Murder in Retribution (3 page)

D
OYLE HAD MOVED INTO
A
CTON’S FLAT AFTER THEY MARRIED
, and the fact that it was also the scene of her attempted murder did not in any way dim the delight she took in their home. The flat was located in an upscale building overlooking the park and with a remarkable view of the city. Acton might be an acetic, but he had very good taste and spared no expense on the simple modern furnishings he enjoyed. Without a twinge of regret, Doyle had consigned her own rubbish to the bin, bringing with her only a framed photograph of her mother, who had died more than a year ago. She loved living with Acton in this tranquil space, and tried not to feel a stab of regret when she thought of how this idyllic existence was set to change in the coming months.

She arrived home first, and remembered with an inward sigh that this was one of the days their housekeeper came in. Marta had been a retainer at Acton’s estate in the country where his mother, the dowager Lady Acton, still resided, and the housekeeper had moved to London to see to Acton, which she did very efficiently three days a week. Thankfully, she did not live in, but resided with her cousin a short tube ride away. Marta was German by ancestry, and Doyle would not have been surprised to discover she was bred by Nazis; although the housekeeper hid her feelings behind a façade of respect, Doyle knew she heartily disapproved of Acton’s bride—Marta was an easy read.

Doyle explained to the woman that she could leave early today without preparing a dinner, and mentally chastised herself because she always allowed the housekeeper to see that she was intimidated, which only added to the other’s disdain. Marta thanked her woodenly, and gathered up her coat and purse. When Acton was present, Marta referred to Doyle as “madam” or “Lady Acton.” When he wasn’t, she didn’t. Doyle, however, was impervious to the snub—no one knew better than she that Acton had married out of his species. Mainly, she was a bit embarrassed because Marta no doubt guessed the reason that workaholic Acton was rushing home to meet his bride in private—“cereal” had become their code word for sex. It was nothing to be ashamed of, Doyle scolded herself; of course Marta would be aware of the goings-on in the household—privacy was a luxury, now. Still, Marta always made her feel as though she was a twopenny brasser and not Acton’s lawful wife, which didn’t help matters.

Determined not to dwell on Marta’s subtle insolence, Doyle took down her hair and shook it out in anticipation. Despite the increasingly unmistakable signs that she was pregnant, Doyle had stubbornly adhered to their schedule of abstaining from sex during ovulation even though her temperature was no longer fluctuating. She’d been in denial, of course, and to make matters worse, she had been avoiding the subject with Acton, as though she could make the entire issue go away. Silly knocker, she thought, reviewing her pale complexion in the mirror; make it up to the poor man. After all, there was no point in closing the barn door; that horse is well away.

A short time later she heard Acton’s key card in the slot, and she went to greet him at the door, dressed only in her robe. Almost instantly, his mouth was on hers, his hands pulling at the tie and his need urgent. He murmured against her mouth, “Marta?”

“She will have to wait her turn,” Doyle teased. He said nothing further, his mouth moving down her neck, but she broke away for a moment, struck by a thought. “Oh—d’you think we should?”

“Yes,” he said, sliding the robe from her shoulders. “I asked Timothy.”

She tried not to think how embarrassing it would be to face Dr. McGonigal when next they met, and instead happily acceded to Acton’s furious lovemaking. It had been this way with him from the first; he craved her. She believed it was a symptom of his condition, a means by which he could climb into her skin, so to speak. Today their first fevered encounter was on the entryway rug; the second a more leisurely tryst after they adjourned to the bed. At its conclusion, he moved his mouth along her throat, across her face; his weight pressed against her. “How do you feel?”

“Satiated.”

“I meant,” he murmured, his mouth near her ear, “—are you still queasy?”

“You have discovered the cure, thanks be to God.” Best not to mention the rug burns on her back.

They lay quietly together, saying nothing, for quite some time. He liked to fold her in his arms after lovemaking, pulling her to him so that her back curled neatly into his chest—he was quite a bit taller than she. He would hold her against him and his fingertips would lightly move over her forearms and hands; slowly back and forth, repeatedly. She privately thought that nothing else he did to her was as pleasurable.

“I have a meeting tomorrow,” he said from the pillow behind her head. “It is in Brighton.”

Although it seemed an ordinary comment, it was actually quite significant; he did not do well if he was away from her.

“Is it overnight? I will come with you.” As long as there was no unexpected fieldwork, she could always complete her report away from headquarters.

He thought about it. “I’m not certain how long it will last. It has to do with contraband; the latest developments and protocol. I may be back by evening.”

“If it does not look that way, call and I will come.”

“Ask the concierge for the driving service.”

“Michael,” she teased, “is the bloom off the rose already? I thought you would trust me with the Range Rover.”

“I will have the Range Rover. You may drive me back home, if you wish.”

“Brave man.” She smiled into the gathering twilight; she was a new driver, and not very competent.

He was quiet for a minute, and then said, “I have been putting aside fungible assets for you.”

Faith, here was a twist on post-coital conversation. “Tell me exactly what that means, my friend.”

He continued slowly, “If I were to die, there could be a great deal of unpleasantness. The current heir to my estate is a cousin, and he and my mother could make your life very difficult.”

“Michael,” she said gently, “they may have your stupid estate with my blessin’.”

“If the child is a boy, the estate belongs to him.”

Doyle blinked in surprise. She hadn’t thought about any of this. “Oh.”

“I would like him to have it,” he added quietly.

“Then he will have it, and no mistakin’.” If Acton needed reassurance that she was a fervent supporter of primo—primo-whatever-it-was, she would give it to him.

“There are valuables and cash in a blind account at Layton’s,” he continued in his level tone. Layton was Acton’s man of business. “Jewelry, gold—fungible assets that are anonymous and outside the estate. On my death, go to Layton and he will help you. If Layton has died, do not speak of it to anyone else, and I will give you the deposit numbers.”

She was silent, trying to absorb what he had told her. Correctly gauging her silence as confusion, he continued patiently, “If the bank accounts are legally frozen, this will give you access to funds that no one else will know to claim. You will need to hire the highest quality solicitors—spare no expense.”

“Right.” She paused a beat, and then asked with what she thought was commendable calm, “Is there any reason you’re believin’ you’ll be dyin’ soon?”

“No.” His arms tightened around her. “I am merely being cautious.”

She was relieved; he was telling the truth, and was allowing her to read him so that she could see that it was the truth. It was a switch; he’d been very guarded around her lately, but then again, she’d been guarded, herself. Grow up, Doyle, she thought; you’re not the first couple faced with an unplanned pregnancy, and there will be plenty of time to become accustomed. Only—only it was such a shame that the current turf war served to remind her of raving-lunatic Owens, and her pregnancy served to remind her of raving-lunatic Owens, and he truly didn’t deserve another stray thought, the raving lunatic ; the whole miserable incident was dead and buried and done with.

She paused, her scalp prickling as though she was on the verge of some intuitive connection, but the moment passed and she couldn’t get a glimpse, mainly because she was so very drowsy—how lovely it was to be at home and abed with Acton early, not late at night when they were already tired. Faith, with all the recent murders it was a wonder he had managed to get away from work at all—she’d been so busy sulking about her pregnancy that she didn’t know how far along in the investigation he was, he hadn’t discussed it with her. He’d been guarded about these turf war cases.

She opened her eyes, wide-awake and her scalp prickling. Acton had been guarded about these cases. The last time he had been guarded with her about a case was because he planned on killing the suspect himself, and he didn’t want her to figure it out.

Before she could continue on with this train of thought, however, he said, “Perhaps I should seek treatment.”

She hid her surprise. Saints—what had gotten into the man, that he was willing to speak of his condition; he hated to speak of his condition almost as much as she hated to speak of her intuition. Then she realized it was more properly what had gotten into her; whilst she had been avoiding the subject and wanting to throw things, he had been quietly considering what needed to be done in preparation for this baby. She grasped his hands, which were still making their stroking circuit, and kissed them both in turn. “Michael, I am so sorry I’ve been actin’ like a spoilt child. Forgive me, please.”

“There is nothing to forgive. You have had a lot thrust upon you in a short space of time.”

She smiled to herself at his choice of words, but let the opportunity to say something flippant pass. It was true; in recent months she’d married her boss out of hand, nearly been killed, killed someone, shot herself by accident, and had gotten pregnant to boot. For the love o’ Mike, what could she possibly do for an encore?

Letting his hands go so they could go back to their rhythm, she thought about the question. He rarely referred in any way to his neurosis—or whatever it was—and he would surely hate having to speak of it to anyone else. “I am of two minds on the subject,” she admitted. “You are not a danger to me—quite the opposite. It affects no one else. What would you have them do? Start feedin’ you some vile drug, or try weanin’ you away from me?” This had actually crossed her mind more than once; unthinkable that he may wake one morning to find his fixation gone as quickly as it had come—and that he would regard his better half with the same incredulous disbelief that everyone else did.

He gently turned her over so that she lay on her back, and leaned over her, his face very close to hers. Apparently, she had said something amusing. “You are remarkably foolish if you think I am going to leave you.”

She twined her arms around his neck and broadened her accent, “Faith, m’lord, ’tis a sad, sad sight I’d be, what wi’ me poor belly and you not willin’ to do right by me.”

“Knocker,” he said in imitation, and kissed her.

T
HE NEXT MORNING
, A
CTON PREPARED TO LEAVE FOR HIS CON-
ference in Brighton and Doyle prepared to leave for work. Ordinarily, she was an early riser but in recent days she had been reluctant to rise from their bed, particularly because as soon as she stood on her feet she began to feel out of curl. She found if she took deep breaths and nibbled on a plain, refrigerated biscuit she could control the nausea, and tried to build some optimism based on this discovery. I’m to have a new attitude, she reminded herself; I’m to be a grown-up and not a balking donkey so that Acton will not be worried that I’m incapable of doing battle with the pretenders to the throne.

Marta came in early to make up for leaving early the day before, and Doyle explained that Acton would be out of town and no dinner need be prepared as Doyle would forage on her own; the last thing she wanted was to spend an evening alone with the disapproving housekeeper.

Marta replied, “Yes, madam,” because Acton was present, and Doyle smiled to herself; judging from the pillow talk the night before, the poor woman would have a long wait of it, if she was thinking that Acton would come to his senses anytime soon.

“Timothy and Caroline would like to play cards on Sunday, if you’d like,” Acton said as he kissed her good-bye.

Doyle smiled. “That would be grand, Michael.”

She managed to dress for work, and then leaned against the back wall of the lift, fortifying herself as she descended to the lobby of the building. When the doors slid open, she straightened her shoulders and walked past the concierge desk through the revolving doors to catch a cab for work, because Acton didn’t want her riding the tube. Technically, he wanted her to use the concierge driving service, but she shied away from it, still too sensitive about giving the appearance of flaunting her new-found wealth. As a compromise, most days she hailed a cab and as a result, one of the drivers had taken to waiting for her in the mornings. His license said he was Rwandan, and because his English was almost unintelligible, she felt a kinship with him, and appreciated his allegiance. As he held the door for her, he made a comment that she interpreted as a greeting. In return, she mustered up a wan smile and they were under way.

She raised the window, as the street outside smelt of gasoline fumes which did not aid in the settlement of her poor stomach. Mind over matter, she thought with steely resolve; I will think about other things. Acton must have made the plan for Sunday when he spoke with Timothy; he had called to ask the doctor to recommend an obstetrician. Truth be told, Doyle wasn’t certain she was looking forward to the Sunday get-together. Acton was clearly making an effort to behave as a normal couple would behave in an attempt to please her, and as Timothy and Caroline were his oldest friends, it would seem the ideal way to make a stab at some sort of social life. The problem was that Doyle had never much desired a social life—for the obvious reasons—and didn’t particularly want one just now, whilst she was still coming to grips with the other major changes in her life.

For the second time that morning, she gave herself a mental shake; this type of socializing may be just the thing to help Acton, as apparently he believed he was in need of treatment. I think that’s the nub of it, she thought in all honesty; I’d rather no one else had a window into the relationship between us, especially a psychiatrist. Not to mention that neither one of them could be completely honest with anyone—faith, they weren’t completely honest with each other, and with good reason.

They had gone to visit the McGonigal siblings for the first time last week, and Doyle had privately found it a little trying. She had first met Timothy when he’d deftly treated her—no questions asked, thanks be to God—on the infamous night she shot herself in the leg and managed to get impregnated. A few days later, she’d met his sister Caroline at Fiona’s funeral. Fiona had been a forensics scientist at the CID morgue, and she was murdered by the same raving lunatic who had tried to kill Doyle, but no one else knew of it. Acton had given the eulogy, and the occasion was the first time that Doyle had made a public appearance as his wife. Her husband had spoken eloquently of Fiona’s goodness and their friendship, but all the while the general congregation was covertly eying Doyle, rampant curiosity and shock battering her from every angle. So as to be a credit to Acton, she’d tried to maintain her poise, but would not have been at all surprised if her blush had become indelible.

On top of the general trauma of being revealed as Acton’s unexpected wife, Doyle became aware of two things that day: Timothy had been in love with Fiona, and he was unaware that Fiona and Acton had once had an affair. Doyle was becoming accustomed to such interesting revelations, and was fast coming to the conclusion that the workaday lives around her were merely a dignified veneer, and that underneath it all were undercurrents of love and longing, some seething and some more circumspect. She had never paid much attention to them before Acton; jealousy and lust had been motives for crimes with no real application to daily life. Now, however, she was resonating like a tuning fork, picking up the fluctuating emotions all around her. It all came from having a certain husband shake her from her underpinnings, it did.

Last week, they’d spent an evening with the McGonigals in an attempt to teach Doyle how to play Brag, a card game the others had played together since university. Timothy was a kind man and liked her simply because Acton did. Caroline, by contrast, liked her only for Acton’s sake. In truth, Caroline reminded Doyle of one of the nuns she had known at St. Brigid’s; a woman who was doggedly determined to do good no matter the sacrifice, not aware that it shouldn’t be a sacrifice at all, if it were done right.

“Not to worry, Kathleen; I will take you in hand,” Caroline had said to her in a friendly fashion when they were alone in the kitchen.

Doyle was not certain how to respond, and had instead smiled her appreciation.

Caroline had lowered her voice. “And if you ever need advice about how to go on, you need only ring me and I will help you. All conversations will be kept strictly confidential, of course.” She then had cast a speaking glance in the direction of Acton.

I think she meant well, thought Doyle—even if she was privately distressed by Acton’s marriage. And I am glad I resisted the urge to tell her that the only thing I really needed to know was where the nearest available bed was—although a bed was apparently not always needful. Doyle smiled to herself at the memory of the heated session on the entryway rug, and the cab driver smiled into his rear-view mirror and said something friendly and unintelligible.

The card game had been a mistake. Caroline had explained the game in simple terms so that Doyle could understand, and they played some preliminary hands so that she could get the hang of it. The game was what her mother would have called a vying game, with each player given three cards to parlay as best they could.

Doyle kept trying to catch Acton’s eye, but he didn’t pick up on her problem until they began to play in earnest, for points. Then he met her eyes and realized what she had been trying to signal; she shouldn’t be playing a game that involved bluffing. She won every trick she could, and relinquished the ones she could not, with the result that she steadily added to her lead. Timothy laughed and was pleased for her, Acton was amused, and Caroline—who was apparently a very shrewd player of cards—was annoyed. As a result, Doyle began to fold where she needn’t, just to mollify the other woman, and then suggested they play Forty-five, a game her mother had taught her that was based wholly on skill with the cards. It went much better.

As the cab wound its way to the Met, Doyle entertained the unhappy conviction that Acton was going to try to make the card games a weekly event; perhaps he would introduce other friends, gradually. She should try to be a good wife and encourage him to socialize so that she was not the sole object in his universe, but she longed for solitude, and the days where it would be just the two of them were counting down. “Do you have a wife?” she asked her cab driver.

He nodded and smiled broadly, his white teeth positively gleaming.

Has no idea what I’m saying, she thought.

The driver then said something she could not follow, but which contained the unmistakable word “baby,” as he made a rocking motion with his free hand.

I stand corrected, she thought, and nodded to show she understood. “I’m to have a baby.” The words hung in the air. Holy Mother of God, she thought; I’m to have a baby.

The driver grinned.