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

  DC Munoz, in the cubicle next door to Doyle, popped her head over the partition, shaking back her hair and glowering—although to be fair, she had an attractive glower. “When are you going to take a break, Acton?”

  Doyle had decided to maintain her maiden name at work, as it was too confusing to be another Acton. Besides, she was sensitive about the whole title issue; she had married far out of her element and didn’t want anyone to think she was putting on airs. Munoz, naturally, did not comply with her request, but Doyle was consumed with guilt; Munoz had also been passed over for promotion and Doyle had the sneaking suspicion that this was Acton’s doing, just so Doyle wouldn’t feel as badly. Munoz, giving the devil her due, was a very good detective; she was also to be avoided because she’d fancied Acton for herself and, as the reigning beauty of their unit, had no idea that Doyle was even in the running. Therefore, Munoz was now a crackin’ blowtorch of bitterness and disappointment, which made it difficult for Doyle to be anywhere near her and she half-wished Munoz would be promoted just so she would be transferred out of Doyle’s orbit.

  “It’s still Doyle, Munoz, and I’m at a stoppin’ point. Want to get coffee?” Coffee actually sounded semi-edible.

  “I don’t think you can go to the lowly canteen anymore; there’s no peeress section.”

  “Munoz,” warned Doyle. “Be civil, or I’ll be tellin’ everyone you draw religious artwork.”

  This turned the trick; Munoz looked rebellious but made no further attempts to needle her companion as they walked together to the canteen on the third floor. Instead, she offered in a constricted tone, “I sell it for extra income, and I would appreciate it if you didn’t mention this to anyone.”

  “Done. Such a tale would sound the knell to your fine reputation as an unprincipled brasser.”

  Stung, Munoz retorted, “It’s easy to have principles when you are rich and married.”

  “And not necessarily in that order,” Doyle agreed in a mild tone as they approached the coffee machine. “Have done, Munoz; I couldn’t be tellin’ anyone I was datin’ Acton, surely you can see that.” Best not to mention that her first date with Acton had been after they were married; it would only confuse the issue.

  Munoz struggled with holding her tongue, and Doyle practically winced at the wave of rage and frustration that she could sense; Munoz was not accustomed to being relegated to an also-ran. Apparently everybody and his uncle fancied Acton; the reason Owens had wanted to kill Doyle was to make a run at Acton himself, the raving lunatic. Hopefully, Acton’s marriage to her would now discourage all crazed pursuers—the man should thank God fasting.

  “I don’t want to talk about you and Acton.” Munoz chose a table near the perimeter, so that the weak sunlight shone warm through the windows. “I want to talk about Williams’s promotion.”

  Another potential minefield. Doyle said carefully, “I saw him this mornin’ at the aqueduct scene and he was very gracious—no lordin’ it over my lowly constable self.” As you would have done, Doyle added silently. Munoz had once helped her out, but Doyle had no illusions about Munoz’s character, religious drawings or no.

  “Have you heard,” Munoz asked neutrally, fingering her cardboard cup, “if any other promotions are in line?”

  Ah, thought Doyle; that’s what this is all about. “Acton doesn’t talk to me about that kind of thing, Munoz. It wouldn’t be right.”

  “You don’t talk about it at all?” Munoz’s fine dark eyes scrutinized her with open skepticism.

  “We talk about the cases, but not about the politics.” Doyle thought it over. “Acton is not very interested in the politics, I think.” Munoz would probably be surprised to hear that she and Acton really didn’t converse much at all. Before the marriage, neither of them had been very social, and on some evenings very few words were exchanged. Doyle found that she was perfectly happy not to feel the need to make conversation; Acton needed to be with her but he was very reserved by nature. This might change over time or it may not; it didn’t matter; she loved her husband and was very content. And after all, the sex more than made up for the silence—she had no idea that marriage involved so much sex. You live and you learn.

  With a guilty start, Doyle realized belatedly that perhaps she should disclose as little as possible about her marriage to Munoz—or anyone else, for that matter; quite the tangle patch, that. Munoz’s next remark only strengthened this resolve.

  “Do you have sex with him?” There was a faint hint of incredulity in the question.

  That the question was even asked of a newlywed was an indication of Acton’s reputation. The others had nicknamed him “Holmes” due to the obvious comparison, only they didn’t know that the addiction in his case was to Doyle and not to cocaine, and anyone who wished to wait around a few more months would see proof positive. “That is none of your business, Munoz.”

  Munoz accepted the rebuff, and they sat in silence for a few minutes, each lost in thought. Others who passed by their table would glance sidelong at Doyle and exchange whispered remarks as they walked away. I’m world-famous, thought Doyle, trying not to look self-conscious; the DC who snatched up Acton—no one would ever credit that it was the other way ’round.

  The whispered attention did not help Munoz’s mood, which had returned to sullen. “It’s so unfair; you won the husband sweepstakes, and then Williams is promoted before me.”

  “Your turn will come, Munoz. A little patience is all that is needed.” Doyle reflected that their supervisor, Inspector Habib, would probably rival Acton in rushing his bride to the altar if Munoz gave him the go-ahead. “You’re a heartbreaker, is what you are; be off, or I will think you are fishin’ for compliments.”

  Munoz had to agree with the truth of this remark, and her mood improved as they made their way back down to the basement. Doyle reseated herself before her laptop screen and wished she could finish up her report; she was still waiting for the ERU photos, which seemed to be taking longer than usual. She decided she would complete it tomorrow; her conversation with Munoz had touched off a different train of thought. She sent a text to Acton that said, “Cereal?”

  She waited for a response, which came with flattering promptness. “Done.”

  Smiling, she sheathed her mobile and, taking a quick look around, gathered up her rucksack. Time to make it up to her poor husband, who’d demonstrated remarkable patience with his balky wife.

  CHAPTER 4

  DOYLE HAD MOVED INTO ACTON’S FLAT AFTER THEY MARRIED, and the fact that it was also the scene of her attempted murder did not in any way dim the delight she took in their home. The flat was located in an upscale building overlooking the park and with a remarkable view of the city. Acton might be an acetic, but he had very good taste and spared no expense on the simple modern furnishings he enjoyed. Without a twinge of regret, Doyle had consigned her own rubbish to the bin, bringing with her only a framed photograph of her mother, who had died more than a year ago. She loved living with Acton in this tranquil space, and tried not to feel a stab of regret when she thought of how this idyllic existence was set to change in the coming months.

  She arrived home first, and remembered with an inward sigh that this was one of the days their housekeeper came in. Marta had been a retainer at Acton’s estate in the country where his mother, the dowager Lady Acton, still resided, and the housekeeper had moved to London to see to Acton, which she did very efficiently three days a week. Thankfully, she did not live in, but resided with her cousin a short tube ride away. Marta was German by ancestry, and Doyle would not have been surprised to discover she was bred by Nazis; although the housekeeper hid her feelings behind a façade of respect, Doyle knew she heartily disapproved of Acton’s bride—Marta was an easy read.

  Doyle explained to the woman that she could leave early today without preparing a dinner, and mentally chastised herself because she always allowed the housekeeper to see that she was intimidated, which only added to the other’s disdain. Marta thanked her woodenly,
and gathered up her coat and purse. When Acton was present, Marta referred to Doyle as “madam” or “Lady Acton.” When he wasn’t, she didn’t. Doyle, however, was impervious to the snub—no one knew better than she that Acton had married out of his species. Mainly, she was a bit embarrassed because Marta no doubt guessed the reason that workaholic Acton was rushing home to meet his bride in private—“cereal” had become their code word for sex. It was nothing to be ashamed of, Doyle scolded herself; of course Marta would be aware of the goings-on in the household—privacy was a luxury, now. Still, Marta always made her feel as though she was a twopenny brasser and not Acton’s lawful wife, which didn’t help matters.

  Determined not to dwell on Marta’s subtle insolence, Doyle took down her hair and shook it out in anticipation. Despite the increasingly unmistakable signs that she was pregnant, Doyle had stubbornly adhered to their schedule of abstaining from sex during ovulation even though her temperature was no longer fluctuating. She’d been in denial, of course, and to make matters worse, she had been avoiding the subject with Acton, as though she could make the entire issue go away. Silly knocker, she thought, reviewing her pale complexion in the mirror; make it up to the poor man. After all, there was no point in closing the barn door; that horse is well away.

  A short time later she heard Acton’s key card in the slot, and she went to greet him at the door, dressed only in her robe. Almost instantly, his mouth was on hers, his hands pulling at the tie and his need urgent. He murmured against her mouth, “Marta?”

  “She will have to wait her turn,” Doyle teased. He said nothing further, his mouth moving down her neck, but she broke away for a moment, struck by a thought. “Oh—d’you think we should?”

  “Yes,” he said, sliding the robe from her shoulders. “I asked Timothy.”

  She tried not to think how embarrassing it would be to face Dr. McGonigal when next they met, and instead happily acceded to Acton’s furious lovemaking. It had been this way with him from the first; he craved her. She believed it was a symptom of his condition, a means by which he could climb into her skin, so to speak. Today their first fevered encounter was on the entryway rug; the second a more leisurely tryst after they adjourned to the bed. At its conclusion, he moved his mouth along her throat, across her face; his weight pressed against her. “How do you feel?”

  “Satiated.”

  “I meant,” he murmured, his mouth near her ear, “—are you still queasy?”

  “You have discovered the cure, thanks be to God.” Best not to mention the rug burns on her back.

  They lay quietly together, saying nothing, for quite some time. He liked to fold her in his arms after lovemaking, pulling her to him so that her back curled neatly into his chest—he was quite a bit taller than she. He would hold her against him and his fingertips would lightly move over her forearms and hands; slowly back and forth, repeatedly. She privately thought that nothing else he did to her was as pleasurable.

  “I have a meeting tomorrow,” he said from the pillow behind her head. “It is in Brighton.”

  Although it seemed an ordinary comment, it was actually quite significant; he did not do well if he was away from her.

  “Is it overnight? I will come with you.” As long as there was no unexpected fieldwork, she could always complete her report away from headquarters.

  He thought about it. “I’m not certain how long it will last. It has to do with contraband; the latest developments and protocol. I may be back by evening.”

  “If it does not look that way, call and I will come.”

  “Ask the concierge for the driving service.”

  “Michael,” she teased, “is the bloom off the rose already? I thought you would trust me with the Range Rover.”

  “I will have the Range Rover. You may drive me back home, if you wish.”

  “Brave man.” She smiled into the gathering twilight; she was a new driver, and not very competent.

  He was quiet for a minute, and then said, “I have been putting aside fungible assets for you.”

  Faith, here was a twist on post-coital conversation. “Tell me exactly what that means, my friend.”

  He continued slowly, “If I were to die, there could be a great deal of unpleasantness. The current heir to my estate is a cousin, and he and my mother could make your life very difficult.”

  “Michael,” she said gently, “they may have your stupid estate with my blessin’.”

  “If the child is a boy, the estate belongs to him.”

  Doyle blinked in surprise. She hadn’t thought about any of this. “Oh.”

  “I would like him to have it,” he added quietly.

  “Then he will have it, and no mistakin’.” If Acton needed reassurance that she was a fervent supporter of primo—primo-whatever-it-was, she would give it to him.

  “There are valuables and cash in a blind account at Layton’s,” he continued in his level tone. Layton was Acton’s man of business. “Jewelry, gold—fungible assets that are anonymous and outside the estate. On my death, go to Layton and he will help you. If Layton has died, do not speak of it to anyone else, and I will give you the deposit numbers.”

  She was silent, trying to absorb what he had told her. Correctly gauging her silence as confusion, he continued patiently, “If the bank accounts are legally frozen, this will give you access to funds that no one else will know to claim. You will need to hire the highest quality solicitors—spare no expense.”

  “Right.” She paused a beat, and then asked with what she thought was commendable calm, “Is there any reason you’re believin’ you’ll be dyin’ soon?”

  “No.” His arms tightened around her. “I am merely being cautious.”

  She was relieved; he was telling the truth, and was allowing her to read him so that she could see that it was the truth. It was a switch; he’d been very guarded around her lately, but then again, she’d been guarded, herself. Grow up, Doyle, she thought; you’re not the first couple faced with an unplanned pregnancy, and there will be plenty of time to become accustomed. Only—only it was such a shame that the current turf war served to remind her of raving-lunatic Owens, and her pregnancy served to remind her of raving-lunatic Owens, and he truly didn’t deserve another stray thought, the raving lunatic ; the whole miserable incident was dead and buried and done with.

  She paused, her scalp prickling as though she was on the verge of some intuitive connection, but the moment passed and she couldn’t get a glimpse, mainly because she was so very drowsy—how lovely it was to be at home and abed with Acton early, not late at night when they were already tired. Faith, with all the recent murders it was a wonder he had managed to get away from work at all—she’d been so busy sulking about her pregnancy that she didn’t know how far along in the investigation he was, he hadn’t discussed it with her. He’d been guarded about these turf war cases.

  She opened her eyes, wide-awake and her scalp prickling. Acton had been guarded about these cases. The last time he had been guarded with her about a case was because he planned on killing the suspect himself, and he didn’t want her to figure it out.

  Before she could continue on with this train of thought, however, he said, “Perhaps I should seek treatment.”

  She hid her surprise. Saints—what had gotten into the man, that he was willing to speak of his condition; he hated to speak of his condition almost as much as she hated to speak of her intuition. Then she realized it was more properly what had gotten into her; whilst she had been avoiding the subject and wanting to throw things, he had been quietly considering what needed to be done in preparation for this baby. She grasped his hands, which were still making their stroking circuit, and kissed them both in turn. “Michael, I am so sorry I’ve been actin’ like a spoilt child. Forgive me, please.”

  “There is nothing to forgive. You have had a lot thrust upon you in a short space of time.”

  She smiled to herself at his choice of words, but let the opportunity to say something flippant pass
. It was true; in recent months she’d married her boss out of hand, nearly been killed, killed someone, shot herself by accident, and had gotten pregnant to boot. For the love o’ Mike, what could she possibly do for an encore?

  Letting his hands go so they could go back to their rhythm, she thought about the question. He rarely referred in any way to his neurosis—or whatever it was—and he would surely hate having to speak of it to anyone else. “I am of two minds on the subject,” she admitted. “You are not a danger to me—quite the opposite. It affects no one else. What would you have them do? Start feedin’ you some vile drug, or try weanin’ you away from me?” This had actually crossed her mind more than once; unthinkable that he may wake one morning to find his fixation gone as quickly as it had come—and that he would regard his better half with the same incredulous disbelief that everyone else did.

  He gently turned her over so that she lay on her back, and leaned over her, his face very close to hers. Apparently, she had said something amusing. “You are remarkably foolish if you think I am going to leave you.”

  She twined her arms around his neck and broadened her accent, “Faith, m’lord, ’tis a sad, sad sight I’d be, what wi’ me poor belly and you not willin’ to do right by me.”

  “Knocker,” he said in imitation, and kissed her.

  CHAPTER 5

  At first, he had been wary of her, even though she was just

  a woman, and not very strong. She was mganga, and

  although the new God said be not afraid, it was hard for

  him to forget what the old gods said, in the old country.

  After a few minutes, though, he decided she was good of

  the soul, and it was she who was wary—it was not easy

  to be mganga.