Murder in Thrall (13 page)

“Perhaps who killed him?”

No—but she couldn’t very well announce this to Habib. “Perhaps. I think he is afraid, and he is not one who scares easily.”

Habib nodded, saying nothing, and Doyle had no idea what he was thinking. I am losing my touch, she thought; that or Habib is a space alien, which is always a possibility.

“I understand you are not to handle the Somers Town case.”

“Yes, sir.” She did not refute the implied rebuke mainly because it was irrefutable.

“You are wise to submit to the chief inspector’s orders without question.” There was a note of approval in his solemn voice.

You have no idea, Doyle thought—he’ll definitely have the ordering of me tonight, my friend. Immediately, she felt much better.

He took his leave. “Very good. I believe this case will be resolved shortly—this does not seem the type of case that will go cold.”

“No, sir,” agreed Doyle. And neither will I, tonight.

C
HAPTER
16

 

Doyle left work late because she knew she would not be doing any follow-up tonight at home and she needed to finish off some loose ends. When she emerged from her tube station, she stopped by the dreary little Sav-Mart on the corner and pondered what to pick up—she had no idea what Acton liked to eat, except for Chinese food. He didn’t seem to eat much; he was so tall and lean. She could feel herself blushing right there in the produce aisle between the tomatoes and the peppers. Brasser, she thought; take hold of your lustful self.

She bought some essentials and then stood in line at the cashier under the flickering fluorescent lights with the other poor souls who were also in need of sustenance. The middle-aged woman in front of her was on her mobile, emanating an anxious sadness. Speaking in a low voice, she left a message; she was having trouble reaching him, she said, and she wished he’d let her know where he’d gone—would he be home for dinner? An alternate universe, Doyle thought, and dutifully texted her symbol to Acton. She then froze, suddenly struck; that’s odd. The person in line behind her began to mutter, and thus recalled, Doyle moved forward.

She returned home and put her groceries away, turning over possibilities in her mind. She’d ask Acton about it—that is, if there was a chance to get a word in tonight. On the one hand it was flattering, his being so avid, and all; but on the other hand, she had the very strong impression that even when they were havin’ at it, he did not let his guard down, he would not let her in.

As she sorted out the fruit, replacing the old with the new, she thought about it; it may be he was afraid that he would frighten her with the intensity of his—his fixation. She didn’t scare easy, though, and she already had a fair estimation of the nature of it. Despite this, she had stepped into this whirlpool without a tremor—if nothing else, she was true to form; he had called her impetuous, but in reality it was part and parcel of her abilities. When you could sense the things she could, it was almost impossible to do nothing and this was why it was all so difficult for her. I wanted to help Acton, she realized, although she knew he would be surprised to hear that she thought he needed help. And he is so very attractive—the attraction itself is attractive in its own way. And there is that other thing—we are freakish, the both of us; trying to pretend we’re normal when we’re not. And it is so tedious to try to find someone compatible, especially when no one—
no one
—could remotely hold a candle to Acton. She closed the cupboard with a soft click. That was the reason, and that alone. No one else came close, and no one else ever would.

Her instinct was to humor him; wear the ankle holster, text him every hour, happily accede to his sexual overtures with the hope that over time, his symptoms would ease. She was no psychiatrist, however, and didn’t know if this was the best course. Perhaps she would begin researching it to see what she could find out—but the thought was rejected almost immediately; he wouldn’t care for a confrontation and it would feel like a betrayal. She knew down to the soles of her shoes that she was good for him and that was enough—she would do the best she was able.

Her mobile buzzed, and he texted her that he was on his way. She watched him park his car from the window and then withdrew, feeling self-conscious. No need to be spying on him—there was enough of that going around. When she opened the door to his knock, he leaned down and kissed her gently as he came through. She worried for an unguarded moment that her neighbors could see, and then took hold of herself and smiled. “I didn’t know what you’d like to eat.”

“I will eat whatever you put in front of me,” he said, pulling at his tie, “but not just yet.” He hoisted her up and she obligingly wrapped her legs around him as he propelled them into the bedroom. He broke his mouth away from hers to ask, “Have you practiced shooting?”

Looking down at him with her forearms resting on his shoulders, she teased, “You need to work on your sweet nothin’s, Acton,”

“Practice.”

She bit his earlobe. “I’ll practice you one, I will,” and laughed as they fell into the bed.

Later, she sat with him at her kitchen table eating ham and butter sandwiches, wearing his shirt with one leg tucked beneath her. “I thought of somethin’ that doesn’t make sense. D’you recall when we were at the Laughin’ Cat and we went over to sit with Giselle?”

“Yes.” Acton watched her mouth as she ate. He had a lovely, lovely torso.

“She was textin’ on her mobile and smokin’, but she was unhappy; d’ you remember?”

“Yes.”

Sensing that she would have a limited amount of time to get this out before her presence would be requested in the bedroom yet again, she cut to the nub. “Her mobile records show no text messages that night, and Capper said her mobile was turned off.”

This caught his attention, and he drew his brows together. “Let’s double-check the mobile and the provider—she may have had other accounts.” He thought about it. “Or it was not her mobile.”

“Capper’s records also show no calls or texts after six—which contradicts his story of tryin’ to contact her.”

He tilted his head. “Perhaps he used a different mobile. He was in hiding, remember.”

“I know, but we did see her textin’, and I got the impression she was annoyed at the time—perhaps because she couldn’t get through.”

Acton was silent for a few moments, thinking. “What did you think of Capper?”

“He didn’t kill her, as we’d already guessed. He was afraid—and he was truly sickened by the photos. He was not involved in the Sinn Féin splinter group.”

“Do you think he was afraid because we caught him running numbers after he’d been banned or do you think he was afraid of the killer?”

She shook her head. “I can’t break it down like that, I’m afraid. But if he’s afraid of the same thing the trainer was afraid of, it means he’s more frightened of the killer than of us and our paltry numbers-runnin’ misdemeanor. Perhaps you could apply some more pressure? Rattle your sword and search his place for evidence?”

Acton regarded her patiently. “What pressure I can bring to bear is no match for the photos of Giselle’s face.”

“Oh,” she said. “I see.”

“But a search is a good idea,” he added, as though speaking to a bright eight-year-old.

She made a wry mouth. “Remember, you are not to humor me—I am content to learn at your feet.” She licked a dab of butter from her finger and could see from his arrested expression that her action had started an altogether different train of thought. “We can speak on it tomorrow,” she concluded, and allowed him to pull her onto his lap.

Some time later she lay in her bed with her head on his chest, looking at the sliver of moonlight coming in through the lace curtains that did not quite meet in the middle. He was awake, his hands moving on her arms, gently stroking. If someone had told her a week ago she would be thus situated, she would have told them they were out of their minds and should be shriven besides. Acton had said nothing for over an hour and she was thinking wistfully of the ice tray.

“I would like to give you something.”

“Somethin’ else, you mean?” She giggled.

She could feel him chuckle in his chest. “Yes.”

She giggled again. It had been a long time since she’d giggled.

“I would like to pay Dr. Lennox.”

Dr. Lennox was the cancer specialist who had treated her mother. The National Health Service had not covered him, but she had hired him anyway; he had been worth every penny. So Acton had been into her finances, small surprise. Another felony. “Thank you. I would appreciate it.”

He was surprised she acquiesced so easily and his arms tightened around her. “Any other debts I didn’t discover?”

“No. Only my rental.”

“Move in with me, then.” There was an underlying intensity to the words.

She tried to be light. “And leave all this, Acton?”

But he was not to be dissuaded. “I cannot come every night—and my flat has better security.”

He was worried again, but she experienced her own jolt of anxiety at the thought that their relationship would be exposed to the world. A bit defensively, she replied, “You said that no one need know until I had become accustomed.”

“And you have not.” It was a statement.

“No,” she confessed, “I have not.”

The stroking paused. “What can I do to change that?”

“Is this a discussion?” she teased.

“Yes.” He was not to be diverted. “Have you thought about what is next for us?”

Mother of God, she thought; there is an “us” now that has to be thought about. She didn’t know what to say and so said nothing.

He began lightly stroking her arms again. “Are you not sure?”

She was quick to reassure him and tightened her fingers on his chest with affection. “I am very sure. But it will cause quite the ruckus—a nine days’ wonder—and it will be just the kind of thing I’ll hate, I’m afraid. I’ll be wantin’ to gird my loins, so to speak.”

He was quiet for a moment. “Does it matter what anyone else thinks?”

Propping herself on her elbows, she turned over to look at him in the dim light, and he watched her actions with his dark eyes. She replied honestly, “I know it shouldn’t, but it does.”

He lifted his hands and held her face between them. “Nothing matters to me but you.”

It was the pure truth and it frightened her—I cannot be solely responsible for this man’s happiness, she thought, panicked.

He must have sensed her emotional skittishness because he pulled her head to his chest. “Forgive me; I am impatient and I shouldn’t press you.”

“Truly, I am adjustin’—I promise, Acton.” She felt a bit ashamed that she was not as committed as he—even though committed was perhaps not the best term to use. Gently pulling at the hair on his chest, she chose her words with care. “It may be for the best—to find our way at a slower pace, I mean. This—interest—of yours may dissipate; you never know.” She managed a light tone. “You wouldn’t want to wake up one fine mornin’ and realize you and I are quite the mésalliance.” A fancy word, and French besides. But there it was.

He lifted his hand to stroke her temple and slowly pulled a tendril of her hair through his fingers. “I would appreciate it,” he said as he watched the strand fall to her shoulder, “—if you never say such a thing again.”

He meant it, too. She rushed to cover her gaffe and dropped a kiss on his chest. “Nay,” she said in her broadest accent, “it’s a lucky man, you are. And to think I never got the chance to attend me find-a-mate seminar for which I parted wi’ twenty hard-earned quid.”

“Two weeks.” His tone was a bit grim as he pulled her atop him to kiss her, her hair falling around his head. “Two weeks to gird your loins.”

My loins, she thought, have been thoroughly girded already, thank you very much.

C
HAPTER
17

 

Doyle was sleepy and wondered as she dropped into her chair how Acton was faring—they hadn’t slept much. She groped for the latte that had been left on her desk by the messenger and that was thankfully not yet cold. Having overslept, she woke to find Acton gone. He must have left before the birds were up, but he never seemed tired—one of the benefits of being certifiable, she supposed. Smiling, she stretched forth her arms. You’re certifiable yourself, my girl—God help us both, but this schedule is brutal.

Habib popped up at her entryway, making her spill her coffee in surprise. “You see,” he said, his dark eyes glittering with suppressed excitement. “I said it would resolve.”

“I haven’t checked my messages, sir.” She dabbed at the stain and was grateful she was wearing black. “What’s afoot?”

Habib’s clipped words spilled over onto themselves. “DCI Acton is at the crime scene with DCs Munoz and Williams. The suspect for the racecourse murders—the one who was here for the interview—”

“Capper?” prompted Doyle, suddenly wide awake and wishing he would get to the flippin’ point.

“Yes. He and another were in a shoot-out in an alley near Leadenhall Market. Both dead.”

“Holy Mother,” breathed Doyle.

“Indeed,” agreed Habib. “Remember that I said as much.”

“You are indeed prescient, sir.” It was an excellent word and one she had feared she’d never have opportunity to utter. It didn’t seem as satisfying, however, in light of the cataclysmic news that Munoz was at the crime scene and not her. “Could I go, sir? I have been workin’ the case, after all.”

Habib hesitated. “Remember that you were taken off the Somers Town case—do you think the chief inspector is unhappy with your performance?”

No, she thought; in fact, if I detailed to you how happy he was—last I checked—you would blush to hear it. “I think he couldn’t reach me, sir,” she prevaricated instead. “I was a little under the weather this mornin’ and came in late.”

He hesitated, not sure what would best please his superior, and she pressed her advantage. “I’m certain he’d like me to help them process the scene, sir—I have a lot of information on the case.”

“All right,” he agreed with some reluctance. “But if you are not needed, please return. There has been a rash of thefts in Pimlico.”

Doyle didn’t trust herself to answer. Grabbing her rucksack, she pelted down to the crime scene, checking her messages to verify that Acton had not attempted to contact her—he had not. With an effort, she tried to control her temper as she rode the tube; perhaps he had gone without her so that the others would not conclude they came from the same place. With a grimace, she discarded the theory immediately; no one would assume such a ludicrous thing, which was one of the reasons she dreaded breaking the news to the unsuspecting public. Perhaps he hadn’t heard the report until he was on his way in, but this did not explain why he hadn’t called her. Instead, he called Munoz and Williams, and they were working her case while she was at home, sleeping like a dosser.

Take hold of your foolish self, she scolded, and just do your job. Emerging from the station, she strode out quickly for two blocks and then came upon what was usually a welcome and familiar sight—the early morning discovery of a fatal confrontation the night before. The bodies were in an alleyway, between two dumpsters and bordered on three sides by commercial buildings. Even at this hour, PCs were busy keeping the bystanders back and the scene was cordoned off with forensics tape. As it was a business district, the gawkers tended to be more discreet and better dressed, but evidenced the same fascination with sudden death that was a hallmark of the human race. Acton’s tall figure was easy to spot; he was speaking with the SOCOs and indicating what he wanted done. Munoz and Williams appeared to be taking measurements and marking evidence with yellow numbered markers.

Munoz was a brasser and a nasty piece of work, but Doyle—giving the devil her due—knew she did excellent work and would not allow an opportunity to impress Acton pass her by. Williams’s work was always first-rate. Doyle bit her nail, tired and annoyed and consumed with a burning sense of injustice; apparently she had been relegated to performing an altogether different line of work for the illustrious chief inspector.

It didn’t help matters that, now that she had arrived at the scene, Doyle felt a little foolish. She was debating what to do when she saw that Acton had spotted her. He showed no surprise, but indicated she should approach. He looked fresh as a daisy, wretched man.

She stepped under the tape and moved next to him where he stood, reviewing the scene. “Our suspect has been conveniently dispatched.”

If she hadn’t been so annoyed, she would have considered the nuance in his remark. Instead, she said stiffly, “So I heard from Habib.”

At her tone he glanced sideways at her, considering, as other personnel moved between the bodies, carefully bagging evidence and taking photographs. She refused to meet his eyes.

“I did not want to disturb you,” he explained quietly.

“I would appreciate it,” she ground through her teeth, “if you never say such a thing again.”

There was a surprised pause. “Fair enough.”

A silence fell between them and continued while the team began the process of loading the body bags. In a small voice she asked, “May I help in some way?”

“Witness statements.” He glanced up at the many windows that loomed overhead. “Although this is a commercial area, perhaps someone was here late and heard something.”

“I’m on it.” She turned and walked away, pulling her fancy mobile from her rucksack. When she had cleared the corner of the nearest building, she stopped and texted: “I M wretchedly sorry.” She waited for a moment, feeling miserable until the return message came: “Don’t be.”

You are such a crackin’ knocker, she thought, running her thumb over the words on the screen. Lucky for you he’s fatally stricken. Pulling herself together, she went to knock on doors and take down information from the businesses surrounding the scene, the members of which were stationed at the windows and watching the proceedings in the alley. As usual, there was a feeling of excitement among the bystanders; of being involved in the big story. Sometimes this sense of excitement resulted in a fish tale, where a witness would claim to have heard or seen something to inflate his own importance. Fortunately, she was well-suited for sorting the wheat from the chaff and gave those attention-seekers short shrift.

As she was taking notes, her hands paused; the killer had watched the Teddington crime scene—perhaps he was here, too. Paying careful attention, she began asking the potential witnesses if they worked in the building and she found no one prevaricating. She thought about texting Acton to canvass the bystanders outside, but she decided it wasn’t necessary—Acton would know to do it, and if there was anything to observe, it would be duly observed. He had an amazing capacity for detail, whereas she, by contrast, had an amazing capacity for losing her temper.

Despite the fact there seemed to be little of interest, she kept at it; someone may have been working late in an office or on a cleaning crew and heard something. It was tedious work, going floor to floor, but she felt the need to atone and worked conscientiously and without inward complaint. It was nearly noon when she finished canvassing the last of the buildings surrounding the site and concluded there were no leads to speak of, but she did get the contact information for the cleaning crews and asked the office managers to check and let her know if any other personnel had been working late last night.

Doyle leaned back in the lift as it descended and took a deep breath. She was exhausted but knew it was important to get as many leads as possible early on. Mentally reviewing what she had gleaned, she decided to return to the Met and begin contacting the cleaning companies immediately.

Acton had not texted her since that morning, but this was to be expected, what with the double murder to process. As she exited the building, she beheld the welcome sight of his Range Rover, waiting at the curb. Think o’ the devil, she thought, and smiled at him in relief; apparently she was not in the dog house, thanks be to God.

He reached across to open the car door for her and she slid in. “Are you hungry?”

“Contrite.”

“No,” he said as he pulled away. “You had every right to be angry.”

She blew out her breath in exasperation. “No, Acton; I should not have spoken to you as I did. I took gross advantage of our personal relationship and it was wrong, wrong, wrong.” She emphasized the words with a finger.

“But we do have a personal relationship,” he pointed out. “I owed you an explanation because of it.”

Wary of saying something insulting again about which was more important, she chose her words with care. “When we are at work, you are my superior. I should not treat you with less respect than you deserve.”

He glanced at her. “And I cannot treat you as I would any other DC—any other person. It would be impossible.”

Now it was her turn to be thoughtful. “While we puzzle this out, d’you think we could find some crackin’ strong coffee somewhere?”

Turning onto Gracechurch, he remarked, “You need more sleep—my turn to be wretchedly sorry.”

She glanced at him sidelong. “I don’t think either one of us is sorry at all.”

This pronouncement was rewarded with that rare genuine smile. “No.”

“That’s just it,” she confessed, leaning back and closing her eyes. “I was that tired, and I heard the news from Habib instead of you, and Munoz was takin’ my place—”

“Is she a problem?”

Feeling like a petulant child, she complained, “I just don’t want her takin’ my place, Acton; she fancies you.”

He gave her a look that made her chuckle. “You are remarkably foolish.”

“Yes,” she sighed. “I know this, I assure you.”

“Do you want her to be transferred?”

“Faith, no.” Her exasperation returned with full force. “This is exactly what I am talkin’ about; you should not even offer to do such a thing for me.”

“There is little I wouldn’t do for you.” It was the pure truth.

“You are doin’ it again, my friend.” She subsided, having the growing conviction that she was starting to argue against herself. “Do you think we can come to terms over somethin’ to eat?”

He turned the car. “Candide’s?”

She hid her surprise. She went to Candide’s after church sometimes with Nellie when they were in the chips; Candide’s had wonderful, strong coffee. She regarded him narrowly. “What time do I attend Mass on Sundays?”

“Nine o’ clock,” he answered easily.

She considered this. “I don’t know your middle name.”

In a mild tone he soothed, “I am not surprised—there are quite a few.”