Murder in Hindsight (4 page)

C
HAPTER
5

D
OYLE MADE HER WAY ACROSS THE ELEVATED WALKWAY BETWEEN
the two Scotland Yard buildings, and then down to the adjacent building’s basement, where the cold case files were stored. The more recent files were electronic, with only the preserved physical evidence needing storage space, but the older cases were stored in dusty cardboard boxes; row upon row behind a security fence in the chilly and poorly-lit cold case basement. Doyle signed herself in and began making a preliminary check-through of the cases on her list. If any appeared to be of interest, she would have them delivered to her cubicle for further review.

It was tedious work, although it wasn’t as cold as it had been in the past. As she thumbed through the old files, she gradually removed her gloves, her coat, and eventually her sweater, and even then felt a little warm. Acton must have told them to turn up the heat, she decided—over-protective knocker; a shower would be needful when she emerged from this swamp. After she’d compiled a list of fifty files—the maximum she could bear to handle at one time—she could hear someone approaching from the distant entry door, and Williams called out a greeting so as not to startle her. Clambering down from the wheeled stepladder, she was only too happy for an excuse to take a break. Noting that Williams held a cup, she asked, “Is that coffee?”

“Have some.” He handed it to her. “It’s not very hot anymore, though.”

“Just as well—it’s warm work, here in the dungeon. Did Acton send you?”

“No—Munoz couldn’t get through, so she texted me since I am in this building. She says you’re supposed to meet her.”

Doyle sipped the coffee and checked her mobile—she and Acton had been exchanging occasional texts during the morning, but Munoz must have a different provider. “Thanks; I lost track of the time, being as this is fascinatin’ legwork.”

He seemed a bit preoccupied. “Anything?”

“A spider. And a quiverful of possibilities; it’s a sad testament, the number of career criminals who wind up gettin’ themselves murdered. Not a healthy line o’ work.”

“I can’t muster up much sympathy, I’m afraid. How are you—are you all right?”

“I am right as rain, my friend.” She said it lightly because he was emanating some muddled emotion and she didn’t want to venture into the personal—Williams had been romantically interested in her, and even though she was now married to his commanding officer, she caught the sense that, on occasion, he continued to yearn.

“That’s good.” He studied the floor for a moment.

Men; honestly, she thought with an inward sigh. “I am learnin’ a few things amongst the cobwebs; I found a cause of death I don’t recognize.” She checked her notes. “Cerebral ischemia.”

He lifted his head. “That means death by strangulation—pressure on the carotid artery.”

Setting down the coffee for a moment, she blew a wayward tendril off her forehead as she re-did her ponytail. “Faith, Williams; do you know
everythin
’, or is it somethin’ you’ve studied for the DI exam?”

This remark coaxed a half-smile from him, and he shrugged. “I was going to medical school when I changed course.”

Surprised, she reached again for the coffee cup—he was making no attempt to reclaim it, after all. “Truly? You were supposed to be a doctor?”

“No, I was supposed to be a detective, but it took an externship with the coroner for me to realize it.”

Nursing the coffee, she considered this in silence for a moment, as there was definitely more to this story than he was letting on. He did not elaborate, though, and so she confessed, “I always wanted to be a detective—and a nun, too. A detective-nun, I suppose.”

“That’s a rather small demographic.”

“And just as well—I wouldn’t have been a good nun; I lose my temper too much.” That, and as it turned out, she very much enjoyed being ravished on a daily basis by her husband, but best not mention this before the very buttoned-up DS Williams. As she gathered up her things, she indicated a file in her stack. “Here’s one who lost his temper in spades; the CID suspicioned that the suspect murdered the neighbor because the neighbor had poisoned the suspect’s cat—a vengeance killing, it was, like a Greek play.”

“I could see that.”

She glanced up in surprise as he lifted her rucksack from her hand. “Whist, Williams; never say
you
have a cat?”

He gave her a look. “I’m
kidding
, Kath.”

Making no comment, she bundled up her discarded coat and wondered why his comment had come across as true. Perhaps he meant he could understand a vengeance killing, and indeed, this was a subject that should best be changed—she was aware that Williams had been Acton’s henchman in a vengeance killing and
truly
, she should think before she spoke; it was her besetting sin. As they made their way down the aisle, she asked brightly, “What are you about, today?”

“I have to go testify this afternoon; we have a suspect dead to rights but he won’t enter into a plea deal.”

“You’re to testify in court?” Doyle wasn’t certain whether she was envious; she tended to gabble under pressure, and would probably say something she oughtn’t. Usually the lead officer testified at the trials—although Acton probably didn’t like to testify either, come to think of it; he was not one who liked being challenged.

“Yes; Acton said he’ll be away, so I’m to run the show.”

“Good luck to you, then.” Acton must be preparing for his class at the Academy—although he hadn’t mentioned that he was going home for the afternoon. “D’you think the trial is just the suspect wantin’ a show, then?” Oftentimes, repeat criminals knew they were headed back to the nick, but gloried in the attention of a formal trial and the stories it would give them to tell their mates in prison. It was a waste of time and resources, but there was that whole presumption-of-innocence thing that required the Crown to put on a case, if the suspect would not cooperate.

“We’ll see; are you headed out to lunch?”

“You can’t come,” Doyle advised him bluntly. “Munoz is trying to enslave some hapless man, and she’ll be the one who’s murderin’ me if I show up with the likes of you and queer the pitch.”

“I only wanted to suggest you pull on your sweater before you go.”

Hearing the constraint in his tone, she looked at her knit top in embarrassment, thinking she must have smudged it, leaning into the dust.

“There are marks on your arms,” he explained, his voice carefully neutral.

Glancing down in confusion, Doyle could see bruises, above her elbows and on her forearm; fingerprint bruises that clearly indicated where a man had handled her roughly. She could feel the color flood her face at Williams’s unspoken assumption—he had been protective of her once before, when he feared Acton would abuse her, and they had quarreled over it; he couldn’t know that Acton would never harm her.

“I—I was in an altercation,” she stammered as she realized that she couldn’t tell him the truth. “Not at work,” she added hastily; Williams would already know she had not been involved in such a struggle on duty. She concluded a bit lamely, “It wasn’t Acton.”

“Right, then.”

He stood in silence whilst she donned her sweater, mortified because she hadn’t disclaimed very credibly. They called for the lift, and because she couldn’t leave it at that, she continued stiffly, “I was in a tussle at the charity medical clinic—the one where I’m volunteerin’. I bruise easily, and it was truly nothin’. I appreciate the warnin’, though; I’d rather not have to keep explainin’.”

“Just have a care, Kath; you’re a bit reckless, you know.”

As the bridge-jumping incident had proved this beyond a reasonable doubt, she could make no rejoinder, and they parted as he stepped out onto his floor.

C
HAPTER
6

M
UNOZ WAS WAITING WITH BARELY-CONCEALED IMPATIENCE
, and Doyle apologized for the delay as they headed out the front door, the desk sergeant leaping up to hold the door for them with a respectful greeting.

“What is the strategy?” quizzed Doyle as she shrugged into her coat and pulled on her gloves—it was brisk outside. “Should I start loudly extollin’ your many virtues so that he can hear? Or are you just goin’ to faint at his feet?”

Munoz gave her a sullen look. “I’ve already spoken to him; I’m just giving him an opportunity to ask me out. You have enlisted me to come along while you buy a book.”

Doyle considered her assignment. “Any particular book?”

“Nothing embarrassing,” directed Munoz; “I don’t want him to think I am hanging around with someone stupid.”

Doyle stifled an urge to purchase a stack of pornography and inquired, “And are you goin’ to be payin’ me back after we perform this little morality play?”

“Shut up, Doyle; you can afford it.” Munoz had been interested in Acton, and was annoyed that Doyle had made such a spectacular match under the radar, so to speak.

“If I may be sayin’ so, you are in a foul mood, for a temptress.”

Munoz’s full red lips thinned. “I went to a community outreach last night, and all everyone wanted to ask about was the
incident.
” She said the last word as though it were an epithet.

Doyle shrugged in resignation. “I imagine the PR department is thinkin’ they may as well make some hay.” Munoz was trying to raise her profile with the PR department, and they were nothing loath as she was a telegenic minority female, and thus a good face to put forward.

“I don’t like being cast as the victim.” The beauty ground out the words, and her scowl deepened. “It’s demeaning, and no one sees
me
anymore.”

Biting back a retort—honestly; it never paid to save someone’s life, nowadays—Doyle suggested, “Saints, Munoz; then use your wits and turn it around. After all, you took a knife with my name on it.”

They walked in silence down the street for a few moments. “I did, didn’t I? Why doesn’t anyone remember that?”

“You need to remind them. And if you are recruitin’ the kids, explain how important it is to exercise and stay strong, because that is why you survived.”

“I’m a lot stronger than
you
.”

“No argument here, DS Munoz.” Mother a’ mercy, thought Doyle; how many more months of this? As they were almost to the bookstore, Doyle took the opportunity to change the subject. “What’s this favored fellow like, if I may be askin’?”

“Nice,” Munoz replied with a touch of defiance. “Smart—he’s a graduate student.”

It was intriguing that Munoz was interested in a bookstore clerk, graduate student or no. She tended to pursue high-profile men with money—as well she could; she was beautiful and tempestuous, a combination that was very attractive to men for reasons that escaped Doyle. Ever since Doyle’s abrupt and unheralded marriage, however, the girl had expressed an interest in finding someone marriageable, and perhaps the graduate student was the result of this new search criteria.

They walked into the store, chatting casually so that the target would not realize that he was, in fact, a target. This subterfuge, however, was completely unnecessary; a young man spotted Munoz immediately, lit up like a candle, and hurried over to greet her.

“Isabel—I’m off for lunch in a minute; can you join me?”

The offer courteously included Doyle, who was well-aware of her expendability and demurred, explaining she had a limited time to make an important purchase. With a convincing show of deigning to make a concession, Munoz agreed to accompany him, and Doyle was thus left alone to examine some of the books displayed on the tables—in truth, she wasn’t much of a reader, and it seemed clear that Munoz’s offer of a meal was nothing more than a bait-and-switch. She was thinking about ringing up Acton to see if he could take a break from his class preparation, when she realized that the man next to her was intensely interested in her, and standing a little too close—he may be a pervert, best move aside. Without looking up, she moved away, but he moved right along with her, his acute interest unabated. Thinking to render a quelling stare, she glanced up and met the level gaze of her rescuer from the night before. “You will meet me at the religion section, if you please.” He turned and was gone almost before she registered that it was indeed he.

Her first reaction was dismay; she’d put that little episode behind her, and did not like to think that shadowy kingpins had assigned people to monitor her movements—which was foolish; she shouldn’t put her head in the sand, and may as well discover what was afoot. Besides, she owed him a debt of gratitude and her instinct told her he was no danger to her. If anything, he was puzzled, or bemused, or—or something; she was not what he’d expected. Feeling as though she was in a spy movie, she wandered through the aisles, reading the display signs until she located the religion section, which was regrettably unpopulated, although this was probably why it was chosen. She saw the man, thumbing through a Wesleyan tract, and approached to stand beside him. “Are you a Methodist, then? I wouldn’t have pegged it; you are far too handy with your fives.”

He glanced up at her with a grave expression. “Yes? What does this mean?”

“It means you pack a decent punch, my friend, and I’m that grateful. What can I do for you?”

“You are Roman Catholic?”

Hard to imagine he was here to discuss comparative religions, but she tried gamely to keep up. “Indeed I am.”

“Yet you are leaving your husband?”

She raised her brows in surprise. “No. Is that the rumor? Have you been speakin’ to Munoz, by any chance?”

He shut the book softly. “Who is Munoz?”

“You ask a lot of questions, for someone who took an oath of silence.”

This remark indeed silenced him for a moment, and the pale eyes regarded her thoughtfully. I think I am so flippant with him because he is so serious, she thought, and resolved to tread a bit more warily; there was something a bit—cold, was perhaps the right word—about him. Not a gregarious soul, was this fellow.

“Last night, you were not wearing a wedding ring.”

“Oh—no, I didn’t want to wear it in that buildin’; it belongs to his family.” Apparently while she was noticing his watch, he was noticing her rings, or lack thereof. “I’m wearin’ it now.” She wiggled a gloved finger.

For some reason, she sensed that this was good news to him, which seemed a little strange—although he didn’t seem intent on flirtation. But although he gave no outward sign, he was definitely relieved to confirm she wasn’t leaving her husband.

“Acton.” His accent placed the emphasis on the second syllable.

“Yes; Acton.”

The man frowned slightly, remembering. “He is a knocker.”

“Indeed he is,” she replied gravely. “But do not say that I said.”

He regarded her in silence, and she wondered what he wanted—it was his secret meeting, after all. Perhaps she should help him get to the point, as she was hungry. “You are related to Gerry Lestrade, I believe.”

Bull’s-eye; she intercepted a flash of surprise, quickly suppressed. “Who is that?” he asked, and it was a lie.

She was unsurprised, and a bit philosophical; small blame to him for his wary confusion, if what she suspected was true—that Savoie’s people were worried they’d be treated to another helping of Acton’s misplaced vengeance if anything happened to her. Meeting her rescuer’s eyes, she said with all sincerity, “There is no need to follow me about anymore; all problems have been resolved.” Solonik was in prison, Acton was now aware that he’d been runnin’ amok for no good reason, and so things had settled down. Please God; amen.

Her companion tilted his head slightly. “What problem has been resolved?”

Hesitating, she decided she may as well spell it out. “Solonik’s in prison, and the dispute over the smugglin’ rig has—well, has settled.” Best be careful, she didn’t want to make him nervous.

But apparently she’d guessed wrong, as he tilted his head again in a very European gesture. “You mistake; it was Solonik who asked me to find you.”

She stared at him in shock for a long moment, completely surprised. “
Solonik
sent you?” This did not bode well, but after a moment, she realized what must be afoot. “I see—he must love his little boy very much.” Doyle had sat in when Acton interrogated Solonik, and the suspect—not knowing the constable who accompanied him was Acton’s wife—had tried to blackmail Acton by threatening to harm his wife. In return, Acton had threatened to harm Solonik’s child, and Solonik had immediately conceded the stand-off, and plea-bargained to a long prison term. So; Doyle revised her theory to surmise that her rescuer was now assigned to make certain no harm came to Acton’s wife so that no mistaken revenge would then be taken against Solonik’s son—Acton being a revenge-taker of the first order.

In this, however, she was again mistaken, as the pale eyes were suddenly intent on hers. “Solonik has a little boy?”

“Never you mind,” retorted Doyle a bit crossly. “And I am grateful for what you did, my friend, but it is like pullin’ teeth to carry on a conversation with you.”

He ducked his chin, considering this, then concluded, “Very painful.”

“Like licorice at Christmas,” she confirmed. “And I thought we agreed we weren’t to speak of all this again.”

“Solonik asks that you meet with him.”

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.