Murder in Thrall (2 page)

Giselle gave Capper’s address and explained she had known him, off and on, for over a year—yes, they had dated but it wasn’t serious; this said while fingering a curl that rested on her bosom, as though any more emphasis was needed or necessary. Trying to suppress her annoyance, Doyle jotted down the information and sensed that the girl seemed wary, despite her easy banter with Acton.

“Do you know what he was doing at the track today?”

Giselle threw back her head to blow a cloud. “He likes the track.”

Acton arched a brow at her. “Did he come home with a lot of cash sometimes?”

Giselle laughed throatily, tapping the cigarette on the ashtray. “Now, that would have been nice.”

She is definitely wary, thought Doyle, trying to avoid the scattering ashes. She glanced around the room but could see no one who sparked an interest. The barkeeper was not within earshot.

Acton leaned in to suggest, “Perhaps there would have been no falling-out, then.”

The woman stubbed out the cigarette, even though it was half smoked. “Hmm,” she agreed, contemplating the ashtray. “Money does talk.”

“Did you quarrel with Capper about money?”

She shrugged, and the movement made her breasts shift upward. Honestly, thought Doyle; may as well plant a flag between them.

“No; we have different ideas about our future.”

This was true, and although Doyle kept her gaze on her occurrence book, she felt Acton glance at her, to make certain. She tried to gauge what he was about; Acton never asked an idle question.

“Do you know where he is now?”

“Not a clue.” She smiled at him as though it was the last thing on her mind now that Acton had come into her orbit, and crossed her legs toward him.

In response, his tone was almost apologetic, having to interrupt their semi-flirtation with the grim facts. “A man’s been murdered; Mr. Capper may have information that could prove useful, and I would very much like to speak with him.”

“Murder. How shocking.” Giselle’s heavily mascara’d eyes widened with dismay. She did not ask who had been killed.

Doyle considered as she scratched out some illegible notes while Acton assured Giselle that she was perfectly safe. So Capper came here, needed to see Giselle in person, then did a bunk. He didn’t want to use his mobile, perhaps. Or he needed to deliver something to her or to another. He may be the killer or he may be unwilling to tell the police what he knows. Or he may be afraid of the killer. Whatever it was, it had been important enough to lock a police officer in the tack room so he could escape with all speed back to the Laughing Cat. She remembered thinking that his story rang true when she interrogated him—he had been coming to meet up with the trainer at the stables and was brought up short when he saw the forensics tape cordoning off the area and heard that the man had been murdered. He hadn’t known the man well, but they had friends in common. Doyle had been in the process of asking him about the identity of the aforementioned friends when he suggested they look around the tack room. Trumped me, she thought in annoyance. Stupid culchie.

She saw that Acton’s gaze had shifted to her because she wasn’t paying attention. With a guilty start, she proceeded to focus like a laser beam.

“Do you know if Capper had any friends who may know something? Criminals or underworld types?”

Doyle recalled what the pony boy had intimated; there were dangerous people and dark deeds involved. Giselle played with the ashtray for a moment, her lashes lowered. “I can’t recall any just now.”

There was a slight emphasis on the last two words. Acton pulled his billfold from his jacket’s inner pocket. “May I give you my card? If you come across any information, you can give me a ring.”

She held the card and stroked it with her long red nails, her limpid gaze on his. “I’m your girl.” She looked up at him through her lashes.

Doyle brushed her hair from her forehead and saw Acton hide a smile.

C
HAPTER
2

 

Doyle could read people. It wasn’t magic, or a science where physical reactions were carefully gauged—that was more Acton’s bailiwick. She was simply good at reading people and could usually spot a lie; one of her ancestors must have been fey or some such thing. The talent had been very useful—she had avoided deceitful boyfriends and steered her very gullible mother away from annuity schemes and the like. Upon reaching adulthood, she had come to the realization that by combining her passion for crime shows with her perceptive ability, she could forge a very satisfying career in police work. “Very discerning; excellent interrogation,” her course reviews at the Crime Academy had said, as though it were something at which she had to work. Still, it made up for the fact she was not well educated and positively abysmal when it came to the sciences.

She had managed to secure one of the coveted entry positions at New Scotland Yard and was working very hard to maintain it, no small feat in light of the competition. Or, to be more accurate, she
had
been working hard to maintain it until Acton had plucked her up into his rarefied sphere.

She presumed that it was word of her talent for sorting out the truth that had brought the great DCI Acton to her lowly cubicle in the basement of CID headquarters one fine morning. He had fixed his formidable gaze upon her and asked in his brusque way if she would please accompany him to the docks to investigate a high-profile homicide. As she had never worked a homicide, she was terrified, so terrified that she was beyond words and didn’t gabble on as was her wont—which was just as well. By the time she had recovered from her astonishment, she was able to tell him the decedent’s grieving wife was shammin’ it, and the case had unraveled from there.

For three months she had worked alongside him, and there was no denying that they worked well together; he so smart and she so intuitive. He had never asked her outright about her ability, but she knew he had a very thorough understanding of it—and he blessedly knew she preferred not to speak of it. Despite his reserve, she felt they had a certain connection, an understanding—in a strange way they had much in common; they were both a bit freakish. As a result, neither of them did well with other people; he was famously reclusive and Doyle led a reclusive life in her own way—it was no easy thing to be able to read what one’s friends and acquaintances were feeling at any given time. She avoided crowds—and clubs in particular, where literally no one was saying what they meant.

It was she who decided they needed a signal when she wanted to alert him that something was amiss so that they wouldn’t have to confer or interrupt an interrogation. They got on well—considering he was who he was—and together had solved some very tough cases in an impressively short time. He used her in his investigations on a regular basis now, and she lived in dread that he would rethink their partnership; it would be devastating to return to the shame of mere first-year misdemeanors again.

They left the Laughing Cat and returned to the unmarked; it was late and cold, and the street was silent, as the rain had stopped. Doyle could see her breath in the chill air and practiced blowing it out as had Giselle the brasser.

Acton opened the door for her. “You think that Giselle wanted to talk to me but couldn’t.” It was a statement, not a question. He was always quick on the uptake, and Doyle sometimes thought he didn’t need her at all.

“Yes—I think so, sir. And there was that hint about talkin’ for money. Was she afraid? Who was watchin’ her?”

“The barkeeper?” he suggested as he walked around to get in the car. “He wasn’t right, either.”

Doyle was not so certain; she had not gained the impression that the barkeeper was a threat to Giselle. “Perhaps—but he couldn’t hear what she said.”

Acton sat for a minute, contemplating the steering wheel and thinking about it with his dark brows drawn. “Do you think she is afraid of Capper?”

“No,” Doyle said immediately. “She is worried about Capper.”

“But he’s not the killer.” Acton said it with certainty.

Doyle had come to the same conclusion but didn’t know why. “Why so?”

“The scene was clean—the SOCOs couldn’t come up with anything. It was a professional hit, and Capper does not fit the profile.”

Doyle contemplated the surprising news that the stable area where the trainer had been shot was cleaned of any forensic evidence; if there had been a hair out of place, the Scene of the Crime Officers would have found it. “There’ll be a bullet in his head, surely. That’s a start.”

Acton shook his head. “The shot was a through-and-through and the bullet removed from the scene. Severed the spinal cord but avoided the carotid artery.”

She stared at him. “That is meticulous work.” She hoped he noted the apt use of the word “meticulous.”

“Are you warm enough?” They were sitting in the car, but he had turned the ignition on to run the heater. Apparently she was no longer in the doghouse, thanks be to God.

“Yes, thank you, sir. I don’t think it was Capper either, but I’m not sure why. I think it was because she was afraid for him—she was that shook.” Doyle thought about it, holding her cold fingers to the heating vent; she had forgotten her gloves. “Can you call her—get her to meet you somewhere? She’s in a state, I think, and would tell you what she knows.”

She could see he was reluctant as he ducked his chin for a moment. “It’s late; I have to drop you.”

This seemed a minor consideration, in light of the recent dire events. “I can take the tube, sir—there’s a station up a few blocks.”

He made no reply and she prompted, “Tell her you’ll pay her for information. Or better, let her think she can have her way with you.”

At this, he lifted his head to meet her eyes and Doyle had a quick impression of annoyance, or exasperation—or something. My wretched tongue, she thought with extreme regret; I am too flippant by half. “Sorry—I didn’t mean to suggest you should sacrifice your virtue on that particular altar, sir. But she was indeed smitten by your
beaux yeux.
”

It was a running joke between them; he had once used the phrase when advising her not to be influenced by a handsome suspect’s protestations of innocence. At the time, Doyle was forced to confess she didn’t know what he meant. When he had explained the idiom, she was heartily amused. “D’you think I’m so desperate, then, as to be castin’ my lures at convicts? I thank you for the compliment.” He had begged her pardon with his rare half-smile, and now the term was a byword between them.

He put the car in gear and pulled into the street. “It’s late; I’ll wait a day to see if she contacts me. If she doesn’t, then I’ll contact her.”

Doyle counted her tasks on her fingers. “I will start tomorrow on witness interviews and see if there is
anythin’
forensics can give us—I’ll beg them, if necessary. CCTV tape, too. And I’ll do background checks on all visitors and employees who had access.” She was determined to be very thorough after her earlier lapse—without ballistics or prints they were relegated to fieldwork and it would be a hard slog.

He nodded, thinking. “Add the barkeeper, Giselle, and the pub owner to the background checks.”

“Done.” She hoped she’d remember—she tended to forget things if they weren’t written down, which was why she was constantly scribbling in her occurrence book.

“Would you like to get something to eat? It has been a long day.”

She felt as though it was nearly time for breakfast. “No thank you, sir. I’m bound for home—I’m that weary.” She was careful never to accept his occasional invitations to dine—she knew he offered out of courtesy, but she didn’t need to add more fuel to the resentment that was already rampant among the other fledgling detectives. Very few had ever met Acton, let alone worked a case with him, as he was not one to feel duty-bound to educate the youngsters. By all rights, Doyle shouldn’t have come within calling distance of a homicide for at least another two years and as a result, there were some mutterings about favoritism and the usual suspicion when a young female was mysteriously aligned with a more powerful man. As a result, she was careful never to appear overly familiar with him, not that it did much to quash the rumors. It was an unfortunate state of affairs, but Doyle was going to hang on to this opportunity like grim death and everyone else would just have to deal with it. Once, though, an enterprising detective sergeant had taken a different tack and had begun a practice of lunching with her at her desk for the express purpose of finding out as much about Acton’s methods as Doyle could relate to him. The strategy must have paid off; he was suddenly promoted and transferred to counter-terrorism and she did not see him again.

They drove back to the Met in what Doyle believed was a companionable silence. At first she had been uneasy around Acton, even though he was unfailingly polite and considerate to her. There was no denying he was a bit odd, as brilliant men sometimes are. He was one of the few people Doyle found difficult to read, and it threw her a bit off balance, not to be able to guess what he was thinking. He was not one for idle conversation, and sometimes he would study her silently as though she were on a slide under a microscope. It had been unnerving at first, but she had become accustomed to his ways and now she felt they got on well; he had even begun to show glimpses of humor. She believed he enjoyed their work together—when she wasn’t muckin’ it up, that was.

Reminded, she asked, “Should I start a report, then, sir?” She kept her voice carefully neutral.

“No need. I will report.”

There was a pause while she tried to decide if she should apologize yet again or if he would indeed throw her out of the car.

“Constable,” he said into the silence, “you are remarkably foolish if you think I am going to grass on you.”

She let out her breath in relief; her humiliating episode in the tack room would never see the light of day. “Thank you, sir. I won’t be puttin’ a foot wrong again, I
promise
you.”

He gently corrected her. “I’m sure you will, but you must try to be more careful. This is dangerous work; you must never become complacent.”

“Yes, sir.” She hung her head like a good penitent.

“Shall I drop you home?”

With a smile of gratitude, she nevertheless demurred. “I should fetch my tablet from headquarters, sir.” This was an excuse; she wasn’t going to do anything tonight but go straight to bed. The truth was she was embarrassed to show him where she lived—it was that grim. She was still paying off debts from when her mother was sick and was little by little trying to save enough to move someplace nicer. Next year, she assured herself—next year I’ll live in a finer place
,
and I won’t be ashamed for Acton to see it.

They arrived at the parking garage where the unmarked vehicles were housed and walked toward the garage lifts—she noted he was heading to the building with her rather than to the premium garage where his personal car would be parked. “Aren’t you goin’ home, sir?”

“No; I have something to see to.”

His office was in the adjacent building across the elevated walkway, so they parted in the lobby.

“There may be some late evenings until we come up with a working theory,” he warned as he called the lift for her. “I hope you have no plans.” She had the impression his gaze was suddenly sharp upon her.

“No plans, sir,” she said mildly, which had the benefit of being mostly true—she had the dreaded church thing three days hence, and she half-hoped the case wouldn’t be solved by then so she needn’t go. Coward, she scolded; take hold of your foolish self.

“Good—we’ll start in tomorrow, early.” He said nothing further and she nodded in acknowledgment as the lift doors closed.

As she rode home on the tube, she reflected that whether it was night, day, or weekend probably didn’t matter much to him; he was all business and no nonsense. An “ascetic,” that’s what he was, Doyle thought in satisfaction. She had been trying to improve her vocabulary ever since the
beaux yeux
incident.