Murder in Hindsight (22 page)

C
HAPTER
41

W
HEN THEY WALKED INTO THE FLAT,
A
CTON IMMEDIATELY
poured himself a tall scotch and stood, gazing out the windows and lost in thought. Doyle was rather proud of herself; she drove all the way back to their parking garage without mishap, although Acton had to help her gauge the distances to park the car in the slot. He’d been quiet, saying little on the drive, and she respected his mood and made no comment, trying to hide her concern. Apparently, she had not been very successful.

“If I tell you what is planned, will you try to relax?”

“Yes,” she replied, and sat down on the sofa, taut as a bowstring.

He began to pace, holding the glass by the rim in a casual hand. “The object is to make her angry—to humiliate her. To provoke her into attempting to run the story immediately, so as to take a revenge.”

There was a pause. “D’you think that is the best plan, Michael?” she asked in a small voice.

“Yes. Her editor will be made aware that there is a situation. Anything she offers will be carefully scrutinized, and it will be unbelievable.”

“What if she has evidence,” asked Doyle carefully, “—evidence of the unbelievable?”

He paused to look at her. The scotch was half gone and she could see he was making an effort to focus. “If you discredit the source, the quality of the evidence has no relevance.”

She thought about this; her scalp prickling. “So that even if you build a case on a hard-and-fast fact, if no one wants to believe you, no one will.”

He turned back to the window. “Yes—something like that. You should know this better than most; perception is as powerful as empirical knowledge. It is what helps the species survive.”

She was silent, not quite following, but hoping he knew what he was about.

“I planted some information in the archives that she will attempt to use; Previ and those who control the paper will know immediately that it is not true.”

“Saints,” said Doyle admiringly, feeling the tension drain from her body. “Somethin’ about the war?” She remembered the discussion at the table, back when Masterson was lying about not finding anything of interest.

“Yes, the second war. She found information that indicated my grandfather was a Nazi sympathizer—that he had supported the Third Reich.”

“But he hadn’t?”

“No. The story is not well known, but he was very mechanically-minded, and was fascinated with airplanes. During the Battle of Britain, he volunteered to help piece together the damaged planes at great risk to himself.”

Doyle was not clear on the historical reference, but she well understood that any accusation that the man was a Nazi would be disbelieved.

“There were also some documents suggesting my mother did away with my father and fought to recover insurance proceeds, which were disallowed due to the suspicious circumstances.”

“Michael,” she breathed in admiration. “They will think Masterson is
ravin’
mad.” Doyle realized this was perhaps not the most diplomatic thing to say to Acton, and hastily added, “She’ll be sacked.”

“More importantly, she’ll be discredited.” He set his glass down with a sharp click; it was almost empty. “I am going to bed; I would appreciate it if you would accompany me.” He held out a hand to her.

“My pleasure,” she teased, feeling immeasurably better as she took his hand. “You’re makin’ up for lost time with a vengeance, if I may be sayin’ so.”

He stopped suddenly, and faced her, running his hands down her arms. “Perhaps you should eat something first. You are in a delicate condition.”

She smiled to herself, and gently placed her palms on his chest. “Right, then; go on, and I’ll meet you in a few.”

He covered one of her hands with his. “If it is a girl, we shall name her Mary.”

After a moment’s struggle with her emotions, she found her voice. “It’s a very old-fashioned name, Michael.”

“Nonetheless.”

She stood for a moment, watching her husband make his slightly unsteady way toward the bedroom, and offered up her heartfelt thanks—God had given her another go, and she would relish every moment; every sick morning. And thanks to all available saints and angels that there was no question of paternity; she owed Savoie an enormous debt of gratitude for rescuing her that night. Hopefully she would not have to shoot him, like his stupid brother.

Reminded, she checked her mobile to see whether any unknown numbers were listed under recent contacts, but it appeared that Savoie hadn’t made any attempt to contact her over the weekend. This was not necessarily good news; she felt it was important to keep in his good graces so that he wouldn’t be distracted if Solonik dangled more riches before him. But it was unlikely someone like Savoie would be moved by riches; more like Solonik would promise him some lucrative rig, or damning information about his baby brother’s last days.

With a sigh, she moved from crisis number two to crisis number three, and scrolled up Williams’s number. “Hey.”

“Hey, yourself.”

“I’m back from the wars.”

“How did it go?”

“It’s a long and sordid story, and not worth repeatin’. I wanted to have a talk with the coroner tomorrow mornin’ about our latest victim, and if you’d come along I’d appreciate it.” She added belatedly, “Sir.”

“I have an interview at nine—can we meet at ten?”

“Who’s the interview with?” she asked, immediately suspicious.

“Morgan Percy, the junior we met at Moran’s chambers.”

She tried for a moment to imagine how Morgan Percy would fit in with any Solonik-connected scheme, but gave it up as unlikely. She then thought of suggesting that Williams should smile once in a while during the interview, so as to seem more approachable, but decided she shouldn’t be giving him helpful advice about the opposite sex until she first found out if he was ruthlessly stabbing Acton in the back. And besides, Williams had a stubborn streak, and if she suggested he smile, he’d probably scowl the poor girl down, just to be contrary.

“It’s about the Wexford Prison corruption case; you are welcome to come along.”

She hid a smile, as this last was not exactly true. “No thanks; I’ll take the opportunity to have a lie-in—it’s an exhausted casualty I am, from the aforementioned wars. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She rang off, and almost immediately had an incoming call, which she assumed was Williams, having forgotten to tell her something. “Hey,” she answered, lifting a slice of hot toast to the plate with quick fingers.

“We must discuss your problem.” It was Savoie.

Speak o’ the devil, and up pops crisis number two again. Doyle paused, and slowly lowered the plate to the counter. “Yes; well—I may need a bit more time to hold a bake sale, or somethin’.”

There was a silence. “It means you sell baked goods—like cakes—to raise money,” she explained.

“You have no money? How can this be?”

“It’s Acton who has the money,” she explained in an apologetic tone. “I’ve always been as poor as a church mouse—believe me, if I could pay for all of this to go away, I would.”

“I understand,” he said generously. “I was a mouse in the church, also.”

“There you go.”

“But we must meet tomorrow; I think I can make the arrangements to solve all your cracking problems.”

“If you could pull off such a trick, I’d be cock a’ hoop, my friend.” She was wary, though; he was not the type to be generous.

“In the evening—I will meet you at the same place. I may come late,” he cautioned. “I have another meeting, first.”

She swallowed. “Are you meeting with Solonik?” Hopefully she would not be going to her doom, although the bookstore seemed an unlikely place for bloody revenge-taking.

He did not deign to answer, but instead repeated, “Go after work and wait. I may be late, but I will come.”

As she opened her mouth to agree, she realized he’d already rung off.

C
HAPTER
42

“S
EVRES,” SAID
R
EYNOLDS REVERENTLY AS HE LIFTED THE VASE
from the gift packaging. “And worth a pretty penny, if I may say so.” He glanced at her, a hint of alarm in his eye. “Am I unaware that it is your birthday, madam?”

“No—there is no particular reason, Reynolds. Acton is very thoughtful.” The vase was identical to the one he’d smashed at Trestles, and in the future she’d best be careful about what she admired aloud, mental note.

The package had arrived whilst Doyle was explaining to Reynolds that the next time they went to Trestles, she would bring him along to knock some heads together, and the servant, as always, expressed his willingness to do her bidding.

She placed the vase carefully on the mantel. “The steward’s the type that will be there till the crack o’ doom, though. You’d have to challenge him to a duel, or somethin’, to pry him loose.”

“Oh, no—I’d be quite content to assist Lord Acton as his valet,” the domestic demurred. “I have no ambition to steward a large estate.” This was untrue, but forgivable, as everyone had a secret ambition. Her own, for example, was to survive the next three crises.

Acton had slept soundly the night through, and then in the morning had risen early to sit at his desk, addressing the workload that had been stacking up in his absence. Upon Reynolds’s arrival, the servant had taken an assessing look at him, and then had taken pains to stay out of his way until he left for work. Doyle could hardly blame him; she imagined Acton would not be easy until he knew what had happened with Masterson and the newspaper.

On the way to the morgue, she thought over how she’d best handle Williams, and then decided that nothing she did
ever
went according to plan, so she may as well just see how it went and gauge the situation as it unfolded. He was waiting outside when she arrived, holding a coffee cup, which she eyed with longing; she’d decided to cut back on caffeine and it was already killing her.

“Have some,” he offered, reading her aright.

“Just a sip, then.” Taking the cup, she accompanied him down the stairs into the cold storage room, where the remains of those who’d died unattended deaths were stored until the coroner decided whether there was anything of interest to report to law enforcement. Dr. Hsu, the coroner, knew they were coming, and greeted them in his usual subdued manner as he pulled out a drawer that contained the body of a sixtyish white man, a member of the prestigious Health and Care Professions Council. They gazed upon the still, sunken face for a moment, and Doyle was struck—as she always was—by the enormous difference between a live person and a dead person, and how inexplicable it was that most just took it for granted. “Anythin’ of interest to report?”

The coroner shrugged. “Not much, I fear. Dead as a result of a small caliber bullet, fired from close range to the back of his head. Victim was upright; had no defensive wounds and was probably unaware.”

She looked to Williams. “Anythin’ at the scene?”

“Nothing. No casings, no footprints.”

Doyle nodded as she contemplated the decedent. They’d already established that this killer knew how homicides were investigated, and also knew the police wouldn’t be too keen on evidence recovery in the first place—a bad one met a bad end, and a good riddance. She said to Williams, “Acton said to look carefully at any discrepancies, however small, but this one seems very similar to the others, at least in terms of evidence.”

The coroner offered, “No signs of alcohol or drug abuse. Last meal was a beefsteak.”

“So not a thug,” Williams observed. “That’s different.”

“The female victim who beat up her boyfriend was not a thug, either,” she reminded him. “Just an unlikely murderer, which is what helped her get off.”

Williams indicated the corpse. “Well, I suppose you could say he was an unlikely Section Five, and that helped him get off.”

This seemed of interest, and she lifted her head. “Tell me about that, then.”

Obligingly, he pulled up a screen on his mobile, and recited, “He was involved in charities for at-risk youth; raised money for the safe house program run by the Council. He—along with some other civic-minded people—started an organized sports program at the city parks; the idea was to give disadvantaged boys positive team-building experience, and keep them out of trouble. From what I can glean, there had long been rumors of pedophilia, but then a formal complaint of molestation was actually filed by one of the boys about six years ago. The mother had already made an extortion attempt, however, so the authorities felt they didn’t have much of a case—since it may have all been a frame-up—and the accused man was a civic leader.” With a thumb, he closed the screen. “It won’t be easy to research the cold case; the alleged victim died in a car crash, and the mother died in a drug deal gone bad about six months ago.”

Doyle met his eyes. “Is there any evidence that might implicate this victim as the perpetrator for either of
those
deaths?”

He nodded, slowly. “Good catch, DS Doyle; I will put someone on it.”

She quirked her mouth. “If you wouldn’t mind. And I appreciate the pretense that I outrank you; pigs will fly.”

With a shrug, he opened his mobile again to make a note. “It’s your theory—you figured out we had a vigilante in the first place. I’m happy to work as a team on this one.”

The words hung in the air, and the moment was upon her—nothin’ for it. “Let’s go into the consultation room, Thomas. I need to ask you somethin’.”

After indicating to the coroner that they were finished, they stepped across the hallway into the small chamber where grieving relatives gathered before viewing the remains of their loved ones. It held several chairs and a bouquet of fake flowers in a futile attempt to lighten the grim atmosphere, and Doyle shut the door behind them with a click. “I need you to give me an honest answer, if you please.”

If he was surprised by this turn of events, he hid it well. “Right, then.”

“How well do you know Cassie Masterson?”

He was caught off guard, and waited for a long moment before saying cautiously, “I had some drinks with her.”

This was true, but not information enough. “And how did that come about?”

She could see that he didn’t want to tell her, and her heart sank.

“Why do you ask?” he countered.

All thought of a careful and measured interrogation flew out the window. “Thomas,” she whispered through stiff lips. “Are you
workin’
with her?”

His brows came together in puzzlement. “No; I work with you, remember?”

Doyle hesitated, trying to figure out how to get the information she needed. “How many times have you spoken with her?”

“Once. We had some drinks. What is this about?”

She swallowed. “I don’t think that is exactly true.”

He stared at her for a moment, then abruptly confessed, “I rang her up and pretended interest—we had a few drinks together, and”—he tilted his head—“and so on.”

“You
slept
with her?” Men were a completely different breed, Doyle thought in amazement as she stared at him. Truly.

“I was trying to spare you the knowledge. You’re rather strait-laced.”

Bemused, she could only agree. “It’s a proper Puritan, I am.” Of course, there were the recent sessions in the stable and the Range Rover, but that was conjugal, and so a different sort of thing altogether. “Why on
earth
would you be doin’ a line with the likes of her?”

“Aside from the obvious?”

She made a face. “Stop it, Thomas, you’re givin’ me the willies.”

He took a breath, thinking about his answer. “I suppose I was trying to figure out what was going on. It seemed so—so unbelievable that Acton would throw you over for someone like her.”

“Well, Masterson didn’t find it so unbelievable, and a good thing. She was collectin’ information against Acton—was plannin’ an exposé about—about some of his recent activities.” She gave him a significant look; no need to go into detail with Williams—he probably knew more about it than she did.

Williams stared at her. “
What
?”

“Yes—Solonik put her up to it. But she was gettin’ information from someone on the inside.”

He was suddenly angry. “And you thought it was
me
?”

“No—well, not truly, anyway; will you
listen
? Acton found out about the plan and began doin’ a line with her, trying to make her think she could be the next Lady Acton so she’d break with Solonik.”

The light dawned, and Williams lifted his brows. “Those photos.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “Those wretched photos.”

He regarded her for a moment, thinking. “But you didn’t know about Acton’s plan at the time—you thought it was real.”

“Indeed I did; and you have the bruises on your chest to show for it.”

Smiling slightly in acknowledgment, he persisted, “So why this interrogation? Why did you think I was working with Masterson?”

“You spoke of Acton’s filin’ for divorce—remember? She was the only person who would know of such a thing; Acton was lyin’ to her.”

He thought about this. “So that night when you were so upset, you weren’t going to faint about the divorce, you were going to faint because you thought I was helping her bring down Acton.”

“Exactly.”

“And as I am still alive, you did not tell Acton.”

She shook her head. “I just couldn’t believe it, despite what it seemed.” She remembered what Acton had said about perception trumping evidence—right again, that man. “So please don’t try to talk Acton out of filin’ for a divorce.”

He laughed. “No; that would be hazardous to my health.”

She smiled in return, immensely relieved, but knowing that she’d never truly believed it in the first place. “I don’t think Acton would have believed it either, Thomas, if that makes you feel any better—so not so hazardous, after all.”

“So where do things stand? Do I need to attempt another—infiltration of the enemy?”

“Oh—that is
disgustin’.
You will stop it, Thomas Williams, or I will give you the back o’ my hand. Acton has a very good plan to turn the tables, and you mustn’t interfere.”

He nodded, and opened the door for her. “So we are good?”

“We are,” she assured him as they passed out into the linoleum hallway. “We always will be—I’m sorry that I doubted you, even for a moment. Although I must say I can’t admire your taste.”

“It was strictly in the line of duty. She’s too old for me.”

“Not to mention she is the anti-Christ,” she reminded him with a look.

“That, too. Speaking of which, what has happened to your French friend?”

Seeking his own sexual favors, she thought as they approached the stairway. “Playin’ least-in-sight. Hopefully he’ll tire of this little sightseein’ trip and go back to his lair.”

“Remember that you are naïve, by your own admission,” he cautioned.

“Not about him.” This was true; she had no illusions.

He glanced at her sidelong. “Do I get to hear the story?”

“No,” she said firmly, “you don’t. And no detectin’, either; it would give you grey hair.”

“All right,” he agreed, and it was not the truth.

To change the subject, she switched back to the task at hand as they climbed the stairs. “I think this victim was the one that was intended from the beginnin’; they’re all ABC murders, with the difference that the other victims deserved to die, also—or at least in the vigilante’s eyes. It is important that this one was a Section Five, and not a murderer. Or not originally, anyway; pendin’ what we find out about the other deaths.”

But Williams was Williams, and not a leaper-to-conclusions. “Do you really think it is that significant? Section Five is a despicable crime—right up there with murder.”

“Yes,” she agreed diplomatically, aware that Williams had meted out his own justice on the subject. “But I truly believe it’s the key to this case, Thomas.”

They paused on the landing, and he must have been thinking about his own experience also, because he offered, “Perhaps the vigilante is a relative of an unknown victim—another boy who’d been molested.”

Doyle knit her brow. “I don’t know, Thomas—that theory doesn’t account for all the other murders of murderers. I think the killer is someone who felt he had to right all wrongs because
this
was the triggering event; he knew, in hindsight, that this man was not the civic leader that everyone thought he was—probably when the molested boy and the mother conveniently died. Suddenly our vigilante had it up to here, and set about killin’ this one, along with all the others who’d gotten away with murder, due to misplaced public sympathy.”

She paused, still frowning because there was something important here—she was tantalizingly close; so close that her scalp wasn’t even bothering to prickle. Slowly, she said aloud, “Their subsequent crimes made it clear they were guilty in the first place, and should never have gotten off. They were not the sympathetic victims that the papers made them out to be.” Much struck, she cleared her brow. “Faith, I can relate; I’m not who the papers make me out to be, either.”

But Williams shook his head slightly. “I disagree, Kath—you are one of the few people who are exactly what you seem.”

She couldn’t help but smile in response to his tone. “Yes, DI Williams; I am aware there’s a good reason that I’m not on undercover detail. But as for the bridge-jumpin’ heroine, believe me; that’s all puffery and sleight-of-hand.”

Realization suddenly dawned with such clarity that she had to steady herself by grasping the stair rail. It was almost anti-climactic, and she mentally castigated herself as a complete knocker for not seeing it sooner. It
is
all tied up in everything else, she realized, and I suppose it was so obvious, I overlooked it completely.