Murder in Retribution (4 page)

O
NCE AT WORK
, D
OYLE COLLAPSED IN HER CHAIR AND DRANK
deeply from the latte that awaited her as though she was an alewife at the tap. Although she’d lost her appetite, apparently her craving for coffee continued unabated and she leaned back, savoring her return to the land of the living. Acton arranged to have her favorite coffee concoction delivered to her desk each morning; before they were married, the gesture had been the first indication that she meant something to him, and she fingered the cup fondly. With a start, she wondered if she was allowed to drink coffee in her condition and reluctantly set it aside. I’ll have to ask, she thought with resignation; it wants only this.

Detective Inspector Habib, her supervisor, appeared in the entryway to her cubicle. He was a very correct and self-contained Pakistani man who would occasionally unbend enough to give Doyle some good insight on her cases. Today, however, he was issuing orders to beat the band, the singsong cadence of his voice rapid-fire. “The chief inspector has asked that you work with Detective Sergeant Williams on the aqueduct and Newmarket cases. He asks that you take witness statements and coordinate forensics with the senior investigating officer.”

“Yes, sir, I will,” said Doyle, unconsciously speaking as rapidly in return. Acton was careful to respect the hierarchy, and despite their marriage, still delivered all assignments by way of Habib. As Habib was very keen on protocol, this seemed the right tack, although it was clear the man had been a bit thrown by the unexpected turn of events; he admired Acton, but he could not approve of inter-caste marriage.

“DS Williams will take the lead,” Habib added, not-so-subtly reminding her that Williams outranked her now.

“Yes, sir.” If Munoz was listening from the cubicle next door she would be fit to be tied; excluded from this plum assignment and reminded of Williams’s promotion all in one fell swoop. After Habib turned on his heel and left, Doyle waited for the explosion, but it did not come, so she decided to tempt fate. “Munoz, have you dropped dead over there?”

Munoz’s voice came through the cubicle partition wall. “I don’t care, Doyle; Williams is not worth the trouble. You are welcome to him.”

Doyle correctly interpreted this to mean that Williams had not succumbed to Munoz’s lures, and so did not argue the point. “Ah well; his loss.”

The other girl continued, “I’m too busy working on a project for Drake, anyway.”

The hint of triumph in this announcement reminded Doyle that there had been some serious flirtation going on between DCI Drake and Munoz. I hope she’s not having an affair with him, thought Doyle, remembering Drake as vain and self-centered. Nothing I could say to her, of course; she would laugh in my face, what with my own history. “What sort of project?”

“I’m supposed to keep it under wraps. It has to do with flesh-peddling.”

Doyle idly reviewed her inbox and found herself drinking from the latte again—it was that forbidden-fruit effect. “Sounds dangerous, if you don’t mind my sayin’. Look to yourself; you’ll be sold to white slavers, else.”

“I’m not white; they’ll not have me.”

“Spanish slavers, then,” Doyle corrected. Hopefully she had teased Munoz out of a temper tantrum, but it appeared she had been only partially successful.

“They like Williams better because he is a man—it is
so
unfair.”

This topic was a potential minefield; Williams and Munoz had vied for top honors at the Crime Academy, but Williams had topped Munoz in most subjects. She would not thank Doyle for reminding her of this irritating fact, and so Doyle turned the subject. “Whist, Munoz; you’re an intelligent and good-lookin’ minority female. Go out and exploit your fair self.”

This comment was met with a few moments of profound silence. “You know, Doyle, every once in a while you have a decent idea.”

“Don’t be over-kind,” Doyle cautioned. “You’ll get soft.”

But Munoz wasn’t listening, instead thinking aloud, “I should make myself available to the public relations people; get my face shown about a bit.”

“That’s the ticket; Williams is nowhere near as politically correct.”

Munoz made an appearance in the cubicle entryway, surprising Doyle so that she juggled her coffee. “Walk with me over to the deli; I’m sick of the canteen and I’m in need of a bagel.”

After a quick weighing of Munoz’s mood, Doyle acquiesced. She’d done precious little work thus far, but she decided she could use some fresh air, now that she was feeling more the thing thanks to the forbidden brew. It was a fine, sunny day, and besides, she was married to a DCI—they couldn’t very well sack her, after all. With a guilty start, she made a mental note not to start thinking she could exploit her connection to win favors at work, or she’d soon be without one or the other—the work or the connection.

The two girls made their way upstairs and out the front doors to the street. Once outside, they ran into DCI Drake, who was headed in. “Now, here’s a striking pair,” he said with practiced charm. “Are you escaping?”

“Only to get a bagel,” explained Doyle quickly, still feeling guilty for thinking she was immune from repercussions.

“Join us, sir,” invited Munoz, with a smile that had enslaved many a man. “It will only take a minute.”

He laughed and declined. “I am tempted, but I have too much work to do.” He turned to Doyle. “I haven’t had a chance to offer my best wishes.”

“Thank you.” He had, in fact—at Fiona’s funeral, but must have forgotten. Or he was trying to get Munoz’s goat, which was another possibility as Doyle could detect a gleam of amusement in his eyes.

Munoz, however, was too practiced to allow herself to be shown to disadvantage. “It is such unexpected and wonderful news,” she exclaimed warmly. “I had no idea such a thing was in the offing; did you, sir?”

“No, Acton played his cards very close to the vest. Cut me out completely.”

Doyle blushed and Munoz laughed in appreciation. “He who hesitates, sir.”

“Carry on, detectives.” He strode away.

Munoz stared at Doyle in abject astonishment. “Don’t tell me
he
was interested in you, too?”

Doyle soothed the other girl before her ears started steaming. “Of course not; he was bein’ gallant, you knocker. It’s what men do when there is no chance they’ll be held to it.”

They continued on their way, and Munoz added after a moment, “It’s not as though I don’t have my own fish on the line.”

Doyle recognized her cue and asked, “Faith, what has happened, Munoz? Have you met the anti-Williams?”

“Only that I have a date—a date with a man I met at the security desk.” She pursed her full lips with a self-satisfied air.

“Truly?” Doyle gave this interesting announcement the response it deserved. “And how did this happy turn of events come about?”

“He was visiting on business from Belarus, and didn’t know that you couldn’t come into our building without an appointment. He was in the wrong place, anyway—he needed to inquire about tariffs. I overheard him as I walked in, and gave him directions.”

“He was handsome,” Doyle concluded.

“Yes.” Munoz tossed her head. “I imagine he is rich, too—he’s a banker.”

“Send me a postcard from your castle in Belarus,” teased Doyle.

Munoz shrugged, so as to make it clear she was above being overly-excited about any mere man. “We’re going to some clubs tonight.”

Doyle felt a qualm. “Be careful; you hardly know him.”

Munoz gave her a glance that was equal parts amused and superior. “I know how to take care of myself, Doyle.” This was probably true; Munoz had plenty of experience with men. By contrast, before she married Acton, Doyle had the sum total of none.

They purchased Munoz’s bagel and began the walk back, Munoz’s mood much improved after the Belarus banker discussion. She offered the bagel to Doyle, “Want a bite?”

Doyle took a quick look at the onion-flavored cream cheese and looked away again. “No thanks.” Her heart sank; when Munoz was informed of her pregnancy she would leap to the obvious conclusion, as would everyone else. It doesn’t matter a pin, Doyle reminded herself stoutly, and tried not to think about it. It was very wearing to have a new attitude.

Back at her desk, Doyle felt guilty enough about her lack of productivity that she decided to call Williams to ask for instruction on her assignment, thinking it was a little strange he had not yet contacted her—he was usually very much on top of things. He didn’t answer his mobile, and a call to his desk resulted in the relayed information that he was out sick. Doyle hung up and frowned at the phone. He hadn’t looked to be sickening yesterday, and he was definitely not a dosser, looking to miss work. Must have caught something, she decided, and hoped he was not feeling too down-pin; she had a lot more sympathy lately for people who weren’t feeling well. She called again to leave a message on his mobile, and then picked up the threads of her aqueduct report, hoping forensics would send the missing information soon.

After working steadily for a time, she paused to tilt the coffee cup so as to retrieve the last, cold dregs, and wondered if she would go to Brighton tonight or if Acton would come home late, instead. Truth to tell, she was a little tired and would rather not make the journey, but if he needed her, she would certainly go—she could always sleep in the limousine like a Pharisee. She would wait and see; perhaps she would do some shopping after work, and get it behind her—she’d be needing some new clothes soon. New clothes, new attitude, no coffee, she thought a bit grimly; in all things give thanks.

D
OYLE INSERTED HER SECURITY CARD IN THE SLOT AT THEIR
flat, tired but nevertheless feeling that she’d completed a putoff chore. Acton had phoned to say he would drive back that evening, and so in the meantime she’d girded her loins and made good on her intention to purchase some new clothing. Never one to care much about her appearance, she now had the burden of trying to convince the general public that Acton had not committed matrimonial suicide. To this end, she would try to appear a bit more polished than in the past without, she hoped, making the transformation too noticeable—no need to appear to be putting on airs.

She had stopped by the local shops on the way home and made some purchases with the aid of the shop girls who were remarkably helpful, once they saw Acton’s title on her credit card. She bought two sweaters which would serve her well in the next few months, and trousers in the next size larger. Although it was too early to be thickening, she had discovered that she did better in the mornings if she wasn’t wearing anything too constrictive around her middle.

She had also passed by the jewelry shop where they had purchased Acton’s wedding ring, and on impulse, she’d gone inside and chosen a new tie clip for him. He’d lost his old one—she’d noticed that he had to hold his tie back with his hand when they were examining the corpse yesterday. He would be delighted with it, which was one of the advantages of his condition; she could do no wrong.

She pushed opened the door to her flat with her shoulder since her hands were full, and realized as soon as she entered that she had visitors. An older woman sat on the leather sofa, ramrod straight and regal. Doyle recognized her in an instant, and paused in surprise. “Why, you are very like him.”

The dowager Lady Acton was indeed very like Acton. She was tall and lean, with dark eyes and brows. Her hair was colored silver, but Doyle imagined it was once dark like his. Poor Acton’s father, she thought; he made little contribution, here.

Marta stood in the kitchen, making tea even though she was not supposed to be here in the first place, emanating a mixture of defiance and uneasiness. I’m to be outnumbered, then, thought Doyle grimly; we shall see.

Acton’s mother did not rise or offer her hand, but scrutinized Doyle coldly and made no response to her comment. Doyle realized that she appeared to disadvantage, coming in laden with packages from expensive stores whilst her husband was away, but any thought of offering an explanation was dismissed; she knew she talked too much when she was nervous, and she refused to be nervous before this woman, whom Acton so disliked. Instead, she walked to the table and calmly set down her packages. “I will also take tea, Marta.” Marta looked as though she expected a donnybrook, which, Doyle realized, was to her own advantage; if it came down to hand-to-hand, Doyle had the benefit of Academy training, even though the older woman outweighed her.

As she walked around to seat herself across from the dowager, she remarked, “If I had known you were to be visitin’, ma’am, I would have been at home.”

It was an implied rebuke, and if it was possible, the woman stiffened even more. Good one, thought Doyle with deep satisfaction ; perhaps I should mention that I recently shot and killed a man from the very spot the old dragon now sits. Unbidden, she felt a twinge of conscience; her mother’s daughter should overlook all insults in the interest of family peace, and make an effort to be civil—perhaps this visit was an olive branch.

“I am here because I could not credit what I have heard,” the older woman rasped in a dry voice.

Then again, thought Doyle, perhaps not.

“How old are you?” The dowager’s tone indicated if Doyle had been fourteen she would not have been surprised.

“I am twenty-four,” said Doyle, wishing she had put on some lip gloss; it was true she did not appear her age.

“And undoubtedly Irish,” the older woman mused in extreme distaste, as though she hadn’t been able to credit this report without verifying it for herself.

Doyle couldn’t resist. “Aye, that.”

They regarded each other for a long moment, while Doyle held her tongue and tried to remember whether the Fourth Commandment applied to one’s in-laws.

Marta brought over the tea tray to set it down, and Doyle recalled that the Commandment definitely did not apply to traitorous housekeepers. “It’s surprised I am to see you today, Marta.”

The woman stood and crossed her hands before her; her expression wooden as she emanated waves of wariness and resentment. She is wary because she knows Acton will back me against all comers, Doyle thought; and she is right.

“My lady was in town and thought to make a visit; I saw no harm in it—” Marta hesitated, realizing that she was in a corner, but nevertheless added deferentially, “—my lady.”

But this was an honorific too far for the dowager, who made an aristocratic sound of outrage and shifted in her seat to address Doyle in an icy tone. “It is clear,” the woman gave Marta a sidelong glance, “—that you hold my son in some sort of sexual thrall. Deplorable.”

Holding on to her temper only with an effort, Doyle concluded that his mother didn’t know Acton very well; she certainly wouldn’t have made such a remark if she knew how close to the truth it came, although anyone who took a gander at Doyle would not mistake her for a sexual temptress. “I’m afraid I’d rather not be bandyin’ personal matters abroad, ma’am.”

At this additional implied rebuke, the other woman nearly quivered with outrage. “You will mind your manners, child.”

“ ’Tis you who should mind her manners,” Doyle retorted hotly. “Have done.”

After staring at Doyle incredulously for a long and ominous moment, the dowager rose to her feet and pronounced, “It is far worse than I could have ever imagined. I will await such time as my son comes to his senses.”

Although she was inclined to think this a very good plan, Doyle realized that this person would be the only surviving grandparent—although it boggled the mind to imagine her baking ginger cake at Christmas. “Lady Acton, shouldn’t we be comin’ to terms? We have a common interest, after all.”

“I shall never have a common interest with you,” the woman declared with finality as she pulled on her gloves with a jerk.

Wait eight more months, thought Doyle, and tried again. “I will never see my own mother on this earth again, ma’am; that is the terrible meanin’ of never. Please think on it.”

It was clear the dowager did not appreciate being lectured on familial obligations by a miscreant, and made her stately way to the door. “My ridiculous son has entered into a miscegenation of the worst order. I have nothing more to say.”

The words touched a very sensitive nerve, and Doyle’s fury was suddenly unchecked as she sprang to her feet. “You’ll not be comin’ into
my
home and be insultin’
my
husband,” she hissed through her teeth. “Out the door wi’ ye, ye harridan.” She took a threatening step toward the older woman, tempted to draw her weapon for emphasis.

So as to avoid bloodshed, Marta hurried forward to open the door, and Lady Acton exited with as much dignity as she could muster under the circumstances. After the door was shut, Doyle had to struggle with her temper for a moment before addressing Marta. “How did this come about?” She had no illusions; Marta had obviously contacted Acton’s mother as soon as she realized Doyle would be home alone. Nevertheless, she wanted to hear what the housekeeper would say.

The other made no effort to concoct a story. “I do beg your pardon, my lady.”

Ah, thought Doyle; when I’m in a fury, I’m “my lady.”

“She is my old mistress, and I could not refuse her.”

This was a lie, but no more than Doyle had expected. “You may go, Marta,” she said coldly. She then retreated to the bedroom to lie down, still trembling with rage. As is human nature, she relived every word of the encounter, and thought of a good many things she should have said. Her mobile rang; it was Acton.

“I’m on my way; I should be home within the hour.”

“That’s grand, Michael,” she replied, keeping her tone neutral.

“What has happened?” he asked immediately. No point in trying to hide it if something had upset her; his radar was extremely fine-tuned.

She sighed. “Your mother came to visit.”

There was an astonished pause. “My mother?”

“Aye, that.”

There was another pause. “Is all the crockery broken?”

She smiled, and felt better immediately. “I controlled myself, I did.”

“Good girl. Should we talk about it now or when I get in?”

“It can wait,” she replied. “I did not show to advantage.”

“Impossible,” he assured her, and rang off.

She decided she felt well enough to get up and make herself presentable, which meant taking off her clothes and brushing out her hair. If Acton was in sexual thrall, she’d best look lively.

He arrived a commendably short while later and kissed her as he came in, running his eyes over the area where her robe gaped. He was distracted, however, and wanted to hear what had happened.

“You may be needin’ the scotch,” she warned him.

“That’s as may be,” he said. “Let’s hear it.”

She realized that Acton had not been drinking as much these past several weeks, and she felt another stab of shame—another indication that he was the grown-up, between them. Trying to stay calm, as though she were giving a report, she described to him in general terms the battle between the Lady Actons, thinking to edit the more explicit insults. He listened to the recitation, making no comment. Although she put it off as long as possible, she reluctantly concluded, “I should mention that durin’ the conversation she made a comment about our sex life.” He would draw his own conclusion as to the nature of the comment, of course; they would probably qualify for an Olympic team, if there were such an event.

He was furious, as she knew he would be. “Marta?”

“I imagine so. They were both already here when I came in.”

Acton looked grim. “She has no business letting anyone into our flat.”

Doyle decided that she may as well make a full confession. “It does not surprise me, Michael; when you are not present, Marta is not always very respectful to me.”

There was a pause while he struggled to control his reaction—he was most unhappy, was our Acton. “Kathleen, you should have told me; no one is allowed to disrespect you.”

“Yes, I should have told you,” she agreed.

“It is a reflection on me, after all.”

Good one, she thought—he is trying to couch it in terms that may inspire me to change my non-assertive ways; good luck to him. “I see that now,” she said humbly. “I’m that sorry, Michael; I should have thrown Marta out headlong—or at least put her in the stocks.”

He ducked his head, and finally had to smile. “I am expecting too much, am I?”

“A little.” She smiled in return. “I am still findin’ my way in all this; give me another week to become accustomed to demandin’ off with their heads.”

He pulled her to him and rested his chin on her head. “No one has license to make you feel inferior. I will ring her up now, and fire her.”

This was much appreciated; it was a fine thing to have such a champion, but she felt she had to warn him, “Your mother said she was goin’ to wait for you to come to your senses.”

Scrolling for Marta’s number, he absently replied, “My mother will relent; in the end, she has no choice.”

Deciding that she’d rather not ask him to elaborate on this ambiguous remark, Doyle listened in as Marta was given the well-deserved sack.