Murder in Retribution (5 page)

D
OYLE WAS WORKING AT HOME ON
S
UNDAY AFTERNOON
whilst Acton sat on the sofa, reading the contraband manual from his conference and entering notes on his laptop. He seemed very interested in the new procedures the Home Secretary was instituting to counteract smuggling and black market trade, and Doyle had a very good idea as to why this was, although he didn’t know she knew. She had a shrewd suspicion that he was running a smuggling rig with illegal weapons, which presented a fine dilemma for her; she was a policewoman, after all, with a healthy respect for the rule of law—it was a dangerous thing to be a rule unto oneself, there was no telling where it would end. Hopefully, not in some prison somewhere; she couldn’t imagine Acton would do well in prison.

She was seated at the table, researching the Sinn-split information on file and cross-referencing the Russian mafia information. Her main object was to find a nexus having to do with racecourse crimes—such as doping, money laundering, or illegal gambling—because such a nexus could provide some insight as to what had touched off the turf war. Williams had suggested that something might have changed; some unsavory activity had suddenly become more lucrative so that the factions were willing to go to war over it, and this seemed as good a theory as any, if only she could find some hint. Thus far, however, she had found no indication that the long shots were winning when they shouldn’t, or that more money was passing hands than was usual.

Another angle was to research the victims’ biographical information so as to cross-check the Watch List with suspected racecourse activities. Strangely, the most recent Russian victim—Barayev-of–the-maggoty-face—did not fit the usual profile. He was by all appearances an ordinary businessman from Moscow—or as ordinary as one could be in such an environment ; the high achievers tended to have unsavory connections due to the nature of the beast. That he was a high achiever seemed evident; the man’s clothes and shoes were of the highest quality, and his fingernails had been manicured. His biography showed that he was on the board for several banks and import-export companies, and the majority of his time was spent as the CFO in a venture capital firm—or what passed for one in the questionable climate of the Russian oligarchies. Interpol had no record of him, and as far as she could see, he had not raised any eyebrows anywhere. Strange that he had wound up in a London aqueduct with his face shot off in the midst of this turf war. “I’m thinkin’ that you may be right; it may have been a shadow murder,” she mused aloud. Mainly, she was angling to make Acton take a break from his worrying interest in contraband protocols—it made her very uneasy, it did.

Acton looked up. “Barayev?”

“Yes. By all accounts he was just mindin’ his own business. Perhaps someone not connected to the turf wars read about all the murderin’ in the papers, and decided to seize the main chance.”

Acton made the obvious suggestions involving the usual obvious suspects. “A disgruntled wife, or business partner?”

Doyle frowned with regret—the reason the usual obvious suspects were usual and obvious was because they were so easy to twig. Not in this case, however. “He was a widower, and it looks like he was mainly an advisor—not someone whose death would help anyone else out, financially.”

Acton looked out the window for a moment. “Perhaps it was a message to another player.”

This was of interest, and she looked over at him. “That’s what you think, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” he admitted, and it was the truth.

Ah, she thought; now we are getting somewhere—when Acton came up with a theory, it was usually spot-on. But thinking on it, she frowned again. “That’s a tangled theory, Michael; it’s a shadow murder to send a message? How would the supposed recipient know it was a message as opposed to just another dead Ruskie in the turf war?”

“Keep digging,” he suggested. “But first, what can I make that would tempt you to eat?”

She considered this as he walked over to gently click shut her laptop. It was true she had only nibbled on a dry biscuit that day; it was wretchedly hard to even contemplate taking a bite of anything.

He led her over to the sofa. “Does nothing sound appetizing?”

She thought about it. “Somethin’ cold, I think.”

“Timothy said ginger tea is sometimes helpful.”

She was touched that he had asked for advice. “That does sound good,” she lied.

He smiled, seeing right through her. “It’s worth a try; if you can’t do it, you can’t do it.”

“Do we
have
ginger tea?”

“We do now. I will brew some.”

“Pour it over ice,” she suggested.

After he prepared the tea, they sat together on the sofa while she valiantly tried to take a few sips. His arm rested on the sofa back behind her, and he held a strand of her hair between his fingers, absently rolling it back and forth whilst he watched her. Frettin’, she thought; I am a sad trial to my poor husband. “It’s the strangest thing, Michael; I have completely lost my appetite.”

He thought about it. “Is there anything that makes you feel better, even if for a little while? A hot shower? Fresh air?”

“I feel best,” she confessed, “when I am lyin’ on my back with your weight atop me.”

His fingers pausing on her hair, he gave her a glance that was openly skeptical. “Is that so?”

“My hand on my heart, Michael. I think it has somethin’ to do with the heat and the pressure.”

They regarded each other for a moment before he said, “All right, but you must eat something first.”

This seemed counterproductive. “I’m to be blackmailed, then?”

“Choose,” he said firmly.

“Toast,” she decided. “I believe the ginger tea is actually helpin’ a bit.”

After she had eaten a half slice of dry toast, they experimented, lying on the tiled floor before the windows so that the heat of the sun was intensified. “Not too heavy,” she cautioned, “I have to be able to breathe.” He adjusted, and it did make her feel better, with the cool tiles to her back and the warm body pressed against her. She even began to feel a bit sleepy, but soon became aware that her husband was not at all sleepy and with a giggle, turned her head to nuzzle his neck as an invitation.

“None of that,” he said sternly. “You shouldn’t burn any more calories.”

“You can’t help yourself,” she teased, moving her hips against his. “It’s a sexual temptress, I am.”

There was a pause. “Perhaps if you lie completely still—”

“Remove your clothes, husband; I shall lie as still as a stone.” She put her hands on his head and pulled his mouth to hers.

Later, while she showered, she
willed
herself to feel better. Two days hence she was to visit her new obstetrician, and she was dreading the ordeal, but perhaps it wouldn’t be all to the bad; she would make a list of questions, including how to survive this miserable morning sickness which seemed—unfairly—to last all day. Closing her eyes, she let the water run over her head and sighed. Faith, how she’d love to put a stop to this foolishness and quit frettin’ her man; he had enough on his mind as it was, what with the whole outfoxing the Home Office on the guns-running thing. At least he was finally discussing the turf wars with her—she’d been anxious about nothing, it seemed.

After she turned off the shower, she stepped out in her towel to find that Acton was leaning against the vanity with his arms crossed, watching her. This was not a surprise; when they were home he was drawn to her, and especially now, when he was worried. Stepping over, she raised up on tiptoe to kiss him, and then, teasing, rubbed her wet head on his shirt, making him flinch away with a smile. “I’m feelin’ much better; Michael. Truly.”

He continued to watch her in the mirror as she began combing out her hair. “I’ve been screening some candidates to take Marta’s place, and I’d like to give one or two a trial.”

“Aye then,” she agreed, rather surprised that he’d found the time—usually when there were multiple connected murders like this he was frenetically busy at all hours. On the other hand, it seemed every time they got a lead, the witness wound up in the morgue. And there was no question that the general mood at the Met was not the exigent one that would have existed had the victims been young schoolgirls; justice should be blind, but no question she would turn a shoulder on those who’d chosen to lie down with dogs.

“If you would, let me know if you see anything amiss in any of the candidates.” He was referring to her intuitive ability; he was intensely private, and with good reason. It was only to be expected that he would be very particular about anyone who would be given access into their lives.

She smiled at him in the mirror. “No one who answers to your mother.”

He gave her a half-smile in response, but had already moved on to the next subject. “I spoke to Caroline, and I asked her not to patronize you to the extent she does.”

With acute dismay, Doyle met his eyes in the mirror, but he continued in all seriousness, “I want to make it clear that I will tolerate no disrespect from anyone. You are my wife.”

“Saints, Michael,” she remonstrated gently, lowering the comb. “Perhaps not the best tack to take, my friend; if Caroline doesn’t know how to get on with the likes of me it’s because we hardly know each other, and the three of you are miles smarter.” She paused for a moment, trying to put her instinctive reaction into words. “She’ll unbristle once she becomes accustomed—and become accustomed she must. She is only being a bit territorial about you and you can hardly blame her; I am quite the shockin’ surprise.”

He looked as though he meant to say something, but thought the better of it.

Thoughtfully, Doyle resumed combing her hair. “And she may be resentin’ that I’ve taken Fiona’s place for the four of you—it’s a new grief, after all. Be patient; she’ll come about. Please say nothin’ more.”

“Right, then.” He stood and kissed the top of her wet head. “And it was kind of you to lose; she doesn’t like being beaten.”

“No; not by me, leastways.” He had twigged her, then—can’t put much past this husband of hers; mental note. She turned to look up at him, fingering the ends of her hair. “No one ever married? Of the four of you, I mean.”

“No. I was the first.”

“Good one.”

“Very good one,” he agreed, and kissed her again.

I
T WAS CLEAR TO
D
OYLE THAT
C
AROLINE MADE AN EFFORT THAT
evening to modify her behavior. When she arrived with her brother, she presented Doyle with a bottle of wine in a very friendly manner and suggested they share it, glancing at Acton to make sure that he observed this show of good grace. Doyle was forced to confess that she didn’t drink alcohol, but Caroline laughed good-naturedly and promised to bring ginger ale the next time.

Once they advanced to the cards portion of the evening, Caroline insisted they play Forty-five, the game Doyle had taught them. She’s to be killing me with kindness, thought Doyle, which is rather sweet and shows how much she values Acton’s good opinion. The game commenced, and if Caroline was operating under duress, the only symptom was that she drank scotch along with the men and the wine went untouched.

Timothy did surgeries once a month at a charity medical clinic, and he related some amusing stories of the unusual conditions he was forced to confront because a large percentage of the patients were recent immigrants from third-world areas. Doyle found it very interesting and asked many questions, wishing she had some skill to offer those less fortunate—she couldn’t very well offer to tell them if they were lying, after all. The clinic was funded by the local Catholic diocese and this led Timothy to ask if Doyle attended a church in the area.

“St. Michael’s,” she replied. They looked at her a bit blankly and she added, “Near Chelsea; not a very large parish, I’m afraid.”

“We attend Holy Trinity,” explained Caroline. “You must join us; it would be closer for you.”

Doyle was not certain what to reply, as it had never even crossed her mind to transfer from her old parish.

“I am taking instruction at St. Michael’s,” interjected Acton smoothly.

“Why, Acton, that is wonderful,” exclaimed Caroline in astonished surprise. “To think that Kathleen has managed such a feat—well,
well
done.”

Doyle blushed with embarrassment; faith, everyone would be much more comfortable if Caroline took her new attitude down a peg or two. Deftly, she changed the subject by asking the other woman about her work.

“We are making
enormous
headway with enzymatic applications for nonregenerative cells,” Caroline enthused as she looked up from her cards. “It is very exciting.”

“That does sound excitin’,” offered Doyle, who hadn’t a clue.

But Caroline only smiled in good-humored acknowledgment as she made a discard. “It’s very dry and dull, unless you’re immersed in it, as I am. And so I’ll say no more, except that I’m to speak at a conference next week, and I haven’t yet been told what I’m supposed to speak about. I hope it is nothing I have to get up to speed on.”

“Out of town?” asked Acton as he took his turn.

She laughed, as though this were a private joke, and said as an aside to Doyle, “He knows that I think civilization ends at the city limits, and I rarely set a foot outside.” Playfully, she tapped Acton’s arm with her cards. “You are not one to speak, Acton—you never go anywhere, either.”

“There are too many people gettin’ themselves murdered in London,” Doyle offered, hoping to avoid a discussion of Acton’s reclusive habits. “He’s in dire need, here.”

“Perhaps we should all take a trip together,” the other woman offered with a friendly smile at Doyle. “I imagine if we put our minds to it, we could all find the time.”

Doing it too brown, thought Doyle, who was well-aware that Caroline had not the smallest intention of going anywhere with the likes of her.

“Have you traveled much, Kathleen?” Timothy gathered up the cards to take his turn as dealer.

“Only the trip from Dublin to London, I’m afraid.” And best not to mention that when she’d lived in Dublin with her mother, they usually walked everywhere because they hadn’t enough money for bus fare.

“We will take you on a tour, then,” Caroline enthused, including Acton in her glance. “The enzymes can mind themselves for a week—and so can the criminals, Acton.”

“If only that were the case,” said Acton mildly as he won the hand.

With a nod of his head, Timothy indicated his sister. “Caroline’s being modest—she’ll be the keynote speaker at the conference; she’s making some huge inroads into paralysis treatment, and she’s to be written up in the Medical Journal.”

“How rewardin’, Caroline,” offered Doyle in all sincerity. “To be helpin’ people as you are.”

Shaking her head slightly, the other woman disclaimed with a smile, “It’s purely selfish—I positively relish the work, and I’m lucky they pay me.”

When she has the attention she craves, she can be gracious, Doyle observed; it’s only when the attention is centered elsewhere that she acts up. I’ll keep it to mind, so that Acton doesn’t feel he must defend me at every turn, which only gets her back up. Her fond gaze rested on her husband for a moment. Knocker, she thought; I’m not so very defenseless. Feeling her gaze upon him, he lifted his head from his cards to meet her eyes. Ah, she thought; he is eager to attempt the cure again.

“May I fetch you something to drink, Kathleen?” asked Caroline with an abundance of good will.

Acton forestalled her, “I’ll do it, Caroline—Kathleen, what would you like?”

“Water—or perhaps iced ginger tea.” She saw Timothy and Caroline exchange a glance; Timothy must have told his sister she was pregnant—ah well, it would be hard for him to keep such news from his sister, and Doyle had the impression she ruled the roost. “There’s the plate of cheese and fruit on the counter also, Michael.” This was courtesy of the blessed concierge; neither Doyle nor Acton were handy in the kitchen, and most of the time they sent out for food; hence the dire need to hire another housekeeper.

“Is Marta off tonight?” asked Caroline as she idly played with the pack of cards. “I wanted to ask her advice about a recipe.”

Acton was in the kitchen, so Doyle was forced to disclose, “I’m afraid Marta no longer works for us.”

The other two stared at her in surprise. “Why—what has happened?” asked Caroline.

“We had a fallin’-out.” Doyle hoped this bald announcement would discourage any interest in the details.

Apparently, this gambit was not successful as Caroline frowned. “Will she return to Trestles?”

“I do not know,” Doyle replied, and offered no more. She could feel that Caroline was shocked and unhappy; but if she believed that the upstart bride had thrown out a devoted retainer, she was welcome to do so. After routing both Acton’s mother and the disapproving housekeeper, Doyle was gaining some confidence, secure in the sure knowledge of her husband’s devotion. The only good opinions I care about are God’s and Acton’s; in that order, she thought. And perhaps the CID’s, if it doesn’t clash with either of the above—her intuition told her that Acton was up to something, after all.

Caroline stepped into the awkward silence, saying briskly, “Then you’ll need some help. Let me lend you our Kitty, or allow me to send over some meals; I do love to cook.” It was apparent she was sorry she had reacted so negatively, and was trying to make up for it.

“Acton’s handlin’ it, I’m not sure what’s to be done,” Doyle confessed, which was not very housewifely of her, and probably only added to Caroline’s ill-concealed dismay.

“I will speak with him, then,” Caroline announced with a martyr’s air, and rose to join Acton in the kitchen.

Doyle was thus left alone with Timothy. There was a pause, and then they both spoke at once: “I want to thank—” said Doyle.

“Let me say—” said Timothy. They both abruptly stopped speaking, and then laughed together. “Ladies first,” offered the doctor.

“I wanted to thank you for all your help,” Doyle told him in all sincerity. “You are a good friend to us.”

The doctor blushed, which endeared him to Doyle, who was a raging blusher, herself. “My pleasure; happy to be of service.” He then offered with a hint of embarrassment, “I only wanted to say that you have made a remarkable change in Acton. For the better,” he added, as though this had not been made clear.

She smiled. “It is my own pleasure, and I am certainly happy to be of service.”

He laughed in appreciation, and then added, “And more changes coming—I was so pleased to hear your good news. We can hardly credit that Acton is to be a father; it is wonderful.”

“It is indeed,” she agreed with some firmness.

They were shortly rejoined by the other two, and the card play resumed. Doyle nursed her ginger tea and began to wish the evening was over so that she and her warm and heavy husband could go to bed. They played a few more hands, then Acton announced he had an early morning and the McGonigals took the hint and made ready to depart. As they were leaving, Caroline asked Doyle if she would be available for lunch sometime.

Since she normally met Acton for lunch whenever he was free, Doyle cadged. “It depends on whether I am in the field, I’m afraid. Perhaps you can send an e-mail on a day you are available, and I can let you know.”

“I’ll do that,” said Caroline. “I would love to share some meals with you—it would do me good to watch my weight.”

Unsure as to how to respond to this, Doyle just smiled. She was slender and fast becoming more so; Caroline was slightly overweight.

After the guests had left, Doyle stood to help Acton carry the glasses to the kitchen. “I’ll do it,” he said. “Why don’t you lie down?”

“Michael, you are makin’ me crazy.” She smiled to take the sting from the words, and put her arms around him. “If I don’t want to help, I will not hesitate to say so.”

He put the glasses on the counter and turned to return the embrace, holding her close. Ah, this was heaven. She stroked his back for a moment, feeling the lean muscle under his shirt and thinking that perhaps the dishes should wait.

He said against her head, “I don’t think this should be a standing event, do you?”

Cautiously, she responded, “I don’t mind, Michael; truly. And Caroline was so much nicer tonight, after her scold.” It had been a false front, but Acton probably already knew this, he was a fair judge of human behavior, himself. “And besides, we have to take the Caroline with the Timothy; we can’t separate the two.”

He was silent, as though unconvinced, and so she added, “And we don’t want everyone to think I’m one of those jealous brides, tryin’ to separate you from your friends.”

“I have no interest in what anyone thinks.”

This was true, and she’d forgotten there was no point in making such an appeal. “Then we’ll play it by ear, my friend; we can always tell her I’m feelin’ down-pin, which would be true ninety percent of the time.”

He bent his head to rest his mouth against the top of her shoulder and rocked her gently. “If I could take this away from you, I would.”

Shame on her, for bringing it up. “Michael, you are frightenin’ me—next you’ll be recitin’ poetry. Snap out of it, man.”

He straightened up to smile down at her. “To bed, then.”

She smiled back. “I am actually a little hungry.” It was a lie, but she had decided she would force herself to eat so that he did not fret himself to death.

He sat and watched her silently whilst she ate a small bowl of her favorite frosty flakes, which sounded the least repulsive of the possibilities, and tried to pretend it was delicious. “How things have changed,” she lamented as she crunched. “In the early days of our marriage—
so
long ago—you would not have allowed me to finish my cereal before carryin’ me off to bed.”

“Eat,” he directed. “Things have definitely changed.”