Murder in Hindsight (A New Scotland Yard Mystery Book 3) Page 13

  Samuels inquired of Williams, “Will they move you to an office?” This was a continual point of much jealousy and complaint, and although the question was asked in a mild tone, it was a potential mine-field.

  Rather than answer, Williams said to Munoz, “I’m working on the Wexton Prison corruption case, and I think a female detective might help break the code of silence, considering the type of men involved. Do you suppose Habib could spare you for a morning or two?”

  Munoz’s dark brows drew together, not fooled by this proffered olive branch. “Are you trying to buy me off?”

  Williams flashed his rare smile. “Yes.”

  “Buy me off, instead,” suggested Samuels with a smile. “Corruption is right up my alley.”

  But Williams only shook his head. “Sorry—you don’t look like her.”

  Naturally, it was this comment that won Munoz’s grudging acceptance, and Doyle was all admiration—beneath that buttoned-up façade, Williams was very adept at subtle manipulation, another talent she lacked. Doyle had forgotten her wallet, so instead of paying for his lunch as promised, he wound up paying for hers. “Sorry,” she said in an aside as they rose to leave. “I owe you on all fronts.”

  “No one owes anyone for anything.” He met her eyes briefly and she was reminded that DI Williams carried a torch for her, and she’d best keep it to mind so that she didn’t encourage any foolishness—not that she’d do it purposefully, it was only that sometimes she forgot how complicated this relationship business was. She hadn’t much training or experience in it because before she met Acton, she’d neatly avoided everyone.

  As though she’d summoned him by the very thought, Acton himself met her at the door as they were leaving. “Detectives,” he greeted them brusquely, and the others hastily and deferentially took their leave. Having routed them, he stood before her on the sidewalk for a silent moment, his enigmatic gaze resting on hers. “I thought I’d buy you a cup of coffee.”

  “I’d rather have a cup of cap-in-hand, husband.”

  “Then you shall have it, but first you’ll have to explain to me what it is.” He tucked her hand in his arm and began to lead her away, toward the Abbey.

  “I’ll give you a hint; if you are takin’ her to Trestles to have sex with her, I am goin’ to tear down the flippin’ building, stone by stone.”

  “No,” he disclaimed immediately. “I am taking her there to allow her to examine the archives.”

  Suspicious, she knit her brow and eyed him sidelong. “Is that a euphemism?”

  She caught a flash of amusement. “No.”

  “Well, then; I’m that relieved. But you are goin’ to fill me in on the whole, or I’ll know the reason why.”

  He squeezed her hand against his side with his arm. “Shall we buy some coffee and walk along the embankment?”

  This was a bit alarming and an indication of his concern—Acton was not much of a stroller-about. Or it may be an indication that he was taking no chance at being overheard. “Please—although if anyone recognizes me, glare them away, as you did Munoz and Samuels.”

  They bought coffee from the corner franchise, and walked toward the broad pathway beside the Thames, the breeze blowing steadily now that they were on the river. He seemed disinclined to start his confession—probably because he wasn’t certain how much she knew. Not the type to share his innermost thoughts with the wife of his bosom, was Acton. With this in mind, she decided it was probably best to fire off a warning round. “She’s workin’ with Solonik, isn’t she?”

  The question surprised him, and he responded with extreme caution. “Why do you think this?”

  Impatient, she hunched her shoulders against the cool air. “I figured it was somethin’ like that, so I asked her some questions about the Solonik arrest. She lied and said she didn’t know anythin’ about it—or him.” She glanced up at his profile and gently shook his arm. “And it doesn’t take much of a leap, Michael; someone is tryin’ to do you over, and he’s the prime suspect.”

  “I would not be surprised,” he admitted.

  “What does she know?” This was a dicey question, as Acton did not know how much Doyle knew—or guessed—about his own underworld connections.

  “I am not certain.”

  Although this was an equivocal answer, it nonetheless was true, which made sense to her; Solonik must only know bits and pieces; otherwise, there’d be no need to apply pressure to the fair Doyle, hoping she’d grass up information. We shall see, Mr. Solonik, she thought grimly; I’ve a few arrows in my own quiver, I do.

  They were quiet for a few minutes as they walked past the Westminster Pier, where small groups of tourists waited for the next ferry. When they were clear again, he asked, “What else did you discuss with her?”

  “The Tilden Park murder—I was lookin’ through the microfiche, hopin’ there’d be a record of who was looking at the old news coverage of the arson case, but no luck. Miss Masterson was kind enough to assist me.” She glanced up at him, quirking her mouth. “She is attractive, Michael—at least you have good taste.”

  “Don’t,” he said abruptly. “I would much rather just kill her.”

  This was true, and Doyle was not at all surprised—Acton being who he was. “All my moralizin’ is having an impact, then?” Talk about mixed emotions.

  But he avoided a direct answer and instead explained, “It would pose no solution because another would be sent to take her place. Instead, the solution must thwart any such further attempts.”

  Considering who they were dealing with—and Acton’s own dark doings—this seemed a tall order. “And have you such a plan? It must be a corker.”

  He raised his head to survey the area, as was his habit. “I do. I doubt that I can win a bidding war, so I will offer something no one else can.”

  The penny dropped, and Doyle turned to stare at him. “She’s thinkin’ she’ll be the next Lady Acton.”

  He nodded, as though the topic were nothing unusual. “Yes. I haven’t broached the subject in so many words, but the idea has been planted.”

  She knit her brow, much struck. “You are like Timothy’s Nanda, then—offerin’ up the only commodity you have available.”

  He glanced at her in amusement. “Not quite; here we’re talking about the title—and all that goes with it.”

  “You’re a handsome thing, Michael,” she assured him. “Don’t sell yourself short.” She walked along and considered what she’d learned in the silence it deserved. It wasn’t a bad plan; Masterson might be willing to spike whatever plot Solonik was hatching in exchange for the heady possibility she could succeed Doyle as the next baroness, and therefore the keeper of the secrets of the House of Acton. It would be tempting to any woman—small wonder she treated Doyle with such poorly-concealed triumph. “And you’re takin’ her to Trestles to dangle the bait.”

  He was amused again. “So to speak, I suppose.”

  “I think I should come along, Michael.”

  It was his turn to be surprised. “You have nothing to fear, Kathleen, I promise. I plan to hold her at arm’s length, and tell her that I must be very circumspect; I cannot allow a scandal just now, if divorce is on the horizon.”

  “I’m not worried about that, Michael.” This was not exactly true; if their future hinged upon it, she imagined Acton would make whatever sacrifices necessary—and men were men, after all. “It’s just that I think it would appeal to her if I was there—the competitive aspect of it. She very much enjoyed toyin’ with me today, and would positively relish more of the same.” Fumbling for words, she tried to explain what she knew instinctively. “She loves the intrigue—the secretiveness—of knowin’ something no one else does.” Thinking about it, she raised her gaze to his. “I imagine you’ve already twigged that about her, which is why she’s ripe for your counter-plot. She’ll love the thought that she’s goin’ to carry off the palm, with me all unknowin’.”

  Gazing into the distance, he thought about this. “You may b
e right.”

  “I am right, my friend. And it will have the added bonus of giving you a ready excuse to be keepin’ your unfaithful self chaste. Tell her that I found out about the trip, and I’ve invited myself along; be regretful, and ask if she’d like to reschedule—I bet she’ll be cock a’ hoop about it, instead.”

  “All right,” he agreed. “But only as long as it’s clear she’s cock a’ hoop.”

  “She’ll be merry as a grig,” Doyle assured him. “Mark me.”

  They paused to stand at the railing for a moment, looking out across the brown and churning river. Reminded, Doyle asked, “Whose head was fished out of the river?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Williams said an informant’s head was pulled from the river, and that now you’ll have to cultivate a new one.”

  “Did he indeed?”

  She eyed him, surprised. “A fish tale, was it? What—to frighten Munoz? Good luck to him, if that’s the object.” Reminded of something else, she asked, “Is he to be promoted? Williams, I mean; Samuels said as much.” Thus prompted, she turned to him intently and continued, “Samuels—I keep meanin’ to tell you that Samuels is fishin’ about for information.” Staring at her husband, her scalp prickled and she made the intuitive leap. “Samuels is some sort of informant for the wrong side, isn’t he? Williams was givin’ him a warnin’, speakin’ of heads in the river.”

  “Good God,” said Acton mildly.

  “It’s exhaustin’, sometimes,” Doyle admitted, thinking over this new wrinkle. “What is goin’ to happen to Samuels?”

  “That is not your concern, I’m afraid.”

  She looked to the river again, trying to piece it all together. “Do you want me to ask Samuels about Solonik, like I did Masterson?”

  “I’d rather you didn’t. I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say anything more.”

  “All right,” she replied a bit crossly. “But I’m catchin’ on like a house afire, here.”

  “It is impressive,” he acknowledged. “But I still cannot say.”

  Teasing, she added, “I twigged you and this Masterson brasser in a pig’s whisper, if you will recall. It’s exactly what you deserve, for strayin’ off the straight-and-narrow.”

  “How did you manage it?” he asked in the same mild tone.

  “Nice try, Michael.”

  He accepted defeat with good grace, and bent his head to hers. “With that in mind, I’ll have to meet her for a drink after work.” He pulled out his mobile and scrolled. “To implement the cock a’ hoop protocol.”

  Laughing, she leaned her head fondly against him. “Well then; have a nice date, but keep the present baroness to mind, if you please.”

  “I’ll be home by dinner,” he assured her with his half-smile.

  CHAPTER 21

  IT WASN’T UNTIL DOYLE WAS AT HOME, SETTLED IN BEFORE HER laptop and entering notes on her spreadsheet, that it occurred to her that Acton hadn’t revealed his supposed solution to the Masterson problem. Outfoxed me again, she thought in chagrin; he lets me gabble on until I get distracted—which happens more often than not—and then he holds his cards very close to the vest. She leaned back in her chair, gazing out the windows and thinking about it with her fingers laced behind her head. He was trying to make Masterson turn coat by pretending they could have a future together, but—presumably—at some point she would realize that Acton was not about to divorce his misfit of a wife. Then what? Acton said he needed a solution that would ensure another wouldn’t be sent in Masterson’s place, but there was also the tricky business of Masterson herself; if she had the goods on Acton, and then felt she’d been spurned or duped, presumably she’d be all too happy to help Solonik bring Acton down. It was hard to imagine how her husband expected to carry the day—not without following through and marrying the stupid brasser. Perhaps he could do it quietly, and then lock her in the attic at Trestles, like the brooding hero in that book about the governess. She frowned at nothing in particular, thinking this over. Wouldn’t work as a long-term solution, she decided with regret.

  Her unhappy thoughts were interrupted when Acton texted her with his symbol. This was much appreciated—she’d been trying not to imagine where they were or what was going on. He is working, she told herself firmly, brushing a wistful thumb across the mobile screen; and he has a plan, even though he doesn’t want to share the particulars with you—remember that whole tendency to gabble.

  The pretext for the visit to Trestles was to allow Masterson to view the archives, which sounded very dull and stuffy, but provided an excellent excuse to invite a journalist to stay for a few days and at the same time, drive home the point that the storied history could be hers, along with the handsome man who held the title. Doyle had no doubt that Acton planned to spend long hours closeted with Masterson, and wondered what his mother would think of such a thing—the dowager despised Doyle, but a journalist would be just as unwelcome, one would think. All in all, the weekend was shaping up to be a rare crack, and Doyle was rather surprised that she was so willing to participate in this miserable morality play. However, she knew, in the way that she knew things, that it was important that she attend, for some reason, and so attend she would.

  With a mental sigh, she returned to her spreadsheet on the park murders, organizing her notes from Mrs. Bennet’s visit and the microfiche at the World News. She’d tentatively eliminated Masterson as the murderer—although for a journalist, she certainly couldn’t seem to answer a direct question with a direct answer—and so she went back to Williams’s guilt theory, which seemed more and more valid, based on what she’d learned about Mrs. Bennet’s daughter and the Tilden Park victim. Both were let off from earlier murders with the aid of public opinion, and both had gone on to murder again. It made sense that someone felt responsible, and wanted to right all past wrongs. It was odd that the vigilante had waited so long in both instances, but perhaps he was biding his time so as to obscure the commonalities between the murders. And Acton thought there might have been a recent triggering event, but it seemed a very tall order, to try to determine what it could have been.

  She looked up the defense team personnel who had worked these two cases originally, and found a small but encouraging lead; they had been handled by the same barristers’ chambers at the Inns of Court, although different barristers were involved in each trial. This was not much of a coincidence, actually; there were only four Inns of Court, and therefore a limited number of barristers who appeared in the Crown Court. But the solicitors for each case—the attorneys who handled all but the court appearances—were completely different, and so any glimpse of a commonality was welcome. Doyle decided she would pay a visit to the chambers and debated when to do so; she hadn’t yet heard from Savoie about her proposed visit to Solonik, and that should take priority over everything else. There was no time like the present, though, and she could always cancel if the need arose. She texted Williams: “RU there?”

  As always, he answered promptly. “Hey.”

  “Can U go on a lead in AM? Talk to barrister at Inns of C.”

  “OK. What M I 2 do?”

  She realized he thought this was the favor she needed with no questions asked, and so explained, “I will go 2. Need to check out defense on cold cases.”

  “OK. Pick U up?”

  “Please. How’s 9?”

  “Field kit?”

  “No need.”

  There was a pause. “French translator?”

  Ah—he was wondering if this had to do with Savoie, and she gazed at the screen, feeling a pang of guilt. Mainly, she seemed to excel at making the men folk fret. “No need.”

  “C U then.”

  “Thanks.”

  She rang off, and noted it was still early, although it seemed later to her. Come home, Acton, she pleaded mentally. I’ll start thinking about what you’re doing, else. As she stared at it, her mobile pinged, surprising her so that she nearly dropped it. The ID said “unknown,” and so she stifled h
er disappointment and answered, “Doyle.”

  “Tomorrow,” said Savoie in his brusque manner. “One hour, from one to two.”

  This was workable, but it also meant that tomorrow she was going to be as busy as a fishwife at Lent. “Right, then. What time do we leave?”

  “Twelve.” He then named an intersection a few blocks from the Met in a quieter area. She pictured it and asked, “Northbound or southbound?”

  “Northbound,” he said, and rang off.

  She rang off also, and stared out the window at the view again, thinking. She would create a protocol and stick to it; Acton would have no cause to accuse her of being reckless. Her conscience stirred, but she firmly quashed it down; she needed to do this and no one else could—once she had her answers, she could always tell Acton. In the meantime, she’d best prepare.

  A half-hour later, she heard Acton’s card in the slot and looked up with relief as he came in through the door. “Hallo, husband; how was your date?”

  He came over to run a distracted hand over her head. “Reynolds has left?”

  “There’s somethin’ in the oven, if you’re hungry. Are you needin’ a shower, first?”

  He gave her a look as he headed over to the fridge. “Now, there’s gallows humor.”

  “Don’t give me any ideas, my friend. How did it go?”

  He paused with the door open, in the process of drinking orange juice straight from the bottle. “You were right.”

  She offered with all modesty, “I know my brassers, I do.”

  He paused, swirling the juice in the bottle for a moment before lifting it to drink again. “You and I will leave Friday morning, and she’ll be there by the afternoon.”

  “Can’t wait. Did you work up a thirst, chattin’ her up?” She was trying to gauge him, but he was buttoned-up, was Acton, and giving her no glimpses.