Murder in Thrall (8 page)

With a brisk movement, she turned off the running water and decided she could not possibly eat. She had work to do but found she couldn’t concentrate. Instead, she made ready for bed and crawled beneath the covers to stare into the darkness, listening to the silence. He couldn’t be serious, someone like him marrying someone like her—generations of Actons would rise from their graves in protest. Faith, generations of Doyles would, too. Despite everything, class demarcations continued to exist, and she would feel like a freak in the circus.

Sleep eluded her. After another hour she repositioned her pillow and reenacted the conversation yet again. She had sensed that he was vulnerable, despite his light tone. She didn’t like to think that she made him feel vulnerable—made him feel he had to imbibe some Dutch courage to speak thus to her. If she was honest, she would admit she was aware that he had a—-fondness was perhaps the right word—for her fair self. She often caught his unreadable gaze resting on her. There was his surprising offer to loan her money. He had been protective about her attendance at the unit party until she had assured him she did not drink and would be leaving the festivities in short order. There were the lattes, too. But this? Should she have seen this coming? No, she thought in bewilderment; I stand acquitted of leading him on.

He was not like normal men. Not that he was abnormal, of course—well; not truly. But he struggled with it sometimes. He hid his true self. Tonight he was hiding his true self; he was humoring her. Again, she hated to think she made him feel vulnerable. He can trust me, she thought, he should know that by now.

Looking yet again at the clock, she wished she could read him better, and she wondered what he was thinking right now. For that matter, she wished she knew what she was thinking, even thinking about it—the whole thing was a pint full o’ ridiculous, as her mother used to say. She hardly knew him and people didn’t marry when they hardly knew each other—this wasn’t the Middle Ages. He had no business making it sound so reasonable or meeting her eyes in a way that took her breath away.

There was always the possibility that he had been drunk; with the strong and silent type sometimes it was hard to tell. He hadn’t
seemed
drunk, but she could not be certain. Perhaps he would be embarrassed by his lapse of decorum and would never mention the subject again. Only he had, and she had caught herself entertaining the idea for a mad, mad matter of moments; how easy it would be to simply agree. Even if he never mentioned it again, it would change everything between them; if she knew nothing else, she at least knew that—
stupid
Acton and his
stupid
proposal.

She finally decided that she had no option but to await events; she’d best get some sleep and gird her loins for whatever tomorrow brought—if she botched her job, she’d be left with no other choice but to marry out of her class.

C
HAPTER
9

 

The next morning Doyle planned to avoid dwelling on the one subject that must not be dwelt upon by spending several mindless hours cross-referencing the two murders in an attempt to find a new lead. It was a good plan, but before she had gotten under way, Acton himself appeared at her cubicle
—
think o’ the devil and up he pops.

She could feel herself blush to the roots of her hair. “Good mornin’, sir.”

“Good morning, Constable.” Yes, there was a definite awareness in his eyes—so much for the theory that he had been insensibly drunk. “Possible homicide in Somers Town; let’s go.”

Grabbing her rucksack, she kept pace with him down the hallway and into the lift while he nodded to the respectful underlings they met along the way. He usually avoided such by meeting her at in the utility garage, but this morning he had come to get her rather than call—probably because he didn’t want to give her the opportunity to duck him. As if she would—she was made of sterner stuff and therefore made a point of smiling at him in the lift to show she wasn’t thrown. She then ruined the effect by pressing for the wrong floor, but he returned her smile as he corrected her mistake and so she felt the ice was broken. He said nothing and she said nothing. She longed to look at him from the corner of her eye but resisted the urge; she was a professional and should be able to maintain a certain decorum, after all. He gave no hint that he was thinking of their conversation last evening, and she would take her cue from him; if nothing was said, well, then—that was that. He is very tall, she thought, and gauged that she came up to his shoulder—she hadn’t tried to gauge it before.

Acton gave her a briefing in the car as she jotted down almost indecipherable notes and wondered if he had noticed that she had decided to wear perfume today—or eau de cologne, more appropriately, as she couldn’t afford real perfume. He gave no indication that he was at all distracted by this unusual occurrence, however, and recited the facts with his usual brevity. “Man and wife in Somers Town—both dead. Looks to be a murder-suicide but the duty PC is suspicious enough to call us in.”

“You should give it to DCI Drake, sir; tit for tat,” she replied, then fervently wished she hadn’t said “tit.”

“I was requested, apparently. A reference to bloodstains.” Acton was the grand master of bloodstains.

So; the scene was another bloody one. Despite the awkward circumstances, Doyle felt the avid interest she always felt when there was a call to sort out humanity’s carnage. She loved this job; no need to get all doe-eyed over a handsome man. And she meant handsome in a dispassionate sort of way, of course.

They drove the remainder of the way in their usual silence. In the cold, sober light of day Acton had apparently decided to overlook their conversation of the night before, and it was just as well, she reminded herself. She should heed the advice she gave Munoz—no good would come of getting too personal with him, being who he was and all. The sleepless night of wondering “what ifs” was best forgotten.

Their destination was a war-era building located off St. Pancras in Somers Town, a less affluent area that saw more than its share of criminal behavior. Two PCs awaited their arrival at the front entrance; a sergeant was upstairs securing the scene.

“Have the SOCOs been called?” asked Acton of the female PC.

“No, sir, we await your opinion,” she responded with a great deal of respect.

“Who called for me?”

“I—I did, sir,” stammered the other as he looked upon Acton with a mixture of awe and fear.

I imagine I looked the same that first morning I met Acton, thought Doyle, and smiled at him to put him at ease. His name tag said OWENS, and he seemed young, even to Doyle. Owens was excited about the case, although he was trying to appear professional; it must have been his first murder. Blackburn, his counterpart, was by contrast not excited. She doesn’t feel well, Doyle knew; a bit green around the gills, poor thing.

“Come inside,” said Acton, and Doyle followed while the patrolmen led the way.

The bodies were on the floor in the dining area of the shabby flat, the man’s right hand clutching an illegal large-caliber handgun and the woman’s face nearly blown away by a blast from the gun. Another woman shot in the face, thought Doyle with interest—must be the new style. There was a bright spray of blood spatter on the wall and on the floor near her body.

The man’s head showed an entry wound on the right temple, with obvious residue marking the wound as close range. As was always the case with large-caliber, the exit wound was a mangled mess above the left temple, and brain matter and blood were spattered on one wall. There was little blood on the floor near the man, which was usually the case with a standing suicide, as the heart had stopped beating before the body hit the floor. A sergeant was already on site, having followed proper protocol by cordoning off the area and securing the scene once the CID detectives had been called in.

“Nothing has been moved, sir.”

Acton gave the sergeant a cursory glance and then surveyed the scene while Doyle did the same. She noted that Blackburn, the female PC, looked everywhere in the room save the remains of the slain woman’s face. Doesn’t like this job, Doyle concluded with sympathy; will be putting in for a transfer very soon.

Doyle assessed the rigidity of the bodies and tried to take a guess at time of death. The scene had all the earmarks of a murder-suicide, certainly. Acton seemed to be deep in thought and said nothing for a few moments—she had the brief impression he was wary as he pulled on latex gloves. He had long hands and fingers; with dark hair on the backs of his hands. Breaking her gaze away, she pulled on her own gloves and awaited instruction.

Acton said, “By all appearances it’s a straightforward murder-suicide. Why did you call us?”

“Well, sir,” volunteered Owens, who was sounding a bit less nervous, “I thought there were some inconsistencies.”

Acton lifted his gaze and regarded Owens for a long moment. Poor Owens, thought Doyle, but he was handling it well, by which she meant he had not been reduced to tears.

“Proceed,” said Acton finally.

“Sir, I don’t believe the man could have held on to such a large-caliber gun after shooting himself. The recoil would have flung it away from him.”

“I see,” said Acton, who had not taken his thoughtful eye from Owens. “Anything else?”

“The bloodstains, sir. The angle is slightly off for a right-handed man.”

“What do you know of bloodstains, Constable?”

Owens appeared to be gaining confidence and revealed, “I have read Westin’s tract on bloodstains, sir. The illustrations are very illustrative.” He caught himself, realized this last sentence sounded inane, and tried to make a recovery. “I am interested in forensics, sir.”

“Then I suggest you call in the SOCOs and have them made aware we believe there was a third-party killer—well done.”

“Yes, sir,” said Owens, and Doyle could feel the relief and pride emanating from the young officer as he moved off to contact the Evidence Recovery Unit.

Good one, she thought; it is a fine thing to feel you have outsmarted a killer.

Acton crouched and scrutinized the bodies, Doyle following suit by his side. She reviewed the kill site carefully, noting the brain matter spattered on the wall, the blood spray patterns, and the gun. It took a careful eye to notice the details, which turned a garden-variety murder-suicide into an unsolved mystery, and the young constable may have the makings of a good detective.

While she was assessing, Acton broke into her thoughts. “Have you been thinking about my offer?”

She met his eyes, startled; so—it wasn’t off the table, after all. And how nettlesome that he brought it up now—did he really want to discuss this while knee-deep in brain matter, for heaven’s sake? Off balance, she blurted out the truth; “I thought you were bosky, sir, and the subject wouldn’t arise again.”

Almost imperceptibility, he flinched. “Unkind.”

She stared at him and felt her throat constrict with remorse.

Constable Blackburn re-entered to advise them that the forensic photographer and the SOCOs had arrived. She looked to Acton for instruction, but he had not taken his eyes off Doyle and did not respond, and Doyle could not respond either because she found to her great distress that she was going to cry. Knocker, she thought in horror—take
hold
of your ridiculous self. In a panic, she fixed her eyes on the floor so that she could blink away tears before the others saw.

“Constable, give us a moment, please.” Acton took Doyle’s arm, pulled her to a standing position beside him, and then swung her into the tiny kitchen and closed the door behind them.

Doyle stood numbly in the dim and dirty kitchen, wholly embarrassed and brushing away tears with the flats of her fingers. She hung her head, too ashamed to look at him as she struggled to get the words out, her voice thick. “I
am
unkind; you were not drunk. I am too flippant and I would say I’m sorry but you will not allow me.” She gasped to suppress a sob. I am a complete knocker, she thought in extreme distress—it is a rare wonder this man wants me.

“No; I am sorry to distress you,” he said very gently. “I’ll not mention it again.”

This, however, was unthinkable. She raised her head resolutely to meet his eyes and with a monumental effort, brought herself under control. “No, no—it’s not you. I didn’t sleep well last night.” She drew a ragged breath and hated the thought that she was lacerating him again—he who hid his vulnerability so well. “I don’t think it’s a terrible idea, truly.” She wasn’t certain where this thought came from, but once she said it she knew it was true.

She watched him search her eyes with his dark ones—there were flecks of gold around his irises and his proximity was affecting her concentration. She swallowed. “Perhaps we should try havin’ a date first or somethin’.”

“Is that your answer?”

Bewildered by his insistence but finding, paradoxically, that it pleased her very much, she confessed, “I don’t think I can give you an answer—someone once told me I was too impetuous.”

“Don’t listen to him.”

She had to smile. “Who are you, and what have you done with the chief inspector?”

He bent his head and she could sense the vulnerability again—a wave of it, deep and unfathomable, so that she said without thinking, “You can trust me, you know. I would never use it against you or embarrass you—” She broke off, uncertain as to why she was offering him comfort.

But he went on, and she caught a glimpse of some emotion so intense it nearly suffocated her. “I have to tell you something.”

Oh—it was bad, she could feel it. He is married, she thought in a panic. Or he has former girlfriends all buried in the basement—

“I am a Section Seven.”

A silence followed the quiet words. They stood, their gazes locked whilst she tried to hide her astonishment. It was the pure truth, and it was a reference to the Stalking Act. Be very careful here, my girl, she thought; do not panic. “I see. Is it only me, or are there others?”

“Only you.” The intensity began to dissipate, now that he had made his confession.

“Misdemeanor or felony?”

He thought about it for a moment. “Felony.”

She raised her brows. “Oh. That
is
impressive.”

He chuckled and she chuckled also, the tension broken and the goodwill flowing between them once again. The scent of decomposition wafted in from the next room to mix with her eau de cologne, and she tried to suppress a reckless feeling of euphoria. “Would we have sex?” She could have bitten her tongue; she hadn’t known she would blurt out the question she had puzzled over in the wee hours.

“Yes. Definitely.”

Almost without conscious volition, she pulled on his lapel, lifting her face for his kiss, and he obliged her.

She had wondered what it would be like to kiss him during her restless night—wondered whether there would be any chemistry between them. She discovered that indeed there was and that it was powerful in its intensity. The kiss rapidly evolved into a deep, openmouthed, clinging embrace that banged her with a soft bump against the wall; his hands—sheathed in the latex gloves—began liberally exploring her body, molding her against him. She broke away to gasp for breath and cradle his head in her hands as his mouth moved along her throat, the heat of his hands at her waist and penetrating to her skin. She had lost all sense of where they were until he pulled at her shirt and lifted his head. “Let me lock the door.”

The quiet remark acted upon her like a bucket of cold water; this was not the time nor the place for a sexual initiation. She disengaged to pull away and they stared at each other, breathing heavily. She stammered, “We’re—we’re on duty.”

Amused, he smoothed a tendril of hair back from her face and leaned in to kiss her one last time. “So we are.”

While she attempted to tidy her hair, he refastened her buttons with his long fingers, then ran his gaze over her and nodded, assuring her that she was presentable before they stepped out into the crime scene again, Doyle hoping her face would not betray what they had been about.

She needn’t have worried; the SOCOs were speaking in low voices with the two PCs and made a show of casually wandering over as though it was entirely normal for an investigation to be sidelined while the chief inspector was closeted with an underling. After several sympathetic glances were thrown her way, Doyle realized they thought she had been taken to task for breaking down like a newbie. Faith, she thought as she tried to settle down; it serves me right
—
cavorting with the brass.