Murder in Retribution (22 page)

U
PON ARRIVING AT WORK THE NEXT DAY,
D
OYLE WAS MET BY
Habib, who was agog but hiding it well. “DC Doyle,” he said. “The detective chief superintendent wishes to see you at your earliest convenience.”

The commendation, she thought with resignation; this is going to be a tryin’ day. Just when my last bout of celebrity had elapsed, along comes another. “I will see him straightaway, sir.”

“How does Munoz?”

She paused, feeling a little sorry for him. He’s like Williams, she thought; it’s hopeless and they know it, but they can’t help themselves. “I saw her last evenin’ and she was in fine form, sir; they think there will be no lastin’ damage. She will be back and we will be shoutin’ at each other in no time.”

He was delighted to hear it. “I sent some flowers from our team—I did not presume to visit.”

Just as well, thought Doyle, dreading to think what the Spanish royal family would make of Habib. She made her way to the rarefied atmosphere of the DCS’s office, and his assistant phoned to inform him of her arrival. The DCS’s assistant was very businesslike and friendly, unlike Acton’s assistant, who was probably auditioning to take Doyle’s place at this very moment. Not that Acton would notice, she thought, and felt better. They had a lengthy and wordless lovemaking session in front of the fire last night, which had the added benefit of making Acton forget that he wanted to drink some more. He had fallen asleep on the rug with her lying atop him; definitely no energy left over for a girlfriend, she thought in satisfaction.

The DCS ushered her into his office and offered her coffee, which she refused for fear she’d disgrace herself by spilling it on his fine desk. He was very pleased and congratulatory, and she was asked to recite the story again for his benefit. She began to wonder if she would retell it so much that she would forget the actual memory, and just remember the story. No, she decided; I will never forget how it felt when Munoz started slipping away as long as I live.

“Any leads on a suspect as yet?” he asked.

“I don’t believe so, sir, which is amazin’, considerin’ it was afternoon, and one would think someone would have seen somethin’.”

He told her she would receive a commendation at next month’s awards ceremony, and he had contacted the newspaper to run a story.

“Oh,” said Doyle, trying to hide her dismay. “There’s truly no need, sir.”

“It’s great PR,” her superior explained firmly. “The public loves it when female PCs defy death. And there’s the Acton angle, also.”

She nodded miserably. As a clincher, he added, “And you are photogenic, besides—a good face to show the public.”

“Thank you, sir,” she replied, not sure what one said to such a thing. Acton had once given her a compliment about the bone structure in her face, but she hadn’t really been paying attention.

“The reporter will be in contact; give him whatever he needs—it will be nice to have some positive coverage for a change.”

“Yes, sir.”

As she returned to her cubicle, Doyle rang up Acton to ask his advice. He couldn’t countermand the DCS—could he?—but they could at least get their story straight. God forbid she relayed the truth; that she and Acton had no courtship at all, but had eloped from a crime scene where her estranged father was one of the victims. Mother a’ mercy but it was a recipe for disaster; she tended to talk too much when she was nervous. Snabble it, my girl; less is more.

Acton did not pick up the call; that morning he had tucked a note under the sole remaining fruit pie that said he would be in meetings all day. She was disappointed, but she didn’t try to call his private line, she had to stop being such a baby and face the music.

An hour later, the reporter phoned her desk and she reluctantly agreed to meet him for coffee at the deli. There was also a text from Williams, asking how she did. She responded immediately, keeping up her end of their bargain. One good thing about the whole ordeal, she thought; I’m no longer quarreling with Munoz and Williams. She mentally girded her loins and went out to meet the reporter.

It was the same one that had tried to speak to her before, and he identified himself again as Kevin Maguire. As he needed a haircut and wore a worn corduroy jacket, anyone would have immediately guessed he was either a reporter or a teaching assistant. Doyle sat down warily; Maguire had a reputation for being hard on the police and sympathetic to criminals.

“We meet again,” he began with a rueful smile.

She couldn’t help smiling in response. “I’m sorry; I just hate this.”

“You have no protectors, today.”

“I’ve been ordered to cooperate, so here I am.” She suddenly had an idea—perhaps some good could come out of this misery. “My protector—the cab driver from last time, remember? —was murdered a few days ago.”

He was immediately sympathetic. “I’m so sorry.”

“Perhaps you could run a photo and a small story, askin’ if anyone saw anythin’.”

“Tell me what you know.” He jotted down notes while Doyle recited the story of Aiki’s death, and the widow and child he left behind. She concluded, “The cab company will have his photo.”

“You were friends?”

“Yes,” she said simply, and suppressed the pang of grief.

He turned the page in his notebook. “Now tell me about yesterday.”

Doyle recited the story once again, omitting the detail about the borrowed coat.

At its conclusion, the reporter leaned back in his chair—he was very pleased, she could see. “You jumped off Greyfriars Bridge into the Thames, even though you don’t know how to swim. Extraordinary.”

“It wasn’t such a risk, truly,” said Doyle reasonably, “what with the rucksack, an’ all.”

But the man continued to enthuse, “With this kind of story, every reader will pause and wonder if they could have done the same thing. It’s a compelling connection—a great human interest story.”

“Oh,” said Doyle.

“And you saved your colleague,” he checked his notes, “Detective Constable Isabel Munoz.”

“Yes; Munoz is a very fine detective,” said Doyle. “We are great friends.” She hid a smile and had the immediate impression he knew she was saying it tongue in cheek.

He glanced at her with a glint of humor, but dutifully wrote the quote down, and then asked in an offhand manner, “What was it, were you rivals for Acton?”

“Everyone is a rival for Acton,” she replied in a dry tone, then stopped, horrified. “Please,” she begged, “don’t write that I said that.”

He looked up at her, still smiling, “Come now—that’s a hell of a human interest story, too. The public loves him; he’s got a title, he’s single, and as far I can tell, wasn’t seeing anyone at all until he married you out of the clear blue.”

Fiona, thought Doyle. Thank all available saints and holy angels he doesn’t know about her.

“So—there were plenty of girls putting it to the touch, so to speak?”

“Mr. Maguire,” she asked, “—are you married?”

“No,” he admitted, smiling. He knows where I am going with this, she thought.

“Acton and I are very private people. Any story about my winnin’ a make-believe competition for him will not speed me toward my next anniversary.”

He eyed her thoughtfully. “Then give me something else. How did you meet?”

“At work,” she said carefully; she was not going to make another mistake.

There was a pause. “Most people tell me more than I want to know when I ask how they met.”

Doyle found she could not even construct a plausible story. “I’m afraid I’d like to be keepin’ the details private.”

He leaned forward on his elbows, suddenly all business. “You know, I will ask around and I may hear some stories that are not true. It would be better just to set the record straight.”

Blackmail, she thought. “I won’t,” she replied firmly. “Do your worst.”

He chuckled and closed his notepad. “I serve the public, ma’am.”

A
FTER
M
AGUIRE LEFT
, D
OYLE REMAINED AT THE DELI, DRINK
ing coffee and dejected. Why couldn’t she guard her tongue? Her tendency to be flip often earned Acton’s silent disapproval—just wait until he heard this one. I have to warn him, she thought, and nearly groaned aloud; he’d be repenting of his foolish marriage, he would. She remembered last night, his eyes intent on hers as he moved against her in the firelight, and decided perhaps there was a chance he wouldn’t.

Nothin’ for it, she thought, but finished off the last of her coffee to gather her courage before she attempted the call. Samuels wandered by and saw her at her table near the window. “Doyle,” he greeted her cheerfully. “Are you recovered?”

“As you see,” she answered easily. “Have you found any leads?”

“Not much,” he admitted. “Dispatch says the caller was a woman, but we can’t conclude the attacker was the tipster, with this Solonik bunch. We’re trying to check female known associates, but it is possible the attacker thought Munoz was the tipster, and wanted to silence her.”

This indeed seemed plausible, and gave Doyle pause as this meant the tipster would be reluctant to come forward again, which may have been the intended result. “What sort of weapon?”

“Small blade, only five inches or so which was lucky—any longer and the damage would have been fatal. Not serrated. Holmes seemed to have a good idea of the type of knife, when he saw the report.”

“He’s seen the report already?” Doyle thought of Acton’s crowded schedule. “That’s quick work, Samuels.”

The other man smiled in appreciation. “Thanks—it was a chance to shine and I grabbed it. He was anxious to see the report, and had me bring it by your flat, just now.” He paused and said appreciatively, “Nice view.”

“Yes, it is that,” agreed Doyle. She was distracted, trying to assimilate the surprising information that Acton was at home. Were his meetings cancelled? And yet, he hadn’t answered her call. After thanking Samuels for the information, she excused herself, claiming work obligations.

She walked out to the sidewalk and paused, thinking. She could call Acton again, on the private line if necessary, and start a conversation with him so as to assess what was going on. Her instinct, however, was making her very uneasy. She remembered the intensity of the lovemaking last night; remembered that Acton had left a note rather than tell her in person that he’d be unavailable at meetings today—apparently so that she wouldn’t know he was lying. Wretched man; the game’s afoot, she thought, and abruptly decided she was going home for lunch. As she made her way to the St. James’s Park tube station, she knew with complete certainty that whatever it was, he was doing it to serve her—everything always did. But he had no compunction about compiling a body count in the process and she couldn’t seem to convince him to rethink this strategy.

She arrived at the flat to see Reynolds, cleaning the kitchen wearing yellow rubber gloves and an apron. Unlikely Acton was still there, then.

“Hallo, Reynolds,” she said easily. “Is Acton still about?”

The servant paused, and looked at her impassively. Ah, she thought; he’s uneasy. Now what?

“No, madam,” was all he replied, and Doyle admired his ability to say as little as possible to avoid possible repercussions ; she wished she had the same talent.

“He was about, earlier, though,” she prompted, taking off her jacket.

Reynolds looked at her consideringly, and Doyle took pity. “I hate to be puttin’ you in the middle, Reynolds, but I need a truthful answer, if you please.”

Surprisingly, Reynolds mused, “I cannot imagine that he would do wrong by you.”

“No,” she agreed, trying to hide her dismay. “He would not, no matter how it looks.” They regarded each other, and she chose her words carefully. “Sometimes, Acton needs to be saved from himself.” Reynolds nodded, and seemed to understand exactly what she meant. He’s very sharp, she thought; I wonder how much he knows or has guessed, and I wonder if that’s a good thing.

The servant was still weighing his options, so Doyle played her trump. “You owe me, Reynolds.”

The man peeled off his gloves. “Lord Acton was here, and asked that he not be disturbed and that I not mention he was in to anyone, whom I took to mean you, madam.”

Doyle considered this, furrowing her brow. “What was he about? Did he make any calls?”

“A young policeman delivered some paperwork and left. Lord Acton then removed something from the safe, and made a call.”

“And,” prompted Doyle, waiting to hear whatever Reynolds was omitting with a sinking feeling in her midsection. Samuel’s report was not delivered by e-mail, but by hard copy which was easier to keep confidential. The guns were in the safe, and Reynolds was reluctant to tell her the rest. Saints and angels, she thought, tamping down panic; another flippin’ crisis.

“He did not wish me to overhear, but it is hard to avoid,” the servant explained apologetically. “I could not make out words, only the tone. It sounded as though he was speaking to a woman—very friendly, if I may say so. There were many assurances.” He regarded her impassively, his expression wooden.

But Doyle was not thinking about infidelity, she was furiously trying to figure out who Acton was attempting to beguile. Solonik’s woman? Rourke’s? She had no idea; she did not know enough. The tipster had been a woman, and that must be who it was. Doyle racked her brain, but the only woman she could think of in connection with the turf war cases had already been murdered.

Reynolds cleared his throat. “Then there is the matter of the photograph.”

This caught her full attention. “What photograph, Reynolds?”

“Yesterday Lord Acton asked me to review a photograph. He asked that I not mention it to you.”

Honestly, she thought; I have to take up drinking, I can see the merit.

“It was of a woman,” said Reynolds, who then hastened to assure her, “Not a very attractive woman.”

Ah, here was a clue. “What did she look like?” Then, without waiting for an answer, she realized there was a more pertinent question, “And why would he show it to you?”

“He asked if it was the woman who was at the door that day—Marta.”

Doyle stared at him, completely astonished. “He showed you a photo of
Marta?
” This made little sense; was Marta involved in the turf war? Had one side or the other set her up as a spy in their household? Perhaps she was still alive—Doyle had only Acton’s word for it that she had killed herself. Why would he lie? No—on second thought, he wasn’t lying when he’d called to say that Marta was dead. Doyle closed her eyes to concentrate. Think, Doyle. Acton would advise you to try to make sense of it without any preconceptions. If Marta were not, in fact, dead, Acton would not be calling her and being friendly, he would be murderous—they had no doubt that the poison was by Marta’s hand. He’d not be trying to beguile her, he’d be throttling her. So why did Acton need Reynolds to confirm that indeed it had been Marta at the door? Marta was dead; it was moot.

Unless it wasn’t.

Her eyes flew open. As calmly as she was able, she asked Reynolds, “What did the woman in the photo look like?”

“She had dark hair, tall—and was a bit
embonpoint
, madam.”

“Reynolds, please speak in understandable terms.”

“A bit heavyset,” he amended.

This described Marta. “How old?”

“Not yet forty, I would guess.”

Not Marta.

“And,” he continued, “She was being given some sort of award, at a ceremony.”

Doyle reached out involuntarily and grasped his arm. “Holy Mother of God,” she breathed, and just caught herself just before adding, “Caroline.”