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

  Doyle stared at him, yet again completely astonished. “In prison?”

  He gave her a look. “Of course—where else?”

  After a moment, Doyle smiled, almost relieved, now that she had hit upon the final and correct theory for these strange events. “No.”

  But he was not to accept her bald rejection without demur. “He asks me to tell you he wishes to apologize, and say prayers with you for the forgiveness of his soul.”

  “No.” Doyle explained kindly, “Mr. Solonik is only tryin’ to get Acton’s goat.”

  Her rescuer stared at her blankly.

  She sighed; honestly, it was like being one of those foreign language translators at the Crown Court on docketing day. “It means he’s tryin’ to find a way to annoy Acton, and I can assure you, that would do it nicely. I won’t be aidin’ and abettin’ him.”

  He thought about this for a moment, studying her, and his next comment seemed off-topic. “You did not want to tell Acton of last night; why is this?”

  She decided this was none of his business, and replied in a mild tone, “I won’t be visitin’ Solonik, and I’m sorry to disappoint you if that was your errand, because I am ever so grateful to you. You can tell Solonik that I’ll accept his apology from afar, and that I’ll be prayin’ for his poor, misguided soul.” Put that in your pipe, Solonik; you’re in dire need of prayers, you are. She concluded, “Thank you again, but I should be gettin’ back to work.”

  He nodded, but as she turned to leave, he said, “Wait.”

  She turned to him and raised her brows.

  “Why does Solonik wish to apologize?”

  There seemed no harm in telling him. “He threatened to kill me, but he didn’t know I knew of it.” She paused. “It’s rather a long and complicated story.” He made no response, and she turned and left, walking back to work with a steely resolve not to glance behind to see if he followed. Turning over their strange and disjointed conversation in her mind, she tried to decide whether Acton had to be told. Her husband hadn’t touched the scotch last night—too busy touching her, he was—and he was to stop therapy; the last flippin’ thing he needed was to hear flippin’ Solonik was having Savoie’s people follow her about—Acton would probably blow up the flippin’ prison. And strange as it sounded, she knew her rescuer meant her no harm, even though he was not sure what to make of her. With any luck, this would be an end to it.

  Struck by a sudden thought, once back at the Met, she asked the desk sergeant if she could have a look at his laptop—Acton sometimes monitored her laptop and she didn’t want to give him any clues about her misadventure in the projects. With quick fingers, she drew up the homicide docket for the Metro area in the past twenty-four hours. She found what she suspected she might; her assailant from the projects had been murdered late last night, shot twice in the head, execution-style. Staring at the photo on the screen, she decided she was not surprised—indeed, she’d half-suspected as much, considering who her rescuer worked for. He probably felt he’d done her a favor.

  I married Acton, and now I meet the most interesting people, she thought. Lucky me.

  CHAPTER 7

  DOYLE WOUND UP EATING A CANTEEN SANDWICH AT HER DESK while she worked on the cold case files. She was cross-indexing the old crimes by creating a spreadsheet of pertinent facts about the victims, the type of crime, and the personnel who worked on the cases, including the judges and courtroom personnel. It was detailed and tedious work, which explained why she was all too willing to catch Munoz’s attention when the girl passed down the aisle between their cubicles. “So—how did it go with the graduate student? I’m deservin’ of a report, bein’ as I was instrumental in the battle plan.”

  “Success,” reported Munoz with a self-satisfied air. “We’re going out tonight.”

  “He seemed smitten; it is surprisin’ such tactics were needed or necessary.”

  “I think he was intimidated, at first.” Munoz smoothed back her glossy hair. “A lot of men are.”

  “He’s only dazzled,” Doyle assured her. “In no time a’tall he’ll be takin’ gross advantage of you.”

  “No one takes advantage of me,” the beauty declared with a brow that arched at the very idea. “My problem is that I get bored too quickly.”

  With acute regret, Doyle bit back a rejoinder about a certain Irishman pretending to be a Russian, and instead offered, “Patience is a virtue, DS Munoz.”

  The other girl drew up a corner of her mouth in derision. “That’s a laugh, coming from you.”

  Nettled, Doyle returned, “Not everyone is as lucky as I was.”

  “Oh-ho, so you’ll admit it was sheer luck? What—was Acton drunk at the time?”

  This hit a bit too close to home, and Doyle retorted hotly, “Lucky he didn’t fall for the likes o’ you, he is.”

  But Munoz was aware she’d landed a punch, and pronounced with no small amount of satisfaction, “He’ll wake up; it’s only a matter of time, with a man like that.”

  Doyle rose to her feet and clenched her fists. “Take. That. Back.”

  Abruptly, Munoz subsided and exclaimed in exasperation, “You’re right; I have to take it back—can’t you see? You always have to win, now.”

  Although she still glowered, Doyle saw the justice of this remark and sank down into her chair again with a thud. “It’s ridiculous, is what it is.”

  With a sound of extreme annoyance, the other girl agreed. “Yes, it’s ridiculous. I’m lucky my date isn’t even aware of the stupid incident.”

  But Doyle reminded her with heavy regret, “He will be; no one can let it go, the stupid knockers.”

  They contemplated this sad fact a bit glumly, Munoz’s impressive breast rising and falling with a sigh. “No, they can’t let it go. And you will have the upper hand for all eternity.”

  But Doyle suddenly raised her head and met Munoz’s eyes. “No. No, I don’t have the upper hand. You would have done the same for me; it was only luck that it was me instead of you.” They paused for a moment, both of them considering this profundity in the silence it deserved. Doyle insisted, “It’s true; you would have, Izzy.”

  Munoz nodded in reluctant acknowledgment, but still could not quite concede. “I know how to swim, though, so it wouldn’t have been the same.”

  Now it was Doyle’s turn to consider this, seriously and with a knit brow. “I don’t think that matters; we’re even.”

  The other girl slowly agreed, “Yes, you’re right; it was only a matter of luck—that it was you instead of me.”

  “And you and I both know it, even if no one else does.”

  Munoz blew out a breath. “I can live with that.”

  “Cheers.” Doyle went back to her spreadsheet as Munoz walked away.

  In the late afternoon, Samuels came by and asked if anyone was interested in going to a local pub after work. Samuels worked with DCI Drake’s team, and was nice enough. Plain vanilla, Doyle’s mother would have described him.

  “Can’t,” Munoz called out from across the aisle way. “I have a date.”

  “I was goin’ to look in at Acton’s lecture,” Doyle demurred. “Is Williams done with his trial? Perhaps he’s available.”

  “He’s working late; got to stay atop the ladder, after all.”

  There was a rumor afoot that Williams was soon to be promoted to detective inspector, and Doyle hastily intervened before Munoz could reiterate her extreme vexation over such a potential turn of events. “What does Drake have you workin’ on, Samuels?”

  “If you’d like, I’ll walk with you over to the Academy and tell you about it.”

  Doyle had spent little time with Samuels and so was a bit surprised by the offer, but agreed with good grace as she began to pack up her rucksack. She was not sociable by nature, but had to make an effort if she was to rise in the ranks, being as it was a time-honored truth that socializing at work stood one in better stead than the most glowing of reviews. And the Academy was but a few blocks away, so there
was little fear of being stuck trying to make conversation—she’d had her fill of thorny conversations this fine day.

  They exited the building; the evening-shift desk sergeant was not as big a fan as the day-shift one, but nevertheless he nodded to her respectfully. Samuels began to tell her of a field investigation he was working on; a weapons ring had been unearthed, and a cache had been discovered in a garden shed. “You should have seen it; guns hanging on pegs along the wall like so many gardening tools.”

  Doyle had a twinge of conscience; she was aware that Acton smuggled illegal weapons himself—although he didn’t know that she knew—and she surmised there was a similar cache in the safe at home. She hoped Samuels wasn’t investigating Acton all unknowing, which would be a dodgy little development for the illustrious chief inspector. However, this seemed unlikely, as Acton no doubt kept his finger on the pulse of all such investigations. “Were you in on the arrests?” Her assailant at the projects was the first time Doyle herself had ever tried to arrest anyone, as Acton tended to keep her away from any situation that was remotely dangerous.

  “No—they’d cleared out. But we’re close; we’ve been getting a lot of good tips.” He paused. “Have you ever been in a shoot-out?”

  “No. You?”

  He turned his head to watch her for a moment. “No? I thought you’d been wounded.”

  A bit startled, Doyle kept her voice neutral and said truthfully, “No, no one’s ever shot at me.” She did have a bullet wound in her calf where she had accidentally shot herself whilst shooting the trainee who wanted to kill her, but this was a well-kept secret. How Samuels came across the idea that she’d been wounded was a mystery—although he’d been present when her soggy self had been pulled from the Thames; perhaps he’d seen her scar. In any event, it seemed he’d lost interest.

  “So—Holmes is giving a lecture.”

  “Indeed he is, and a good thing. He knows so much; it’s to the betterment of us all if he gives us a glimpse.”

  With a smile, her companion could only agree. “Of course—he’s a legend. What’s he like? I mean, when he’s not at work; what does he do?”

  She thought, I suppose I could tell him that Acton suffers from an obsessive mental condition that leads him to kill anyone who proves to be a threat to me, makes him insatiable when it comes to sex, and drink too much on occasion, but instead I’d better behave myself. “He’s very private, Samuels.”

  “Sorry,” the other apologized with a small smile. “Nosy by nature, I’m afraid.”

  To show she wasn’t offended, she teased, “Are you? I wondered a little that you took this job.” Samuels did not show to advantage next to his colleagues; he seemed to lack any real passion for detective work.

  “I’m not as mad about it as the rest of you, but I do enjoy it,” he protested. “It certainly pays well.”

  Doyle had the strong impression he felt he’d said something very amusing. Hoping she hadn’t embarrassed him, she changed the subject. “Have you identified the suspects in the garden shed case?”

  “Not as yet.”

  Interestingly enough, this was not true. He’s a confusing one, she thought; he doesn’t match himself, or something.

  “Here we are.”

  They had arrived at the Crime Academy, and as they passed through the door, Doyle grimaced in remembrance. “Faith, I’m glad I’m quit of this place.”

  He laughed, “Surely it wasn’t that bad.”

  But she could not agree. “I’m not much of a student, my friend; I’d still be here if Williams hadn’t helped me pass ballistics.”

  Samuels laughed again, but slanted her a knowing look that annoyed her, as it seemed to imply there was something going on betwixt herself and Williams. She shrugged it off; she couldn’t let it bother her—gossip always ran rampant in any workplace, and she and Williams were thick as thieves.

  They walked to the main lecture hall, but it was locked. Doyle peered through the window in the door, but it was dark inside. “We must have missed it—I might have mixed up the time.”

  “Or it was cancelled,” Samuels suggested.

  This seemed unlikely; certainly Acton would have let her know. “Maybe.”

  Samuels called to two trainees who were passing by in the hallway. “Did DCI Acton give his lecture?”

  “Oh yes, it was three to four o’ clock,” answered one. “Very interesting.”

  “How annoyin’,” said Doyle with a smile. “I got my times crossed.” It was puzzling; she was certain Acton had said the lecture would make him miss dinner.

  But her thoughts were interrupted by one of the trainees, who ventured, “You are Officer Doyle, aren’t you ma’am?” The woman emanated waves of respect and goodwill.

  With her pinned-on smile, Doyle admitted, “Indeed I am.”

  The young man added reverently, “The instructor spoke of you at class today; about—about how important it was for us to have each other’s backs, no matter what. It is an honor to meet you.” They all shook hands, whilst Doyle tried to think of something profound to say and came up short.

  “Carry on,” said Samuels easily, and they walked away. “Look at you; you’re a rock star.”

  “Just lucky to be there when I was,” she demurred, thinking about her discussion with Munoz. Doyle’s belief system didn’t really recognize luck as such, but it was an easier, shorthand way to discuss weighty issues like providence and grace.

  “Want to share a cab?” asked Samuels as they approached the street.

  “No thanks, I’ll take the tube.” She was reluctant to take a cab, since to do so always made her miss Aiki, and although she was supposed to call the concierge’s driving service, Doyle found she wanted to walk for a bit so as to clear her head. It had been a strange day, between Williams, and her rescuer, and Samuels, and Acton not being where he said he’d be; an overabundance of men putting her through her paces—although Munoz was in there, too, so it hadn’t been only the men. Hunching her shoulders against the chilly wind, she walked for a block toward the tube station, thinking about the park murders. She was making headway on the case—even though nothing leapt out off the page as yet. It would; she was certain. She had a feeling, she did, and her feelings were usually reliable. There was a common denominator and she would find it—she knew she was close.

  On the other hand, Acton would not be happy when she did solve it, because this case kept her out of the field, and he was a first-class fretter. Reminded, she pulled out her mobile and noted that he hadn’t texted her for over an hour—perhaps the short-lived therapy had done some good, after all. Perhaps they could even think about starting a family again; her pregnancy earlier this year had been a surprise, and before her miscarriage she’d had mixed emotions about her impending motherhood. The loss had been painful, and now she found she was rather eager to try again.

  With an inward sigh, she abandoned her idea to take the tube at rush hour, and instead rang up the driving service; she needed a few more minutes of peace and quiet because there was a hovering uneasiness that she could not shake, and the last thing she needed was for someone to recognize her on the tube.

  Once home, she noted that Acton had not yet arrived. She greeted Reynolds, who had made something that smelt delicious for dinner, and informed him, “Reynolds, I believe you saw my bruises this mornin’. I was attacked by an assailant, and I promise you it wasn’t Acton.”

  “No, madam,” he agreed. “I could not imagine Lord Acton would do such a thing.” He exchanged a look with her, and much was unspoken. “Do you need medical care?”

  “No; I’ve weathered many a bruise, my friend. But in the meantime, I’ll have to cover them up, or the Domestic Violence Unit will be arrestin’ my poor husband. If we have to break him out of gaol, Reynolds, can I count on you to cover the flank?”

  “Certainly, madam,” the servant agreed, and took her coat.

  CHAPTER 8

  ACTON RETURNED JUST AS REYNOLDS WAS PREPARING TO LEAVE, so the
servant paused to take his briefcase and coat. Doyle was seated at the table, the files spread out around her as she continued to compile her spreadsheet. Acton told Reynolds there was a list of items to be purchased in his coat pocket, and then absently ran a hand over Doyle’s head as he passed by on his way to the fridge. Interesting, she thought. When he was compelled to stroke her head, it was usually a sign that he was worried—although he had headed to the fridge, and not the liquor cabinet. “How went your lecture?”

  “As well as can be expected. There were some intelligent questions, which is a good sign.”

  “I went to have a look-in,” she offered, watching him.

  He met her eyes as he pulled out the orange juice bottle. “At the wrong time?”

  “Yes, they said it was earlier.”

  “My fault; I should have let you know—I didn’t realize you’d stop in.”

  “And I so wanted to heckle you,” she teased. In truth, she thought her presence might have been helpful; he was famously reclusive and did not suffer fools—it was not beyond the realm of possibility that he would dress down some poor trainee for asking the wrong question.

  “I’m sorry, Kathleen.” He passed behind her on his way to the main room, and as he did, he gently placed a hand on her head.

  Although he was on his way out, Reynolds offered, “May I prepare you a plate, sir?”

  “I’m not very hungry, but thank you.”

  Reynolds departed, and Doyle kept typing as Acton stood by the windows, drinking orange juice straight from the bottle as he looked out over the city. She was not paying attention to her work, though, instead thinking about how he could not stop touching her head and how he had given her a string of equivocal answers so that she could not spot a lie. He was a wily one, was Acton, and he’d also been drinking, although he was doing a masterful job of trying to obscure this fact. She wondered if he was caught up in something having to do with the illegal guns-running—now, there would be a crisis to top all the other ones, if he were to be caught and prosecuted. It didn’t bear thinking about, so she didn’t think about it anymore—it was only on her mind after her conversation with Samuels.