Murder in Thrall (14 page)

C
HAPTER
18

 

Acton’s mobile vibrated as soon as they were seated at the restaurant. He glanced at the ID but did not pick up, and Doyle was recalled to the fact that he was in the midst of a brand-new double homicide on an already difficult case. “Please do not humor me—if you need to go, I completely understand.” She added, “Leave your credit card.”

He didn’t smile in response. “It can wait. I need to talk to you.”

Oh-oh, she thought. Trouble.

His expression became serious as his eyes met hers. “There is no easy way to broach this; I’d like you off these cases.”

She stared at him in surprise and felt the prickling one feels about the eyes when one is about to cry. Knocker, she scolded herself. Buck up—after your fine speech about how he is your superior, don’t you dare. Instead she said as calmly as she was able, “All right. Do you tell Habib or should I?”

Watching her reaction, his words were gentle. “I’m sorry, Kathleen. It is no reflection on your work.”

At this crucial point their coffee was served, which gave Doyle the opportunity to regain her equilibrium. The waitress then took their order, and although she had lost her appetite, she ordered anyway because she didn’t want him to think she was upset. Such a wretched, miserable day it was; truly. And it wasn’t noon yet.

To avoid giving off the impression she was sulking, she made her report. “There was nothing startlin’ to discover in the surrounding buildings; there were only commercial tenants, and no one was reported as workin’ late. I have the names for the cleaning crew who worked up and down the floors on the east side durin’ the night. Do we have an estimated time of death?”

“Just after one.”

She brightened a bit. “Then they may have heard somethin’—they were about.”

Their food came, and Acton watched her and made no attempt to eat his omelet. Despite her steely resolve not to act like a baby, she could only push hers around her plate. With all the sincerity she could muster, she met his eyes. “Please do not let your feelin’s for me supplant your better judgment. Of course I’m disappointed, but I’ll recover.” She could see that he was debating whether to tell her something and added, “It’s all right, Acton—truly. I’ll go home early and take a nap.”

“I believe you may be in danger.”

Faith, this was a surprise. She blinked, then suggested, “I think we’re back to our original discussion, about the personal gettin’ mixed up with the professional—”

He interrupted, “Do you remember the Somers Town couple?”

Puzzled, she tried to keep up. “Yes—yes, of course—”

“The dead man was your father.”

The silence stretched out for a few moments while she stared at him in amazement. “Truly?”

He nodded, watching her.

Completely taken aback, she thought about this, plumbing herself for an emotion. There was none, and she shook her head. “It’s not as though I would recognize him on the street, Acton—he meant nothin’ to me.” In fact, her only reaction seemed to be relief; now she knew why Acton had pulled her off the case.

He released his breath—he had been worried about how she would react—and touched one of her fingers with his own. “It’s an extraordinary coincidence.”

Struggling to come to grips with it—truly, this was the wrinkle to top all wrinkles—she replied, “Meanin’ you don’t think it’s a coincidence at all.”

“No.”

Knitting her brow, she met his concerned gaze and tried to follow his train of thought. “You think it was the same killer as the racecourse killer? And that now he’s comin’ after me?”

He frowned. “Perhaps—I don’t know what I think. But I will not take any chances.”

But Doyle was finding that this killer who made no sense continued true to form and slowly shook her head. “Perhaps it
is
only an extraordinary coincidence, Acton—there seems little point in killin’ me da when I don’t even know it’s me da.”

Acton reminded her, “The killer may not have known you were estranged. And someone has been into your personal file.”

Aside from your fine self, that is, thought Doyle. “Who has access?”

“Only those with security clearance. But a first-class IT would be able to hack in—it’s always a contest to keep ahead of the latest crop of them.”

They sat in silence for a moment while she tried to assimilate this rather cataclysmic revelation—no question that Acton was certain, he knew to put her father’s name on the wedding register, after all, and he wouldn’t be mistaken about something like this.

His mobile vibrated again and he checked the identification. “I need to take this one.” He answered and said, “Acton,” then began taking notes, occasionally asking a question—it sounded like forensics to Doyle. “I’m coming in soon, don’t go anywhere.” He rang off. “I am wondering if you should stay at my flat.”

She considered the idea seriously because she knew he would worry less if she did. Shaking her head, she demurred. “I know you are worried, and I respect your judgment. But all in all, it would have been an easy thing to kill me off already if he wanted to—which makes me think that is not his intent.”

This pragmatic remark did not seem to soothe his fears. “Your flat is not very secure,” he reminded her. “You live alone.”

“Not lately I don’t,” she corrected him with a small smile. “And I have a very fine weapon to boot. I will be on high alert, I promise—I’m glad you told me.” She paused. “Does anyone else know?”

“No.”

“Good.” She did not hide her relief; she’d rather not have the brethren at the CID in on the sordid fact her father was a petty hoodlum who had come to a bad end—she’d never get that concealed carry permit, else.

Acton was silent, and she was aware he was frustrated that she wouldn’t follow his desires on this—perhaps she was being unreasonable, and foolhardy besides. It was indeed an incredible coincidence, with the emphasis on incredible. She met his eyes with all sincerity. “If you want me to go to your place, I will—I don’t want to distract you.”

She could see he was trying not to suffocate her. “Just be ready.”

“All right—I’ll pack me bag, I will.”

He made an apologetic gesture with his hands. “I’m afraid I must go back. May I drive you?”

“You may.” She tried not to think how it would look to the others when she was taken off the racecourse murders as well as the Somers Town murders. It was ironic; they would think she was in Acton’s black book when in fact it was just the opposite. She wondered what he would tell Habib that would convince her supervisor that she was not a dead weight dragging down his team’s reputation. No point to broaching the subject; on the ride back in the car, Acton was constantly on his mobile and it was not the time to ponder her own paltry career, such as it was. He seemed intensely interested in the forensics; he spoke to Williams about the ballistics and someone else about trace and fiber. Upon arrival at the premium garage, he came around to open her door and looked into her face, assessing. “Are we all right?”

She smiled into his worried eyes. “Of course, Acton—I mean it.”

“Be very careful.”

“Yes, sir,” she responded, teasing him.

“You will pay for that,” he said, “later.”

It was almost a relief to collapse in front of the laptop at her desk. Tumultuous, she thought, pronouncing the word slowly in her mind. That’s a good word. With a ragged sigh, she tried to marshal her thoughts and decide which task was needed next. If she kept busy at her deskwork, maybe she wouldn’t think about how miserable she was to be taken out of the field—and apparently there were misdemeanor thefts cryin’ out for justice in Pimlico. She was interrupted by Habib, who was suffering from some strong emotion difficult to interpret.

“Hallo, sir.” With some trepidation, Doyle wondered what could possibly befall her next.

“Chief Inspector Acton has called and asked that you be assigned to his current homicide docket as well as the Class A cold cases.” Habib looked a little harassed.

Acton, Acton, she thought, the constriction in her breast easing. You just can’t help yourself. “Yes, sir.” She tried to behave as though she were already aware of this, although she had no clue that her Section Seven was going to make it up to her in such a spectacular fashion. The assignment was not at all appropriate for a first-year, particularly one who was not particularly apt at forensics.

Habib pursed his lips and clearly wanted to make a comment but was having difficulty choosing the words. Doyle took pity on him. “The chief inspector can be very high-handed—I hope he is not upsettin’ our team’s assignment schedule.”

“Not at all,” Habib conceded with good grace. “He seems to value your services inordinately.”

Why is it, thought Doyle, that everything Habib says to me is a
double entendre
? Keeping her countenance, she replied in a grave tone, “I am fortunate to have the opportunity.”

“He mentioned an afternoon assignment that will take you away from the office.”

“Yes,” she countered, “but I told him I would have to check with you.”

Apparently she had gone too far in trying to sweeten Habib, as he reacted with alarm. “No, no—the chief inspector takes precedence—there is no question.”

“Thank you.” She wasted no time in heading home.

Remembering what she had promised Acton, she was extra vigilant as she let herself into her building but noticed nothing unusual; she was certain no one observed her. She locked the door behind her, fell into bed, and was immediately asleep. She was awakened hours later by Acton, who folded her into his arms as he slipped in beside her.

“You have a key?” she asked, sleepily surprised.

“Yes.” He spoke as if to a simpleton and kissed the mole near the base of her throat to which he seemed much attached. “Are you rested?”

She smiled. “Does it matter?”

“No.”

She suspected that he was there out of caution as much as to put a mattress to her back, but she was content either way. “Habib is annoyed.”

“Good.” He said no more.

C
HAPTER
19

 

Acton must have been tired from his long day because they spent most of the night sleeping. In the morning Doyle woke at dawn to hear that he was in her shower, which was a first. She pulled the pillow in a bunch under her head and considered the light that emitted from the crack at the bottom of the bathroom door. From the onset, she had decided there was no point in making excuses; her flat was a grim little economical place and there was little she could do, aside from new linens and towels, to obscure this sad fact. When she had first moved to London, she had very little in savings and few options; when her mother became ill, she moved in with Doyle and money became even scarcer. Now that she was making a respectable salary, she continued to endure the place so as to pay off her debts and save up a down payment as quickly as possible. These good intentions didn’t change the fact that when Acton was there, she felt as though a thoroughbred were slummin’ it in a hack pen. He was too well bred to intimate that the accommodations were less than satisfactory—and it was evident he found her bed to his liking—but nonetheless she cringed a bit to think of him fitting his frame into that miserable, cramped shower.

When he turned off the water, she knocked on the door. “I’m awake; you don’t have to be quiet.”

He opened the door and leaned through it to kiss her. He was wet and had a towel wrapped around his hips. Seated on the edge of the bed, she watched him, trying to resist the urge to goggle. “What am I to do with my new assignments? In case Habib asks me, I should pretend to know.” He began preparations to shave; she had never seen a man shave before and was fascinated.

“All other homicides in my docket,” he said shortly, applying his razor. “Whatever you will.”

“Thank you.” She was grateful to the soles of her shoes—rescued from misdemeanor purgatory; put that in your pipe, Munoz.

He said nothing more and continued shaving. He must not like to talk in the morning, she decided—not during sex and not in the morning; mental note.

Watching him, she realized he brought overnight things with him in a small valise, along with a change of clothes in a garment bag. This is real, she thought, the bottom dropping out of her stomach—this is real; we are a couple. Before me is a man who was the next thing to a stranger a week ago and now he’s got shaving things in my medicine cupboard. She dropped her gaze, trying to tamp down a burgeoning feeling of panic. Even when her mother was alive, she had always been fiercely independent; it was the by-product that came along with knowing the things that she knew. This is all happening far too fast, she thought. Mother a’ mercy, lass—what were you thinking?

“Kathleen.” She looked up to see that he had finished shaving and was now watching her from the bathroom door, a face towel in his hand. “What is it?”

Struggling miserably, she tried to find the right words to explain to him that she was having an anxiety attack because she was not yet ready for this reality. “I love you, Michael,” was what came out instead. They stared at each other. She didn’t know who was more surprised.

He walked over to her and, taking her head in his hands, crouched down to press his forehead against hers, his eyes closed. They didn’t move for a moment. “You know that love does not even begin to describe it.”

His voice resonated against the bones of her face and she nodded, the emotion in her chest suffocating her.

Still in his towel, he took her hands in his. “I cannot stay.”

“I know.” She gave him a wobbly smile. He was elated; she could feel it. “I will see you later,” she whispered. He dressed and left, his mobile already vibrating.

In the resulting silence, she sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the door. I suppose I truly must love him, she thought in surprise. Fancy that
.

Rising, she walked over to the bathroom, opened the medicine cupboard, and looked at his shaving razor sitting on the shelf within. She closed the door and regarded herself in the mirror. Silly knocker
,
she thought. Take hold of your foolish self.

After her own shower, she had a bowl of frosty flakes and strapped on her ankle holster. Despite Acton’s urgings, she hadn’t tried to shoot it, although she had practiced aiming and loading. No question but that it gave one an additional sense of security. She would be extra vigilant; it wasn’t just about her anymore—if anything happened to her, she didn’t like to think about how Acton would react. Still, in all honesty, he appeared to be worried about precious little. If this killer wanted to kill her, there was no doubt she would already be dead.

Mentally reviewing the cases, she dressed for work. I should make a point of wearing nicer clothes, she thought, looking over her wardrobe. I never seemed to have an incentive before, but I shouldn’t continue in my slapdash ways. He always seems so effortlessly elegant and I . . . well, I am the antithesis. Good one; a vocabulary word.

Back to the murders. There were four now that seemed to be connected—or six, if the Somers Town murders were connected in some way, although she still wasn’t certain about that, despite what Acton seemed to think. The way the woman was killed was apparently the link that made Acton uneasy. And as an added bonus, there were plenty of Irish people floppin’ about the landscape; her father was Irish, the trainer was Irish, and Capper was Irish. But it may be merely a coincidence, after all—the Irish were thick on the ground around here. Someone had been into her personal file, where presumably her father’s identity could be traced if one was willing to do some sleuthing, as Acton had done. So the Somers Town murders may have had everything to do with her and nothing to do with the other murders, or they had nothing to do with her and the fact that her father was a victim was a total coincidence. Bullets and casings had been found at the Somers Town scene because the killer had staged it to look like a murder-suicide, and therefore removal of evidence would have queered the pitch, but the evidence was carefully cleaned from the racecourse and Giselle’s flat. All in all, the murders were more different than they were similar.

As she pulled her hair into a low ponytail at the back of her head, she decided that the most likely path was to concentrate on whoever had hacked into her file—presumably this was a smaller universe of suspects. All CID personnel ranked chief inspector or higher had top security clearance. If the hacker was a high-ranking officer, it would not be difficult to determine who had been doing the digging, since passwords were required. She also had a vague idea that the user could be traced to a particular device, although she wasn’t very tech savvy. But Acton—who obviously could cover his own tracks—had suggested it was a first-rate hacker, so he must not have been able to trace the user. Therefore, the list of suspects opened up to include any anonymous techie in greater London, so some other angle would have to be pursued in order to narrow the universe and find a lead, let alone a working theory.

She rode the tube to St. James’s Park, jostling against her fellow commuters and trying to shut out any incoming perceptions. The Met’s security system was presumably first rate; it would probably be easier for someone who already had access to the system to cover his tracks rather than for someone to hack in from the outside, undetected. As she was no expert, it was just a theory but the thought was chilling. If the killer was someone at CID with access to forensics and the files, God help them.

Her latte was already waiting when she arrived at her cubicle, where she texted Acton with her symbol. And another thing, she thought as she began sorting through Acton’s docket on her laptop—why would someone want to kill her father so that she would discover his mangled body? A very cruel and despicable act, for the love o’ Mike. She didn’t think she had any enemies. Why, she didn’t even think that anyone she knew had enemies—except Acton, of course.

Going still for a moment, she pursued the thought. Acton probably had a basketful of enemies; it came with the territory. She examined this angle but it still made no sense. No one at CID knew about their relationship; she was certain. If a rumor even existed, Munoz would have never let her hear the end of it. Doyle was suddenly reminded of Acton’s persistent questions on the way to the China Flower about whether she had told anyone about them. So, he had been to this point already and must have come up empty, as she was coming up empty. Truly, it made no sense. Perhaps someone thought she was pretty or something and wanted to take an innocuous look into her file as Acton had done. And her father’s murder was a strange coincidence, which would have gone unremarked and unrecognized except for Acton’s own transgressions into her personal records.

In all fairness, she understood why Acton was uneasy—that theory seemed far-fetched. Taken together, the murders did not make sense, but the fact remained that her da was dead, Irish people were dropping like flies, and someone had looked into her personal file and presumably decided to murder her father as a result. Small wonder he was worried about her safety—and he was certainly one to worry. Idly, she wondered for a moment what
had
happened with Acton so as to start him in on her—perhaps someday she would get the story, if he was willing to relate it. Best to tread carefully; she knew he did not like to speak about his condition. What he had said this morning after her own profession of love was as close as he would come—he said that love did not even begin to describe it.

Her thoughts were interrupted by Munoz, who was banging about her cubicle in an annoying and triumphant manner. Nothin’ for it
,
thought Doyle with resignation. You’ll have to listen to her crow. Try to keep your thoughts on a higher level—how Acton looked in his towel, for example.

“Doyle,” said Munoz, inserting her head into the cubicle and tossing her hair over her shoulder. “I’m really busy. Can you help me out?”

“Yes, ma’am,” replied Doyle, as though Munoz were her superior officer. “What is it you’re needin’?”

“Holmes wants me to access the technology used by the dead men.” She cast a wicked glance at Doyle under her lashes. “I’d like to access
him
.”

Access denied
,
thought Doyle, and felt considerably better. “You are all talk and no action, Munoz.”

The other girl conceded, “I have to be subtle. He’s all business.”

“Do you even
know
how to be subtle, Munoz?”

“Watch and learn, Doyle.”

Doyle reflected that she was fast becoming aware of what pleased Acton sexually, and it did not appear to feature subtlety. This, however, was a piece of information Munoz need never know. “I am all admiration, my friend.” As much fun as it was to egg on poor deluded Munoz, Doyle realized that eventually Munoz was going to find out that she and Acton were an item—the days were counting down. Therefore, she decided with no little regret that she should drop the topic. “What do you need me to do?” She hoped it was not something high profile, which would require her to confess to Munoz that she had been taken off the case.

“Go through the emails and files. There’s a laptop and a tablet on my desk. Williams has their mobile phones. I’m needed back in the field.” Her beautiful dark eyes slid to review her companion, a hint of malice contained therein. “What’s your assignment?”

“I am sortin’ through Acton’s homicide docket,” Doyle replied airily.

The other girl straightened, her expression incredulous. “
You
are doing analysis?”

“That I am.”

Munoz made a silent whistling sound. “What did you do? Run him over by accident?”

If you only knew
,
thought Doyle, but aloud replied, “He’s very busy just now and trusts me to see what needs to be done with his caseload.”

Munoz started to laugh, and Doyle had to restrain an urge to fly out at her. “No, Doyle, really.”

“You may believe me or not as you choose. It makes no difference to me.” Doyle resumed typing.

With what could only be described as a smirk, the other contemplated her while Doyle wished she would just go away. “You aren’t any good at research. Your only talent is interrogation.”

“Oh, I am good at many things, Munoz.” Doyle hid a smile.

The other girl cocked her head. “I will find out what you did to disgrace yourself, you know. I am relentless.”

“Fine. Take your relentless self back to the scene.”

Munoz tossed her hair in triumph. “See what you can do with the tech stuff.”

Doyle saw an opportunity to do a little probing of potential suspects and took it. “Done.”