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

  “Yes, I am Detective Constable Doyle, and this is Detective Constable Munoz.” She should have introduced herself when they entered the room, but she was annoyed that Munoz was there, and when she was annoyed she tended to forget the protocols.

  The witness’s gaze rested on Munoz briefly, but then returned like a lodestar to Doyle. Tilting his head with a self-conscious smile, he made a gesture toward her left hand, resting on the occurrence book. “You married?”

  Doyle had to hide her own smile, as there were shock waves of incredulity suddenly emanating from Munoz. “I am, indeed. Now, can you think of anythin’ else that may help with our investigation?” If she was clever, like Williams, she’s think of a misdirection question, but she wasn’t feeling very clever at present, and mainly just wanted to bring the interview to an end.

  The witness clasped his hands on the table, and met her eyes. “Everyone’s nervous around the course—do the police have a motive for the murder, yet?”

  “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss a pendin’ investigation,” Doyle responded automatically. She wasn’t certain if he was fishing for information, or fishing for a date, but either way he had no real knowledge and was a waste of time. She rose, and instructed the witness to leave his information with the desk sergeant in the event they needed to contact him, then recited by rote, “Thank you for comin’ in, Mr. Lestrade; oftentimes the public’s help is instrumental.”

  The man paused, then nodded his head. “It has been a pleasure.”

  This was also untrue, which seemed a little strange if the man was angling to chat her up. Doyle didn’t care, and as they retreated back to the basement she said crossly to Munoz, “I hope you felt that was worth turnin’ Habib up sweet.”

  “Not really—he was obviously a bit nicked.”

  Quirking her mouth, Doyle observed, “Because he didn’t fall at your feet.”

  “Not just that; he didn’t even attempt to put together a story that was remotely interesting.”

  This was true; one would think he’d not want to be exposed as a faker at first blush, but he had very little to relate, and had seemed hesitant to give them even as much as he did.

  “Did you see his watch?”

  Doyle looked over at her companion. “No. Why?”

  Munoz shrugged. “It was a Breguet—a very expensive French brand. Didn’t really fit, unless he stole it.”

  But Doyle had lost interest. “They’ll have run a check on him before lettin’ him in the door; if he had a record, they’d know.”

  “Just saying.”

  Once in the elevator, Doyle leaned against the back wall and let out a breath as Munoz eyed her. “Why were you out yesterday—were you sick?”

  Doyle firmly quashed the bleak misery that threatened to rise up again. “Yes, I was sick.” Best not to mention it was the worst day of her life; or perhaps the second worst, after the death of her mother. Munoz wouldn’t much care, anyway, and so she changed the subject. “How is your foreign beau?”

  This, however, proved to be a sore point. “I don’t know,” Munoz replied, her brows drawing together. “He didn’t call me yesterday, after he said he would.”

  “Then he doesn’t deserve the likes of you.” Doyle wanted to make up for her earlier unkindness, and Munoz had allowed Doyle to take the lead in the interview, which was appreciated.

  “I don’t know—he is just my type; rich and handsome.” Munoz said this with a touch of defiance, which Doyle interpreted to mean that Acton wasn’t the only fish in the rich and handsome sea.

  “Then perhaps he had unexpected business, or somethin’,” Doyle offered patiently, taking another tack. “What with the tariffs, and all.”

  Munoz looked a little conscious, suddenly. “Yes—that could be it. Are you hungry?”

  Doyle could see that Munoz wanted to change the topic of conversation, and her antennae quivered; Munoz was feeling guilty about something—something apparently having to do with her boyfriend’s business. Doyle hoped the other girl wasn’t being foolish, but decided she couldn’t issue any tacit warnings; Munoz was already fit to be tied due to the whole marr ying-Acton-in-a-twinkle development.

  “I suppose.” Actually, Doyle was not hungry, but she had been secretly dismayed by the pale, thin face that had reflected back at her in the mirror this morning. No wonder Acton was worried; she needed to eat something if it killed her, even though she felt it might. Mentally girding her loins, she went to her cubicle to fetch her wallet and text Acton with this plan. Munoz needed cheering up, and Doyle didn’t know if she could face Acton’s carefully suppressed anxiety right now; it would do them both good to have a break from it—not to mention it would give him a chance to catch up on his caseload after playing nursemaid to her yesterday. Taking a deep, steadying breath, she marshaled her energy. She would eat, come back, and then report to Acton that she had eaten and felt better—surely it was past time to start recovering. With this resolution firmly in mind, she rejoined Munoz, who was signing off her mobile. “Williams and Samuels will join us.”

  Doyle’s immediate reaction was dismay, but she quickly tamped it down; she had to face Williams again, and now was as good a time as any—she couldn’t avoid him, or treat him any differently without giving away the fact that she knew he’d been in earnest when he’d said the things he had. Honestly, men; she thought with a touch of exasperation. Until she met Acton, she had lived a very undramatic life, although she supposed it wasn’t Acton’s fault that Williams was vying for her affections—although not in any way that she would notice. Recalling her husband’s version of courtship with a fond smile, she thought, I’m afraid you lost this horse race, Williams; Acton left you at the gate.

  CHAPTER 18

  DOYLE AND MUNOZ PICKED UP SAMUELS AT HIS CUBICLE, AND the three of them walked to the lobby to meet up with Williams, who now had a larger cubicle, courtesy of his recent promotion. Doyle noted that he seemed to be restored to health, and hoped he’d do as the doctor had cautioned and take better care of himself. He met her eyes briefly, and she received the unspoken message that she wasn’t to discuss his brief hospitalization. She gave him a reassuring smile and thought, ancient history, my friend; that story’s been well-trumped.

  “Congratulations,” said Munoz, smiling sweetly. She hadn’t given up hope of securing Williams’s interest, it seemed—particularly now that the foreign beau was not cooperating. “Your promotion was well-deserved.”

  “Who are you?” Williams teased as he held the door, “and what have you done with Munoz?”

  They all laughed, including Munoz, and then walked outside to the local deli together. The weather was beginning to turn so that it was a bit brisk out, but the group decided it was not too cold to sit at the tables outside, and they settled into conversation between chips and sandwiches. Doyle breathed in the cool, fresh air and decided this was a good idea, to be outside; indeed, she seemed to be feeling better and better as the day went along.

  “How is the rarefied air on the fifth floor?” Samuels asked Williams. Samuels was a fellow DC who worked on Drake’s team, and Munoz had originally thrown him in Doyle’s way as a potential beau. He was easygoing and unambitious—or at least compared to the rest of them, and Doyle privately thought he wouldn’t stay in law enforcement long; he didn’t have the thirst for it, and this was not an easy job, else.

  Williams demurred with due modesty, “I’m finding my way; mainly I do whatever Acton tells me.”

  “Me, too,” chirped Doyle, and they all laughed again. Grand, thought Doyle with relief; there appeared to be no constraint, and Williams was determined to behave as though the scene at the pub never happened. Acton was right; Williams would not embarrass her again.

  As they ate, she and Williams entertained Samuels and Munoz with a description of their interview with Thackeray at the souvenir shop, which also evoked a great deal of laughter.

  “The best part of the job,” Samuels pronounced. “The interactions with the
assorted itizenry.”

  “Some more assorted than others,” Munoz agreed, taking a chip from Williams’s plate.

  Williams indicated Doyle with a nod of his head. “The witness wouldn’t even speak to Doyle; she had to go outside to sit on the stoop.”

  Laughing, the others exclaimed at this gross injustice. “A misogynist?” asked Munoz.

  Doyle smiled and shook her head. “No; the objection was to race, not gender.”

  Munoz tossed her long black hair. “If it had been me, he probably would have pulled a weapon.”

  Williams teased, “Sometimes I’m tempted to pull a weapon on you, myself.”

  Delighted that Williams was teasing her with such familiarity, Munoz bestowed a brilliant smile on him and made a tart response. Privately, Doyle wondered if he was trying to compensate for their little contretemps by politely flirting with Munoz; he’d best have a care or she’d be on him like a barnacle.

  Apparently, the attention had put Munoz in a benign mood, because she was willing to reveal, “On the other hand, we had a walk-in today who was so enamored of Doyle that he asked if she was married. It was a shame she was already spoken for—he was just her type.”

  The men exclaimed and wanted to hear the story, and so Doyle recited it, admitting, “There are some men who like redheads—sometimes it’s a curse.”

  “Followed her in from the racecourse like a puppy,” Munoz continued. “It was touching, really.”

  “More like touched,” said Samuels. They all laughed, but Doyle realized that the whole encounter was very strange, now that she thought about it. Lestrade wasn’t touched—not really; and Doyle didn’t have the feeling he was attracted to her. More like he was wary, which could be a sign he was involved in the turf war and was trying to find out what the authorities knew. She’d best follow up on him when she returned after lunch; if her brain had been working, this would have already occurred to her.

  They began to discuss other cases while Doyle ate a small portion of her turkey sandwich. She could feel Williams’s eyes upon her when she pushed the rest away, unable to eat any more. Oh, she thought suddenly; Williams.

  She texted him on her mobile under the table, “Must speak 2 U.”

  His mobile buzzed and he read the message but did not look at her; she hoped he didn’t think she was going to revisit that-which-should-not-be-spoken-of.

  Samuels was entertaining them with the story of an arrest gone very awry when Munoz suddenly lit up like a candle. “Sergey!”

  A man who had been heading toward headquarters turned toward her voice and came to greet her, hands outstretched. Doyle looked on with interest, as this was clearly the Belarus person; he was indeed handsome in an Eastern European sort of way, his dark hair slicked back into a small ponytail. He was dressed in the kind of suit that Acton would wear, which Doyle now knew meant it was ridiculously expensive.

  “Isabel, I have come to ask you to lunch with me.”

  But Munoz was well-schooled in the art of romance, and shrugged with a casual smile, her glance indicating her male companions. “I have other plans, I’m afraid.”

  “Forgive me,” he said, with an abundance of rueful charm. “I lost my cellular telephone and did not know how to contact you—I was going to ask at the desk.”

  This was deemed to be a plausible excuse by Munoz, who clearly forgave him. Doyle, who knew he was lying, was not so easily swayed. She did give him credit for easy charm, however—he could have been an Irishman, born and bred.

  Munoz introduced him to the men; clearly enjoying what she hoped was their chagrin. “And this is Kathleen Acton.”

  Williams interrupted to explain to Munoz what Doyle had already attempted to explain several times; “Munoz, its either ‘Kathleen Sinclair’ or ‘Lady Acton’; you don’t mix them.” Doyle, however, wasn’t paying attention to them anymore; Sergey hid it almost immediately, but there was no mistaking that he was alarmed—alarmed and wary. Of her fair self.

  The reaction was similar to that of Lestrade, only more pronounced ; it was all very strange. The penny dropped, and she suddenly realized there was a likely explanation; Acton was miles more likely to strike fear into the breasts of others as opposed to her young and girlish self, therefore this must be all about her connection to him. Indeed, the Belarus banker may be a former suspect, and terrified that Munoz would discover this unfortunate fact. Doyle resolved to mention the encounter to Acton; it wouldn’t be fair to stand by and allow Munoz to be duped by a charming rogue, however tempting the idea might be. As a consolation, perhaps she could be the one to break the sad news to her.

  The aforesaid banker persuaded Munoz to accompany him elsewhere, and she agreed, her spirits buoyant again. Sergey assured the rest of them he was happy to make their acquaintance, but he didn’t meet Doyle’s eyes, and he could not leave fast enough. A blackleg, Doyle concluded, and wondered what his secret was.

  Samuels rose to make a visit to the nearby bookshop, and Doyle and Williams were left together at the table. Neither made a move to get up, and he waited, saying nothing. She found she could not meet his eyes, and recited in a low voice, “I wanted to tell you that I had a miscarriage.” She paused for a moment, controlling herself. “I would appreciate it if you didn’t mention it to anyone.”

  This announcement was met with a silence that lasted so long that she glanced up to see if he had been listening. He was staring at her, white-faced. “Because of me.”

  “What?” she asked, completely at sea.

  He ducked his head down, and she could see that his fingers were pressed hard against the surface of the table. “I behaved so badly; you were knackered and I didn’t care—and then I was stupid and put myself in a coma.”

  She stared at him incredulously. “Williams, you tiresome knocker, I have no idea what you are talkin’ about; I miscarried the next day and it had nothin’ to do with you.” Hopefully, this was the case; she hadn’t thought about it before.

  He bent his head back for a moment in acute remorse. “Acton thought I was an idiot; he blistered me for putting you through it.”

  She blinked. “Acton blistered you while you were in the hospital?”

  He brought his head down and met her gaze. “I’m afraid so.” He heard the hint of humor in her question, and a smile tugged at his mouth.

  “Quite the bedside manner, in fact.”

  He smiled and she smiled—it truly was funny. Poor Williams; he could have been on his deathbed and Acton would have chided him for making her wait in the drafty hallway. Acton was a sad, sad case.

  “I am so sorry,” he said, and meant it.

  She sighed. “As am I. Let’s go back, then.” They walked together in companionable silence, on a good footing once again, although it was different than their former good footing—better, as though they’d survived a battle together. Acton was right; Williams was not the sort to make things uncomfortable for her. It didn’t change the fact, however, that she could still feel his longing and she wished she couldn’t. Need to find him a nice girl, thought Doyle. An anti-Munoz.

  CHAPTER 19

  REYNOLDS WAS TO STAY; DOYLE AND ACTON HAD DISCUSSED IT and agreed that no further probation was needed. He had proved his mettle in the emergency and had just the right combination of aloofness, kindness and respect that was most pleasing. He had also realized that the most direct route to Acton’s approval was to treat Doyle like a rare and precious treasure, which proved to Doyle that he was very shrewd indeed.

  That evening they’d decided to tempt her appetite with Chinese food; Doyle had not eaten any recently because she realized Acton didn’t care for it, although he would never admit to it, the knocker. So it was a measure of his concern that Acton had ordered in her favorite dishes, and they were now awaiting the order whilst Reynolds was preparing to leave. They had agreed the servant would come in three days per week, unless circumstances warranted. Doyle knew Reynolds was pleased with the terms, and she suspected Acton was overpaying him so t
hat he wouldn’t mind the part-time schedule. Doyle was content; although she couldn’t feel comfortable with any sort of servant, she felt she owed Reynolds a debt she could never repay for his discreet support on that most miserable of days which must not be dwelt upon.

  The intercom rang, and the concierge reported that their food order had arrived. Acton explained to Reynolds that the concierge service would then deliver the food; the security in the building did not allow a delivery person to come upstairs.

  Reynolds seemed struck by this, and paused in putting on his coat. “I had a rather strange experience today, then—although I had not realized it was strange until now.” He then explained that he had heard a key being inserted in the slot for the flat, but the door did not open and when the attempt was made again, the servant—thinking it was Doyle with her hands full—had opened the door.

  “A woman stood on the threshold, very surprised to see me, if I may say so. She immediately turned and left; I assumed she was trying the wrong door.”

  Doyle and Acton looked at each other and came to the same conclusion. “Marta,” said Doyle. “She didn’t know you’ve changed the lock so that her key card no longer worked. They must have let her in at the desk; I wonder what she wanted—perhaps she left somethin’ here.”

  “Then why not contact me?” Acton’s brows drew together. “I don’t like it; I will mention to the desk that she has been fired, and is not to be allowed through.”

  “Perhaps she is spyin’ for your mother,” suggested Doyle, who belatedly realized that this may not have been the most politic thing to say in front of Reynolds, who had assumed all the characteristics of a wooden post.

  Nodding his dismissal of Reynolds, Acton then called to inform the concierge that neither Marta nor the dowager Lady Acton was to be allowed entrance, and that he was to be contacted immediately in the event of such an attempted visit. Excellent, thought Doyle as she listened; problem solved—although she imagined Reynolds would be more than a match for either of them.