sex anymore.
He stood at his window listening to the schedule for the day and drinking coffee. It was early and commuters were coming in off the St. James’s Park station. He spotted a girl holding a tall cup and walking briskly as though she was cold. Scots or Irish, he thought, with that hair. Pretty. He watched her approach on the sidewalk and realized she would enter the building. She must work here, he thought; she moved very gracefully.
The next morning he stood at the window at the same time, refusing to admit to himself that he was watching for her. The girl made the same route at the same time—it was drizzling and she had her coat collar turned up.
He told his assistant she could come in a half hour later the next morning, and when the time came he pulled his binoculars out of his field kit. There she was. He could see her face clearly and the curve of her throat as she lifted the cup to drink. There was a tightening in his chest, making it hard to draw breath. Don’t be a fool, he thought; she is probably married with children. She was wearing gloves, so he couldn’t see if there was a ring. Look up her personal file and be done with this.
For the first time in months, he was eager to go home, and he left work early. He could obliterate any record of delving into her file, but it was safer to do so from home. He usually poured himself a drink when he walked through the door, but today he made straight for his desk. He pulled up CID personnel and typed in “red” and “auburn” for a search. Fourteen names came up; ten were women. He found her on the second try.
He looked at the photograph and the information on the screen and had to smile at the irony; it was the worst possible result. Kathleen Doyle, Detective Constable. She was aged twenty-four. Single, never married. He drew back from the desk and rubbed his face in his hands. Essentially, she worked for him. Unthinkable that he could openly pursue a relationship with a DC. A discreet affair would be equally impossible; there had already been a few sexual harassment lawsuits and it would be madness—-an invitation to blackmail. And she was only twenty-four years old. There was a thirteen year difference between them—almost fourteen. Impossible. And the worst was the fact that she was single, which made him want to disregard everything else.
The next day he decided he would not watch her come in just to see if he could. He couldn’t. It was raining and she held an umbrella, so that he couldn’t see her well; he felt cheated and decided he would watch her go home instead. He hacked into her laptop and monitored it from time to time. She was working on assault cases, compiling statistics. Any emails were work-related. His assistant had to come in to remind him he was late for his meeting with the DCS.
She worked late and logged off at 8:00 p.m.—she put in long hours, then. It would probably be too dark to see her when she left. He watched with his binoculars anyway and saw a glimpse when she passed a streetlight.
This was too unpredictable and too frustrating; he contemplated his options, alert to possibilities and turning them over in his mind. He concluded the solution would be to try to work alongside her, even if it was just for a day. He would discover that she was young and vapid and there would be an end to this ridiculous infatuation. The thought of being alongside her brought a rush of adrenaline and a stirring of sexual feelings long dormant.
He met with the other chief inspectors on a weekly basis to set up inter-team conferences, discuss trends, and touch base. He asked a representative from HR to attend, as they would soon have to do performance reviews for the DIs and DSs—the DCIs had little direct contact with the DCs. He had nevertheless found a way to introduce the subject.
“I am thinking about teaching a class at the Academy on interrogation.” He was well-known for his superior interrogation technique; the others hid their surprise that he was offering to teach a class. “I am concerned there is little skill among our rank and file.” The others generally agreed and expressed the conviction that more training was indeed needed. Acton waited for the HR representative, who was very defensive, to defend her department’s hires. She rose to the bait.
“We have several DCs who actually do quite well in interrogation situation training.”
He looked interested. “DCs? Who?”
“Williams,” she said. “And Doyle is exceptional.”
Acton made a show of jotting down the names and said nothing further on the topic.
He waited until the next appropriate case arose and when it did—an early morning homicide call—he impatiently watched her arrive. He then made his way over to her building, to her cubicle, his heart pounding. It was early enough that the rest of her floor was nearly deserted. When he appeared in the entrance to her cubicle, she looked up and then stood so quickly she nearly knocked over her chair.
“Detective Constable Doyle, I am Chief Inspector Acton.” He offered his hand.
She controlled her surprise. “I am pleased to meet you, sir.”
The accent was a shock. Dublin, he thought—he hadn’t known she had an accent. “I wonder if you would spare some time to accompany me on a homicide investigation,” he said, trying to breathe evenly. He could still feel her touch on his hand.
“Certainly, sir.” She gathered up her rucksack and followed him.
He briefed her in the car and she took notes. He took in every detail of her appearance, relishing the opportunity to observe her at close quarters. She was left-handed; she wore no jewelry. Her skin was luminous, he decided, was the correct word. He had to train his thoughts back to the matter at hand before his body betrayed him.
“A minor official from the Home Secretary’s office has been found in the river. In light of the recent scandals”—he glanced at her and she nodded in acknowledgment—“it may be suicide, or it may be someone who didn’t want him deciding to tell what he knows.” There had been allegations of bribery, and it wasn’t clear whether other high-ranking persons were involved in the scandal. It was an interesting, high-profile case.
She accompanied him to the crime scene and didn’t blanch at the unpleasantly bloated body. She helped him turn it over to investigate for marks.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“Shot in the back with a small-caliber weapon from less than two feet. Either didn’t know the killer was standin’ behind him or had no anticipation that the person was wantin’ to kill him.”
They proceeded to the man’s home, and he sought to question the new widow, who was nearly collapsing with grief. Poor woman, he thought; one blow upon another.
He gently asked her about her husband’s last hours—where he had gone, how he had seemed. Had he received any calls that upset him? This was difficult for her to answer, as he had been very upset for the past few days from his other troubles. The woman sobbed into a tissue.
“Sir,” Doyle said. “May I speak with you for a moment?”
He was very surprised she would interrupt; thus far she had been reserved and careful in his presence. She took him outside and glanced around to make certain they would not be overheard.
“What is it?” He tried to curb his impatience.
“She’s lyin’, sir.”
They stared at each other. Beautiful brown eyes, he thought. He actually forgot where he was and what he was doing for a brief moment. He pulled himself back with an effort. “Why do you think she’s lying, Constable?”
She was nervous but stuck to her guns. “I just know, sir. It’s hard to explain.” She added, “She’s actually very, very happy.”
He regarded her for a moment, trying to decide what to do. The woman appeared genuinely grief-stricken and to haul her in for questioning would seem cruel and unwarranted. On the other hand, there could be no better opportunity for a disgruntled wife to dispatch her husband, while all suspicion was diverted elsewhere.
He asked that the wife be brought in for questioning, much to the astonishment of everyone else present. By the time he had her seated with a solicitor in the interrogation room, she was already breaking down. He had a confession within twenty minutes; the newspapers had a field day.
He thought about it after he went home, sitting at his desk and staring out the window, the scotch untouched. She was extraordinarily intuitive, he decided. He would have to be very careful to guard himself when he was near her. Because he would continue to be near her, of course—he was completely fascinated by her, every aspect, every detail. She was intelligent, although not well educated. She was willing to work hard and seemed devoted to her job. She had tried to rein in her accent early in the day, but as she became more relaxed around him, it became stronger and he found it enchanting. She had a reserve, a dignity that masked, he was certain, her vulnerability. He glanced idly at his laptop screen, which displayed her personnel photograph. He needed a better photograph—he would have to take one when she was unaware. He couldn’t wait for tomorrow.
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