Murder in Thrall (16 page)

C
HAPTER
22

 

Doyle woke the next morning to find that Acton was seated at the parquetry table, already dressed and watching her. “Good morning.”

He was very content, she could tell. I believe I am rather good at this, for a novice
,
she thought as she stretched. “A fine mornin’.” She pronounced it “foine” to tease him, then sat up and drew the covers around her, as she had nothing on. By his arrested expression, she realized she’d better distract him or they’d be abed again and that may not be such a good idea. “I’ll need to go home to get a change of clothes before I’m back to my wretched desk detail.”

“I brought some clothes from your flat,” he explained in a mild tone, nodding toward the closet.

“Did you? Then I suppose I needn’t.” They regarded each other. “Am I never goin’ home again, Michael?”

“Tomorrow evening, but not before. I want to stir up your routine, just to be safe.”

She nodded. “We’re here again tonight, then?”

“Yes, if that is acceptable.”

Smiling, she ducked her head. “Oh, it’s very acceptable.” There was no question that it was nice to have a bigger bed. Tracing a design on the bedspread with her fingertip, she thought, there is nothin’ for it; time for another discussion. Here goes.

“We probably shouldn’t have sex for a few days.” She could feel herself color up.

“You are ovulating.” It was a statement, not a question. Trust him not to spare her blushes; he probably knew more about it than she did.

“Yes, I think so.” She had slipped the literature from the church vestibule into her bag and had read it carefully at home, thermometer in hand.

He said nothing for a moment and she had no idea what he was thinking. “All right.”

Mother a’ mercy, could it be possible he would not have minded a pregnancy at this juncture? It was the last thing they should be thinking of, for heaven’s sake. Dropping her gaze, she fought the panic that threatened to rear up again.

His matter-of-fact voice cut into her thoughts. “I have some estate business I’ve been neglecting and I must drop by Layton’s; I may go this evening, if I can get away.”

Righting herself with an effort, she nodded. Layton was his man of affairs who had offices in the center of the business district. Acton had stopped by a few weeks ago when they were out in the field and asked if she wanted to come and wait inside while he conducted some business. She had declined, privately thinking that it looked like the sort of place where alarms would go off if the likes of her darkened its doorway. “That’s all right, it’s the monthly reconciliation service at church tonight and I’ll go with Nellie. I’ll wait to have dinner here with you, if you’d like.”

He watched her for a moment, his expression unreadable. “Is that like confession?”

She made a wry mouth. “They call it reconciliation now, hopin’ we won’t realize it’s the same grim thing. They’re very wily that way.”

“May I accompany you?”

Curled in the cocoon of expensive sheets, she hid her surprise. “If you’d like.” Listening to her own equivocal tone, she amended, “Of course you may. It’s at seven.”

“I will meet you there.” Kissing her, he then left for work and she watched him go, wishing she knew what was afoot and subject to a vague uneasiness—the kind that never seemed to bode well. It was clear to her that he was no longer anxious about these cases, even though ostensibly the true killer was still at large and trying to get away with it. Interesting, she thought. And doubly interesting that it’s such a shrouded subject.

Doyle decided she should order breakfast, as she had not had any dinner the night before—instead they had raided the honor bar when they had come up to breathe—and took a look in the closet whilst she awaited its delivery. Acton was a wonder; several outfits she had worn to work on previous occasions were contained therein, complete to the details. She dressed with no real enthusiasm, wishing she were looking forward to fieldwork and bitterly resenting the DCs who were taking her place on this case just when things were getting interesting—stupid Munoz and stupid Williams. She took a last look in the gilt mirror and sighed. Get on with it, Doyle—you’ll survive. And no question everything is ten million times better than it was at this time last week—quit being such a crackin’ baby and trust the man
.

This resolution, however, did not last long because once at work Doyle watched for Munoz to arrive and then shamelessly flattered her for half an hour to glean information about the Leadenhall murders. Munoz, preening with importance, revealed that Forensics had determined that the murders had indeed occurred in the alley and the bodies had not been merely dumped there. The weapons this time were a 9 mm and a .22, respectively—both illegal.

So, the large-caliber gun from the earlier murders was not used, thought Doyle. The killer is indeed spooked and is covering his tracks.

“Holmes’s working theory is the two men drew and fired several times upon each other almost simultaneously,” Munoz continued with a superior air. “The bullets and casings found at the scene are all from the same weapons and indicate erratic targeting.”

“And?” prompted Doyle.

“Then Smythe was hit, but not fatally; when Capper came closer to assess the injury Smythe raised his weapon and fired close-range.”

That may be the killer’s fatal error, thought Doyle; too hard to contain the DNA evidence when the shot was at close range—unless the killer was wearing a bunny suit like the SOCOs did; anything was possible in this strange case. “And Smythe died of his wound?”

“Yes, bled out.”

“Were there silencers on the weapons?”

Munoz’s expression was pitying and she spoke as if to an imbecile. “No, Doyle; there were no silencers on the weapons.”

Doyle bit back a retort because Munoz did not know of the cleaning crew—apparently no one did, except her and Acton. By all accounts, the true working theory should be easy to piece together; the killer lured them there, one at a time, and killed them—he knew that time of death can never be precise within an hour or so. The staging was not perfect, however, because he did not know of the cleaning crew nearby who had heard nothing—no arguments, none of the multiple shots—which put a huge dent in the theory Acton was putting forward. And another thing; the ballistics report should confirm there were silencers used—which in turn wouldn’t make sense given the wild shoot-out theory. Surely the ballistics report was available by now—perhaps the information was being withheld for some reason; she remembered Williams was working ballistics for Acton. And another angle came to mind; she asked Munoz, “Any prints or DNA?”

Munoz tossed her hair. “They’re going over it with a fine-toothed comb, although it seems pretty straightforward. I think they are looking to match one or both of the victims with the earlier murders at the racecourse.”

One murder at the course, corrected Doyle silently. The other was at Giselle’s flat. And I imagine they will find something—fibers maybe, which links one of the dead men to at least one of the earlier scenes. The killer wants to put this to bed and will have planted the evidence. But for reasons that were unclear, Acton was promoting the false theory and—here she paused, much struck—and had taken the fair Doyle and her conclusions-leaping abilities off this case.

She listened to Munoz with only half an ear while she thought over this rather startling conviction. Acton was up to something, then—something under the radar. Perhaps it was some sort of sting operation, hoping to catch the now-complacent killer by pretending the case was closed. Perhaps it was being kept so quiet that he couldn’t even tell her for fear she’d queer the pitch by blurting out the wrong thing to the wrong person—not an unfounded fear, after all, given her track record.

But she doubted it. She knew that man—on one hand she hardly knew him but on a more elemental level she knew him very well indeed—and there was something he was keeping from her, which in itself was alarming, given his condition. She thought of the crime scene in Teddington, when Acton had offered to loan her money even though it was against protocol. He had not been able to resist the urge to come to her rescue, even though she might be embarrassed by the offer, which indeed she had been. When it came to her, he could not help himself. Frowning, she was struck by a tantalizing thought that hovered just out of reach; this was important for some reason.

“Snap out of it, Doyle. What is the word on the tech?”

Doyle blinked. “Oh. I’ll check.”

Munoz jerked her head in frustration. “Sooner rather than later; Holmes wants a report and I’m all over him. I mean it.” She slid Doyle a smug, sloe-eyed look.

Instead of making a suitable retort, Doyle tried to regain her thread of thought—the one that seemed important. She drew a blank and so instead wondered if Acton had consciously chosen her as an object of obsession or if he had been powerless. Imagine, for example, if he had become fixated on Munoz (who was going on and on about something self-important; Doyle had lost interest) and Munoz had turned him down flat or had threatened to go to HR. What would he have done? But such a thing wouldn’t have happened—someone like him would never allow himself to be at the mercy of a girl like Munoz. He’d never allow it
,
she thought slowly. Now, what is it I’m trying to understand, here?

Her phone pinged, and she texted her symbol—she’d forgotten and was a few minutes late. She considered the mobile’s screen, debating whether to ring Nellie to warn her that his lordship was going to join them at church tonight, but decided she’d spare her the foreknowledge. Nellie was a Filipino immigrant and fascinated by the peerage.

Realizing that Munoz had asked her something, she lifted her gaze. “Sorry, Munoz, I was woolgatherin’. What was it?”

“Who is that you were texting?”

Doyle smiled. “My secret lover.”

Munoz laughed aloud and Doyle held on to her temper. It is possible that I will very much enjoy it when Munoz discovers that Acton is mine, she thought, and was surprised by her own spite.

But Munoz apparently was willing to render some aid to the enemy, and arched a graceful brow. “Speaking of such, Williams was asking me things about you.”

“What sort of things?” Doyle wondered if Williams could hack his way around a personal file. He didn’t seem the murdering type.

“Just general asking. We’re going to lunch at the deli. Maybe you should come.”

The deli was just that—a deli located down the street from their building. In the warmer months it was a popular place for lunch. “Done,” said Doyle, thinking to scope out Williams the questions-asker. “Come get me when you go.”

Two hours later, Owens came by to visit, hanging on her cubicle partition as though he owned the place and looking over her shoulder at her screen. Saints
,
thought Doyle, looking up at him. How I miss being in the field
.

“Anything new?”

Doyle reflected that Owens was in the same boat as she was, dyin’ to be out in the thick of it but left to glean information from others more fortunate. Taking pity, she told him what she knew, editing out anything she had heard from Acton and repeating more or less what Munoz had told her. She didn’t mention the cleaning crew or her suspicions about the silencer; she still wasn’t sure about Owens—or any of them, for that matter. With this in mind, she thought she’d do a little listening. “I’m meeting Munoz and Williams for lunch at the deli. Why don’t you come by and you can quiz them to your heart’s content.”

“Thanks, I owe you.” He winked as he left.

Creepy, she thought, turning back to her screen. But it may be he’s creepy because he is an ambitious weasel with a crush on my man and not because he’s a killer
.
She paused and regarded her hands thoughtfully; as part of her campaign to improve her general grooming habits, she was trying to grow her nails. I am remarkably unkind today
,
she realized. And I hope it is not because I look forward to being in church with Acton instead of abed with him, because that, my girl, is unacceptable.

C
HAPTER
23

 

Just after noon, Munoz, with a replenishment of perfume that Doyle could smell from the next cubicle, announced it was time to go downstairs. “Did you find out about the tech report?” Munoz used her best impersonation of an impatient DCI dealing with a dosser.

“Nothing of interest,” Doyle reported. “Forensics IT got past the passwords, but there was very little to glean—they weren’t the types to record their doin’s on their electronics, unfortunately. And the calls to each other were only sporadic.”

“I’ll need to submit the report—forward it to me, please.”

“I’ll get it by this afternoon.” It’s a very fine lesson in humility I’m to be having, she thought, resisting the urge to grind her teeth. In all things, give thanks.

“Samuels is joining us,” Munoz revealed as they emerged from the lift and headed out the main entrance. At Doyle’s blank look, she explained, “He’s from Drake’s unit.” Munoz then gave Doyle a critical glance. “It wouldn’t kill you to try to flirt with the men a little, you know—or if you wore a little makeup once in a while. If you made the least attempt to be more alluring, you’d have more of a social life and you wouldn’t have to go to those horrible singles mixers.”

“It wasn’t a singles mixer and I didn’t wind up goin’ anyway,” Doyle replied hotly. Ironic that she had skipped the seminar and the compatibility rubric and had proceeded directly to the pleasures of the flesh—saved a lot of time and trouble, it did.

They walked out of the building and down the broad sidewalk of Victoria Street to the deli, which was crowded with police officers, as it was a very fine day. Williams was already holding a table with Samuels, whom he introduced to Doyle. She and Munoz then went to order sandwiches and returned to join the men. They ate and talked and no one minded when Owens walked by and asked if he could join them.

There was a great deal of good-natured discussion about their caseloads, and Munoz was in her element, flirting with everyone—even Owens. Save your powder, Munoz
,
thought Doyle. He doesn’t play for your team.

Williams seemed a bit more subdued than usual; he certainly didn’t appear to be as interested as Munoz had intimated. She must have been exaggerating, which, all in all, was just as well; it was more likely Munoz just wanted a handmaiden to accompany her while she held court. Not for the first time, Doyle considered the general reaction from the DC corps when her relationship with Acton was revealed, and she almost shuddered at the thought. To take her mind off it, she turned to Samuels, who seemed rather shy but could be drawn out on the all-engrossing subject of homicides.

He hunched his shoulders in chagrin. “I haven’t had a chance to work a murder yet. I’m jealous of the rest of you—you’re all so lucky.”

“It’s Doyle who broke the ice.” Williams saluted her with his glass of iced tea. “Holmes found her useful and now he’s willing to assign the occasional DC to a homicide.”

Doyle bowed her head in mock humility at the homage, all the while thinking that she may not have broken the ice so much as been plunged headlong in a fast-moving torrent and the devil take the hindmost.

“Nothing short of miraculous,” agreed Samuels, who joined in the toast.

Munoz, unhappy with the shift in focus of attention, raised her own glass. “And here’s hoping she’ll be out of Holmes’s doghouse sooner rather than later.”

Doyle blushed and the others looked a little embarrassed. “Happens to the best of us,” Williams assured her. “We can’t forget our humanity, after all.”

I would very much like to forget both humanity and humility and strangle DC Munoz, thought Doyle, grinding her teeth. And Williams, bless him, always seems to step in to my rescue—very unlikely he’s murdering people left and right.

“What’s happened with Holmes?” asked Samuels, looking between them. “Or is it a sore subject?”

Doyle refused to answer because she couldn’t tell the truth or they’d all fall out of their respective chairs. Munoz, realizing that she had not shown to advantage, added hastily, “Nothing that won’t blow over—Holmes is a little tough on her, is all.”

Doyle intercepted a quick look from Williams that she couldn’t interpret but that seemed to indicate a difference of opinion. She demurred in mock humility, “Whist, he’s been very fair—think on it, I’d never taste the joys of Class A cold cases, else.”

“He is a hard taskmaster,” added Owens, who was apparently yet another champion in Doyle’s defense. “He’s keeping me very busy with the bloodstains materials.”

Doyle and the others looked at him in surprise. “Did Acton give you a project, then, Owens?” Faith, what had gotten into the man? Owens must be over the moon.

Pleased to have something to tell them, the trainee explained, “Holmes is giving a lecture at the Academy on bloodstains in two weeks. He remembered I had an interest and has me editing his materials and assembling photographs and diagrams from his cases. I’m working in the adjunct next to his office.”

Why is it
,
thought Doyle with profound irritation, everyone seems to be working with Acton except me? She then recalled that he did his best work at night and comforted herself with this thought.

Her mobile vibrated, and she pulled it out to read the text.

”Where RU?”

She texted, ”Deli.”

Immediately, another one came. “Who?”

Feeling a little foolish, she typed abbreviated names as quickly as she was able, holding the mobile under the table.

Munoz teased her, “Who is it this time?”

“My parole officer,” Doyle replied absently. “Wants a word with me, he does.”

There was general laughter and then Munoz added archly for the benefit of the unattached males at the table, “Do you have a secret boyfriend, Doyle?”

Doyle replied mildly, “Not at present, no.”

As she could see that Munoz was winding up to make another smart remark, Doyle forestalled her. “Anythin’ interestin’ come up with respect to the Leadenhall murders?”

Munoz was happy to be the center of attention again. “I heard a rumor that there were fibers on one of the men from the murdered girl’s sweater, which pretty well slams the door. There’s no official report yet. It’s just a rumor.”

Ah, thought Doyle—just as expected. “Are you helping with the ballistics report, Williams? Anything unusual?”

Instead of answering directly, Williams deftly turned the subject. “Where do all the illegal guns come from, anyway? Everyone has one—it’s like the bloody Wild West out there.”

Doyle carefully pulled her left leg further under the table. “Too much money to be made,” agreed Samuels. “The runners always find a way.”

Time to change the subject, thought Doyle. “Aren’t you working on contraband, Samuels?”

“I am. It’s like herding cats; you have no way of measuring your progress. Very frustrating.”

Interestingly enough, this last was untrue. I wonder what that is about? Doyle thought, brought up short; perhaps I am losing my touch
.

“Put in for a transfer,” suggested Williams.

“Yes, come join me in the archives,” teased Doyle.

“I’ll stick it out for the time being; I don’t want them to think I’m a complainer.” He glanced up the street and announced, “Look, its Holmes.”

They all turned to see Acton’s tall figure striding along the sidewalk, heading back to the Met. Munoz called out to him and he paused, spotted her, and then approached their table.

Saints
,
thought Doyle, hiding her surprise. Does he want me away from here? She waited to see if he would give her a cue as they all stood up and greeted him, Munoz looking like the cat at the cream pot.

“We were discussing the proliferation of illegal weapons,” said Williams, his tone deferential.

Polishing the apple, thought Doyle. Good one.

“A major problem,” Acton agreed. “The more restraints that are attempted, the more the black market flourishes.” Doyle was grateful he made no attempt to meet her eye.

“Is the Leadenhall case near a resolution?” asked Munoz, who decided she had ceded the floor long enough.

“I believe so.”

“I have the final ballistics report for you,” offered Williams, which earned him a sharp look from Doyle.

“Come, then.” To the rest, he looked at his watch and said, “Who is saving the city?”

They immediately disassembled.

Doyle was forced to listen to Munoz chortle as they retreated back to their basement. “Did you see him come over when I called? He is so tall—and you know what they say about men who are tall.”

“Munoz,” warned Doyle, and then was not sure what it was she wanted to say.

“I know, I know—I’m not his type. I’m just having fun.” Munoz lowered her voice. “There’s a rumor that he’s very friendly with that woman from the morgue.”

Doyle blinked. “Fiona?”

“Yes, but it’s not clear whether it’s anything other than friendship—they went to school together or something.”

Fiona, thought Doyle. She remembered the inter-team conference when Fiona was eating her doughnut and expertly fielding Acton’s questions at the same time—they did have an easy camaraderie. She tried to picture Fiona and Acton together and decided she’d rather not. One thing was clear; he didn’t have a preference when it came to women—Doyle was very slender; her mother had always referred to her fondly as a bundle o’ bones. Well then, mystery solved. Fiona seemed like a nice, kind person. She glanced sideways at Munoz. It could have been much worse.