Murder in Hindsight (11 page)

C
HAPTER
19

O
N THE WAY BACK TO THE
M
ET
, D
OYLE TOOK A CALL FROM
Munoz. “Samuels is dying for bangers and mash and wants to go to the pub on the corner.”

“Done,” said Doyle. She was ready to eat something fortifying, after her many trials this fine day. “Williams will come, too.”

“Come where?” Williams asked as she rang off. “I can’t spare any more time today.”

“All work and no play,” Doyle chided him. “I owe you lunch and
please
offer Munoz a homicide project; she is drivin’ me and Habib crazy.”

“She needs a new boyfriend.”

“Not you,” Doyle cautioned.

He made a grimace of distaste. “Christ, Kath, do you think so little of me?”

“You mustn’t blaspheme,” she reminded him. “I think you are pickin’ up bad habits from Acton.”

“You are full of strictures, aren’t you?” he offered mildly as they descended the stairs to the tube.

There was a slight pause. “I’m afraid I don’t know what that means.”

“It means you certainly like to tell me what I can and cannot do.”

Stricken, she looked back at him as she passed through the turnstile. “Faith, Thomas; I do beg your pardon. I don’t have the orderin’ of you, and I shouldn’t behave as though I do. I’m that sorry that I’m soundin’ like an archwife.”

“Just so we’re clear.”

They waited on the platform, Doyle filled with remorse because it was true; she took gross advantage of Williams due to the fact he had a soft spot for her. She should be a better friend, else he’d not come to her rescue as he did with alarming regularity. To this end, she thought she should show an interest in his personal life, as a good friend would. “Are you seein’ anyone, yourself?”

Although his expression didn’t change, he was suddenly amused—saw right through her, he did. “I’m thinking about Cassie; she seems ready for a go, and I wouldn’t have to spend a lot of money on dinners to get there.”

She turned to look toward the coming train. “You are
horrid
, is what you are.”

“I’d be helping you out.”

This was the first he’d hinted at what the photographs depicted, and she hesitated, wondering whether she should discuss it at all with him—he was too shrewd by half, was DS Williams. “More like you’d get busted back to DC again.”

Despite her attempt at lightness, he must have heard something in her voice because he put a hand around her shoulder, squeezing her to him briefly. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said.”

His sympathy was almost her undoing, and she struggled with her emotions as they boarded the train. It would only be to his benefit, one would think, if Acton were indeed cheating on her, since Williams would presumably be the leading candidate to fill the vacancy as husband number two. Instead, he was solidly in her corner, despite the fact that her latest brush with retribution-minded kingpins may wind up costing him his job. The train was crowded, as it was lunch hour, and she looked up at him as they swayed, hanging on to a pole. “The whole thing is not at all what you think, Thomas. I’d like to tell you more, but I don’t think I can.”

He nodded, unsurprised—they had already discussed the fact that divided loyalties may work to prevent complete honesty between them—he was loyal to Acton, too. “I’m a little worried that you are in over your head.”

This was indisputably true, as Williams was aware that Savoie—of all people—had handed her the wretched photographs. “I have a handle on it, I promise. And if I need backup, I’ll call you in two shakes, my hand on my heart.”

“Excuse me,” said a woman in a tweed coat, standing beside them in the aisleway. “Aren’t you the police officer from the papers—the one who jumped off the bridge?”

“I am,” Doyle confessed, pinning on her smile and cursing her hair color. “I am pleased to meet you.”

“Officer Doyle,” a businessman affirmed, sticking his newspaper under his arm to awkwardly shake her hand in the crowded space. “I thought it was you. Well done.”

“It was nothin’,” Doyle protested, blushing. “Truly.”

“Makes ya think t’police ain’t all rotten,” a dubious man in a knit cap chimed in. “Restores yer faith. Mind effen I takes a snap wi’ me mobile?” He then muscled his way over to lean in with Doyle, raising his mobile to take a photograph of them. A palpable ripple of interest flowed through the train car.

“Our stop,” announced Williams, even though it wasn’t, and he extricated them out the door and out onto the platform, Doyle bidding good-bye to her well-wishers, who exuded copious amounts of good will and a strange sort of shared pride.

They walked quickly in silence for a few minutes, navigating their way up the escalators and onto the street. “Thanks,” she finally said.

“It didn’t seem like you were enjoying yourself.”

“No—I hate the attention. And it’s hardly fair, Thomas; you were a rescuer as much as I was.”

“Not true—you deserve every ounce of it.”

“It’s the papers,” she conceded with sad resignation. “They’ve made me the bridge-jumper, and so I ever shall be; amen.” Her scalp prickled, suddenly. What? she asked herself, exasperated. Why is that so important, for the love o’ Mike? Again, it eluded her and she was left with a faint feeling of frustration—it happened this way, sometimes, and it made her feel that her perceptive ability was standing beside her, tapping its foot with impatience.

Her thoughts were interrupted by her companion, who remained unsettled even though his outward appearance was benign. “Do you have an end goal?” They were taught at the Academy that there should always be an end goal—one way or another, so that the public’s money would not be wasted on a detective’s whims.

“I do.” Best not mention the end goal was to save Acton from having to share a cell with Solonik—Williams needn’t be in on that little secret. Besides, while she was aware that Williams acted as Acton’s henchman in the occasional administration of rough justice, she didn’t know if he knew of Acton’s gun smuggling, which was a whole other kettle of blackmail-worthy fish. Mother a’ mercy, it was hard to keep track.

As if on cue, her mobile pinged. It was Acton. “Lunch?”

She smiled a bit grimly, aware—in the way she was aware of things—that he knew she’d been speaking to Masterson. She decided to let him stew. “Sorry, lunching with W and M.” She paused, then decided to add, “Will drop by after.” Sometimes when Acton stewed, things got rapidly out of hand—best be careful.

“I wish you would think again about consulting with him about this.”

Teasing, she glanced up at Williams as she sheathed her mobile. “What makes you think that was Acton? Maybe it was Savoie.”

“Was it?”

She shook her head. “I wouldn’t tell you—you’d lift his mobile number with cellophane tape while I wasn’t lookin’, or somethin’.”

But Williams, having determined that dark forces were at play, was in no mood. “Not a laughing matter, Kath.”

And that’s why I’m married to Acton, she thought as they strode along in silence. Acton always thinks I’m funny. Well—maybe not always; but most times.

They came to the pub—one of the posh kind that was mainly pretending to be the real thing—and once through the door, she was met with the welcome and ubiquitous scent of bacon and ale. Munoz and Samuels had secured a booth in the corner and waved them over. “You’ve been busy this morning,” said Samuels, moving over for her.

“I’ve been visitin’ like a county nurse, I have. What are you havin’?”

“We’ve already ordered; you’re having bangers and mash whether you like it or not.”

She noted that Samuels’s gaze drifted between herself and Williams with a gleam of speculation that she did not appreciate, but there was no point in getting nettled; she was well-used to being the object of gossip, after all. “Like it,” she replied easily. “What’s news?”

Samuels shrugged in his negligent manner. “Still hunting contraband. We had a tip, and made a raid on a suspected cache, but they must have been warned because it was cleared out by the time we got there.”

“Bad luck,” said Munoz, who was well-pleased to be situated cheek-by-jowl between the two men. “The trouble with tips is the informants; they take whatever the police will give them, and then happily grass to the suspects that the police are on their tail—a double recovery.”

But Doyle was doubtful. “I wouldn’t want to be playin’ a double game with the smugglers. Too easy to wind up floatin’ amongst the reeds at the bottom of the river.”

“We had one two days ago—a dead informant,” Williams offered. “Now we have to start all over, cultivating someone else.”

“He was in the river?” Munoz knew all there was to know about being fished out of the Thames.

“His head was.”

While Munoz took this opportunity to express her feminine horror at such a grisly turn of events, Doyle wondered at the nuances she sensed. Yet again, Williams appeared unruffled, but inwardly he was unsettled about something; wary, and grave—or graver than his usual. She wondered what the newly-dead informant had been informing about; she should follow up with Acton, mental note.

Samuels changed the subject. “Acton has been butting heads with the deputy commissioner about the contraband protocol. Have you heard who prevailed?” This was directed at Doyle.

Doyle said honestly, “Haven’t a clue what you are talkin’ about, Samuels.” She reflected that this was the second time in a few days that Samuels was fishing for information about Acton, and, in light of certain recent events, decided this was yet another mental note, as she couldn’t very well start jotting reminders on a napkin. Faith, she thought crossly; I only wanted some flippin’ lunch, not another stack of flippin’ problems.

The harried waitress served the plates out, and as Doyle reached to assist, Munoz observed, “Will you look at the bruise on your arm, Doyle? How did you manage that?”

“Acton beats me,” she replied easily, and they all laughed except Williams. “It’s fadin’, now. You should have seen it at first—as black as the third horseman.”

“I imagine you bruise easily,” offered Williams.

“My curse,” agreed Doyle. “And I sunburn like you wouldn’t believe.”

“Then it’s just as well you don’t swim,” said Samuels, and they all laughed again. He continued, “Speaking of such, how is your wound, Munoz? I wish I had a knife wound; it would make me more interesting to the ladies.”

“I’ll show you.” Munoz was nothing loath as she shifted in the narrow booth to pull at the back of her sweater. “Can you see it?”

Samuels willingly helped pull the sweater down to expose the wound, although Doyle imagined that Munoz was hoping Williams would do the honors. The others duly admired the small red scar, not yet faded.

“Impressive,” said Williams. “They should give you the George.”

“I don’t know,” Doyle teased. “I admit I’m a bit disappointed—it looks more like a chicken pox scar.”

“Not at all,” chided Samuels, running a finger across it. “Don’t listen to her, Munoz; it makes you look piratical, and dangerous.”

“Sometimes it itches.” Munoz confessed as she shrugged her sweater back in place.

“Have you told your beau the tale?” Doyle knew Munoz would appreciate any reference to her admirer, as Williams hadn’t chosen to pursue that role.

“He has not yet seen my scar; I’m not certain he deserves to.”

This remark was followed by some good-natured raillery from the men about the injustice of women who played hard-to-get, and Munoz was very much in her element.

“I’ll warn you; he’ll look for a girl who’s not so coy.” Samuels grinned at her. “Can’t hold out forever, or you’ll lose him.”

“He’ll wait, and be grateful for the opportunity.”

Doyle was thoughtful, remembering her interview with Mrs. Bennet. “Has a man ever cheated on you, Munoz?”

“Is Acton cheating on you? Wait; let me go put on some lipstick.”

The men found this sally exceedingly humorous, although Doyle could not quite appreciate it as she would have a week ago. Merciful God, she offered up; don’t let any rumor of Acton and Cassie Masterson reach Munoz’s ears, I am
begging
you. “No, idiot; I had an interview this mornin’ about a girl who bludgeoned her boyfriend to death because she thought he cheated on her.”

But Munoz was unimpressed. “I can’t imagine any man is worth bludgeoning to death; too much effort.”

“That’s the spirit,” Williams smiled. “After all, you’d get blood spatter on your shoes.”

“I’d know enough to wear my wellies,” Munoz chided him with a look. “But it would still be too much effort. Poison is much tidier.”

“Yes—it’s such a strange and brutal reaction, no matter how upset you are.” Even in those first terrible moments in the bookstore, Doyle had never contemplated violence against Acton.

“It’s not about love,” Munoz explained patiently, a forkful of mashed potatoes poised. “It’s about control. The person is nicked—obsessive, and can’t stand the thought of losing control. When they kill the other, they regain control again.”

Doyle decided she’d rather not delve into a discussion about persons who were nicked and obsessive, and hurriedly turned the subject toward local sporting events, which was a tedious topic, but did not hit quite so close to home.

C
HAPTER
20

A
FTER AN HOUR,
W
ILLIAMS REMINDED THEM THAT HE HAD TO
get back to work, and Samuels bowed his head in mock-obedience. “Yes, sir; by the way, when’s the announcement to be made?”

“What announcement?” asked Munoz, like a hound to the point.

With a gesture of his head toward Williams, Samuels continued, “Youngest DI since Wensley. And well-deserved.” He lifted his glass in a mock-salute.

“Congratulations, Williams—you deserve it.” Doyle was aware that Williams was not best-pleased by this rather heavy-handed revelation, not to mention it was a crackin’ shame that the news was dropped on Munoz unawares. For a moment, Doyle considered taking cover under the table.

Munoz, however, was not so foolish as to allow her chagrin to get the better of this opportunity to sweeten up Williams, and offered polite and seemingly heartfelt congratulations. I should watch and learn, thought Doyle; I let my temper get the better of me time after time—it’s the hair, it has a lot to answer for, it does. Although Acton can’t keep his hands from it, so there’s that.

Samuels inquired of Williams, “Will they move you to an office?” This was a continual point of much jealousy and complaint, and although the question was asked in a mild tone, it was a potential mine-field.

Rather than answer, Williams said to Munoz, “I’m working on the Wexton Prison corruption case, and I think a female detective might help break the code of silence, considering the type of men involved. Do you suppose Habib could spare you for a morning or two?”

Munoz’s dark brows drew together, not fooled by this proffered olive branch. “Are you trying to buy me off?”

Williams flashed his rare smile. “Yes.”

“Buy
me
off, instead,” suggested Samuels with a smile. “Corruption is right up my alley.”

But Williams only shook his head. “Sorry—you don’t look like her.”

Naturally, it was this comment that won Munoz’s grudging acceptance, and Doyle was all admiration—beneath that buttoned-up façade, Williams was very adept at subtle manipulation, another talent she lacked. Doyle had forgotten her wallet, so instead of paying for his lunch as promised, he wound up paying for hers. “Sorry,” she said in an aside as they rose to leave. “I owe you on all fronts.”

“No one owes anyone for anything.” He met her eyes briefly and she was reminded that DI Williams carried a torch for her, and she’d best keep it to mind so that she didn’t encourage any foolishness—not that she’d do it purposefully, it was only that sometimes she forgot how complicated this relationship business was. She hadn’t much training or experience in it because before she met Acton, she’d neatly avoided everyone.

As though she’d summoned him by the very thought, Acton himself met her at the door as they were leaving. “Detectives,” he greeted them brusquely, and the others hastily and deferentially took their leave. Having routed them, he stood before her on the sidewalk for a silent moment, his enigmatic gaze resting on hers. “I thought I’d buy you a cup of coffee.”

“I’d rather have a cup of cap-in-hand, husband.”

“Then you shall have it, but first you’ll have to explain to me what it is.” He tucked her hand in his arm and began to lead her away, toward the Abbey.

“I’ll give you a hint; if you are takin’ her to Trestles to have sex with her, I am goin’ to tear down the flippin’ building, stone by stone.”

“No,” he disclaimed immediately. “I am taking her there to allow her to examine the archives.”

Suspicious, she knit her brow and eyed him sidelong. “Is that a euphemism?”

She caught a flash of amusement. “No.”

“Well, then; I’m that relieved. But you are goin’ to fill me in on the whole, or I’ll know the reason why.”

He squeezed her hand against his side with his arm. “Shall we buy some coffee and walk along the embankment?”

This was a bit alarming and an indication of his concern—Acton was not much of a stroller-about. Or it may be an indication that he was taking no chance at being overheard. “Please—although if anyone recognizes me, glare them away, as you did Munoz and Samuels.”

They bought coffee from the corner franchise, and walked toward the broad pathway beside the Thames, the breeze blowing steadily now that they were on the river. He seemed disinclined to start his confession—probably because he wasn’t certain how much she knew. Not the type to share his innermost thoughts with the wife of his bosom, was Acton. With this in mind, she decided it was probably best to fire off a warning round. “She’s workin’ with Solonik, isn’t she?”

The question surprised him, and he responded with extreme caution. “Why do you think this?”

Impatient, she hunched her shoulders against the cool air. “I figured it was somethin’ like that, so I asked her some questions about the Solonik arrest. She lied and said she didn’t know anythin’ about it—or him.” She glanced up at his profile and gently shook his arm. “And it doesn’t take much of a leap, Michael;
someone
is tryin’ to do you over, and he’s the prime suspect.”

“I would not be surprised,” he admitted.

“What does she know?” This was a dicey question, as Acton did not know how much Doyle knew—or guessed—about his own underworld connections.

“I am not certain.”

Although this was an equivocal answer, it nonetheless was true, which made sense to her; Solonik must only know bits and pieces; otherwise, there’d be no need to apply pressure to the fair Doyle, hoping she’d grass up information. We shall see, Mr. Solonik, she thought grimly; I’ve a few arrows in my own quiver, I do.

They were quiet for a few minutes as they walked past the Westminster Pier, where small groups of tourists waited for the next ferry. When they were clear again, he asked, “What else did you discuss with her?”

“The Tilden Park murder—I was lookin’ through the microfiche, hopin’ there’d be a record of who was looking at the old news coverage of the arson case, but no luck. Miss Masterson was kind enough to assist me.” She glanced up at him, quirking her mouth. “She
is
attractive, Michael—at least you have good taste.”

“Don’t,” he said abruptly. “I would much rather just kill her.”

This was true, and Doyle was not at all surprised—Acton being who he was. “All my moralizin’ is having an impact, then?” Talk about mixed emotions.

But he avoided a direct answer and instead explained, “It would pose no solution because another would be sent to take her place. Instead, the solution must thwart any such further attempts.”

Considering who they were dealing with—and Acton’s own dark doings—this seemed a tall order. “And have you such a plan? It must be a corker.”

He raised his head to survey the area, as was his habit. “I do. I doubt that I can win a bidding war, so I will offer something no one else can.”

The penny dropped, and Doyle turned to stare at him. “She’s thinkin’ she’ll be the next Lady Acton.”

He nodded, as though the topic were nothing unusual. “Yes. I haven’t broached the subject in so many words, but the idea has been planted.”

She knit her brow, much struck. “You are like Timothy’s Nanda, then—offerin’ up the only commodity you have available.”

He glanced at her in amusement. “Not quite; here we’re talking about the title—and all that goes with it.”

“You’re a handsome thing, Michael,” she assured him. “Don’t sell yourself short.” She walked along and considered what she’d learned in the silence it deserved. It wasn’t a bad plan; Masterson might be willing to spike whatever plot Solonik was hatching in exchange for the heady possibility she could succeed Doyle as the next baroness, and therefore the keeper of the secrets of the House of Acton. It would be tempting to any woman—small wonder she treated Doyle with such poorly-concealed triumph. “And you’re takin’ her to Trestles to dangle the bait.”

He was amused again. “So to speak, I suppose.”

“I think I should come along, Michael.”

It was his turn to be surprised. “You have nothing to fear, Kathleen, I promise. I plan to hold her at arm’s length, and tell her that I must be very circumspect; I cannot allow a scandal just now, if divorce is on the horizon.”

“I’m not worried about that, Michael.” This was not exactly true; if their future hinged upon it, she imagined Acton would make whatever sacrifices necessary—and men were men, after all. “It’s just that I think it would appeal to her if I was there—the competitive aspect of it. She very much enjoyed toyin’ with me today, and would positively relish more of the same.” Fumbling for words, she tried to explain what she knew instinctively. “She loves the intrigue—the secretiveness—of knowin’ something no one else does.” Thinking about it, she raised her gaze to his. “I imagine you’ve already twigged that about her, which is why she’s ripe for your counter-plot. She’ll love the thought that she’s goin’ to carry off the palm, with me all unknowin’.”

Gazing into the distance, he thought about this. “You may be right.”

“I am right, my friend. And it will have the added bonus of giving you a ready excuse to be keepin’ your unfaithful self chaste. Tell her that I found out about the trip, and I’ve invited myself along; be regretful, and ask if she’d like to reschedule—I bet she’ll be cock a’ hoop about it, instead.”

“All right,” he agreed. “But only as long as it’s clear she’s cock a’ hoop.”

“She’ll be merry as a grig,” Doyle assured him. “Mark me.”

They paused to stand at the railing for a moment, looking out across the brown and churning river. Reminded, Doyle asked, “Whose head was fished out of the river?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Williams said an informant’s head was pulled from the river, and that now you’ll have to cultivate a new one.”

“Did he indeed?”

She eyed him, surprised. “A fish tale, was it? What—to frighten Munoz? Good luck to him, if that’s the object.” Reminded of something else, she asked, “Is he to be promoted? Williams, I mean; Samuels said as much.” Thus prompted, she turned to him intently and continued, “Samuels—I keep meanin’ to tell you that Samuels is fishin’ about for information.” Staring at her husband, her scalp prickled and she made the intuitive leap. “Samuels is some sort of informant for the wrong side, isn’t he? Williams was givin’ him a warnin’, speakin’ of heads in the river.”

“Good God,” said Acton mildly.

“It’s exhaustin’, sometimes,” Doyle admitted, thinking over this new wrinkle. “What is goin’ to happen to Samuels?”

“That is not your concern, I’m afraid.”

She looked to the river again, trying to piece it all together. “Do you want me to ask Samuels about Solonik, like I did Masterson?”

“I’d rather you didn’t. I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say anything more.”

“All right,” she replied a bit crossly. “But I’m catchin’ on like a house afire, here.”

“It is impressive,” he acknowledged. “But I still cannot say.”

Teasing, she added, “I twigged you and this Masterson brasser in a pig’s whisper, if you will recall. It’s exactly what you deserve, for strayin’ off the straight-and-narrow.”

“How did you manage it?” he asked in the same mild tone.

“Nice try, Michael.”

He accepted defeat with good grace, and bent his head to hers. “With that in mind, I’ll have to meet her for a drink after work.” He pulled out his mobile and scrolled. “To implement the cock a’ hoop protocol.”

Laughing, she leaned her head fondly against him. “Well then; have a nice date, but keep the present baroness to mind, if you please.”

“I’ll be home by dinner,” he assured her with his half-smile.