Murder in Thrall (18 page)

C
HAPTER
26

 

 

The next morning Doyle awoke to find Acton dressed and leaning over her, looking grim.

“What has happened?” She was instantly alert.

“I have to go secure the lab and the morgue.” His words were clipped. “Stay at your desk until you hear from me. Don’t go off.”

“Yes, sir,” she said out of habit.

“I’ve left a passkey and the security code for my flat. You will stay there tonight, even if I am unavailable.” He paused. “I’m afraid that’s an order.”

“I will,” she said simply.

“Don’t forget to check in with me.”

“I won’t.” And he was gone.

Saints and angels, she thought, rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands—I wonder what’s happened. She scrambled into her clothes and wondered for a moment whether she was supposed to pack her things and check out of the hotel. No, she thought, I’m to follow instructions.

Acton’s mood had transferred to her. As she left the hotel, she was very vigilant in making her way to work amidst the other commuters, uncomfortable as she always was in crowded quarters. Doggedly blocking out the cross-currents of emotion, she tried to concentrate on this latest crisis; something had gone wrong in Acton’s plan to put this case to bed and he didn’t want to tell her what it was. He must not think she was in danger, though, or he’d lock her in a basement somewhere and never let her out. Considering the possibilities, she carefully moved away from the unhappy gentleman who stood to her right and emanated a bleak misery.

Last night Acton had been full of suppressed excitement, waiting for the call from Forensics—a call that was coming after hours from a woman at the morgue who was loyal to him, a call that would confirm something so that he could go forth and dispose of the killer. It was pure speculation on her part, but it was based upon her trusty instincts, which rarely let her down, and Acton’s implied confession. Doyle chewed her thumbnail and wondered for a brief moment what she would do if she knew without a doubt that Acton was manipulating evidence to suit his own ends. Nothing, she decided, feeling nearly as bleak as the unhappy gentleman—she was yet another loyal woman. Heaven help her, it was that personal versus professional thing and it did appear that the personal was reigning triumphant. Instead, perhaps she should worry about saving him from himself; although how to do it was another kettle o’ fish—she couldn’t very well buttonhole Fiona or Williams and demand to know what was going on. Wait and see, she decided. And hope for the best, although hoping for the best never seemed to serve her very well.

Once she arrived at headquarters, it did not take long to discover what had happened. Munoz couldn’t even wait for Doyle to put her rucksack down before she descended upon her. “Fiona’s been murdered.” She sounded a little too excited. “Remember? We were just talking about her.”

“Mother of God,” whispered Doyle. “Michael.”

“What?” said Munoz.

“What’s happened, Munoz? Quickly.”

“They found her by her car early this morning in the parking garage—they think it happened last night as she left. Her purse and briefcase were taken.”

“Shot?”

“I think so. They are reviewing the surveillance tape.”

But it won’t show anything, thought Doyle as she leaned against the cubicle partition, utterly dismayed. This one was more difficult for the killer because security personnel monitored the cameras round the clock as an antiterrorism measure; he must have hacked in a false image—he was good at that type of thing. It was the same killer, of course; Munoz didn’t know it, but then she hadn’t spent the evening with Acton, who had been expecting a confirmation from Forensics—from Fiona—that never came. Pulling out her mobile, she debated what to text, feeling ashamed of her silly jealousy and aching for him. She decided to text her symbol, only repeated multiple times across the screen.

Habib came to join them, his manner brisk. “Anyone using the parking facilities will be escorted by security until further notice.” He made it clear that if Munoz required any heroics to protect her, he was at her disposal. Munoz thanked him in her best imitation of a helpless maiden, but Doyle was not taken in; Munoz had the best hand-to-hand combat scores in their class after Williams.

Doyle noted that Habib exhibited the same concealed excitement as Munoz—they couldn’t be blamed; it was only human nature. They didn’t have a personal stake in Fiona’s death, and it was big news. Acton texted her with his symbol.

“Is there any information?” Habib asked as he watched her take the message.

“Not that I am aware, sir.” Best be careful; she did not know what she was supposed to know. It was interesting that Habib assumed the message was from Acton, that he was aware Acton would text her even in the midst of the crisis.

“Please continue with your assignments, then. I will inform you as news comes in.”

“Perhaps I can help process the scene, sir,” suggested Munoz at her most beguiling.

He was reluctant to disappoint her. “I believe Williams has been recruited.”

Doyle could swear she heard Munoz grinding her teeth as she retreated into her own cubicle to think about what was best to do. Williams was on the scene, and Williams—with his mysterious ballistics report—apparently served as another loyal stalwart to the chief inspector. It was a surprise, truly; he seemed so straight-arrow and by-the-book.

“Doyle,” whispered Munoz, “come with me.”

“We can’t,” Doyle replied at the same decibel level.

Munoz’s head appeared over the partition, glancing down the hallway to ensure she was not observed. “I want to find out what’s going on, and if I go alone, Habib will write me up.”

Habib would no more write Munoz up than he would fly to the moon, and Doyle imagined the girl was well-aware of this little fact. “That won’t wash; what’s the real reason?”

Munoz’s beautiful mouth assumed a mulish pout. “Williams will tell you more than he will tell me.”

Doyle couldn’t resist. “That’s because I am so much more attractive than you, Munoz—you should try wearin’ less makeup.”

She waited for the explosion, but the idea was so preposterous that Munoz did not take offense. “Good one,” she said, imitating Doyle’s accent. “Now come with me.”

Doyle shook her head. “Sorry—I truly can’t go; I am under strict orders from Acton.”

Munoz tossed her head in frustration then disappeared, only to reappear in Doyle’s entryway, keeping a weather eye out for Habib. “Text Williams, then; find out what’s going on.”

This seemed a harmless request, although Doyle knew a moment’s qualm that Williams would divulge to Acton that she was asking. Not that it was a sin, but she imagined Acton wouldn’t want her talking with Williams and hence checking facts before Acton had a chance to manipulate the flippin’ evidence. “Anything?” she typed.

Williams’s reply came promptly. “Not good. Talk later.”

Showing Munoz the screen, the two stood silently for a moment. “I hate Williams.”

“Whist, Munoz; he does fine work.” Best not to mention the whole falsifying evidence theory.

Her dark eyes flashing, the other girl insisted, “I don’t get any homicides and my work is just as fine.”

“You worked the Leadenhall murders,” Doyle reminded her.

“Only because you were hung over,” Munoz shot back, refusing to be placated.

The other’s temper was such that for once Doyle didn’t escalate the argument, instead saying mildly, “I don’t drink, Izzy; have done.”

“Williams is like a brick wall.”

Ah—here was the nub, apparently. Doyle tried to tease her out of the sulks. “Never say your fatal charm hasn’t enslaved him.”

“It’s early days—he’ll come around,” Munoz retorted with some fire.

“That’s the spirit; take no prisoners.”

“They’d better not promote him before me.” Apparently Munoz was equal parts enthralled and threatened.

Doyle did not voice her own opinion, which was if Williams was hip-deep in Acton’s doings, he would be promoted forthwith. But before she had a chance to fashion a reply, Munoz ducked out because Habib was approaching with rapid steps. Their supervisor explained there was to be a general meeting and he would announce the details shortly. Because he lingered next door to discuss Munoz’s caseload, it allowed Doyle to get back to her laptop, which she regarded with a knit brow and a heart full of disquiet. The best thing I can do, she decided, is to follow instructions and not cause Acton any more worry. With this in mind she began to sort the cold cases by priority, which was busy work and did not require concentration.

She culled the ones with the best-preserved evidence to consider first; the science was literally improving every month—a case that had stalled two years ago because the only evidence was a partial smeared palm print was now solvable. It was only a matter of queuing up for the proper enhancements and then processing a comparison to the database, which was also expanding exponentially. The scientific strides made it a lot harder for the criminals to escape justice, which only made the present murders all the more frustrating; this killer knew his forensics and was behaving accordingly.

Doyle texted Acton every hour exactly on the hour. Maybe I can develop my own OCD, she thought; we could relate better if I developed a neurosis. This seemed unlikely; she was very easily distracted, which came with the territory.

When it came time for lunch, Doyle asked Munoz if she would bring back a sandwich from the canteen when she went up. “Chained to my desk,” she explained when Munoz looked very put-upon.

After Munoz returned with the sandwich, she lingered to complain. “All the fieldwork is on hold—the brass are all working on Fiona’s case.”

“Did you hear anythin’?” Doyle wished she could ask after Acton.

“I heard it was a clean scene and looks like robbery.” She paused. “It could have been any of us.”

No, thought Doyle; it was Fiona for a reason, and Acton knows what that reason is. She assured her colleague, “If it was you, Munoz, I wouldn’t rest until I’d collared ’im and put ’im in the nick.”

Munoz was unmoved. “I appreciate that, Doyle. You still owe me for the sandwich.”

Habib swung by to tell them there was to be a meeting with all hands in the main conference room at two o’clock to discuss the latest developments.

Good, thought Doyle, a chance to see Acton—to see how he was faring; she longed to comfort him. Her fit of the dreads when she had watched him shaving now seemed like the reaction of a silly girl who was in no way related to her present self. Acton was right; it didn’t matter what anyone else thought. They were well-matched, and what the world may think didn’t matter a pin, even his fearsome mother.

At the appointed time, Doyle filed into the main conference room with her team. It was crowded with personnel and the mood was somber as befitted the occasion, which would make for a very uncomfortable hour for her. Acton, Drake, one of the superintendents, and the detective chief superintendent were seated at the front table, and Acton’s eyes met hers across the room; even from that distance it made the adrenaline jump in her veins.

The DCS stood when they were all assembled and made a very heartfelt speech about the terrible loss to the CID family. He told them that all available leads were being pursued and that changes in security measures would be instituted immediately. Funeral arrangements were to be arranged by the decedent’s family and they would all be informed of the details.

Doyle couldn’t keep her eyes from Acton, who listened with a grave expression. He looked weary, poor man. Samuels was there but she didn’t see Williams. She remembered her theory that her personal file hacker was an inside person and wondered if the killer was present in the room—this killer who made no sense.

Maddening that Acton wouldn’t tell her what he was about. Whatever it was, it wasn’t according to protocol and had a great deal to do with the fact that the unclaimed man in the morgue was actually her long-lost criminal father—that, along with the danger that a good barrister might convince twelve fine people that the presumption of innocence was somehow involved as opposed to Acton’s own notion of justice. Religious instruction was coming not a moment too soon.

As she listened to the DCS make his closing remarks, she considered her plans for the rest of the day. Acton had said he may not be home this evening; she hoped he could snatch some rest. She longed to stay here with him and help, but she would follow instructions and not cause him worry—therefore, she would retreat to his flat to abide in all patience. The only problem being she didn’t know where he lived.

C
HAPTER
27

 

At the conclusion of the meeting, some left to return to work and some gravitated into small groups to deplore the murder in low voices. Trying to appear unobtrusive, Doyle worked her way over to the gathering that surrounded the DCS, Acton, and Drake. They were in conversation with another man whom Doyle recognized as the head of Forensics, although she could not recall his name. Lingering on the fringes, she waited along with several others for an opportunity to make a comment or ask a question. In grave tones, the four men were discussing something having to do with the lab, and Doyle listened in to the conversation already in progress and tried not to feel self-conscious. Hopefully Acton would realize she needed to speak to him privately and would break away for a moment.

“No,” the head of Forensics said with emphasis. “I tested it immediately; there was no breach.”

Doyle was so startled that she was frozen for a moment. Then she brushed her hair off her forehead. After waiting a few seconds she glanced at Acton, who was watching her. Meeting his eyes, she then looked at the floor.

“And nothing was out of place?” asked Acton.

“Nothing,” said the nameless man firmly. “No sign of tampering.”

Doyle brushed her hair back.

“There is nothing to indicate that Fiona’s work was a factor in her death,” Drake noted, observing Acton’s intense interest with a doubtful expression. “It appears to have been a simple robbery.”

But Acton would not concede and continued to scrutinize the other man, who was not enjoying the experience. Nervous, thought Doyle, despite his bravado.

Watching Acton’s reaction, the DCS commented, “It does seem a strange place for a random crime—there was no easy exit for the shooter where she was shot.”

“There was no record in her log of anything unusual,” Drake noted. “I had DC Williams check it out immediately.”

Wretched Williams, Doyle thought. On the fast track to detective sergeant, he was; Munoz will have an apoplexy.

There was a pause while the men considered the issue, and Doyle awaited her next cue. In due course, it came; Acton asked the head of Forensics, “Did you check the lab for unknown prints?”

“Of course.” The other man sounded as though he was annoyed by the persistent questioning but was aware that he shouldn’t cross a DCI. Doyle brushed her hair off her forehead and tried not to think about how simple it would be for the head of Forensics to murder people and then manipulate the evidence; she kept her gaze fixed on the floor for fear she would gape.

Acton turned to the DCS. “I would like to convene in my office, if you can spare a few moments.”

“Certainly.” The DCS gave Acton a sharp glance.

He is no fool, thought Doyle, and knows it is no casual request.

Acton included Drake and the Forensics head. “Come join us, if you would.”

The men began to leave and the others who were hovering in the vicinity gave way, recognizing that no questions would be answered at this time. Acton turned to Doyle. “Did you need something, Constable?”

Still shell-shocked by the implications arising from the previous conversation, it took a moment for Doyle to remember why she was there. “Only that address, sir—it can wait.” He nodded and left with the others.

Trying with little success to control her acute horror, Doyle retreated back to her basement cubicle. Was this it? Was it this simple? Needful of more information, she went, for once, to seek out her neighbor. “Munoz, who is the head of Forensics?”

Munoz was typing up the final report of her activities on the Leadenhall murders and said without stopping, “Prickett. He’s a creep.”

“Meanin’ what?”

“Put me to the touch. No thanks.”

This seemed unhelpful. “Know anythin’ else about him?”

“No. You interested?”

“Everythin’s not always about sex, Munoz,” Doyle said, affronted.

“Usually, it is.”

Doyle returned to her desk and settled into her chair, willing her mobile to ping. It did not. What was happening in Acton’s office? It was truly a wretched shame she was consigned to her desk and had promised Acton she would stay. Perhaps this was the break they needed; Prickett was their man and it was all over. No more hotel, no more trips to a public phone with a spooked chief inspector. She could go back into the field and wrest her laurels away from Williams. She could make flippant remarks and earn disapproving looks. She could spend her lunchtime with Acton instead of Munoz. Please, please, please. The reflection in her laptop screen stared back at her. Not to mention, she amended, that there would be no more corpses piling up, which was, after all, the greater good. But oh, it would be nice to be back to normal—although she wasn’t certain what normal was, as yet—it certainly seemed to involve a lot of sex. With an effort, she halted this line of thought—she shouldn’t be thinking about sex, not at such a moment with the cases in crisis and poor Fiona lying in her own morgue. Reminded, she offered up a sincere prayer for the repose of Fiona’s soul. I hope it happened quickly and she didn’t know it was coming—there must be nothing worse than facing the man who has killed so many, knowing that you were next.

Habib wandered by to look over Munoz’s shoulder whilst she ignored him and continued with her report. Unable to contain herself, Doyle accosted him as he stepped into the hallway. “I have never met Prickett, the head of Forensics. Do you know much about him, sir?”

Habib’s dark eyes betrayed a hint of incredulity. “You are interested in Forensics, Constable Doyle?” Doyle’s deficiency in the sciences was not a secret.

“She’s sweet on him,” threw in Munoz through the partition.

Doyle ignored her. “I was wonderin’ about him, with Fiona’s loss and all—he’ll be understaffed.”

Habib regarded her with a hint of disapproval. “I would not advise you to consider him as a potential husband.”

Munoz snorted inelegantly.

Controlling herself only with an effort, Doyle assured him, “No—no; I am not interested in him as a husband, I am just curious.” Why is it, she thought crossly, that everyone thinks I’m in need of advice?

“I believe he does excellent work.” The praise was tepid; Habib was not going to gossip.

“But not a good man, perhaps?” Doyle had no such qualms.

Habib thought about it and managed to come up with a positive accolade. “I believe he follows Man U.” Habib was a huge fan of the football team, which was surprising in and of itself.

Munoz’s head appeared over the partition. “Does he? I’m a Chelsea girl, myself.” The two then entered into a spirited comparison of the two teams while Doyle retreated back to her desk with the certain knowledge that she would learn no more while the merits of various midfielders and the shortcomings of various coaches were being dissected.

Two hours passed. Doyle was unable to concentrate and checked her mobile every few minutes even though there had been no ping. Acton hadn’t texted her since the meeting, even though he must know she was in a fever, and on reflection, this seemed an ominous sign. Laying her mobile on the desk beside her, she regarded it, wondering whether she should try to give him a ring even as she knew she should not; he was well-aware she was dyin’ here. She continued to text her symbol on the hour.

On top of everything else, she was not unaware that Acton was himself in danger; he was in possession of whatever information it was that had made him triumphant at church last night and that had gotten poor Fiona murdered. And this strange silence did not bode well. Her fingers stilled on the keyboard. Keep your head, my girl, she thought—you’ll do no good by panicking; Acton is well
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able to take care of himself. She debated sending him a text other than her symbol but decided against it. If he was not contacting her, he must have good reason, given his need for it.

Munoz was done with her report and could be heard packing up next door. “I’ll go home early, this murder has me nervous.” She carefully reapplied her lipstick. “I wonder who is doing the escorts?”

“Not Williams—he’s helpin’ on the case.” This was unkind, and a measure of Doyle’s own agitation.

“Naturally.” Munoz eyed her. “What did you think of Samuels?”

Doyle knit her brow. “I don’t know what I think of Samuels.” It was the truth; he was very hard to read.

Munoz shut her lipstick case with a snap. “You are hopeless, Doyle. I wash my hands of you.”

Doyle shot her a sidelong glance. “Perhaps I’m not needin’ a man just now.”

“You are forgetting that everything is always about sex. Write it down.” Munoz hoisted her rucksack. “Are you coming?”

“I’ve a bit more to do.”

“Suit yourself. Try not to get murdered.”

“You’re chokin’ me up, Munoz.”

Her mobile having remained silent, Doyle was not very surprised when the usual messenger appeared with a latte even though it was nearly five o’clock. “Thanks,” she said, wondering what was afoot. The man handed her another plain envelope and left.

The note was in Acton’s distinctive handwriting and said: Meet at the place we met this morning. Do not text or phone. Leave your mobile at your desk. Do not turn it off.

Re-reading it several times over, she could hardly believe what it portended and then closed her eyes, bitterly disappointed. Prickett must not be their man—unless they didn’t have enough to hold him and Acton was worried about his reaction. Ah well, she would soon know; it was pointless to speculate. She folded the envelope and put it in her pocket; trouble, then. If he didn’t want her to text or phone, he must believe that someone was monitoring their communications—the killer, presumably. The murdered trainer had been worried that his mobile was being monitored, which was why Giselle had sent Capper to him, despite Capper’s ban. Thinking of the texted symbol she had sent to Acton all day long, she bit her nail, uneasy. On the other hand, it may simply be Acton being cautious—no question the killer had outmaneuvered him when Fiona was killed, and Acton was not one who was easily outmaneuvered.

After waiting a few minutes, she began packing up as unobtrusively as possible, sliding her mobile into the top drawer. She left without telling anyone she was leaving and walked past the usual St. James’s Park station, instead walking briskly to the next one, Victoria. She passed through that busy station, down a platform, and then exited from the other side without taking a train. Walking on to the next station, she paid close attention to those around her—no one was shadowing her; she was certain. With some relief, she took the tube to the Kensington stop and as she emerged on the pavement, she carefully swept her gaze across the area, looking for anyone familiar or showing an unusual interest in her. She knew their hotel room faced this direction, and so she looked up and smiled—it went without saying that he’d be watching her from the window.