Murder in Retribution (A New Scotland Yard Mystery) Page 7

  “No, you may not,” said Doyle immediately, and began walking again. God only knew what angle a newspaper would take on her hole-in-corner marriage, and besides, she shared her profession’s healthy distrust of the press; it seemed they too often took the side of the villains, just to flex their own power.

  He pleaded with her, still smiling and walking backward so that her progress was somewhat impeded. “Nothing demeaning or scandalous, I promise you; just a page-seven article about the unlikely romance springing up at New Scotland Yard. It will be terrific public relations; the readership would eat it up, your husband being who he is.”

  Doyle had to bite back a smile at the irony. They wouldn’t dare run the true story—it was too unbelievable, even for a scandal-sheet. “No, thank you,” she said firmly. Then she received aid from an unexpected source, as her Rwandan cab driver came to her rescue.

  “No, no,” he said to the reporter, stepping forward and wagging his finger. He took Doyle’s arm to escort her to his cab, saying something unintelligible to the reporter, the only word Doyle recognized being “leddy.” He made it clear that she was not to be molested en route to his cab.

  Maguire put his hands up and smiled in a gesture of defeat. As they drew away from the curb, she looked back to see him wave—he was no doubt used to being given the cold shoulder.

  “Thank you,” said Doyle, turning to the driver. “You are very kind.”

  He turned and smiled at her, his white teeth gleaming, and she smiled back. I am surrounded by champions who think I’m in need of rescue, she thought with an inward sigh. I suppose I shouldn’t complain. Thankfully, the driver didn’t follow up with any conversation—it would be too draining and she just wanted to marshal up her energy—faith, her joints ached. Hopefully she wasn’t catching the flu on top of everything else.

  Williams was apparently eager to begin their assignment, as he was lurking about her cubicle, making conversation with Munoz whilst he waited for Doyle. Doyle realized they must have been talking about her, because they lapsed into silence as she approached. A nine day’s wonder, she was; just crackin’ grand.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she said to Williams. “I’m ready to go.” She grabbed her latte as though it were a lifeline, and thought; I’ve got to stop drinking this stuff—maybe tomorrow.

  She saw that Munoz’s mouth had a mulish cast, which she nonetheless managed to make alluring. It was clear the girl was unhappy that Doyle, who was taken, was to spend the day with handsome Williams, who was not. To distract her, Doyle asked, “How is the Belarus prince?”

  “Charming,” said Munoz, throwing a glance at Williams which apparently was meant to remind him that he had lost his chance and should repent fasting. “I’m seeing him again tonight.”

  “I’ll want to hear the details,” said Doyle, although she was just being kind. She had no real interest in Munoz’s complicated love life.

  “Later, then,” said Munoz, glancing up at Williams through her lashes.

  As they walked down the aisle way, Williams leaned in to ask, “What do they call that kind of girl in Dublin?”

  Doyle smiled broadly. “A brasser, she is.”

  “I see.”

  “I’m thinkin’ you have met more than your fair share,” she teased, and it was his turn to smile broadly. This seemed an auspicious start to their field trip, and she was cautiously optimistic that she wouldn’t be tempted to sulk over his newly exalted status—she had always gotten along with Williams, and although he was a bit reserved, he was a good man. Acton seemed to think so, certainly, and again she thought it interesting that a straight-arrow like Williams would be willing to skirt protocols at the behest of her better half. She didn’t know anything definite, of course, but her instinct was rarely wrong. Perhaps he had his own notions of justice, like Acton did, which was a bit alarming; she was too fresh from the Crime Academy to look upon such an idea with anything but disquiet. As they walked out to the utility garage where the unmarked vehicles were housed, she recalled that he’d been ill. “How are you feelin’, then?”

  “I am well,” he replied in a clipped tone. “How are you feeling?”

  So, he did not appreciate the inquiry. Touchy about it, he was, and so much for their auspicious start. Which reminded her that she was to have a new attitude, and it was past time for the fair Doyle to face facts.

  As she opened the door she asked, “Where to first, sir?” She could see he was taken aback at being thus referred to, but there was nothing for it; he outranked her and protocol was protocol. She had been petty not to call him “sir” the other day at the aqueduct.

  He slid in and started up the car. “Newmarket; there’s a witness who may have seen something. He owns a souvenir shop off the track and called in after reading about the murder in the papers. Dispatch says he was barely coherent, though—we’ll see.”

  This was one of the hazards of having a sensational case; those odd members of the general citizenry who yearned for attention would call in false leads so as to feel a part of it. Although Doyle was well-suited to sort the wheat from the chaff, it nevertheless meant a waste of time and resources. Of course, sometimes the witness honestly believed they’d seen or heard something significant, which meant the lead had to be run down until it could be ruled out. Much of detective work, Doyle had discovered, was crossing out false leads, but although it was tedious work, it was necessary work—particularly in this type of case where the body count was mounting faster than the police could keep track. “Do we have a workin’ theory, sir?”

  Williams did, apparently. “Since the victim was an Irish national and killed at a racecourse, on the surface it appears to be connected to the turf war—perhaps a tit-for-tat for the latest Russian victim.”

  Doyle knit her brow. “But the latest Russian victim doesn’t seem to be involved in any of this. Acton believes it was some sort of shadow murder, instead.”

  Williams shrugged his broad shoulders slightly. “We have to take the facts as they are, and see where they lead.”

  This seemed inarguable, and sounded a lot like something Acton would say. “Remind me about the Newmarket victim, do you have the case sheet handy?”

  “Thirty-five-year-old Irishman named Todd Rourke. Not on the Watch List, and it appears he had no particular connection to the racecourse—not an employee, or a regular of any sort. His car was there, so ERU is going over it for prints, and we are checking his mobile records to see if he was visiting anyone in particular.”

  Rourke, thought Doyle; that rings a bell—who was it? She couldn’t remember. Perhaps it would come, given some time. She wished she had Acton’s memory for details—he could remember everything about every case he ever had, it seemed. He certainly knew everything about her. “Priors?” she asked, trying to jog her own memory.

  He glanced over at her. “No convictions, but has known associates in the contraband business—weapons and drugs.”

  “Certainly sounds like the Sinn-split.” Not to mention the man was probably a rival of Acton’s if he was muckin’ about in illegal weapons—faith, it was all too complicated for anyone with a queasy stomach and aching bones. In an attempt to focus, Doyle pulled out her occurrence book and started making notes—she could always organize her thoughts better when she wrote them down. After a moment, she suddenly stopped writing and looked up at the road through the windshield. She didn’t feel very well. Desperately surveying the horizon, she breathed deeply. You’re all right, Doyle, she thought—don’t you dare. Think about something else; mind over matter. After another minute of furious concentration, she realized it was hopeless.

  “Sir,” she said in a strangled voice. “Would you please pull over? I am goin’ to be sick.”

  Williams looked over at her in alarm and immediately pulled to the shoulder. Thankfully, the road was undeveloped along this particular stretch, and Doyle hastily alighted and walked behind a small clump of bushes where she was promptly sick as a cat. Grand, she thought; you are a tr
yin’ little baby, you are.

  CHAPTER 11

  DOYLE SMOOTHED HER HAIR AS SHE RETURNED TO THE CAR, feeling better physically but mortified to the soles of her shoes. Williams was watching her as she slid in. “Shall we go back?”

  “No,” she replied, too embarrassed to look at him. “Sir,” she added belatedly.

  “Are you pregnant?”

  “Yes.” She was so taken aback by the bald question that she simply answered; he was one who ordinarily had more tact. He said nothing more, but started the car again. He was angry, she thought in surprise—or dismayed; something powerful. Perhaps he feared she would be of little use.

  “I’ll be fine now,” she offered cautiously, with more optimism than was warranted. “I can do the work, you know.”

  “I know.” He suppressed the emotion, but it simmered, just beneath the surface. There was an awkward silence for a few long minutes; she hoped she wouldn’t be sick again for fear he’d push her out of the car; it would be a long and humiliating walk home.

  With a visible effort, he began to discuss the case again in a level tone. “The chief inspector believes there are major players involved behind the scenes.”

  Considering this for a moment, Doyle dredged up a name. “Solonik?” Solonik was some sort of Russian underworld villain ; Acton had worried he was involved in the last case—the one with raving-lunatic Owens, who had tried to put a period to the fair Doyle. In truth, her husband’s misconception was her own fault; Owens had been obsessed with Acton, and was performing various and assorted murders as his own version of stalking, trying to catch Acton’s attention. He had confessed as much to Doyle, but she could not bring herself to recite this particular motivation to her husband, being as he was a Section Seven, himself. So instead, she’d told Acton that Owens worked for Solonik, a name she’d heard in passing and a suitable scapegoat, being as he was a shadowy Russian kingpin and probably accustomed to having crimes laid at his door. Thinking of this, she paused for a moment, much struck. Acton had made no mention of Solonik in connection with this turf war, but it would only make sense that he’d have a hand in all this, as it appeared to be Russia versus Ireland.

  Williams had glanced over at her in surprise when she mentioned the name. “Perhaps; but he’s a very slippery character, and unlikely to get his fingerprints anywhere near a murder. More likely it’s someone who is a local troublemaker; Solonik tends to keep to his own orbit.” He paused. “Why—has Acton said something?”

  He was worried, she could sense it, and so she quickly disabused him; she shouldn’t be wildly mentioning names that gave Williams a case of the willies. “No; he’s the only Russian kingpin that I know of, is all.” She added, “And Drake said Solonik is not the type to show off—seems unlikely he’d be killin’ everybody, left and right.”

  “Definitely not—he stays very much under the radar.” Williams went back to his original line of thought. “If the factions are escalating the violence, the chances get better that they’ll get sloppy, and the chief inspector believes we’ll have an opportunity to nail some people that are up the chain of command—people who are usually more careful not to get caught.”

  Doyle decided to write this down later, as for now she was concentrating on the scenery. “You can still call him ‘Holmes,’ you know, Williams—I won’t grass.” She turned to smile at her companion, trying to shake him out of the dismals. He responded by smiling in return with some constraint. “Right, then.”

  There, better. But there was that residual emotion, simmering still. She’d best be careful; show him she was shipshape. “Are there any witnesses we’ll be questionin’ on the aqueduct murder today?”

  He paused fractionally. “This one takes precedence.” Doyle hid her surprise. Witness statements should be taken as soon as possible, and they had already missed a day. If this one at Newmarket was indeed a tit-for-tat—a retribution murder for the aqueduct murder—then the two cases should be investigated in tandem; it would be easier to establish the players, the motive, and the timeline. She said nothing, though; she just didn’t have the stamina to argue today and she wanted to be careful not to upset him further. Faith, she was miserable. It didn’t seem fair that one didn’t feel measurably better after one was forced to be sick at the side of the road.

  They came to a frontage road near the racecourse and had to stop to ask for directions, as the directions given by the witness to the dispatcher were unclear and the GPS didn’t have the address. They finally came to a dilapidated wooden structure just off Warren Hill that featured a crooked sign announcing, RACING SOUVENIRS—FORMS—TIP SHEETS, and the two of them sat for a moment in the parked car, he just as dismayed as she. “A wild-goose chase,” she pronounced.

  “Yes, unlikely that anything of import happened here.”

  “You never know,” offered Doyle, trying to rally him. “The last case, I gleaned a decent clue from a Jamaican cleanin’ woman who had the curious case of a dog that did not bark, so to speak.”

  He turned to her, intrigued. “You did? How’s that?”

  Belatedly, she remembered that the woman had heard no shots, meaning raving-lunatic Owens had used a silencer, but Williams had presumably omitted this fact from the ballistics report at the request of her husband, who was apparently a shadowy kingpin in his own right. “Oh—she just helped set time of death. Lovely woman—had earrings the size of knittin’ hoops. Shall we go in? The sooner we get this done, the sooner I can get back to bein’ carsick.”

  He gathered up his rucksack, indicating that she’d successfully dodged that dicey subject. “Right then; let’s go.”

  Doyle followed her now-superior officer as he climbed the creaking steps to enter a small one-room shop containing racing souvenirs and other paraphernalia that were displayed rather haphazardly on various shelves. Much of it was visibly dusty, as though the items had not been moved in quite some time. Posters and photos on the wall proclaimed famous horses from a bygone era, and Doyle waited until her eyes had adjusted to the dim interior to survey these items with interest. She had always loved horses, although she’d never been within hailing distance of one. A nearby shelf contained replicas of Derby winners, and she tentatively touched one of the small resin figures.

  “Do you ride?” asked Williams, watching her.

  “No; but it’s in the blood. You?”

  “We had horses while I was growing up. My parents still do.”

  Doyle reflected that their upbringings were probably not at all similar. “That sounds grand.”

  The proprietor watched them with beady little eyes from his perch behind the cash desk. He was a small man, wizened and wiry, his face leathered from overexposure to the sun. A former jockey, Doyle guessed, and thought of Dick Francis. Williams showed his warrant card. “Mr. Thackeray? I believe we spoke on the phone. You thought you may have some information on the recent murder.”

  “Ye’ll want t’ know about t’spy,” the little man said with relish. “Hah.” He grinned and showed his teeth, which were better left out of sight.

  Oh-oh, thought Doyle; nicked, and wanting some attention.

  “Tell us about him,” said Williams. Doyle could tell he was thinking the same thing.

  “A spy,” the man said contemptuously, and spit in his tobacco cup for emphasis. “Came here t’night of t’Barretson Cup.” He seemed disinclined to elaborate.

  After a pause whilst she carefully kept her eyes averted from the tobacco cup, Doyle controlled her rebellious stomach and asked, “And why are you thinkin’ he was a spy, Mr. Thackeray?”

  The man eyed Doyle with open hostility. “I’ll have no truck with the Irish.” He added darkly, “Not like some.”

  “Are the Irish a problem, then? Do any of these men look familiar?” Williams thought this a good opening to show the man photos of the known Sinn-split members, which he did, pulling them up on his tablet and scrolling through them.

  Thackeray scrutinized the photos with a drawn brow. “Yar. The
y’re about, all right.” His calloused fingers indicated several. “Bloody Irish.” He leaned forward to Williams, eying Doyle askance and lowering his voice. “Skimmin’.”

  “Which means . . .” invited Williams. Doyle was prudently keeping her Irish mouth shut.

  “Settin’ up t’races.” He paused, and then added fairly, “Only oncet in a while, but enou’. On Irish horses,” he added, giving Doyle another dark look.

  “Has anything changed recently? Anyone different hanging around—foreigners, perhaps?”

  The man scowled in disbelief at the absurdity of Williams’s question. “Always furriners about; they come t’ have a flutter.”

  “Have you heard any rumors of trouble?” Williams was asking out of form; it seemed unlikely that this fellow, with his struggling souvenir stand, would have his finger on the pulse of racecourse skullduggery.

  The man considered this. “A lot more trailers, in ’n’ out.”

  “What sort of trailers?”

  This question was met with the apparent scorn it deserved. “Bah—wot sort a’ trailers? Horse trailers, a’course.”

  “Did the spy have a horse trailer?”

  “Gar,” exclaimed Thackeray in disgust as he paused to spit again. “An’ how would I know sech a thing?”

  There was a pause. “Was the spy Irish?” asked Williams. Good one, thought Doyle—ask a misinformation question to see where this strange character may go.

  “Naw,” said the man, exasperated. “He were a spy, like I told ya.” He regarded them and saw they did not understand. “Like James Bond—had a gun in his gullet.” He indicated his armpit.

  This seemed unlikely, as concealed-carry permits were as rare as hen’s teeth in England; Doyle should know, the weapon in her ankle holster was not a legal one, and was courtesy of her protocol-skirting husband. “What did the man look like, Mr. Thackeray?” asked Doyle. It seemed to her the witness was sincere, but it could only be that he was sincerely nicked. “Like James Bond?”