Murder in Hindsight (25 page)

C
HAPTER
48

“V
ERY NICE, MADAM, IF
I
MAY SAY SO
.”

Reynolds stood to one side, his hands clasped behind his back as Doyle critically examined her reflection in the mirror. Acton had just come home and had promptly gone in to shower, so she’d asked Reynolds for advice about earrings, and was tentatively pleased with the end result; the black knit dress clung to her slender figure and set off the whiteness of her skin against her auburn hair. “D’you think the skirt’s too short?” It seemed very strange to show such an expanse of pale leg.

“Lord Acton will not think so.”

The servant had not betrayed by the flicker of an eyelash his reaction to the fact that the grocery list she’d left on the counter featured a pregnancy test, which was hopefully a good omen, and not a sign that he intended to resign straightaway.

She heard the intercom buzz, and then Reynolds’s voice as he went to answer it. A moment later he stood at the entry to the bedroom and announced, “There is a detective downstairs who asked for Lord Acton, and then when I said he was unavailable, asked for a word with you, madam.”

“Downstairs?” It could only be Williams, and she wondered what he needed as she crossed to the kitchen intercom—perhaps he had more information on Masterson. “Hey.”

“Doyle? It’s Samuels.”

This was a surprise, but it was probably something important, if he was coming after-hours like this. “Oh—oh, hallo, Samuels. Acton is showerin’, I’m afraid. Can I help?”

“Would you mind coming on down for a moment? I have something I’d rather not leave with the concierge.”

This was untrue, and gave her pause. “Oh? What sort of thing?”

He lowered his voice. “It has to do with Solonik.”

This was true, and she immediately entertained the unwelcome thought that—no matter what Savoie had promised—Solonik was going forward with his vengeance plan. “Right; I’ll be down directly.”

Reynolds offered, “Shall I accompany you, madam?”

But she harbored a burgeoning fear that her doings with Solonik were about to be exposed to Acton, and so she mustered up an easy smile. “No—he’s a friend from work and I’ll just say hallo.”

Trying to hide her anxiety, Doyle descended in the lift and walked out to see Samuels in the vestibule near the revolving glass door, ashen of face as he clutched a padded mailing envelope. Her heart sank; he was emanating guilt and anxiety—Samuels, who had been asking too many questions about Acton. He did not seem ambitious enough to be the conspiratorial type, but then again, you never knew. She decided it would be best to pretend she did not know what was afoot—if she had any trouble, after all, the concierge was close to hand. With a friendly smile, she approached him, balancing carefully on her heels. “Hallo, Samuels. What’s up?”

A sheen of perspiration reflected off his brow as he glanced at the security desk. “Come out to my car, I need to show you something.”

She wasn’t certain if this was true, but had a ready excuse. “I can’t—I’m gettin’ ready to go out. What’s this about Solonik?”

In response, he stepped close and pressed the envelope next to her side. “Keep quiet and come with me—I have a gun.”

This was true, and Doyle’s eyes flew to his in astonishment as he took her arm and firmly steered her toward the revolving door. For a moment, she debated putting up a fight here—where help was at hand—as opposed to going along and hoping to catch him off guard, or even talk him out of it. It was not an easy decision, what with the gun barrel aimed against her in the approximate location of the baby. “Samuels,” she said as calmly as she was able. “You can’t be serious—what ails you? Have you been drinkin’?”

“Come along—quickly. If you cooperate, I won’t hurt you.”

“Where are we going?” She leaned back, but he had her arm in an iron grip and pulled her along to the sidewalk outside. Stalling, she asked in a meek tone, “Can I take off my shoes? I’m not used to walkin’ in them.”

“We won’t be walking long; I’ve got a car up ahead, in the alley.”

This did not bode well, and she realized she’d have to make a stand rather than get into a car with him—best to allow him to think she was frightened and docile, and then take her chance when the moment of truth came. “Samuels; I’m Lady Acton, for heaven’s sake—you canno’ just be stealin’ me off the street.”

“No talking—and stay over here, next to the building.” Nervously, he glanced around them, but the street was quiet on this weekday evening; the ground still wet from a recent shower. And now that she had a good look, she realized there was something strange about his pallor—something not right. “Are you on drugs or somethin’, my friend? Because you’re not acting rationly.”

“Rationally,” he corrected in annoyance. “Stay quiet; and once we get in the car you’ll lie down—I can’t take the chance someone will recognize you.”

“All right—all right; don’t be pullin’, I’m comin’.” She feigned a stumble and took the opportunity to slip out of her shoes, hopping along to keep up. At least she had a weapon of sorts, now. “I wish you’d tell me what this is all about, Samuels—Acton will be furious.”

“No—Acton will be stymied.”

As his hurried steps echoed along the quiet street, Doyle silently kept up, the damp pavement cold against her feet as she tried to decide what would be best to do. It was miserably ironic that this was the one time she was not wearing her ankle holster—
stupid
dress.

After another nervous glance behind them, Samuels abruptly turned into a side street, but then stopped so short that she bumped into him. Before them was Williams, approaching up the narrow sidewalk and seemingly unconcerned, his hands in his pockets.

“Hallo, Williams,” said Samuels, and pressed the gun barrel against Doyle meaningfully.

“Hallo, Williams,” she dutifully repeated.

Williams stopped in surprise and looked up at them. “Hallo; where are you two off to?”

“We’re going to the coffeehouse to talk over some evidence,” said Samuels, indicating the envelope.

Williams’s gaze rested on Doyle’s, and she slid her eyes sidelong. Go call Acton, she thought. Go get help; I’ll stall him.

“You forgot your coat, Doyle,” said Williams.

“I’m quite all right, we’re just goin’ down to the corner—are you comin’ to see Acton? I think he’s expectin’ you.” This said with a great deal of meaning.

But Williams was nothing if not stubborn. “First, let me lend you my coat.”

Williams began to shrug out of his coat, but Samuels was not to be diverted by whatever the other man had in mind, and immediately abandoned all pretense, yanking Doyle before him like a shield. “Don’t move, or I swear I’ll shoot her.”

Williams slowly raised his hands to each side and said reasonably, “Samuels, it’s
Doyle
. You can’t shoot Doyle; if you need a hostage, take me.”

Samuels swallowed hard and glanced up, gauging where the CCTV cameras were. “Where is your car?”

“Across the way,” said Williams, indicating behind him.

“Right—I’ll take her in your car. Give me your keys and your mobile.”

“Let her go,” said Williams, who made no move to comply. “I’ll drive you wherever you want to go and say nothing to anyone.”

“You’re not well,” added Doyle. “C’mon, Samuels;
please
rethink this.”

Samuels gave Doyle a slight yank, just for emphasis. “Do you think I’m an idiot? You’re my last chance at staying alive. Now, do what I ask.”

“Samuels,” Doyle carefully turned one of the shoes around in her hand. “You
do
sound like an idiot; no one is tryin’ to kill you.”

Samuels made a derisive, agitated sound that was not at all in keeping with his normally easy-going demeanor. “Don’t you know what happened to Solonik today?”

“Solonik is
dead
?” She turned her head to stare at him, so astonished that she dropped one of her shoes.

“Not a good end.” Samuels took a ragged breath. “And I’m not waiting around to be next—someone is staking my flat.”

Doyle could not like the implication. “For heaven’s sake, Samuels—Acton did not kill Solonik. Let’s all go back and forget this ever happened.” Tensing her hand on the shoe, she met Williams’s gaze for a quick moment, trying to convey that she was about to make a move and that he should get ready.

But this plan was interrupted by a passerby, who hailed them from across the narrow street. “Excuse me?”

Wary, Samuels pressed the gun into Doyle’s ribs and they turned to face a businessman, dressed in a fine suit of clothes and approaching rather apologetically, carrying an umbrella and a briefcase. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but aren’t you that policewoman who jumped off the bridge? Would you mind if I took a snap? My wife will never believe it.”

“Stay back—she’s—she’s not well,” directed Samuels as he held out a cautioning hand. The movement brought the packing envelope away from Doyle’s side for a moment, and after deciding that there was no time like the present, she jerked up her shoe, trying to aim the heel toward her captor’s eyes and, at the same time, twisting away from the envelope.

Several things then happened in rapid succession; with a curse, Samuels flinched away from her heel, and Williams lunged, calling out, “Get down!” Doyle, however, was not about to go down to the ground in a short skirt, and wound up sandwiched between the grappling men, getting an arm free so as to shove her palm under Samuels’s chin whilst they all fell against the brick wall with a thud.

“Everyone, freeze.” Suddenly Acton stood beside them, holding a gun barrel against Samuels’s temple. “Kathleen, step away.”

“He has a gun,” Doyle advised, not certain whether she should untangle herself whilst Samuels still held it.

“Drop it.” There was an ominous click as a bullet was loaded into the firing chamber of Acton’s weapon.

Gasping for breath and grey-faced, Samuels dropped the envelope from shaking fingers and slowly sank to the ground as Doyle and Williams stepped away from him. Acton bent to pat him down with his free hand, his face a grim mask. His hair was damp and he was in his shirtsleeves, which only served as a measure of his agitation—Acton’s appearance was always impeccable. “Report.”

Williams made to speak, but Doyle interrupted, conscious of the witness who had halted in surprise a few steps away, and continued to watch as events unfolded. “Perhaps not just now.”

“I say,” said the passerby in alarm. “I think he’s having some sort of seizure.”

It was true; Samuels had slumped over, his eyes rolling back in his head and his jaw clenching. Acton and Williams crouched over him, Acton loosening his collar and flipping up an eyelid. “Call an ambulance,” he directed Williams. “And then take my wife to the flat and wait there.”

Williams hesitated. “Should I—”

“Do as I ask,” said Acton in a tone that brooked no argument, and Williams promptly pulled his mobile, glancing up to note the cross streets.

The businessman stepped forward to address Acton in a deferential tone. “Am I needed? I was just on my way home.”

Acton glanced up at him. “You’ll be needed to make a statement, I’m afraid.” Then, to Williams, “Go.”

Williams took Doyle’s arm, but Doyle had frozen in confusion. When the passerby had leaned over, she’d glimpsed a neck tattoo beneath the starched collar, and realized with a jolt of surprise that he was Gerry Lestrade who—if she could keep her cast of villains straight—was Savoie’s other brother. She was strongly reminded that Acton did not believe in coincidences, and so ventured, “Might I have a word, Michael?”

Sirens could be heard approaching in the distance as Acton rose to take her aside. “Quickly, then.”

There was nothing for it—she would have to warn him, and take her lumps. She swallowed. “I believe this man is not a casual passerby. I believe he is affiliated with Savoie, so please be careful.”

He stared at her for a moment, and she had the feeling he was surprised but not necessarily as alarmed as he should have been. “I see.”

“Be careful,” she said again, although Acton surely must have drawn his own conclusions.

“Go,” he directed. “I’ll be there shortly.”

“Are you angry?” she asked in a tentative tone, unable to stand the suspense.

“Not at you.” He leaned to kiss her forehead. “Go.”

C
HAPTER
49

D
OYLE AND
W
ILLIAMS SAT QUIETLY ON THE LEATHER SOFA
, waiting for Acton. Doyle had been carefully wrapped in a blanket by Reynolds, who was now brewing coffee, pale of lip and emanating guilt and remorse. Doyle could only imagine the scene that had transpired when Acton had stepped out of the shower and wondered where his wife was.

Williams, glumly seated beside her, was not faring much better than Reynolds. “I’m going to get the sack.”

“No, you’re not.” She paused. “Don’t tell him about Masterson, though.”

“I had no idea he would do such a desperate thing—Samuels, of all people.”

She knit her brow. “Then why were you stakin’ him?”

“I wasn’t—Acton asked me to go over to his flat tonight, to see if he was there. He must have known about what happened to Solonik, and was aware that Samuels had a connection.”

“Yes—we think Samuels was feedin’ him information about Acton.”

“Not a surprise.” Williams watched Reynolds move about in the kitchen and then noted in a neutral tone, “At least that means I’m off the hook as a suspect.”

Ah—she saw that the memory still smarted, and she was quick to reassure. “Recall that I never believed it was you who was the back-stabber.”

“Oh yes, you did.”

She corrected herself. “Well, I realized almost immediately it wasn’t you. You have to admit I had good reason—you were consortin’ with the enemy, an’ all.”

But it appeared he wasn’t going to let her wriggle off the hook so easily. “If the tables were turned, I never would have doubted you.”

“Whist, Thomas; recall you once accused me of bein’ a brasser, tryin’ to seduce Acton for capital gain.”

“I was in insulin shock at the time,” he explained, annoyed. “That hardly counts.”

“Let’s call it even, then.” She paused while Reynolds served the coffee, and after a quick internal debate, decided that since she was traumatized, and the baby was the size of a mustard seed, a little cup of coffee would not be outside the line.

Williams took a sip and then clicked her cup with his own. “Excellent use of a shoe, DS Doyle.”

She demurred, “I truly was in no danger—he wanted me as a hostage, is all.”

“Were you going out? You look bang-up. Or you did, anyway.”

“May I offer sandwiches, perhaps?” Reynolds hovered, giving off just a hint of disapproval.

Why, I believe I am being chaperoned, Doyle thought in amusement. “No thanks, Reynolds. We’re waitin’ to be chewed out, so we’re not hungry.”

“I understand completely,” said the servant heavily, with a glance toward the door.

“Make sure the new vase is not close to hand,” she cautioned.

Any further commiseration was halted by the appearance of Acton himself, whose gaze rested on Doyle immediately as he came through the door. “Are you all right?”

“I am,” she replied, then amended, “I have lost a shoe.”

“What is the protocol?” asked Williams, who had risen to his feet.

Acton took a warm jacket out of the hall closet, and considered this question as he pulled it on. “It seems we’ve had the tragic death of an off-duty policeman. Perhaps not unexpected; we shall see if he had a history of drug abuse, or a pre-existing condition.”

Yes; no doubt such a thing would come to light—although whether it was true or not was another matter. There was no question it would be best to keep this little contretemps—and the reasons for it—away from the light of day. “There will be CCTV feed,” Doyle reminded him.

“No—I don’t think there will,” Acton replied without concern. Then, to Williams, “You may go; I will have a debriefing tomorrow.”

“May I prepare a light supper?” asked Reynolds.

“No; you may go, also.”

Both men took their leave with no further ado, and Doyle watched them go, thinking that she was lucky there was little she could do to earn her husband’s disapproval. “Please don’t be sackin’ people, left and right, Michael—I was an idiot, and I’m that ashamed to call myself a banner.”

He struggled with it for a moment, but in the end, could not contain himself. “You left the flat to speak to a man who you know is trouble, and you did not take your mobile or your weapon.”

Poor Acton—he must have been beside himself, and she couldn’t very well tell him why she was so eager to meet with Samuels alone. “I’m an idiot,” she repeated, and hung her head like a good penitent. “Thank the holy saints DC Samuels had some sort of seizure.” She glanced up at him from under her lashes.

“I did not kill him,” he said immediately, and it was the truth.

This was a relief, although it went without saying that the man would have sealed his own fate had he indeed kidnapped the fair Doyle, and it was just as well Acton wasn’t given an opportunity to wreak his own revenge. Cradling her cup, she observed in wonder, “So just like that, Solonik and Samuels are both dead. Faith, it’s almost as though the turf war is still goin’ on, in a strange way. At least this time you are not behind the killin’s, Michael—which shows remarkable restraint, all in all. I am very proud of you.”

He ran a hand, gently, over her head. “I want nothing more,” he said slowly, “than to keep you safe. And happy.”

There seemed to be an odd nuance beneath the words, and she was moved to take his hand and say with all sincerity, “You always make me happy, Michael—please don’t think it’s dependent on your tryin’ to be someone you are not; I would forgive you anythin’, too.”

“Let’s not test it, shall we?”

“When’s the next time we’re due for Trestles?” she teased.

He mustered up a chuckle, leaning in so that his forehead rested against hers, his hair still damp.

Rather stricken by this delayed reaction to the dire events, she assured him, “Believe me, Michael, I have learned my lesson—no more walkin’ like a lamb into an ambush.” She thought of her meetings with Solonik and Savoie, and could only thank God fasting that he knew nothing about those particular misdeeds. “I have repented of my wayward ways, my hand on my heart.”

“I am glad to hear it.”

He hadn’t moved, and taking his hands in hers, she asked, “How are you? I can’t tell and it’s frustratin’; please put me out of my misery.”

She felt him draw in a breath. “I am as well as can be expected.”

“I am a trial to my poor husband,” she lamented.

“It has not escaped my notice,” he replied softly against her head, “that you would have no trials at all, had you not thrown in your lot with me.”

“Whist—I’m a bundle o’ bad luck.”

“Shall we share a fruit pie?”

She raised her head with a smile. “You’re scarin’ me, Michael. Who are you, and what have you done with the Chief Inspector?”

He lifted her hand to kiss the palm. “I am determined to keep you well fed, this time.”

“All right. Do your worst.” He put an arm around her and she leaned her head on his shoulder as they made their way into the kitchen. “This is exactly what I deserve for dressin’ up. It’s against the natural order, is what it is.”

“Nonsense; you are breathtaking.”

“Knocker; you’d think I was breathtakin’ in a hopsack.”

“Or out of one.” He kissed the top of her head.

“I see how it is,” she teased. “Despite all your fine talk of food.”

“Hush.” He pulled out a kitchen chair. “Sit.”

“You’re not to be hushin’ me, husband; it does you no good a’tall.”

“I know; I can barely face down the neighbors when I see them in the lobby.”

Scandalized, she hit him with a napkin.