Murder in Retribution (A New Scotland Yard Mystery) Read online

  CHAPTER 16

  He was happy to see her again; he had been worried for

  her, had told his wife that he was worried, although he

  didn’t tell her the nice lady was mganga for fear his wife

  would chide him. Because of the new God, he no longer

  believed in the evil ones—the mashetani—and he hoped

  the nice lady did not believe in the mashetani either; they

  were not being kind to her.

  THE NEXT MORNING, ACTON ACCOMPANIED DOYLE OUT TO the curb where the Rwandan cab driver leaned against his cab, waiting for her. He said something by which Doyle understood that he missed her yesterday, although she wasn’t sure. Acton introduced himself as her husband and then began to speak to him in French, with the man responding in kind. Doyle stood and listened, bemused; she did not know Acton spoke French—faith, the man was a basketful of surprises. It appeared Acton thanked the other man for his chivalry the other day, and they agreed on something and shook hands, the Rwandan flashing his gleaming white smile. Acton then held the door for her before sliding into the cab himself.

  “His name is Aiki, and he will be on call for you. Here is his card, please program your mobile, and I will pay him a retainer.”

  “That is excellent news, Michael; thank you.” She was touched; Acton would much rather have used the thoroughly-vetted driving service. He did it to please her, and she was indeed pleased. That he was on pins and needles, worried about her, went without saying, and so she took his hand. “I’ll be all right, Michael—truly. I’ll be sad, and then I’ll be myself again.”

  “I know. But I wish I didn’t feel so helpless.”

  This was true, and not unexpected; he was one who was used to casually wielding power—even from birth, for heaven’s sake; he wouldn’t like this miserable feeling of having no recourse. She stilled for a moment, her scalp prickling as it did when her intuition was making a leap. What? She asked herself, when no leap was made. What is it? Acton doesn’t like to feel helpless—news-flash, as Williams would say. Maybe if her head didn’t ache so much she’d understand what she was supposed to be understanding, here. Shaking it off, she continued, “I’ll mourn for a bit, but I’ll come about—it can’t be worse than when my mother died.” She lifted her face to him. “Have you ever lost someone?” Obviously his father was dead, because Acton had inherited his honors.

  The dark, unreadable gaze rested on hers. “No one I’d miss.”

  She nodded, trying not to be taken aback. “Oh—I see.” He was not one to have a bundle of sentimental attachments—another news-flash. By contrast, not a day went by when she didn’t miss her mother.

  Apparently, Acton was done waxing non-sentimental. “I will be monitoring the Solonik situation, but do not hesitate to ring me up if you need anything.”

  “Can you run operational command from Candide’s?” she teased. Candide’s was a restaurant she favored.

  He met her eyes, completely serious. “Let’s go.”

  “Michael, you knocker, I’m teasin’ you.”

  “After work, then.”

  “Done.” Hopefully, she’d regain her appetite by then; it would be a crackin’ shame to go to Candide’s just for coffee. As they edged their way through the morning traffic that surrounded headquarters, she offered, “I was tellin’ Williams that it seems unlikely that the Russians are tryin’ to muscle in on the racefixin’, or the numbers-runnin’, because that takes a large dose of know-how. But Williams seemed reluctant to offer a workin’ theory about what sparked this turf war.”

  He considered for a moment. “Do you have a theory?”

  She watched out the window and sighed. “I am fresh out, my friend. But I do think it is somethin’ new and different—and it must be lucrative, to attract the likes of the mighty Solonik.” She turned to him. “Are you surprised he turned up?”

  “No,” said Acton, and it was the truth.

  “I suppose I’m not either; now we only need to nick the Sinn-split kingpin, and we’ll have ourselves a good day’s work.”

  “Let’s hope so.” They arrived at work, and parted by the lift doors, Acton ducking his head. “You know what I want to say.”

  “I will be careful not to overdo it,” she assured him. Many of the employees walking by glanced at them covertly, and she could feel the salacious curiosity, carefully concealed. I am never going to get used to being a freak at the circus, she thought. I’m not one who likes the limelight; but on the other hand, neither is Acton, and he is willing to brave it for me. Her scalp prickled again, and exasperated, she ignored it.

  She made her way down to her cubicle and immediately fished around in her drawer for aspirin—she hadn’t wanted Acton to see her take any. Faith, but she could not shake this miserable headache, which seemed wholly unfair. Hormones, she decided; my hormones are probably in an uproar. She sipped her latte, and it did seem to help her poor head. Feeling weak and nauseous, she settled into her desk, hoping some quiet research would take her mind off her ills. With any luck they’d bring in Solonik soon—it seemed to her that Acton had emanated confidence when they’d discussed it, just now. If Thackeray didn’t break faith, the Russian could be held in custody on the weapons charge, and then perhaps they could pin the murder of Rourke on him—except that shadowy kingpins were not known for leaving incriminating evidence behind. After all, it was only the grossest good luck that they had twigged the photo that placed Solonik on the scene at Newmarket; without something more, it would not be enough to come within calling distance of a murder charge.

  With a knit brow, she pulled up her prior research on her laptop. There had been seven killings altogether in this turf war, with Barayev and Rourke being numbers six and seven, over a space of four weeks. There may have been others that had gone undiscovered thus far; whether there would be more was anyone’s guess.

  Her chin resting on her hand, she remembered how Williams had said the aqueduct murder of Barayev was on the back burner, and how strange that seemed—any information gleaned on any of the seven murders could give them a lead on all the others, and with such a rapid succession of crimes, anything to staunch the bleeding would help.

  After resting her eyes for a few moments, she drank more coffee and then pulled up the report on Barayev, including her own contribution. Why—that’s strange, she thought, frowning at the screen. There was no firm timeline; only an estimated date of death due to the cool environment surrounding the body—but surely the insect people had come to their conclusion by now. She scrolled the report. There was no reference to an insect report, and the digital photos attached to the main report did not include any close-ups of the face as she had requested. Doyle sat for a moment, annoyed with the stupid SOCO photographer and annoyed on behalf of the late Mr. Barayev, who was apparently on everyone’s back burner, poor man. She decided she would check the evidence box to see if there was a drive containing the photos; someone may have dropped the ball and forgotten to include them in the report.

  Before she could gather up her bones to stand up, however, Munoz called out, “Doyle, come here for a moment.”

  Getting up slowly so as not to worsen her headache, she went to see what Munoz wanted; judging by her tone it wasn’t going to be girl talk, but then with Munoz, it never was.

  The other girl was in a sullen mood, and looked up at Doyle from under beautifully knit brows. “They say you and Williams broke the Newmarket murder.”

  Faith, here we go. “We found a witness who handed us a snap of the suspect on a silver platter,” Doyle confessed. “I almost fell over. D’you know if they’ve brought him in yet?”

  “Ask Williams, your new best friend,” retorted Munoz, her eyes flashing. “I wouldn’t know.”

  “There’s no point in talkin’ to you, Munoz, if you can’t be civil.”

  Hunching her shoulders, Munoz complained, “I was working on Drake’s project when these murders started to break, and now I’m out of the loop.”


  “I predict,” Doyle offered in a dry tone, “that there will be more murderin’ in our fair city.”

  But Munoz would not be mollified, and drew her mouth down. “These are high profile; the kind that get you promoted.”

  “Not to worry; when I’m a DS, I’ll be sure to put in a good word.” That she would taunt Munoz in such a way was a measure of the strength of her headache; Doyle was not one to escalate a call to arms.

  There was an ominous silence. “Out,” ordered Munoz, glowering.

  Only too happy to oblige, Doyle wondered if anyone would notice if she lay down on the industrial carpeting to take a nap under her desk. Faith, she was in a foul mood, and she shouldn’t make everything worse by needling Munoz. Resolving to do her work and keep her crabby mouth shut, she went back to her report, only to be interrupted by Habib, her supervisor, who came over to announce that there was a walk-in upstairs who wanted to speak to the Irish detective from the Newmarket racecourse.

  A sound of extreme frustration could be heard from the adjoining cubicle.

  Casting her resolution to the winds, Doyle threw over at her, “Sorry, Munoz; it’s an ethnic war and you don’t fit the bill.”

  Munoz’s head appeared over the top of the partition to complain to Habib, her expression a cross between pathetic and sultry that Doyle could only envy. “It is so unfair, sir; I’ll never get to work a decent murder.”

  Like a fish rising to the hook, Habib attempted to placate the unhappy beauty. “If you wish, Munoz, you may accompany Doyle.”

  “Grand,” said Doyle crossly.

  Her attitude much improved, Munoz appeared in the cubicle opening, smoothing back her hair. “Is it an ethnic war? I thought it was a turf war.”

  With poor grace, Doyle gathered up her occurrence book and resisted the urge to send a glare at Munoz behind Habib’s back. “It’s both, I suppose—the factions happen to be ethnic, but I think the theory is that somethin’ has shifted, and the fight is over some fine new source of untraceable money.”

  Habib cocked his head, as though doubtful. “Perhaps. But I believe the escalation points to other factors.”

  Doyle paused to consider this; Habib was an odd duck, but he was a knowing one, and she respected his insight. “How so, sir?”

  Habib crossed his arms and unbent enough to expand on his thought. “Businessmen do not overreact like this. Instead, here there are tribal loyalties which are very powerful when provoked. The resulting damage is excessive and uncontrollable.”

  This seemed a sound theory, and Doyle reflected that Habib, being Pakistani, knew of which he spoke. “So each side has lost its objectivity—all that’s left is the desire for primal revenge.”

  “Yes.” He gazed upon her with benign approval. “The war spirals out of control; there can be no coming to terms—as there would be if it were only about cutting into another’s take.”

  Doyle recognized the truth of this; after all, many of the persistent problems in the world were based on this type of ethnic division and being Irish, she was well-familiar with the concept. The Russians and the Sinn-split were locked in mortal combat, and even the fact that the CID was racking up a body count and capturing the key players could not deter them; they were in it to the death. Doyle paused. This was important, for some reason, and if she didn’t have such a headache she would realize why.

  “Come along, Doyle,” said Munoz in the brisk manner of someone already her commanding officer. “The walk-in may give us a lead.”

  Whilst Habib smiled his approval, Doyle shot her a glare behind his back.

  CHAPTER 17

  DOYLE WAS IN NO MOOD. “TWO THINGS, MUNOZ; I WILL NEED some more coffee, and this is not your case.”

  They were making their way to the interview rooms on the entry floor—not the ones where the suspects were interviewed, with their recording equipment and menacing bailiffs, but the smaller rooms for situations such as this, where a witness walks in off the street with nary a warning. Habib had directed them to Interview Room Two, where a white male would be waiting.

  Munoz, having achieved her goal, was willing to be civil as they took a detour into the break room. “Give over, Doyle; you needn’t be so touchy—it’s not as though I’d be able to take a case away from Acton’s new bride, even if I wanted to.”

  “That’s not why I’m on the case,” Doyle retorted, very sensitive to this assumption. “I am on it because it is related to the Kempton Park case.” She paused in surprise as she carefully balanced her new cup of coffee and returned to the hallway. There was truly no reason to believe that the cases were related, and she wondered why the words had come out of her mouth. The Kempton Park case should be dead and buried, along with raving-lunatic Owens.

  “Well, I worked the Kempton Park case, too.”

  This was true; Acton had enlisted Munoz when he had taken Doyle off the case, and it didn’t help matters to be reminded of this. Munoz looked over at her, curious. “How are the two cases related?”

  Having painted herself into a corner, Doyle reached for a plausible explanation. “The trainer who was killed was Irish and on the Watch List.”

  Munoz knit her brow as they approached the interview room. “So why was he killed? Is that what started the war?”

  “Perhaps,” Doyle offered vaguely. “The workin’ theory is that everythin’ since has been tit-for-tat.”

  Munoz shrugged so that her hair slid over her shoulder. “Good on them; makes our jobs easier.”

  Doyle was uneasy with such an attitude, and her conscience was stung with the reminder that the investigation would be multiple times more exigent if the victims were innocent citizens. “Murder is murder, Munoz.”

  “Not always, Doyle.”

  Further discussion was curtailed as they entered the interview room to behold a young man of perhaps thirty years, seated at the table and smoking, even though you weren’t supposed to smoke in here. The walk-in was a bit reedy, and there was a tattoo on his neck, partially obscured by the collar of his shirt. He looked as though he did not ordinarily wear a collared shirt, and had cleaned up to make this visit, as his hair was still damp. Glancing up at them as they came into the room, he reached to stub out the cigarette.

  Doyle checked her notes. “You are Gerry Lestrade?”

  The man nodded. “That’s me. You were the girl at the track, asking questions.”

  Doyle found two things particularly interesting; first, she knew she hadn’t seen Lestrade at the track, and second, the man never took his eyes off her. Usually, when she was accompanied by Munoz, men did not even realize there was another female present. “Indeed I was; we were investigatin’ the murder of a man named Rourke.”

  The witness nodded, and kept his thoughtful gaze upon her. He is wary, she thought in surprise; wary and something else—confused, perhaps. She prompted, “Have you thought of somethin’ that may help us in our investigation, Mr. Lestrade?”

  He nodded. “I didn’t want to say the other day, because I didn’t want anyone to see me talking to you.”

  This was untrue, and Doyle waited, wondering if this witness was the sort who would tell a fish tale just to feel a part of the case—he didn’t seem it; he was working-class, and rough around the edges, but then again, so was she. The tone of his voice was rather flat, and it was hard for her to judge his origins—south England, perhaps; she was not good with accents. “Do you work at the course, then?”

  “Sometimes, the odd job or two—I’m a driver.” This, to her surprise, was true, and she reassessed; she had already half-decided that he was an attention-seeker, since he was not one for telling the truth, was Mr. Lestrade. And although his outward demeanor was calm, he was wary and alert—almost as though he was afraid of her.

  She took a sip of coffee, wishing she could go lie down. “And what would you like to tell me, then?”

  He leaned forward, and tapped a forefinger on the table. “I saw that Russian man there—the one they think killed him. He was there th
at night.” He paused, watching her. “It was early in the evening.”

  This was also untrue, and Doyle hid a flare of alarm; no one should know anything about Solonik, least of all this fellow, who seemed to be cadging his story. He is bluffing, she decided; trying to feel his way into a plausible tale that would put him in the witness books. He must have taken a look at the newspaper accounts, and guessed the suspect was Russian.

  “Please describe him,” said Munoz, who, like Doyle, knew better than to release a suspect’s name.

  The man looked at the other girl in feigned surprise and lifted his hands from the table. “You know the one—the Russian.”

  Now convinced he was indeed feeling his way, Doyle poised her pen. “Description?”

  The man looked at her, weighing his response for a moment, then offered, “About thirty-five; medium height, close-cropped blond hair; a narrow face with a broken nose.”

  Doyle jotted this down—it was the truth, but obviously he was guessing and had guessed wrong, which only cemented her conclusion that he was trumping up a false lead. Strange, he didn’t seem the type. “I see. Did you get a license plate number, or anythin’ that could help to identify him?”

  “No.” She caught a flash of amusement, which seemed a bit out of place.

  “Did you hear him say anythin’? Are you certain he was Russian?”

  She caught another flash of amusement but he answered, “Yes, I am sure he was Russian.” It was not true.

  Doyle hovered on the edge of allowing him to look at the suspect photos, but she had the strong feeling that it was he who was probing for information, and so she was reluctant to give him any.

  “Your name’s Doyle?” He indicated her security card, hanging around her neck.