Murder in Hindsight (A New Scotland Yard Mystery Book 3) Read online

  After reminding herself not to think about Acton, just now, she approached the reception desk to show her identification and ask if Mr. Maguire was in. The woman directed her down the hallway to his office, and Doyle made her way to the open doorway and stood, waiting to be noticed.

  Maguire sat at his desk, a pencil in his mouth as he typed on a laptop, his gaze upon a sheaf of papers beside him. Her interest sharpened; he seemed better put-together than when last they met. He was slimmer, and less rumply—perhaps he had a new source of income, did Mr. Maguire. As he hadn’t looked up when she paused in the entry, she ventured, “Mr. Maguire, do you remember me? Detective Sergeant Doyle.”

  Maguire looked up in surprise, the pencil clenched in his mouth.

  “I thought I’d stop by and offer my thanks again—you saved me from myself, if you’ll recall.”

  The pencil dropped into his hand as he smiled broadly. “Well, come in, then.” He indicated a chair. “Nice to see you again, Detective.”

  “I’m here on business, but I thought I’d come in to give my regards. You were very kind not to take advantage of my foolishness.”

  “Don’t tell anyone I’ve been kind—it will ruin me.” He leaned back in his chair. “Rescued anyone lately?”

  “No,” she admitted. “I’m tryin’ to lay off; it’s too hard on my husband.”

  “How is that husband of yours?”

  She smiled. “Still very private.”

  “Touché,” he said, and laughed.

  With a rueful duck of her head that was very unlike her, she continued, “You’d be surprised how hard the tabloids are diggin’ to find information on him; you’d think he was royalty, or somethin’.”

  “The tabloids?” He was genuinely surprised, which she duly noted. “Which one?”

  Doyle named the one identified on the false card given to Munoz, and he shook his head. “You’d think they had bigger fish to fry.”

  “Exactly,” she agreed. “It’s annoyin’, is what it is.” So; Maguire was not behind the attempts to discover information, which didn’t surprise her—he was not the type to go back on his word.

  With a gleam, the reporter cocked his head. “If you’d give me an exclusive, it would put an end to it.”

  “Good one,” she replied with a smile. “But not a chance, my friend.”

  He leaned forward with an intent expression, trying to persuade her. “The public would love the human interest angle; confirmed bachelor, tragic past, he up and marries his pretty young partner, working-class Irish is now a baroness. They solve crimes together, etc., etc.” He leaned back in his chair, imagining it. “It’s tailor-made for page seven.”

  Doyle had been given pause by the reference to tragedy. What tragedy? Did Maguire know about Fiona, who had been murdered? Watching him thoughtfully, she shook her head. “You missed your chance—now it’s all old news.”

  “I let you off the hook, is more like it.” His chest heaved with an exaggerated sigh. “I must be getting soft.”

  “And I’ve thanked God fastin’ ever since.”

  “Don’t know as God had anything to do with it,” he corrected her with amusement. “You haven’t been on the job long enough—someday you’ll be as cynical as I am.”

  Not a believer, she concluded, and was not surprised; he was a bit hardened at the core, was Mr. Maguire. “Well, I do owe you. If there’s anythin’ I can help you with—other than singin’ like a canary—please let me know.”

  “I’ll remember that. What brings you here today?”

  “I’m looking for a reporter I met last week, only I’ve forgotten her name. She was doing a story on the murder in Tilden Park.”

  Although his manner was casual, she could feel his attention sharpen. “That would be Cassie Masterson. Do you want to speak to her? I think she’s in the office.”

  They looked at each other for a long moment, and Doyle knew that Maguire knew about Masterson and Acton—perhaps everyone did; everyone in greater London. Concentrate, she commanded herself. “Yes; we’ve hit a stickin’ point, I’m afraid, and I thought I’d compare notes with her.” She said the words evenly, but knew that her blush betrayed her—no doubt he thought she was here trying to spy on her rival, like a schoolgirl. Faith, what a miserable, miserable mess.

  Maguire rose to see her out, and she could feel his sympathy, which only made her blush harder as he took her hand. “It was a pleasure to see you again, Detective—you are one of the bravest people I’ve met, and I’ve met more than a few.”

  With this not-so-subtle offer of encouragement echoing in her ears, Doyle proceeded down the hall to Cassie Masterson’s office, and found the woman leaning against her desk, talking on her mobile. She looked up as Doyle stood in the doorway and then hastily rang off, radiating extreme satisfaction at Doyle’s unexpected appearance. Thinks it’s her birthday and Christmas, rolled into one—the brasser, thought Doyle; and considered arresting her just for the sport of it. A shame she hadn’t brought along the heavy handcuffs.

  “Officer Doyle, good to see you again.” They shook hands, and Doyle waited while the woman removed some files that were piled up on a chair. “Sorry about the mess.”

  “I’m sorry to be interruptin’ your work,” Doyle replied as she sat down, “but I am followin’ up on the Tilden Park murder, and I wondered if you would mind sharin’ some information.”

  “Not at all,” Masterson replied with a slow smile, only barely suppressing her glee at this unlooked-for turn of events. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

  “No,” said Doyle, suddenly miserable. “Not at all.” She was forcibly reminded that, although Acton may not have had sex with this woman, the preliminaries had certainly been explored. She thought of Acton’s long, gentle fingers and felt a little sick—it was not a good idea to come here; she must be mad. While Masterson lit a cigarette, Doyle pulled herself together with a monumental effort. Courage, she exhorted herself; you can do this, and no one else can hear whether she’s telling the truth. Focusing like a laser beam, she began, “I am investigatin’ a series of murders which may be connected.”

  “Serial killer?” Masterson asked with interest as she exhaled. Paradoxically, the press loved a serial killer.

  “Perhaps—we’ve had a series of victims with some similarities.”

  “Really? What sort of similarities?”

  Annoyed that her companion was asking questions as opposed to answering them, Doyle tried to decide what could be disclosed without jeopardizing the cases. “The victims seem to be criminal types.”

  Masterson drew on the cigarette and eyed her. Thinks I’m an idiot, Doyle deduced.

  Tapping her ash, the woman offered, “Wouldn’t that be a pretty generalized correlation?”

  Mother a’ mercy, Doyle thought in dismay; she talks just like Acton.

  “Are you hoping to garner some press coverage to help you out?”

  Thus prompted, Doyle tried to look guileless, which was not by any means a stretch. “I was hopin’ that you’d discovered somethin’ about the Tilden Park victim. Do you know anythin’ of him?”

  Tapping her ash, Masterson bowed her head to hide a smile. “Very little, I’m afraid; I’ve been distracted by other matters.”

  Stay focused, Doyle reminded herself, resisting an urge to bristle and hurl insults; you have the upper hand in this, after all. “Did you research the victim at all?”

  “Only what I’ve heard from others.”

  Doyle stared at her in frustrated disbelief. What was wrong with the stupid brasser that she couldn’t answer a straightforward question with a straightforward answer? It was not as though Doyle could ask her outright if she’d killed the flippin’ victim.

  The woman leaned back her head to blow a stream of smoke. “Does Acton have a theory?”

  Resenting the implied familiarity, Doyle replied stiffly, “DCI Acton has other priorities, just now.”

  “Of course he does,” the other agreed with a half-smile, and Doyle c
hided herself for giving her the opening—truly, this interview was not going at all how she’d planned it, although to be fair, the plan had involved a fantasy about a nightstick that was probably doomed from the start.

  Masterson crossed her arms, the smoke from the cigarette drifting upward as she looked out the window for a moment. “I understand he has a commitment that will take him out of town over the weekend.”

  Outraged, Doyle immediately concluded that her wretched husband was going to take this wretched brasser to Trestles for some mysterious reason, and fought an urge to dump the ashtray over her head. She reconsidered, however, as it seemed unlikely this was to be a lover’s tryst—not with the fearsome dowager in residence. Perhaps Acton meant to murder Masterson, which was not beyond the realm of possibility; if this were the case, however, Doyle reluctantly conceded she would have to work to prevent such an occurrence. “Yes; DCI Acton has some pressin’ interests at present.”

  Lowering her gaze, the woman bit her lip and Doyle chided herself yet again. No more openings for double entendres, she vowed; think before you speak, for the love o’ Mike.

  After a moment of silence, Doyle decided she should try a different tack; she’d try to find out whether Masterson had researched the murder victims—or for that matter, if anyone had. “I would like to look at some of the records of older crimes—before everythin’ was put online. Do you know who it is I speak to? Is there microfiche, somewhere?” Microfiche was a now-obsolete process to store documents on film.

  “I’ll be glad to take you to the archives,” Masterson offered with every appearance of willingness. She stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray and rose to lead the way, and Doyle had no other recourse but to follow along in her faintly perfumed wake.

  CHAPTER 18

  DOYLE AND MASTERSON DESCENDED THE WORN WOODEN steps into the newspaper’s archives. Another dungeon, thought Doyle—only this time there’s a dragon, to boot. Masterson approached a microfiche machine and indicated Doyle should sit. “Let me show you how it works—should we start with the Tilden Park case?”

  Doyle nodded, wracking her brain to think of a way to bring up the next necessary topic of conversation. “Do you sign in to use this?”

  “No—since you can’t check anything out, there’s no need.”

  Naturally, thought Doyle with resignation; no record of who may have been researching old cases—faith, but I’m getting nowhere. “I’d like to search for the victim’s name; he was involved in a prior.”

  Masterson walked her through the old technology until Doyle was presented with a dim copy of an article from eight years ago. Masterson leaned to look it over. “Foster child, it looks like.”

  “Arson,” said Doyle, who already was familiar with the cold case. “He was fourteen, and suspected of burnin’ the house down while his foster parents slept.”

  “Nasty brute.”

  Doyle paused, trying to decide if the comment meant anything. “It was never proved, the arson; he was young and it was played off as an accident.”

  “Does Acton ever talk about his own experience?”

  “No, he’s very private.” And Doyle had no idea to what the woman referred; there was that, too. Best find out, mental note; hopefully he hadn’t tried to burn down the manor house.

  “A very intriguing man.”

  That’s why she’s sticking by my side, Doyle realized. She’s digging for information—and enjoying the irony of the situation, which is mean-spirited of her. But then again, so am I, on both counts, so I suppose we’re even. “He is indeed. His technique is a wonder to behold—he studies patterns and forensics, and the next thing you know he’s solved the case.”

  “You must be very proud of him.” There was a subtle undertone that was recognizable even though Doyle had never heard it before; the condescension the knowing girlfriend feels for the unknowing wife.

  Gritting her teeth, Doyle held on to her temper with both hands and continued, “I wish I had his talent. Mainly I search and slog for patterns, and just when I am nearly mad with frustration, the case-breaker walks through the door with the crucial evidence, through no effort of my own.”

  Masterson smiled indulgently. “Happens that way in this business, too. A lead will fly in out of the blue.”

  Doyle turned to her, suddenly chatty. “Once I was inter-viewin’ a witness—seemed to be a dead end—and toward the end of the interview he casually mentioned he had taken an incriminatin’ photo with his mobile. It broke the case; nearly knocked me over.”

  “Really?” asked Masterson politely. “How extraordinary.”

  “It was the Solonik arrest. Did you cover the story?”

  “No,” she replied, knitting her brow. “Was it recently?”

  “A few months ago. He was an underworld player.”

  The other woman offered vaguely, “I think I remember the case—quite a catch for Acton.”

  “It was,” agreed Doyle. “Did you know the history?”

  “I’m afraid not; not my beat.” Masterson made sure to give Doyle the impression that such cases were ten-a-penny to a seasoned reporter, although a young DS with little experience might think otherwise.

  The other woman’s mobile rang, and as she read the screen, Doyle felt the leap of excitement. Grand; it must be the illustrious chief inspector, checking in to bill and coo. Her ears on the stretch, Doyle turned back to the microfiche machine and pretended to read whatever the article said.

  The reporter spoke in a low voice, sounding very much like a cat at the cream pot. “Yes—I’m all set to go.”

  Not on my watch, thought Doyle grimly.

  But apparently the thought of toying with his poor deluded wife was even more appealing than exchanging sweet nothings with Acton, because she murmured, “Do you mind if I ring you right back?”

  Doyle wondered what the general reaction would be if she chimed in from the background and said hallo to him. Best not.

  The woman rang off and leaned in to read over Doyle’s shoulder, very pleased with herself. “I can see if any of the reporters on the byline remember anything; shall I ring them up?”

  Before Doyle could respond, however, she looked up in surprise to see Williams, approaching from the base of the stairway. Faith, she thought crossly; it wants only this.

  “Hallo,” smiled Masterson, straightening up. “May I help you?”

  “I’m here to gather up DS Doyle,” he explained, and shot a glance at the aforesaid Doyle that conveyed his conviction that she’d lost her mind. “I’m sorry to interrupt.”

  “I’m Cassie Masterson.” The other woman held out her hand and tilted her head coyly.

  Two-timing poor Acton, thought Doyle in outrage. A brasser, through and through.

  “Of course; I know of your work,” said Williams with his rare, lopsided smile. “Thomas Williams; a pleasure to meet you, Miss Masterson.”

  She laughed and reluctantly relinquished his hand. “Please—Cassie. Are you in major crimes, also?”

  “Don’t spread it around, they haven’t caught me yet.”

  Masterson threw back her head and laughed as though he’d said something witty, whilst Doyle shot him a disgusted look from behind the floozy’s back.

  He turned to Doyle, chiding. “Did you forget our interview?”

  “I did,” she admitted, mainly because it was mythical. She gathered up her rucksack, wondering what was afoot that Williams felt he had to come and drag her out of here. “I’d best be goin’—thank you so much for all your help, Miss Masterson.” She hadn’t been invited to call the other woman Cassie—probably because she didn’t have an XY chromosome. Not that she’d want to use it, anyway—such a stupid name and fit only for a twelve year old, it was. Poor Acton, having to make up to a woman named Cassie; it was well-beneath his dignity.

  After the reporter bestowed upon Williams a last, lingering smile, they parted at the top of the stairs and made their way out of the building. Williams was fulminating about something,
but she was annoyed in her own right, and said in a hostile tone, “Don’t mind me, go back and chat her up, if you’d like.”

  But DS Williams was not going to hear it. “What were you doing? You’re smarter than this.”

  So, Williams remembered who Masterson was from the photographs—he was a sharp-eyed one, mental note—and must also think she was here trying to case her rival. This was humiliating, and since she couldn’t very well tell him she was trying to discover whether the woman was a likely suspect, she took refuge in being put-upon. “This is none of your business, Thomas.”

  “It’s my business if I had to spend the last hour tracking you down—why didn’t you answer me?”

  They emerged onto the busy street and Doyle retorted, much upon her dignity, “I’ve been busy detectin’. If it’s so important, why didn’t you just ring me?”

  “Are you mad? I can’t call about this and take the chance it would be intercepted.”

  This seemed over-dramatic, and she eyed him sidelong. “What is it we’re talkin’ about, then?”

  With his jaw set in a resolute line, he indicated they should retreat down a quieter side street. “Don’t pretend you don’t know, Kath.”

  This remark was alarming, as there were many and sundry secrets she was currently keeping—best be cautious. “Take hold of your wrathful self, Thomas; I can’t say that I care for your tone.”

  But he only glanced over his shoulder, and replied in a terse tone, “And I can’t say I care for the company you keep.”

  This seemed unfair, and she replied with much scorn, “And here I thought you fancied her—although if you take up with a reporter, you’ll run the risk of being called up by Professional Standards.”

  “That’s not who I meant, and Professional Standards would be the least of your worries.” He glanced down at her, very grim. “I know who he is.”

  She halted in surprise. “You know who the killer is?”

  He stopped also, and took a careful canvass of the immediate area. “No, idiot. Your friend at the bookstore.”