Murder in Retribution (14 page)

T
HE NEXT MORNING
D
OYLE WOKE EARLY TO FIND
A
CTON LEAN
- ing over her, dressed and ready. She remembered their plan to call upon the traitorous Marta, and said sleepily, “I’ll be ready in two shakes, Michael.”

“No, you have time yet. I wanted to tell you I’m delivering the samples to the lab and then I’ll be back—I wanted to get her started on the testing before the other personnel came in.”

So; his operative in the lab is female, like Fiona, thought Doyle. I hope she doesn’t think she’ll fulfill the same role in his personal life; not on my watch, she won’t.

He continued, “I researched the poisons that Timothy mentioned; as long as it’s caught early enough, you should have a complete recovery. The liver scan will give us an indication, and he’ll let us know as soon as he can review the results.”

Sitting up so that the sheet fell away, she pulled his head toward hers to kiss him. “I’ll be fine, Michael.” He was still in a state, and in an attempt to distract him she held his head in her hands for a moment in invitation, but for once the sight of her naked form did not ignite a heated reaction, and he gently removed her hands, kissing her palms one at a time before he left. She watched him go and worried; she’d best hang on to his coat tails for awhile until he calmed down.

Doyle showered and dressed, feeling remarkably better already. Her appetite continued absent, which was just as well because everything in the kitchen was now under quarantine. A respectful knock at the door reminded her of another complication ; Reynolds had arrived. Best consult with Acton. She opened the door to the domestic with a bright smile. “Good mornin’ Reynolds; please don’t go into the kitchen until I’ve had a chance to ring up Acton.”

“Very good, madam,” said Reynolds with a slight bow, as if this were an ordinary request. A very fine sort of servant, Doyle thought, and not for the first time.

She phoned Acton and he answered immediately, as he usually did when she called his private line, unless he was doing something uninterruptable. “Michael, Reynolds is here.”

There was a pause while he thought about it. “Do you think he can be trusted?”

She thought about it in turn; she hadn’t entertained any qualms about Reynolds thus far, and her instinct was usually very accurate. “I do.”

“Then tell him as little as you can; we’ll need new food and he should be made aware. Warn him of Marta.”

“Right then; shall I meet you downstairs?”

“Yes, twenty minutes.”

She rang off and walked over to where Reynolds was organizing cleaning supplies. “Reynolds,” she began, “We believe somethin’ in the kitchen is poisonous, and Acton is havin’ the food tested to see what it is.”

He straightened up and looked at her, then folded his hands across the front of his apron. “I am very sorry to hear of it, madam.”

“I would appreciate it if you would dispose of all the food and replace it; Acton has already taken samples.”

“Very good, madam.”

She added as an afterthought, “Best wear gloves. Don’t eat anything.”

“No,” he agreed with a little nod of his head.

Trying to appear matter-of-fact, she continued, “We believe the woman you saw at the door may be responsible, and since you saw her here, you may be in danger. If you see her again be very careful; don’t allow her to be alone with you.” She could easily picture Marta braining him with a frying pan when his back was turned; Marta was a wily one.

The servant continued unperturbed. “Thank you for the warning, madam. I will be careful.”

Doyle went downstairs to meet Acton out front. Aiki was leaning against his cab, waiting for her, and he smiled his flashing smile. “Not today, Aiki,” she explained. “My husband is comin’.” She should learn how to say a few phrases in French; it would be a friendly gesture to this nice man who was always so nice to her. She had made great strides with her English vocabulary since she met Acton; no reason to stop there.

Acton pulled up to the curb and Aiki hurried over to open the door for Doyle, saluting Acton with a gesture. She smiled her thanks and said to Acton as she slid into the car, “Perhaps you could teach me a few things in French to be sayin’ to him.”

“Better he improved his English.”

“I don’t think he understands my English very well, though.”

“Better you improved your English.”

She punched his arm lightly as he drove away. “There is nothin’ wrong with my English, my friend. It is everyone else who has a very strange accent.”

He nodded but said nothing. Not good, she thought, and redoubled her efforts. “Fine, don’t help; but then all I will be able to say to him is
beaux yeux.
”

This managed to inspire a half-smile. “I would appreciate it if you didn’t encourage your cab driver to proposition you.”

She laughed, in part because it was rather funny and in part because she wanted him not to feel like a volcano about to erupt. “He’s got a wife and baby—I’ve interpreted that much. And I get the feelin’—” here she frowned, trying to decide what she was trying to say, “I get the feelin’ he is a little afraid of me; or afraid
for
me, or somethin’.”

Alert, Acton looked over. “Do you think he’s a danger to you?”

“Oh, no,” she said with certainty, then shook her head. “I don’t know what I’m thinkin’, Michael, but I like him very much. I feel that we are both strangers in a strange land, together, if that makes any sense.”

“Have a care, is all.”

“I will, Michael. I am feelin’ much better.” She had the distinct impression, as a matter of fact, that she was feeling much better than he.

He took an assessing look at her, but the planes of his face did not soften as they usually did when he looked at her. “Yes, I think you are recovering already.”

“I am; I think a lot of it is mental—knowin’ it’s all over.” After a small pause, she put her hand on his arm. “It’s over, Michael.”

“No,” he said in an implacable tone. “It is not over.”

“We may not like where this leads, my friend.”

He glanced at her, and she saw that he was carefully hiding his emotions. “I can assure you that whoever is responsible will not like where this leads, either.”

Faith, she thought; there’s going to be no one left in London, if this keeps up. “I think we need to speak about what’s to be done, and come to an agreement together.”

“No,” he said, and meant it.

“It won’t be a discussion,” she promised. “We’ll just decide together.”

“I’m afraid this is not a subject that is open for a non-discussion, Kathleen.”

Trying to tease him, she insisted, “I’m the one who was poisoned, and forgiveness is a virtue.”

“I will take that under advisement.”

Simmering, she thought in dismay; almost to a boil, he was. “Michael, I’m thinkin’ of myself here; if you wind up in prison, the conjugal visits will be few and far between.”

“I will keep that to mind, also,” he answered evenly.

She lapsed into silence, and wished she knew how to handle this—she very much feared he was descending into another black mood, as he had done when Fiona was murdered. It was a chilling and fearsome thing, and she’d felt helpless against it—all the more because she felt it so acutely. I should try to stay with him, she thought; he does better when I am present, I think.

They drove to the middle-class residential area where Marta’s cousin lived, and found the address. A woman answered the door, took one look at Acton, and was immediately defensive. Can’t blame her, thought Doyle; he’d scare the cows out of milk, he would. Acton showed his warrant card, and asked to speak to Marta.

“She is not here.”

Doyle brushed her hair back, which was her signal to Acton that the woman was not telling the truth. He paused, debating. They were not here in an official capacity and had to be careful; they dared not behave in a way that could draw a complaint to the CID. He pulled his card from his wallet and handed it to the woman, who was clearly reluctant to accept it. “It is important that I speak with her as soon as possible. Please have her contact me at her earliest convenience.”

They drove to work in silence. His mobile rang, and he checked the ID and took the call. “Acton,” he said, and listened. He rang off, and then said quietly. “It was the cereal.”

Acutely dismayed, Doyle breathed, “Holy Mother of God.” Although she had guessed as much, it was a shock to have it confirmed and it also made it clear the poison was administered by someone who knew that Doyle loved frosty flakes and Acton never touched them; aside from the two of them, only Marta would know this. Doyle suddenly found she sympathized with Acton’s foul mood—it was a despicable act, for the love o’ Mike. And Acton was right; it seemed unlikely that Marta would have decided to do it alone; if she hated Doyle that much she would have simply quit and gone back to Trestles. Unless she was nicked, amended Doyle; there was plenty of that going around, too.

Once at the Met, they came to the lifts in the lobby, Acton still distracted and Doyle worried about his state of mind. “Can I work from your office, perhaps? Or can we meet for lunch in a couple of hours?” She bestowed upon him her most beguiling smile.

Unfortunately, it didn’t have much of an effect. “Solonik is to be interrogated; I will text you if I am free.”

This was of interest. “Do you want me in the gallery, to listen in?” The gallery had a one-way mirror that allowed someone to listen in, unseen.

“Not necessary at this point; but I will text you if you are needed.”

But now she knew that the summons would never come; he’d keep her well away from it, because he didn’t want her to know that Solonik’s protestations of innocence were, in fact, true.

“Be certain to eat,” he reminded her, and watched her step into the lift.

D
OYLE WAS ACTUALLY FEELING A BIT PECKISH, AND DECIDED TO
take the current while it served and visit the canteen before descending to her cubicle. After wandering in, she looked over the offerings and for some reason the prepackaged fruit pies looked delicious, even though she’d never had one before. Making up for lost calories, she thought. She bought a cherry pie and was tucking into it when her mobile rang, the ID showing it was home. “Hallo?” she answered, licking her fingers—faith, these things were
crackin’
good.

“Madam,” said Reynolds. “I am very sorry to disturb you at work.”

“Not at all, Reynolds,” she replied. “What’s afoot?”

“The concierge desk has phoned to say there is a plant left for you downstairs by florist’s delivery.”

She remembered her warning to him. “Do you think it is suspicious, then? Who is it from?”

“It is from the dowager Lady Acton, madam.”

Doyle froze, the pie forgotten. Reynolds obviously remembered her comment and didn’t think the dowager would be delivering floral tributes to Doyle. Neither did Doyle.

“Don’t go get it, Reynolds. Stay where you are until further notice, please, and don’t let anyone in.”

“Yes, madam. Please let me know if I can be of further assistance.”

Saints and
holy
angels, thought Doyle as she rang off. Their building ran all incoming packages through a screener—which was an unfortunate but routine reality in this day and age—but this was a seemingly harmless plant, and wouldn’t receive that treatment. Unlikely it was a bomb, anyway; poison was the weapon of choice.

She looked at the time; no doubt Acton was hip deep in Solonik’s interrogation. She debated, then rang him on his work line, but he did not answer. She pondered texting him on his private line; they had an emergency symbol and he would respond to that in an instant. She remembered his volatile state, however, and decided this did not qualify as an emergency—she would call for reinforcements instead. She rang Williams.

“Hey.” He was wary, and rightly so, with all his cross-allegiances going on.

“Hey yourself. Are you busy? I need some help on a suspicious package.”

“Bomb squad?” He was obviously wondering why she was enlisting him.

“No, not a bomb.” I hope, she added mentally. “A plant has been delivered to my flat’s concierge and there is reason to believe it may be dangerous.” She wondered how much to tell him, and then decided to err on the side of discretion. “It may contain some sort of harmful chemical, I’m thinkin’.”

There was a pause. He thinks I’m mad, she thought.

“I’ll get some latex bags and gloves. Meet me at the utility garage.” Williams, bless him, understood without her having to say it aloud that this was not to be handled through regular channels. Doyle took several more big bites of the pie and then regretfully threw the remainder away. Brushing off her hands, she made her way to the garage, where Williams was waiting at the lift door when it opened.

“Thank you again—for an inferior officer, I’m pullin’ you hither and yon, lately.”

“It is my pleasure,” he said, and meant it.

They walked over to the unmarked. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you what’s afoot; it’s awkward, but there it is.”

“Understood.” After yesterday, he was well-aware that they may necessarily have secrets from each other. It was all very complicated, but apparently Acton trusted him and so she would also.

As they stopped at the vehicle he paused and indicated her face with a gesture. “You have some sugar or something—there.”

Presumably from the pie, which she had devoured like a starving pilgrim. Embarrassed, she brushed at her cheek.

“It’s there still—here, let me get it.” He stepped forward to brush his thumb near the corner of her mouth, then met her eyes and went very still. She stepped away and could feel herself blush to the roots of her hair. He opened the door for her and she slid in, refusing to look at him. He walked around to the driver’s side, and they drove in silence for a few minutes.

“How do you want to handle this?” he asked, very much himself again.

She had already been pondering this dilemma. “Not as official business. I think we just go in and get it. They’ll recognize me.”

He looked doubtful. “You shouldn’t touch it.”

“They won’t release it to you, Williams—they’ll think you’re some sort of plant thief. I’ll put gloves on.”

“You’ll come in with me and we’ll say you’re allergic.”

She looked over at him with approval. “Good one, DS Williams. Make sure you wear gloves—I’ll not have you keelin’ over again.”

He looked grim. “Let’s not speak of it.”

“Whist, Williams. We bonded in our mutual misery.”

She could see he was trying not to laugh. “Did we?”

“Indeed we did. Never doubt it.”

He couldn’t help himself and started to laugh, and she joined in. Williams, Williams, she thought; what am I going to do with you?

When they entered the lobby, they approached the concierge and explained the alleged allergy situation, which the concierge seemed to accept without a blink. The plant was placed on the mahogany counter, and had a plain brown paper wrapped around it, beneath which was a sheathing of cellophane, all tied up with a satin bow. Under normal circumstances, the brown wrapping would have been removed by Reynolds, and thank all available saints she had given him warning. Doyle stood back, trying her best to appear allergic, whilst Williams carefully took the plant with gloved hands and double-bagged it. Doyle was certain he saw the card indicating the tribute was from the dowager, but there was nothin’ for it; he would get no explanation from her. Doyle smiled her thanks at the man behind the desk and they left before anyone would wonder why they hadn’t simply been asked to keep it, or give it away to someone else.

Williams carefully placed the bagged plant in the boot of the unmarked. “Now what?”

“That’s for Acton to say.” She phoned him again on his work line and this time he answered. She could hear people speaking in the background, in the echoing, muted tones of the interrogation room. He was busy, so she said without preamble, “There was a suspicious plant delivered to me at our building. Williams and I have it and it will need some testin’, I believe.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Put Williams on.” She handed her mobile over, and Williams listened without expression. “Right.” He rang off. “I’m to take it to the lab.”

“Who’s his person at the lab?”

He glanced at her, quickly. “That’s for Acton to say, I’m afraid.”

“Understood,” she replied philosophically—she’d find out, one way or the other; she was a very fine detective, when people weren’t trying to poison her. “Please see to it the card is removed, but be careful; it may be tainted also.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he teased, as though she were his superior officer.

They arrived back at headquarters, and as they parked in the garage Williams said rather apologetically, “He wanted me to see that you had lunch—he’ll be tied up for a time.”

“Thanks, but I’m meetin’ Munoz.” She would try to avoid being alone with Williams; she knew that if she hadn’t moved away when they were in the garage earlier he would have kissed her, and Acton would then have to be told. Men, she thought in exasperation;
honestly.