Murder in Thrall (9 page)

After the photographs were taken, Acton gave the instructions necessary to process the crime scene and they left the team to finish up. As usual, Doyle was to review the surveillance tape, interview witnesses, and do the background checks. He asked the other officers to send him a report and gave Owens his card, speaking to him briefly.

As they walked out of the building, Doyle noticed that Acton was deep in thought and it appeared it was the crime scene itself that prompted this mood and not the torrid episode in the kitchen. By contrast, she felt as though every nerve was on end and attuned to him as they re-entered the car, only holding her tongue with an effort, which was just as well, considering its recent use. It wasn’t until they were nearly back to headquarters that he finally asked, “Would you have noticed what Owens noticed?”

She thought about it. “I am not sure I would have noticed the inconsistencies unless I was alerted that there was something unusual—it was very sharp work.”

He nodded. A silence fell and it appeared he was not inclined to discuss what had passed between them. Never one to pour oil on troubled waters, she finally ventured, her accent very broad, “D’ye think we should have some sort o’ discussion?”

“No,” he said in a tone that brooked no argument. “No more discussions.”

This was only to be expected; she felt herself lucky that he had given her a glimpse. The man is certifiable, she thought rather happily. And so am I for taking up with him.

C
HAPTER
10

 

That afternoon Doyle was ruthlessly concentrating on the background search for the slain Somers Town couple—mainly as a means to keep her from placing her forehead on the coolness of the desk and just leaving it there for the foreseeable future. Anything to keep from stepping off the ledge and into a future that hadn’t even been on her radar screen two short days ago.

She found plenty of useful information, which was to the good, as the surveillance tape showed nothing and the neighbors weren’t very helpful—although in that neighborhood, withholding help from the police was an honorable pastime. The couple had incited little interest and lived quietly, despite the fact they didn’t die quietly. Although no one had heard the shots—and with that size weapon, it must have been quite a crack; perhaps it was a commonplace in the building. There had been no unusual visitors over the past several days. A report had been called in when Helen did not appear for work at the local restaurant. They had no children.

At least at this scene there was forensic evidence in the form of bullets, although the gun was illegal and therefore unregistered. Even if there were ballistics, it may not prove much, as the mystery was not the weapon but who had fired it and then arranged the scene to appear as a murder-suicide. With a quick breath, Doyle blew a tendril that was tickling her forehead. The case appeared to be another long slog, requiring a lot of footwork by the fair Doyle, who was already being run ragged on the racecourse cases. Faith, she thought; what I wouldn’t give for some DNA or a fingerprint or something—the villains were not making this easy.

Which is why she was relieved to see the voluminous background information, as unexpected as it was appreciated—perhaps some leads would develop. The surfeit of information had the added benefit of taking her mind off the one subject that should not be dwelt upon lest she completely lose her grip on reality.

In the next cubicle, Munoz had been pointedly rustling around for twenty minutes. When Doyle didn’t rise to the bait, the other girl finally stood and peered over the partition, the fluorescent lights glinting off her raven hair. “Want to talk about it?”

“No,” replied Doyle, not looking up.

“Will you be sacked, you think?”

“Hope not.” Doyle wondered what Munoz’s reaction would be if Doyle were to tell her that she was thinking about quitting so as to pursue a new career as Lady Acton.

“What happened, exactly?”

Doyle paused and considered. “What is everyone sayin’?”

“You were sick at a homicide scene this morning.”

Doyle thought about this. “I think ‘disconcerted’ is more accurate; I needed a moment to recover.” And as an added bonus, disconcerted was a vocabulary word.

Munoz was agog, as Doyle’s imperturbability was legendary. “And Holmes was not happy,” she concluded with ill-concealed relish.

“No,” Doyle said truthfully. “Indeed he wasn’t, and he took me aside.”

Munoz crossed her arms on the top of the partition and made a small sound of intense admiration. “I wish he’d take me aside.”

“That’s not very professional, Munoz.”

“Oh, I’d be professional, all right—he’d not look elsewhere.”

Doyle decided the conversation was a little too ironic for her taste and turned the subject. “What are you workin’ on?”

Munoz smirked. “Taking over your cases, since Holmes seems to find you lacking.”

With an effort, Doyle held on to her temper. “It’s blown over and there is no reason to take me off the cases.”

“Tell Holmes I don’t faint at the sight of blood.”

Stung, Doyle insisted, “I wasn’t faint—I just needed a moment. The murders were with a large-caliber gun and it was a crackin’ mess.”

Munoz’s envy was palpable. “I hate you, Doyle. What I wouldn’t give for a homicide.”

Doyle felt badly; Munoz did have grounds for complaint as it turned out Doyle indeed had an unfair advantage. “Speak to Habib,” she suggested. “Tell him you’d like to be an extra hand when the next one is reported.”

Munoz sulked, her mouth drawn down. “He’ll just give it to Williams—it’s a boys’ club.” She paused. “Except for you. Would you put in a good word for me with Holmes?”

Doyle was exasperated. “If you are civil to me, perhaps.”

“Come on, Doyle; we girls have to look out for each other. When he throws you off the cases, mention to him that I’d do much better.”

Doyle controlled herself only with an effort. “Leave off, Munoz, someone’s coming.”

The visitor turned out to be Acton himself. Doyle reflected that lately he spent more time in the cubicled basement of this building than at his fancy office in the other—you’re quite the attraction, my girl, she thought, and hid a smile.

Munoz’s chirpy “Good morning, sir,” received a nod of acknowledgment before he halted in the entryway to Doyle’s cubicle. “Constable; would you come with me to the review room?”

She met his eyes in speculation, but he gave no outward indication that he was inclined to maul her about again; therefore, she picked up her laptop and followed him down the hall to the review room. After closing the door, he asked, “Who was that?”

“That was DC Munoz. You met her the other day in the canteen.” Poor Munoz, Doyle thought with no sympathy—serves her right for pushing herself forward. “She is castin’ a proprietary eye on my cases because my job is in jeopardy, accordin’ to the general consensus.”

Surprised, he met her eyes, and she explained, “They think you were chewin’ me out yesterday. Although to be fair, indeed you were—after a fashion. But I’d rather not explain to all and sundry exactly what’s going on until I’ve had a chance to find my feet, so to speak—” With a mental yank on her wayward mind, she concluded, “I know I’m gabblin’ and I beg your pardon. I’m nervous.”

“Don’t be.” He touched her hand with his. “We’ll take things slowly.”

She eyed him in disbelief at this unmitigated falsehood but didn’t call him out; best to think of how to proceed from here. “I know there’s not to be any discussion, and I’ll bear that in mind, but there are two things I would like to tell you and two things I would like to ask you.” Good one, Doyle, she thought. When she had rehearsed this, she had not been sure she would have the courage to say it.

There was a silence. “If you don’t mind,” she added, her resolve collapsing under his unreadable gaze. Small wonder everyone confesses to him, she thought; I’d be terrified of him myself if it weren’t for the fact he was kissin’ on me something fierce just recently. She blushed.

“If you wish.” He was wary; he didn’t like the thought of having to answer questions. Small blame to him, what with the whole Section Seven thing going on.

“Surely there are some things you’d like to ask me,” she countered.

“No,” he replied with a small smile. “There are not.”

Saints and angels, she thought, unable to resist smiling in return. The wretched man’s completely nicked, to take the likes of me at face value.

“What have you discovered about the murders?”

Back to business, then; apparently there was to be no unbridled lovemaking in the review room
—
which is as it should be, she told herself firmly. They sat and she queued her laptop to bring up the criminal records of the slain couple and turned it so that he could view the screen alongside her.

“Not your ordinary mister and missus. His prints come up as Grady O’Brien, although there are several aka’s—all Irish, I’m ashamed to say. He did time for drug traffickin’ and money launderin’. He’s been out for over five years—no recent record. She was known as Helen O’Brien but no evidence they had married. She did cons and skirted hard time with community service.”

She paused and looked up, as he did not seem to be listening. He read the screen, frowning, then pulled the laptop closer and re-read the information. Recognizing that he was deep in thought, Doyle waited. After a few long moments of profound silence, she ventured, “No immediate leads on who would want them dead, but their records mean there’s a wealth of possibilities—a blackmail victim or a fallin’ out among thieves.”

He lowered his eyes to the table, thinking, and she had a brief and startled impression that he was profoundly distracted. Puzzled, she was going to ask for his thoughts when he re-focused with an effort. “But whoever it was wanted to cover his tracks.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “It was disguised as a murder-suicide—a closed case.”

“So not someone who wanted to send a message.” He said it slowly, as if he was testing it out.

She was getting mixed signals from him and was confused. “No, it doesn’t appear that a message was sent, so not a turf war. Not revenge.” She paused for a moment. “Helen was shot in the face, like Giselle. Perhaps another crime of rage?” Doyle thought this was doubtful. After all, the woman was over forty and didn’t look to be one to inspire passion.

At her words, Acton looked up at her, and she had the impression he was struck by something she had said. “Perhaps,” he said in a neutral tone, the words at odds with the signals she was receiving. “However, you needn’t worry about it. You have too much on your plate already. I’ll see to it that the case is reassigned elsewhere.”

She blinked in surprise. “Yes, sir.” Her caseload was heavy at present, and if this one was reassigned, it would help relieve the grumblings about favoritism. Unfortunately, Munoz and the others would think he had taken her off the case in disgust after her behavior at the crime scene. It doesn’t matter, she told herself firmly. I know better. She glanced at him sidelong as he almost absently closed her laptop, still deep in thought. Hard to believe he had been so enthralled by her fair self that he had lost all control; she had a faint bruise near the base of her throat to show for it. She hoped he would touch her hand again.

Rather abruptly, he stood to leave. “Send all the information you’ve gathered to me, if you please.” He paused at the door, and her pulse quickened, despite herself.

But he was not to broach matters personal. “PC Owens has asked to be transferred in as a TDC, a trainee.”

She was not surprised. “It is a good opportunity for him to put in for it, havin’ met you and done well. He can’t be blamed for puttin’ it to the touch.” She paused, stricken with embarrassment by her choice of words, but he only smiled in acknowledgment. She realized that she had seen him smile more in the past two days than the entire three months she had worked with him.

“I’d be interested in what you think of him,” he continued, as though there hadn’t been an awkward pause. “See if you can draw him out.”

“All right.” Here was a wrinkle; Acton must be keen on him, then.

“Shall we have our discussion over dinner?”

“Oh—yes, of course; if you would like,” she stammered, unnerved by the switch in topic.

He regarded her with no little tenderness. “Kathleen, there is no shame in our having dinner together.”

With a massive effort she calmed down. “I know, sir; I’m afraid it’s goin’ to take some gettin’ used to is all.”

He teased her, “You needn’t call me ‘sir’ when we are alone, you know.”

“Yes—I do know—” She bit back another sir just in time and then shared another smile with him over it.

“China Flower?” he asked.

“Done.” She was very fond of Chinese food.

C
HAPTER
11

 

After work Doyle walked over to Acton’s building and then waited for him at the lift in the lobby. He was a few minutes late and apologized, which in itself was a sign of the change in their relationship. “I had to push back a meeting; something unexpected has come up.”

“Whist,” she said easily. “No need to explain.” She was careful not to call him “sir.”

They descended the lift to the premium garage, and she was almost amused to discover that any constraint she had felt in his presence had completely disappeared. All prior uncertainties had arisen because he was one of the few people she was unable to read, but now she had a very good guess at exactly what he was thinking and apparently there was little she could do to fall from grace. She ducked her head to hide a smile and was aware that she was very, very happy. She would have touched his arm, but she still felt a little shy around him and besides, there were security cameras in the lifts and the security personnel were not known for their discretion.

Acton drove a new model Range Rover, and as they made their way in the evening traffic to the West End, she admired its finer points. “You’d be ill-advised to let me drive it, though,” she confessed with some regret. “It’s a hazard, I am.”

“You need practice, is all. We’ll go out of the city sometime and find a quiet road.”

“I would be much obliged.” Although men were particular about their cars and there was perhaps no faster way to take the bloom off the rose—not to mention it was hard to imagine Acton off the clock. But in the same way she was consciously trying to be at ease with him, she was trying to imagine how this new and unrehearsed relationship would work. She tested it out in her mind—we are like any other couple, and we will do things together and go places that do not feature mangled corpses. The picture thus presented was so utterly fantastic she decided to think about something else.

Apparently Acton’s thoughts were running along similar lines as he threaded his way through Piccadilly. “Have you spoken to anyone about us?”

Here was a question that, coming from him, generated equal parts surprise and alarm. “No one.”

He turned to her for a moment, searching her face. “No mention to anyone? No hints given?”

Doyle shook her head. “Not a soul, my friend. Is rumor control a concern?”

He turned back to face the traffic. “I only wondered.”

She teased him, “Little risk there, no one would believe me in the first place.”

He glanced at her again and she suddenly felt a little warm. “They will.”

Here was a thought that made her uneasy—when she was with him, she felt they were well-suited; she was gaining confidence with each passing minute, and she could easily imagine going somewhere quiet together to practice her driving. However, a cold knot of dread formed in the region of her midsection when she contemplated the reaction of the public at large to this monumental mismatch. Not to mention his mother, the dowager. He had mentioned his mother only once, and Doyle had sensed he held her in great dislike; she didn’t sound like one who would embrace the fair Doyle to her aristocratic bosom.

“Has anyone guessed, do you think?” he persisted.

With some surprise, she intercepted a glimpse of unhappiness—no, more like uneasiness—emanating from him, startling in that it seemed so out of place and of a tenor that did not gibe with mere concerns about office gossip. “Acton,” she said gently. “Tell me what is afoot.”

He paused. “I’d rather not, I’m afraid. But I would like an answer.”

It was a measure of her respect for him that she did not pursue it; whatever rumor he was trying to quash she was apparently better off not knowing—although she was well-aware there was rife speculation about their association. She thought for a moment. “Perhaps Habib.”

“Your supervisor?” He raised his brows in surprise.

“He’s very sharp, is Habib. He saw you on the mornin’ of Giselle’s murder when you were searchin’ for me.”

Acton frowned. “He doesn’t strike me as a gossip.”

“Definitely not,” Doyle agreed.

Acton mulled it over. “The woman who is your friend from church?”

Doyle blinked. “Nellie? No. She knows who you are, but she doesn’t know about us.” She didn’t mention that there had hardly been enough time to know about “us” herself, let alone tell anyone else.

“How about the dark-haired DC?”

Very pleased that he couldn’t seem to remember her name, Doyle said, “Munoz? I don’t think she has guessed unless she is trying to spread a false rumor to get me in trouble not knowin’ it is, in fact, the truth. Do you understand what I’m sayin’?”

He gave her a look. “She sounds charming.”

Doyle chuckled. “Oh, we’re cutthroat at the bottom and no love lost, I assure you.”

He reached to touch her hand. “You needn’t work there any longer, if you’d rather not.”

“We’re gettin’ ahead of ourselves,” Doyle replied in a fluster. “Work is one of my two questions.”

“I beg your pardon,” he said gravely. “I withdraw the comment.”

She smiled out the window at the city lights—definite sightings of a sense of humor. This was not so difficult after all. In fact, it was rather fun, except that he was worried that someone knew about their relationship, which seemed a bit odd, as he had not indicated he wanted to keep it a clandestine type of thing. She wondered what he had heard and then decided that whatever it was, it couldn’t hold a candle to the truth.

When they arrived at the upscale restaurant, she realized it was a good choice for a private discussion. The back wall of the China Flower was lined with semi-enclosed wooden booths, and it was to one of these they were escorted by a deferential host. As was his custom, Acton sat where he could watch the restaurant and Doyle sat facing him. They ordered, and he opened the conversation by saying without preamble, “I’d like you to start wearing a weapon.”

So much for romance, she thought—all in all, this is a very odd sort of date. “I am not authorized to wear a weapon, Acton.” The protocol required six weeks of weapons training before a concealed weapon could be carried by a detective.

He contemplated her. “Nevertheless.”

She contemplated him right back. “So I’m to ignore the protocol?”

His eyes didn’t waver. “Yes.”

She considered this. “I suppose I should not be surprised, comin’ as it is from the man who wanted to have his way wi’ me in the midst of a sequestered crime scene.”

He smiled that rare and wonderful smile. Proud of it, he is, she thought—men; honestly.

“I’d like you to start tonight.”

She remembered his questions on the ride over and could not suppress a twinge of alarm. “Is there a particular reason that I should be concerned about my safety?”

He paused, deciding what to say. “Nothing specific. It is a precaution, and your safety is important to me.”

This was true, which was a relief. She decided there was no harm in it—at least if she didn’t get caught. The fact that she could be sacked and arrested—and not necessarily in that order—did not seem to enter into the equation. Come to think of it, this request was very much in keeping with their conversation after the pawnshop visit, when Acton had been trying to avoid a direct statement that would reveal he was involved in selling illegal weapons. A rare brumble, this was—a DCI selling black market; and here she was worrying about such trivialities as departmental policy. “All right, then. And where am I to get a weapon?” She listened for his answer with veiled interest; obtaining a legal gun in England was the equivalent of pulling hen’s teeth.

But as could be expected, he was not going to give specifics. “I have it in the car—it’s an ankle holster and shouldn’t weigh you down much. I’ll show you how to wear it.”

Nodding as though this were an ordinary conversation, she privately thought that she’d best look lively and get to weapons training to keep them both out of trouble. She knew how to fire a gun—they had been taught at the Academy—but she hadn’t practiced in a while. No question he was concerned about something tonight. Or he might be suffering from a general paranoia; he was a Section Seven, after all.

Their food was served and they began to eat, sharing between them. Despite it being a first date, he showed little curiosity about her past—apparently because he already knew everything. Aware on some level that she should probably be uneasy about this situation, she realized she was not; she trusted him. She knew—the way she knew the things she knew—that he would never harm her. And she knew she made him vulnerable—perhaps was the only thing in the world that made him vulnerable—which in turn made her fiercely long to protect him.

Any attempts to draw him out about his own background were deftly turned aside, giving her a very good guess he didn’t want her to have a clear picture of how disparate their lives were. I am a coward, she thought, and I’d rather not know
—
not yet, anyway. Much of the meal was spent in companionable silence, which was one thing that had not changed between them; neither was inclined to idle conversation.

Nothin’ for it, she thought. “I need to tell you two things.” He waited, watching her. Doesn’t like this whole discussion business, she thought; but there’s no bunkin’ it. With a steadying breath, she began her recitation. “My parents didn’t have much; my mother met my father at a dance and I made my appearance in short order. My da left us before I was two, so I don’t have any memory of him. My mother died of cancer two years ago.” She paused, because here it was and no putting it off. “I am not sure that my parents ever married—my mother never spoke of it to me.”

“Yes,” he said. “There is a record of it.”

She stared at him in surprise. “There is?”

He leaned back, his manner matter-of-fact. “You’ve been vetted, of course, and because you are Irish, it’s been very thorough. Their history is in your personal file and it shows they were married at St. Bridget’s Church outside of Dublin. It notes you were born six months later.” He showed a glint of humor. “I can show you the record, if you’d like, even though it would be against protocol.”

“No,” she replied, lowering her eyes. “That won’t be necessary. Well, that is a relief—I was worried about stainin’ the Acton escutcheon.” She glanced at him to see if he appreciated the ten-pound word.

“It wouldn’t matter to me in any event.”

Doyle smiled at him, as it was the truth. “No, I suppose not.” There was no question, of course, that a review of the parish records of St. Bridget’s would show her parents’ wedding. The real question was whether it had actually taken place, and she very much doubted it had. It didn’t matter; she would not pursue it in deference to him—she had duly noted that he had couched his words so that she could not spot the lie. He was a wily one, he was.

One tangle patch down, one more to go. She soldiered on, “The other thing I have to tell you is about sex.” Ah, this caught his full attention. “Truth to tell, I haven’t much experience.”

He met her gaze thoughtfully. “That is not a qualification.”

She smothered a smile and explained, “And by not much, I mean none.”

There was a pause. “I see.”

So here was something he didn’t know. She tried valiantly not to color up but failed. “Just so you are aware.”

“Yes. Thank you.”