Murder in Thrall (22 page)

C
HAPTER
34

 

Doyle held the passkey and the security code to Acton’s flat in her hand and drew a deep breath; it was one of those turning points one experienced in living one’s life, and it seemed she had experienced more than her share this past week. For the second time this day, she stood across the street from an intimidating building, working up her nerve. This time, at least, she was fortified by the sure knowledge that Acton was within, or would soon be. The building was a lofty and prestigious edifice in the High Street Kensington area, the small and understated brass letters on the granite entry proclaiming O
AKHAM
M
OUNT
M
ANSIONS.
Knocker, she thought. This is your home now
,
yours and Acton’s—try not to feel as though you’ve gone through the looking
-
glass.

A security guard and a concierge were stationed in the elegant lobby. Both looked up at her entrance and smiled in a friendly fashion. The concierge asked, “May I help you?”

Doyle debated. She could attempt to present her
bona fides
, but she doubted these people were as yet aware Acton had tied the knot, and she didn’t want to perform another morality play by presenting her wedding ring. Instead, she took the easy way and showed her warrant card. “I am here to see the chief inspector. I have a passkey.”

If they thought an after-hours visit by a young woman was in any way unusual, they were too well-trained to betray it. After scrutinizing her ID, the security guard nodded and made a note in his log. “It’s the penthouse,” the concierge volunteered.

Naturally, she thought as she followed his gesture toward the lift. Nothing less would answer; there’s probably a golden door, too. She remembered Grantham Street and Acton’s assurance that marriage to him would not change her life much and tried not to trip over the irony that was thick on the ground.

Once in the lift, she inserted the passkey and typed in the security code. The doors opened with a hushed sound onto a hallway paneled with expensive wood and lit by sconces, the carpeting luxurious underfoot. Out of habit, she noted the discreetly positioned security cameras recording her progress.

Once at Acton’s door, she felt her natural shyness rise to the fore and knocked softly rather than bang her way in. She waited a moment, but there was no answer—he was not yet here, then. Foolish to hesitate; she had every right to enter and make herself comfortable—in fact, it may be better to have a look around before he arrived, to become accustomed.

Inserting the card key, she entered the flat. Her first impression was that the place was very spacious—it was essentially one huge undivided unit that went from kitchen on the left, to living area, to an offset master bedroom to her far right, which was elevated by a few steps. Several closed doors lined the wall away from the windows—they must lead to utility rooms or spare bedrooms. The furnishings were few and had simple, modern lines; nothing was out of place and everything looked expensive. The man’s a neat freak, thought Doyle—not exactly Holmesian. The only illumination came from a series of small recessed lights in the kitchen area and a hallway light. The aspect that drew her attention, however, was the view from the windows directly across from her. She walked over and stared out. “Saints,” she breathed aloud. Three huge picture windows that stretched from ceiling to floor overlooked the street below. With the traffic lights, the park and the illuminated city in the background, the view was breathtaking.

She then realized she was not alone. To her left, in the kitchen, someone moved. She turned her head and saw Owens.

No, she thought. No, no, no, no.

After a small pause she said, “Hallo, Owens; have you been summoned also?” She was surprised she managed the words.

“No. Step back, please.” He leveled a .45-caliber weapon at her.

“Owens.” She feigned astonishment and dismay. “What’s afoot, my friend?”

“Come away from the windows,” he commanded, all business.

She obeyed, willing herself to function and unable, at the moment, to even remember a suitable prayer.

“I’m really sorry, Doyle. I liked you.” He meant it, too. Small consolation since he referred to her in the past tense.

She stared at him for a paralyzed moment and thought, merciful God, help me; if Acton finds me with my face blown away, he will go stark, raving mad. Do what you do best, Doyle. Talk. She asked with a hint of awe, “So it is you who killed Fiona?”

Her assailant was remarkably at ease. “Yes. She found a hair and told Acton. I couldn’t take the chance he would match it.”

“Is your DNA in the database?” She allowed her tone to be skeptical.

“Not anymore.” He smiled his thin little smile.

He doesn’t know you are armed, she thought. You have an advantage. Do not panic.

“Are you goin’ to kill Acton, then?”

His brows lifted in genuine surprise. “Of course not. Why would I want to kill Acton?”

With due deference, Doyle pointed out, “You are here, lyin’ in wait.”

“Not for him—for you.” He drew down his mouth, a little exasperated that she was so dense. “Acton is not going to come here—I was careless; he figured out someone had been in the security system.” The man’s face suddenly portrayed a rapt expression, different than the calm façade he had originally presented. “He is really, really good.”

“Apparently not as good as you.” You were supposed to flatter the taker of hostages; this seemed a comparable situation.

But it was the wrong tack and she could see he was thinking she was dense again. “You must be joking—he is a
bona fide
genius.”

Swallowing, Doyle noted the trace of an accent, but she was not very good at accents since everyone who was not Irish had a very strange one—but it didn’t seem Russian to her, and besides, the situation was beginning to take an unexpected shape. On instinct, she went with it. “He thinks you are very sharp—he speaks of it often.”

“What does he say?” The rapt expression returned, the pale eyes gleaming.

This was tricky in that she wasn’t certain what would best please. “That you are very, very, smart.” She watched the tepid reaction and amended, “Brilliant, even.”

He straightened his posture and hardened his features, keeping the barrel of the gun leveled upon her. “Then you have to go.”

Her mouth dry, she shook her head in bewilderment. “And why is that? It seems unkind; I stand your friend, Owens.”

Making a small movement with the weapon, his face softened. “It’s not your fault—but I didn’t realize how much of an obstacle you were. It’s a shame, but there it is.”

He was very calm, speaking of her anticipated death. I need to sit down, she thought, so as to have a chance to draw as well as ensure my knees won’t give out. “We are friends; perhaps we can work out our differences—shall we sit down?” He hesitated and she added with a smile, “You see, I am hopin’ this is going to be like those mystery stories where you will boast of your exploits so long that I will be rescued.”

He smiled, genuinely amused. “I’m afraid it’s going to be more like Patricia Highsmith.”

“Oh,” she replied, not at all clear on the allusion. Nevertheless, with false confidence she moved over to sit on the leather sofa and he stood across from her, the gun tracking her movements. Trying to sound conciliatory, she carefully crossed her right leg over her left. “Now, tell me what I have done to offend you.”

“Nothing—you are too nice, just as I told you. I’ve never had to kill someone I liked before—it is a lot harder.” He appeared willing to delay the inevitable in an attempt to explain the situation to her—a respite that she supposed would not have happened had she not gone out of her way to be kind. Hopefully it would give her enough time to show just how unkind she could be.

“I thought when I killed your father you would go on leave. I wish you had; that would have been better than this. I just needed you to stop working with Acton.”

She knit her brow, assimilating this. “You killed my father so that I would go on leave.”

“That, and to show Acton what I could do—to make him notice me.”

Mother of God, she thought in stunned disbelief,
that’s
what this is all about; those fatal
beaux yeux
—only in this case, fatal for me. “You are interested in Acton, then?”

“Oh yes.” There it was again, the smallest trace of an accent. “No one else comes close.”

Amen to that, thought Doyle; and if it’s the last thing I do, I’m not going to let you get your filthy mitts on him. With a renewed sense of focus, she rubbed her left leg with her left hand and admitted, “I didn’t know it was my father at the time—otherwise it was a good plan.”

With a gesture of amused frustration, he tilted his head back. “I know, I know—I couldn’t
believe
you didn’t recognize him. And after all the trouble of looking him up, too. Although it did shake you—Acton was not happy you were upset.”

“As well I remember.” The first time Acton had kissed her. Don’t think about that, she ordered herself immediately. Don’t lose your concentration; now you know what makes him tick and you are making progress, here. Unbidden, a vision of the cyber-stalker at the internet café came to mind. Don’t think of her, either, she warned. Stay cool; concentrate. She laced her fingers around her right knee and turned her right hip toward him, obscuring as much as possible her left lower leg—she would get only one opportunity, but he was watching her steadily. She would have to distract him, even if it was just for a moment; otherwise she had no chance.

“How many people have you killed, then?” She tried to sound genuinely interested, as though they were discussing gardening, or coin collecting.

“You would be surprised.” The pale eyes narrowed.

“But none as kind as me.” She smiled, trying to convince him to re-think it.

“No.” He smiled in return.

So, he didn’t want to boast of his exploits. Perhaps a little gentle prodding would answer. “You didn’t like Giselle?”

He said a vile epithet, and she flinched. “Is that really necessary?”

“Sorry,” he apologized. “No—I didn’t like her.”

“So I gathered. I processed the crime scene.”

He smiled again at her dry tone. Good; she was making inroads, buying time. “Because she was after Acton?”

He rolled his eyes at her abject stupidity. “As though someone like him would pay any attention to someone like her—it was comical. But I had to kill her before she could tell Acton.”

“Tell him what?” Doyle was genuinely curious.

He shrugged. “About me and the trainer. But that was strictly business, and I had to kill him because he figured it out.” He paused. “And I wanted to see Acton in action again—I watched him from across the street with my binoculars—but you were there, both times.”

“Indeed I was. So you wanted me to go on leave.” Doyle was fascinated despite the exigency of the situation. Suddenly all the murders that had heretofore made no sense were starting to make sense. “And you killed the trainer when Drake was at conference so that Acton would take the investigation.”

Owens tilted his head. “Let us just say Drake was away; everyone only thought he was at a conference.”

Doyle pretended admiration. “It was a close call, you know—the trainer was goin’ to ground and you almost missed your chance.”

“He figured it out—I didn’t think he was that smart.”

“My hat is off to him,” Doyle agreed. “I certainly didn’t figure it out.” Just the same way she hadn’t figured Acton out; apparently her instinct didn’t work so well when dealing with a Section Seven.

Owens shook his head slightly, incredulous. “You are so naïve—especially for someone like him; what does he see in you?”

The words hung ominously in the air; this was not good—if he considered her a rival, she was done for. “I think,” she offered diffidently, “—that you are sufferin’ under a misapprehension.” Excellent word. “My relationship with Acton is innocuous.” Even better; small solace if it was to be the last word from her vocabulary list she ever used.

As he regarded her, she could see he was deciding whether or not to tell her something, and taking advantage of his abstraction, she moved her hands to rub her legs absently, to rub her calves. “Listen, Owens, I understand now—and I certainly can’t blame you. As we are friends, perhaps we can keep this a secret and I will gracefully bow out. Then you can arrange to work for Acton with my blessin’ and you won’t have to shoot me.” Meeting his gaze with her own guileless one, she tried to sound as though this was a perfectly reasonable course to take.

Her assailant shook his head with real regret. “It wouldn’t work. He fancies you.”

“Holmes?” She pretended shocked surprise. “I don’t think so. Why, I’ve never even been here before.”

“No,” he agreed. “I could tell when you came in that you had never been here. That’s when I realized.”

“I don’t think so, Owens,” she insisted. “He thinks I’m thick as a plank.”

“No.” Owens suddenly sobered; the light, almost playful mood had disappeared and he straightened his shoulders. “He fancies you.”

“You are mistaken,” she said firmly. “Now, let’s come to terms.”

But he was not to be persuaded. “I’m not mistaken. He has seventeen photographs of you in his mobile.”

She stared in unfeigned astonishment.
“Truly?”

He nodded gravely, as would a headsman getting set to do his duty. Disliking the shift in tone, she improvised, “Perhaps he is goin’ to paint a portrait or some such thing—he’s an artist, y’ know.”

“In some of them you are sleeping with no clothes on.” A hint of bitterness had crept into his tone.