Murder in Thrall (7 page)

He bestowed a rather warm look upon her. “I promise I won’t lecture you.”

“As much as I enjoy your lectures, I am off to church tonight.” She paused. “You are welcome to come along.”

He teased her. “What would you do if I accepted?”

She laughed aloud at the picture thus presented. “Why, I’d parade you through St. Michael’s like a holy conquest.”

He chuckled.

There it was—an honest laugh, she thought with satisfaction. Good one, Doyle; on to the next project, which may necessarily involve trying to keep the exalted chief inspector out of prison.

C
HAPTER
8

 

The next evening Doyle received a call from Acton just as she was finishing up. She hadn’t heard from him at all during the day, which was unusual—he must be hip-deep in trying to make some sense out of this nonsensical killer before the wretched man haled off and did it again; she had certainly drawn a blank. Her best theory could not withstand the light of day—she wondered if perhaps the killer was indeed a professional but called to report the crime so as to watch as the scene was processed—to see how CID handled it. Quality control, so to speak; perhaps he thought it would help him determine how to evade identification. She didn’t know if she could broach said theory to Acton—he may humor her, and she hated it when he humored her.

Taking the opportunity to catch up on her other cases, she tried to organize the assignments on her desk. She was not very organized; on the other hand, she suspected that Acton was OCD. We amalgamate, she thought with satisfaction—now, there’s a good word. Of course, there was the little problem of illegal gunrunning, but the more she thought about it the more she thought she must have crossed her wires and misunderstood. It happened sometimes—she’d leap to a conclusion that wasn’t warranted. That little run-in with the dry cleaners came to mind. And it was ludicrous to think that a chief inspector at New Scotland Yard was some sort of underworld figure; ludicrous. She paused for a moment, trying to remember if ludicrous meant what she thought it meant, but then decided she wasn’t going to think about it just now, she was going to think about this wretched case that made no sense.

Her best working theory was so lame as not to count, and she knew that when Acton couldn’t come up with a theory, he simply processed the evidence without the distraction of a theory. In this case, since there was so little hard evidence, it meant questioning witness after witness and running backgrounds, hoping to notice something of interest. Therefore, when Acton buzzed her at the end of the day it was a welcome respite.

He sounded a bit weary himself. “I may have a tip that Capper will make an appearance at a friend’s house. I think I’ll stake it for a while.”

This was encouraging. Doyle had begun to think perhaps Capper had been killed as well. If he was still alive, his going to ground would indicate he was trying to avoid questioning. While they didn’t think he was their killer, he must know something or he wouldn’t be playing least-in-sight.

“Where is it, sir?”

“An address on Grantham Street. It’s possible he’ll show up there tonight—are you free?”

“Yes, sir.” Of course she was free; it was her job. He only asked as a matter of form, but she didn’t mind; it had occurred to her that after the pawnshop visit, they had been bantering in the car. Who would have thought Acton could banter? The stakeout could be interesting instead of mindlessly boring. It must be a good tip; stakeouts were usually left to lesser beings such as herself—he must truly think Capper would show up.

“I’m in an unmarked. I’ll swing by and pick you up in front.”

She was packing up her rucksack when Williams leaned into her cubicle entryway, his broad shoulders filling it up. “Doyle.”

“Williams; I wish you were on this wretched case.”

Williams had a lopsided smile that was rather charming, all the more because he didn’t bestow it often. “Shall we brainstorm? We can get something to eat.” He was wearing a steel-blue sweater that brought out the blue in his eyes, and she breathed in the faint scent of cologne.

“Sorry. I’m due on a stakeout and I’m on my way out—next time; I promise.”

“I’ll go with you, Williams.” Munoz had overheard from the next cubicle and appeared beneath Williams’s arm, giving him her brilliant smile. “Where shall we go?”

Williams, poor soul; you don’t stand a chance, thought Doyle. She met his eyes for the briefest moment and saw an answering gleam of amusement before he followed Munoz out. Ah; I stand corrected—Williams is nobody’s fool.

Doyle took the lift up from the basement and walked through the lobby and past the security desk to the front of the building. Hopefully the stakeout would not last too long; this case was making some serious inroads into her sleep. And for some reason she didn’t feel optimistic about finding Capper tonight; something in Acton’s voice—

Acton was pulling up to the curb just as she walked out, and she hurried over to get in so that he wouldn’t have to explain to the patrolman in front that he was waiting for her. Good timing, she thought; he must have been close by.

She slid into the unmarked as he took her rucksack and placed it in the back seat; then they drove away into the miserable Westminster evening traffic. With some surprise, she was immediately aware that he had been drinking, although there were no discernable signs. He said nothing and she said nothing, but she covertly observed him, wishing she knew the protocol for a DC to tell a DCI that he shouldn’t be driving. Of course, there was the very real potential that it would be just as dangerous for her to attempt to drive, and so she held her peace and hoped for the best. After a few moments she relaxed; he seemed competent to drive, and truly, there was no indication other than her sure knowledge. He may have come by the tip at a pub; he did not offer to tell her and she did not ask. No bantering tonight, she thought with a pang of disappointment; he seemed preoccupied.

They arrived at the Grantham Street address just as darkness fell and sat in the unmarked watching the house from across the street. Occasionally a car would drive by, but there was no sign of activity at the house. It was a very quiet neighborhood.

He said little for nearly an hour and seemed disinclined to talk, and as she had little new to report, she respected his mood and stayed quiet. It was the longest he had ever gone without taking a call, and she wondered if he had turned off his mobile. She finally shifted her position and ventured, “Not a lot to see, so far, and it’s dinner hour. Was it a reliable tip, d’you think?”

“No more or less reliable than the usual,” was his rather equivocal answer. He tapped his thumbs on the steering wheel. “I hope it isn’t a wild-goose chase.”

She didn’t want him to feel badly if it was a false alarm and assured him, “It is well worth the possibility of takin’ in the duplicitous Mr. Capper, sir.” Now, there was an excellent vocabulary word, and deftly used. She hoped for an opportunity to use “innocuous” again, now that she had straightened it out.

“What would you ask him?”

She smiled. “Before or after I beat him with a nightstick?”

He considered. “After.”

So; perhaps there was to be bantering after all. “I’d ask him if he killed Giselle. Then I’d want to know who he is afraid of, and why he didn’t want to ring her up that night but wanted to meet in person, even though he knew the coppers were after him.”

“Good questions.” He nodded with approval.

“You, sir?” She glanced over at him. The light from a streetlight slanted across his face so that his eyes were illuminated.

“I’d ask what was so important that he risked arrest to go speak to a man at the track he didn’t know who could get him in a lot of trouble—and then why he stayed to wait for the police.”

Doyle hadn’t even thought of this. “Your questions are better,” she conceded.

“Yours were just as good.”

“Please don’t humor me,” she pleaded, half joking and half serious. “I hate it.”

There was a pause. “Fair enough,” he said, and meant it.

She felt a little foolish, and subsided. He spoke into the silence, “If nothing occurs within the hour, I will call for relief.”

“I am fine for as long as you need me.” She was trying to make up for her fit of the sulks.

But Acton was not to be outdone. “No; I have imposed upon you. I hope you didn’t have to scuttle any plans.”

“Free as a bird, sir.” Although there was an instant meal in her freezer that was calling her name—she hoped her stomach didn’t start growling.

“My mistake; its tomorrow that you’re booked. A seminar, I believe.”

She blinked, wondering how on earth he knew of this; she would not have confessed to it under torture. As they were being overly kind to each other, she admitted, “I wouldn’t mind missin’ it, truth to tell—do your best to get hold of another tip for tomorrow, if you will.”

He leaned an arm on the back of the seat and turned to her, intrigued. “You attend under duress? What is the topic?”

She made a wry face and glanced again at the dark house, trying to decide whether it was too embarrassing to tell him. He did ask, though, and she didn’t like to lie. “It’s a singles mixer, disguised as a self-help seminar so as to preserve our dignity.”

“Ah—I see. What is the protocol?”

She appreciated his making light of it, and unbent. “It’s a shameful process, truly. We are given a profile of all persons attendin’ so that we can discreetly eye the possibilities whilst pretendin’ to listen to a speaker. Then we’re supposed to assess our ‘shape’ and create a ‘rubric of our potential compatibility’ with the other poor souls. As a reward for survivin’ the ordeal, there is punch and cake afterwards. It sounds horrifyin’ and I may lose my nerve—it is a wretched, wretched pity at times like this that I don’t drink.”

There was a pause while he ducked his chin, considering. “What is wrong with the men of London that you must resort to this?”

It was a sweet compliment, and much appreciated. She smiled and disclaimed, “Faith, I suppose it’s not a bad idea. In the first ten minutes of a blind date you know whether it’s hopeless, but by then you’ve committed to the whole evenin’. This saves you a great deal of time and trouble.” She paused. “And I know for a fact they’re going to serve plum cake, which is an added incentive, as I couldn’t possibly date anyone who likes plum cake.”

“Are you seeking a companion?”

She was startled by the tenor of the question, but his interest seemed genuine and she didn’t want to embarrass him by being embarrassed. Choosing her words, she replied, “I feel obligated to make a push, I suppose. It’s a bit difficult for me to mix with people—” she halted abruptly, wishing she could take the words back. Doyle, she warned herself in horror, you
knocker
, don’t speak of it—

But he said with much sympathy, “Yes, I imagine it is.”

For some reason, she felt the sting of tears and had to compose herself for a moment; she was a solitary soul for all the obvious reasons and she was touched that he understood. Of course, he was an oddity himself—they were kindred spirits, in a way. With an effort, she pulled herself together and said lightly, “I’d invite you to come along, but it’s through the Holy Mother Church and you’d throw a rare wrench into the works.”

He tilted his head forward and contemplated the house for a moment. “I have a different sort of problem, meeting someone.”

This was unexpected. Why, I believe we are having a personal conversation, she thought in surprise. “You astonish me—is it the title or your handsome face?” Acton held a barony that went back generations; it was probably awarded for beating down the pesky Irish.

He reacted to her teasing with a small smile but continued, “You would be amazed how many insincere women are very good at pretending to be sincere.”

“I believe it,” she said readily. “We meet a good many of them.”

He nodded. “Yes, we do. But I am also expected to make a push.”

Doyle shook her head in sympathy. “Poor us. It is a truth universally acknowledged, sir.”

As he turned to face her again, she noted that all thought of watching the house had been abandoned in favor of discussing the moribund state of their respective love lives—Jack the flippin’ Ripper could emerge from the Grantham address and she would bet her teeth that the illustrious chief inspector would not notice.

“I think the solution to our mutual problem is to marry each other.” His dark eyes met hers.

There was a moment of stunned silence whilst she could feel her heartbeat in her throat. Holy Mother of God; he was dead serious, and he knew she knew he was dead serious. Tamping down panic, she bit her fingernail and pretended to consider it. “I wouldn’t have to worry about makin’ detective sergeant.”

“We are compatible,” he continued as though she hadn’t spoken. “We spend a great deal of time together already; our lives would not change very much.”

For once, she could think of nothing to say, flippant or otherwise. She had never noticed how long his eyelashes were.

“I think it a very sound idea.” They regarded each other in silence, and Doyle wondered if anyone had ever died from excessive blushing. When she did not respond, he reached over and put his hand on her arm, briefly. “I’ll not press you; think on it, please.”

“All right.” She added as an afterthought, “sir.”

As he pulled the car out, he glanced over at her. “You look as though you have been put to the stake.”

She rallied. “No; my feet are too cold.”

He smiled. “Better.”

With a monumental effort, she calmed herself. “It’s not—not that I don’t appreciate the offer; I am surprised, is all.”

“Understood. I’ll drop you home.”

He did drop her home—he knew where she lived. He walked her to the security gate, and she wondered for a panicked moment if he was going to try to kiss her. He didn’t, which was a little annoying in its own way—marriage proposals usually involved kissing, one would think. Perhaps it wouldn’t be that kind of marriage.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, and watched her walk in.

Later, she thought about it as she stood over her kitchen sink as if in a trance and let the tap water run unabated down the drain. She had already come to the conclusion there had never been a tip in the first place; his sole aim had been to propose marriage. Out of the clear blue, Acton had said he wanted to marry her, and he meant it.