Murder in Thrall (5 page)

C
HAPTER
6

 

After the meeting adjourned, Doyle watched Acton walk over to the windows to stand with his arms crossed, gazing down toward the street below. She had declined Sid’s lunch invitation, recognizing it was made only as a matter of form. A bucko, he was; she had a fine-tuned radar when it came to men of that stripe.

With an eye on Acton, she gathered up her things—she could see that something was troubling him about his business.

“I should have listened to you. It was good advice.”

She paused, and as there was no one left in the room, she concluded he must be speaking to her. “Which good advice was that, sir?”

“Giselle.”

“Ah. You were not to know she would be killed, after all.” Apparently Acton suffered from the same sort of remorse she did; it was a hard thing to feel one should have known, somehow.

He glanced over his shoulder at her. “She was ready to talk, with a little coaxing.”

“We’ll find someone who knows somethin’, sir. No point in second-guessin’.” It was interesting that he dwelt on it; he did not seem a dweller to her.

He turned and approached to stand beside her, still deep in thought. “This case has too many variables and no governing theme. Did you discover anything of interest from the neighbors?”

“She wasn’t a favorite. Not very friendly; a lot of men in and out and complaints about noise. She had an ex-husband but by all reports was on good terms.”

Acton lifted his head. “Did he owe her back support?”

Here was a motive, she supposed. “I will check, sir.”

“Phone records?”

“I’m going through them, but there was nothing after ten o’clock that night.”

He dropped his gaze to the floor, thinking. “Who called in the report?”

Doyle realized this was a good question; the call had come in so early the next morning that presumably Giselle hadn’t yet been missed at work. “I will check,” she said again, and wished she had thought of this herself.

He must have sensed she was feeling inadequate because he lifted his eyes to hers and said with sincerity, “You made a good report. It was very helpful.”

She smiled, pleased because it was the truth. “Thank you, sir.”

He made a gesture indicating they should leave. “Can you come to the canteen? I’d like to pick up something to eat and reassess our working theory.”

She wasn’t certain they had a working theory as yet, but she was not one to demur. “Yes, sir.”

They descended in the lift to the third floor and didn’t speak on the journey; Doyle felt it was one of the reasons they were so compatible—neither felt a need to fill up the silences that fell between them. They emerged into the canteen and were met with the familiar faint smell of curry mixed with fish and wet umbrellas, then made their way toward the display cases to survey the offerings. The usual crowd at the canteen was thin at this hour, but there were enough glances thrown their way that Doyle felt her color rise; Acton sightings were rare.

After picking up sandwiches, they stood in line at the cashier, and as he pulled his billfold from an inner jacket pocket, Acton said to her, “My treat, Constable.”

She raised her eyes to meet his and knew that the only reason he had deigned to mingle with the
hoi polloi
was because he was determined to pay for her lunch. He met her gaze and she knew that he knew she knew. They regarded one another.

“I see, sir, that it was a mistake to tell you about my financial plans.” With a show of defiance, she pulled a bill from her own wallet. “You would do well to be more careful with your money, if I may say so. If you’re to be throwin’ it after every DC who wrings your heart with a hard-luck story, you’ll soon have nothin’ left.”

He gave her his half-smile and did not move. They were holding up the line. “Just this once,” he said in a mild tone. “Indulge me.”

But she stood firm, knowing it was a slippery slope. “No. It’s for your own good, it is. Have done, please.” She dared to scold him and he conceded, amused. As she paid, however, she ruined the effect by adding in an aside, “Except for the lattes, which are very much appreciated.” Pride was a sin, after all.

As she followed him to a table, she speculated on what it would take to make him laugh, or at least unbend enough to chuckle. He had come very close several times—she could feel it. It would be a new project for her—to loosen him up a bit. With an exhilarating sense of well-being, she decided that something had shifted between them, starting from his offer to loan her money. Proprietary, is what he was. She was pleased; it was a vocabulary word.

Doyle could feel the interested gaze of passers-by upon them as they ate the sandwiches, and she tried not to look self-conscious—usually her role as Acton’s surprising protégé was not so public. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw DC Izzy Munoz hovering nearby whilst pretending to buy a soda from the machine, her ears on the stretch. Fortunately, there was as yet nothing to overhear. Move along, Munoz, thought Doyle, annoyed; nothing to see here.

“It is as though there are false trails being laid.”

Doyle refocused her attention on her commanding officer and realized she was at sea. “I’m not sure what you mean, sir.”

Acton rested his thoughtful gaze upon her. “As you aptly pointed out, Giselle’s death was not an execution; it was an act of rage and probably pathological. But there is no indication she was aware of her danger.”

“It was not overt.” Good one, Doyle.

“No. On the other hand, the methods are those of a professional. Looking at the motivation for the murders, the two deaths should not be connected, but the removal of the evidence and the fact Giselle was killed immediately after we spoke to her about the first one is just too coincidental.”

“The case should fit two different profiles, but it doesn’t,” agreed Doyle. “It’s almost as though he’s tryin’ to throw us off.” They thought about it for a moment, mulling over this odd combination of events. “Was there any evidence that the trainer acted defensively?” She wouldn’t know, having been locked in the tack room like a dosser.

“No. He didn’t see it coming, either.”

“So the killer is innocutous.”

There was a small pause. Oh-oh, she thought; got that one wrong.

“Apparently,” he agreed.

She realized she was biting her fingernail and desisted. She should really try to grow her nails out; Munoz had long and well-tended nails that Doyle secretly envied. With an effort, she refocused her thoughts. “So it’s either someone they know or someone who does not appear threatening.”

“Or both,” Acton noted.

“Or both,” she agreed. “And perhaps the murder of Giselle was so brutal so as to send a message to any other potential grassers.”

“Perhaps. But remember she had not yet grassed and as you pointed out, there are cleaner ways to silence someone. I think it is a good working theory; I think he wanted to punish her for his own satisfaction.”

She remembered what Habib had said. “A crime of rage that was perhaps sexual in nature.”

He met her eyes dispassionately. “Something along those lines.”

She nodded, wondering if she had the wherewithal to discuss crimes of sexual rage with Acton. Coward, she thought—it’s strictly business; take hold of your foolish self.

Apparently she was indeed a coward because she changed the subject. “Perhaps Sid’s idea is a good one, then; it may have been a medico at the track.”

Acton’s gaze was suddenly sharp upon hers. “Never say you found Sid persuasive.”

His tone held an edge of derision, which surprised her—although perhaps Acton had noticed it, too. She said carefully, “I think Sid may need some help; some sort of intervention.”

He nodded and then seemed to be deep in thought, which happened on occasion and which usually resulted in some extraordinarily shrewd insights, so she respected the process by keeping her own mouth shut as they finished their lunch in silence. Doyle noted that Munoz was now seated strategically nearby, lingering over her soda and awaiting her moment with all the strategy of a field marshal. There is nothing for it, thought Doyle with resignation; Munoz was not going to let the opportunity pass, but on the other hand, Acton was not one to tolerate toad-eating and the best that could be hoped for was there would be no blood spilt.

“Should I interview the medical personnel at the track, then?” Doyle craved a better field assignment than the one she had been relegated to thus far.

“No,” he said immediately. “I will put a DS on it.”

She didn’t want to challenge him, but it appeared he was forgetting her one—and rather formidable—talent. “I may be of more use, sir.”

His gaze met hers, and she could see he debated what to say. “I’d rather not. I don’t like this killer; I don’t understand him.”

She assimilated this comment in surprised silence. It appeared he thought it too dangerous for her to interview suspects even though she would know if lies were being told. She wasn’t sure how to respond—it was her job and she was good at it.

He offered, “If we bring someone in, you can watch from the gallery.” The gallery was adjacent to the interrogation room where the suspect could be observed unseen through one-way windows. Acton was throwing her a bone.

“Grand,” she replied, trying without much success to hide her annoyance.

“Are you reading Trendelberg?”

It was a deft change of subject, and forced her to abandon her inclination to sulk. He had seen the book, then, when she was packing up her rucksack in the meeting room—she had forgotten it was there and hoped he hadn’t noticed; a faint hope. Acton noticed everything. “Not exactly,” she admitted in a dry tone. “It’s somethin’ I picked up for your birthday. Since you’ve spoiled your own surprise, you may have it now instead of next week.”

She pulled it out of the bag to hand it to him, and he said nothing—only held the book as though he had no idea what to do with it. His reaction was such that she feared for one horrifying moment she had overstepped. It was a new book by the physicist Acton had mentioned once whilst trying to explain probabilities to her. At the time, she had no idea what he was talking about and she still didn’t—she was thick as a plank when it came to such things, which was a regrettable handicap in this business. The book had been on display at a bookstore she passed on the street, and she remembered the author’s name.

The silence stretched out and she fought an almost overwhelming inclination to squirm. “Do you have it already, sir? You can exchange it, you know.”

“No,” he said. “I don’t.”

He was lying, which was rather sweet, and she hid a smile. He handed it to her. “Will you inscribe it?”

Now it was her turn to stare at it. A crackin’ minefield, this was—what should she call him? Sir? Chief? Not Holmes, which is what the young detectives called him behind his back. She wrote on the flyleaf,
To Acton: Many happy returns. Doyle.
He watched her hands as she wrote.

She handed it to him and he reviewed what she had written. “How did you know it was my birthday next week?”

“Oh, I have my ways of obtainin’ secret information, sir—recall that I am a detective.”

He was very much amused for some reason and met her eyes. “I see that I will have to guard my secrets, then.”

Munoz could stand it no longer and at this juncture approached the table in an obvious bid for Acton’s attention. “Hallo, Doyle.” The girl waited for an introduction, smoothing back her long black hair with a graceful gesture that inspired Doyle to decide she should practice it later in front of a mirror.

Resigned, Doyle made the introduction and hoped she wouldn’t regret it. “DCI Acton, may I present DC Munoz?”

Acton stood and briefly took Munoz’s hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Detective Constable.” He then nodded to Doyle and took his leave with no further ado, Doyle’s book in his hand. It was smoothly done and Doyle was all admiration; how useful to have the ability to issue a snub and remain so polite—it was in the breeding, it was.

Munoz watched him go and then sank down beside Doyle, who wished for a moment that she had Acton’s resolve. “What were you talking about?” Munoz was fascinated by Acton; she was beautiful and tempestuous and specialized in dating well-connected men. Acton fit the bill.

Doyle blew out a breath. “A case. A case that doesn’t make much sense.”

“I’d be happy to work his case.” Munoz pursed her full lips in appreciation as she watched his figure in retreat.

Openly annoyed, Doyle chided the other girl. “Whist, Munoz—you’ll not stay in CID for long if you start makin’ eyes at him, I promise you.”

Acton having left the room, Munoz reluctantly turned back to Doyle. “He’s never married. Do you think he is gay?”

No, thought Doyle immediately, not knowing how she knew with such certainty. She equivocated, “I don’t know. The subject has not come up.”

Munoz smiled the slow smile that had enslaved many a man. “Normally I don’t go for the unattainable type, but they say still waters run deep—I may give it a touch.”

“You’d be a fool,” Doyle continued, annoyed.

Munoz raised her brows. “Why? Are you having sex with him?”

Doyle was horrified. “Munoz, lower your voice, for heaven’s sake—he’s my CO.”

The other girl smirked. “Turned you down, did he?”

Doyle counted to ten.

At the other’s reaction, Munoz laughed. “Oh, give over, Doyle—you can’t take a joke. No one thinks that’s what it is, but there must be some reason you’re in his pocket and it’s a mystery, believe me.”