Murder in Hindsight (5 page)

C
HAPTER
7

D
OYLE WOUND UP EATING A CANTEEN SANDWICH AT HER DESK
while she worked on the cold case files. She was cross-indexing the old crimes by creating a spreadsheet of pertinent facts about the victims, the type of crime, and the personnel who worked on the cases, including the judges and courtroom personnel. It was detailed and tedious work, which explained why she was all too willing to catch Munoz’s attention when the girl passed down the aisle between their cubicles. “So—how did it go with the graduate student? I’m deservin’ of a report, bein’ as I was instrumental in the battle plan.”

“Success,” reported Munoz with a self-satisfied air. “We’re going out tonight.”

“He seemed smitten; it is surprisin’ such tactics were needed or necessary.”

“I think he was intimidated, at first.” Munoz smoothed back her glossy hair. “A lot of men are.”

“He’s only dazzled,” Doyle assured her. “In no time a’tall he’ll be takin’ gross advantage of you.”

“No one takes advantage of me,” the beauty declared with a brow that arched at the very idea. “My problem is that I get bored too quickly.”

With acute regret, Doyle bit back a rejoinder about a certain Irishman pretending to be a Russian, and instead offered, “Patience is a virtue, DS Munoz.”

The other girl drew up a corner of her mouth in derision. “That’s a laugh, coming from you.”

Nettled, Doyle returned, “Not everyone is as lucky as I was.”

“Oh-ho, so you’ll admit it was sheer luck? What—was Acton drunk at the time?”

This hit a bit too close to home, and Doyle retorted hotly, “Lucky he didn’t fall for the likes o’ you, he is.”

But Munoz was aware she’d landed a punch, and pronounced with no small amount of satisfaction, “He’ll wake up; it’s only a matter of time, with a man like that.”

Doyle rose to her feet and clenched her fists. “Take. That. Back.”

Abruptly, Munoz subsided and exclaimed in exasperation, “You’re right; I have to take it back—can’t you see? You always have to win, now.”

Although she still glowered, Doyle saw the justice of this remark and sank down into her chair again with a thud. “It’s
ridiculous,
is what it is.”

With a sound of extreme annoyance, the other girl agreed. “Yes, it’s ridiculous. I’m lucky my date isn’t even aware of the stupid
incident
.”

But Doyle reminded her with heavy regret, “He will be; no one can let it go, the
stupid
knockers.”

They contemplated this sad fact a bit glumly, Munoz’s impressive breast rising and falling with a sigh. “No, they can’t let it go. And you will have the upper hand for all eternity.”

But Doyle suddenly raised her head and met Munoz’s eyes. “No. No, I don’t have the upper hand. You would have done the same for me; it was only luck that it was me instead of you.” They paused for a moment, both of them considering this profundity in the silence it deserved. Doyle insisted, “It’s true; you would have, Izzy.”

Munoz nodded in reluctant acknowledgment, but still could not quite concede. “I know how to swim, though, so it wouldn’t have been the same.”

Now it was Doyle’s turn to consider this, seriously and with a knit brow. “I don’t think that matters; we’re even.”

The other girl slowly agreed, “Yes, you’re right; it was only a matter of luck—that it was you instead of me.”

“And you and I both know it, even if no one else does.”

Munoz blew out a breath. “I can live with that.”

“Cheers.” Doyle went back to her spreadsheet as Munoz walked away.

In the late afternoon, Samuels came by and asked if anyone was interested in going to a local pub after work. Samuels worked with DCI Drake’s team, and was nice enough. Plain vanilla, Doyle’s mother would have described him.

“Can’t,” Munoz called out from across the aisle way. “I have a date.”

“I was goin’ to look in at Acton’s lecture,” Doyle demurred. “Is Williams done with his trial? Perhaps he’s available.”

“He’s working late; got to stay atop the ladder, after all.”

There was a rumor afoot that Williams was soon to be promoted to detective inspector, and Doyle hastily intervened before Munoz could reiterate her extreme vexation over such a potential turn of events. “What does Drake have you workin’ on, Samuels?”

“If you’d like, I’ll walk with you over to the Academy and tell you about it.”

Doyle had spent little time with Samuels and so was a bit surprised by the offer, but agreed with good grace as she began to pack up her rucksack. She was not sociable by nature, but had to make an effort if she was to rise in the ranks, being as it was a time-honored truth that socializing at work stood one in better stead than the most glowing of reviews. And the Academy was but a few blocks away, so there was little fear of being stuck trying to make conversation—she’d had her fill of thorny conversations this fine day.

They exited the building; the evening-shift desk sergeant was not as big a fan as the day-shift one, but nevertheless he nodded to her respectfully. Samuels began to tell her of a field investigation he was working on; a weapons ring had been unearthed, and a cache had been discovered in a garden shed. “You should have seen it; guns hanging on pegs along the wall like so many gardening tools.”

Doyle had a twinge of conscience; she was aware that Acton smuggled illegal weapons himself—although he didn’t know that she knew—and she surmised there was a similar cache in the safe at home. She hoped Samuels wasn’t investigating Acton all unknowing, which would be a dodgy little development for the illustrious chief inspector. However, this seemed unlikely, as Acton no doubt kept his finger on the pulse of all such investigations. “Were you in on the arrests?” Her assailant at the projects was the first time Doyle herself had ever tried to arrest anyone, as Acton tended to keep her away from any situation that was remotely dangerous.

“No—they’d cleared out. But we’re close; we’ve been getting a lot of good tips.” He paused. “Have you ever been in a shoot-out?”

“No. You?”

He turned his head to watch her for a moment. “No? I thought you’d been wounded.”

A bit startled, Doyle kept her voice neutral and said truthfully, “No, no one’s ever shot at me.” She did have a bullet wound in her calf where she had accidentally shot herself whilst shooting the trainee who wanted to kill her, but this was a well-kept secret. How Samuels came across the idea that she’d been wounded was a mystery—although he’d been present when her soggy self had been pulled from the Thames; perhaps he’d seen her scar. In any event, it seemed he’d lost interest.

“So—Holmes is giving a lecture.”

“Indeed he is, and a good thing. He knows so much; it’s to the betterment of us all if he gives us a glimpse.”

With a smile, her companion could only agree. “Of course—he’s a legend. What’s he like? I mean, when he’s not at work; what does he do?”

She thought, I suppose I could tell him that Acton suffers from an obsessive mental condition that leads him to kill anyone who proves to be a threat to me, makes him insatiable when it comes to sex, and drink too much on occasion, but instead I’d better behave myself. “He’s very private, Samuels.”

“Sorry,” the other apologized with a small smile. “Nosy by nature, I’m afraid.”

To show she wasn’t offended, she teased, “Are you? I wondered a little that you took this job.” Samuels did not show to advantage next to his colleagues; he seemed to lack any real passion for detective work.

“I’m not as mad about it as the rest of you, but I do enjoy it,” he protested. “It certainly pays well.”

Doyle had the strong impression he felt he’d said something very amusing. Hoping she hadn’t embarrassed him, she changed the subject. “Have you identified the suspects in the garden shed case?”

“Not as yet.”

Interestingly enough, this was not true. He’s a confusing one, she thought; he doesn’t match himself, or something.

“Here we are.”

They had arrived at the Crime Academy, and as they passed through the door, Doyle grimaced in remembrance. “Faith, I’m glad I’m quit of this place.”

He laughed, “Surely it wasn’t that bad.”

But she could not agree. “I’m not much of a student, my friend; I’d still be here if Williams hadn’t helped me pass ballistics.”

Samuels laughed again, but slanted her a knowing look that annoyed her, as it seemed to imply there was something going on betwixt herself and Williams. She shrugged it off; she couldn’t let it bother her—gossip always ran rampant in any workplace, and she and Williams were thick as thieves.

They walked to the main lecture hall, but it was locked. Doyle peered through the window in the door, but it was dark inside. “We must have missed it—I might have mixed up the time.”

“Or it was cancelled,” Samuels suggested.

This seemed unlikely; certainly Acton would have let her know. “Maybe.”

Samuels called to two trainees who were passing by in the hallway. “Did DCI Acton give his lecture?”

“Oh yes, it was three to four o’ clock,” answered one. “Very interesting.”

“How annoyin’,” said Doyle with a smile. “I got my times crossed.” It was puzzling; she was certain Acton had said the lecture would make him miss dinner.

But her thoughts were interrupted by one of the trainees, who ventured, “You are Officer Doyle, aren’t you ma’am?” The woman emanated waves of respect and goodwill.

With her pinned-on smile, Doyle admitted, “Indeed I am.”

The young man added reverently, “The instructor spoke of you at class today; about—about how important it was for us to have each other’s backs, no matter what. It is an honor to meet you.” They all shook hands, whilst Doyle tried to think of something profound to say and came up short.

“Carry on,” said Samuels easily, and they walked away. “Look at you; you’re a rock star.”

“Just lucky to be there when I was,” she demurred, thinking about her discussion with Munoz. Doyle’s belief system didn’t really recognize luck as such, but it was an easier, shorthand way to discuss weighty issues like providence and grace.

“Want to share a cab?” asked Samuels as they approached the street.

“No thanks, I’ll take the tube.” She was reluctant to take a cab, since to do so always made her miss Aiki, and although she was supposed to call the concierge’s driving service, Doyle found she wanted to walk for a bit so as to clear her head. It had been a strange day, between Williams, and her rescuer, and Samuels, and Acton not being where he said he’d be; an overabundance of men putting her through her paces—although Munoz was in there, too, so it hadn’t been only the men. Hunching her shoulders against the chilly wind, she walked for a block toward the tube station, thinking about the park murders. She was making headway on the case—even though nothing leapt out off the page as yet. It would; she was certain. She had a feeling, she did, and her feelings were usually reliable. There was a common denominator and she would find it—she knew she was close.

On the other hand, Acton would not be happy when she did solve it, because this case kept her out of the field, and he was a first-class fretter. Reminded, she pulled out her mobile and noted that he hadn’t texted her for over an hour—perhaps the short-lived therapy had done some good, after all. Perhaps they could even think about starting a family again; her pregnancy earlier this year had been a surprise, and before her miscarriage she’d had mixed emotions about her impending motherhood. The loss had been painful, and now she found she was rather eager to try again.

With an inward sigh, she abandoned her idea to take the tube at rush hour, and instead rang up the driving service; she needed a few more minutes of peace and quiet because there was a hovering uneasiness that she could not shake, and the last thing she needed was for someone to recognize her on the tube.

Once home, she noted that Acton had not yet arrived. She greeted Reynolds, who had made something that smelt delicious for dinner, and informed him, “Reynolds, I believe you saw my bruises this mornin’. I was attacked by an assailant, and I promise you it wasn’t Acton.”

“No, madam,” he agreed. “I could not imagine Lord Acton would do such a thing.” He exchanged a look with her, and much was unspoken. “Do you need medical care?”

“No; I’ve weathered many a bruise, my friend. But in the meantime, I’ll have to cover them up, or the Domestic Violence Unit will be arrestin’ my poor husband. If we have to break him out of gaol, Reynolds, can I count on you to cover the flank?”

“Certainly, madam,” the servant agreed, and took her coat.

CHAPTER 8

A
CTON RETURNED JUST AS
R
EYNOLDS WAS PREPARING TO LEAVE
, so the servant paused to take his briefcase and coat. Doyle was seated at the table, the files spread out around her as she continued to compile her spreadsheet. Acton told Reynolds there was a list of items to be purchased in his coat pocket, and then absently ran a hand over Doyle’s head as he passed by on his way to the fridge. Interesting, she thought. When he was compelled to stroke her head, it was usually a sign that he was worried—although he had headed to the fridge, and not the liquor cabinet. “How went your lecture?”

“As well as can be expected. There were some intelligent questions, which is a good sign.”

“I went to have a look-in,” she offered, watching him.

He met her eyes as he pulled out the orange juice bottle. “At the wrong time?”

“Yes, they said it was earlier.”

“My fault; I should have let you know—I didn’t realize you’d stop in.”

“And I so wanted to heckle you,” she teased. In truth, she thought her presence might have been helpful; he was famously reclusive and did not suffer fools—it was not beyond the realm of possibility that he would dress down some poor trainee for asking the wrong question.

“I’m sorry, Kathleen.” He passed behind her on his way to the main room, and as he did, he gently placed a hand on her head.

Although he was on his way out, Reynolds offered, “May I prepare you a plate, sir?”

“I’m not very hungry, but thank you.”

Reynolds departed, and Doyle kept typing as Acton stood by the windows, drinking orange juice straight from the bottle as he looked out over the city. She was not paying attention to her work, though, instead thinking about how he could not stop touching her head and how he had given her a string of equivocal answers so that she could not spot a lie. He was a wily one, was Acton, and he’d also been drinking, although he was doing a masterful job of trying to obscure this fact. She wondered if he was caught up in something having to do with the illegal guns-running—now, there would be a crisis to top all the other ones, if he were to be caught and prosecuted. It didn’t bear thinking about, so she didn’t think about it anymore—it was only on her mind after her conversation with Samuels.

“Anything of interest in the cold cases?”

She paused in her pretend-typing. “I found one new commonality—and it’s a wrinkle. Drake was the DS on one of the underlying cases, and the DI on one.”

He crossed his arms and bowed his head, thinking. “I don’t see it,” he said finally.

“No, me neither.” DCI Drake was Acton’s equivalent in rank, but nothing like Acton—no one was, after all. Drake was rather full of himself and something of a Jack-the-lad; he’d been reprimanded more than once for having sexual liaisons with female staff. It was hard to imagine Drake bestirring himself enough to be a vigilante.

“How about someone under Drake’s command?” Acton asked thoughtfully.

“Good idea, I’ll get to that next; right now I’m finishing up court personnel.”

“Judges?”

“A variety,” she reported. “Colcombe was the one who turned up the most, but he’s dead, so if we think it’s the same vigilante for all of these murders, it can’t be him.”

Acton set down the juice container and walked closer to the windows, thinking aloud as he reviewed the street below. “Here’s a working theory: this vigilante was not certain, at the time, that these murderers had escaped justice. He waited until—with hindsight—it was irrefutable.”

“I suppose that would explain the lapse of time,” she agreed, although she wasn’t certain what “irrefutable” meant—Acton was going all House-of-Lords on her again. She held out a hand to him. “Come sit next to me, Michael; I don’t care if you’ve taken a tipple after havin’ to do your wretched class. It’s only me, remember?”

He bowed his head for a moment before taking her proffered hand. “Sorry. I didn’t want you to know.”

“Knocker.” To smooth out any awkwardness, she reviewed her notes and continued the discussion as though there hadn’t been any interruption as he seated himself next to her at the table. “So, if that is our workin’ theory, who is our vigilante? What type of person would wait so long to serve up justice?”

Acton leaned back in his chair and gazed out the windows again. “Ethnicity of the victims?”

“Mixed. Three black, two white, one Middle Eastern.”

He considered this in silence. “Is there a pattern as to the timing?”

“If there is, it’s not obvious. And he’s been changin’ the caliber of the weapon and the site of the entry wound to cover the fact it’s the same killer, but it’s always to the back of the head.”

He crossed his arms and lowered his chin to his chest. “So we have a vigilante who wishes to remain anonymous, meets them in an innocuous setting, and then takes them by surprise, with no confrontation.”

She paused, as this was an excellent point, particularly as she now knew what “innocuous” meant. Trust Acton to cut to the nub of it, and point out this rather odd aspect of the case. “Yes—he’s not someone who wants to let them know they are payin’ for their sins. He just kills them—no accusations or drama.” Avery strange vigilante, then. Much struck, she added, “And I suppose Munoz is right yet again; the fact that the murders are all in a park is important—because the settin’ is non-threatenin’.”

“Or he is comfortable in such a setting. The logistics are difficult, with the CCTV cameras, but he makes it work.” Nearly every public area in London was under the scrutiny of a security camera; the vigilante was careful to do the crimes at night and in an area where there was a seam in the coverage. The ERU video-reviewers had found nothing about the various people who’d been filmed walking to and from the kill sites to incite any interest; nothing stood out.

Thinking of all this, Doyle typed a summation note and recited aloud, “So he’s the type of person who’s done his homework; he’s somehow become certain of the victim’s guilt in an earlier, unsolved murder, and he arranges to dispense justice off-camera, with little evidence to show for it, and enough people in the area so that we cannot focus on anyone in particular.” She frowned. “It’s soundin’ more and more like he’s someone from law enforcement, isn’t it?”

Acton tilted his head in polite disagreement. “But the victims were not alarmed; the footprints show they walked abreast, and the posture of the bodies does not indicate a defensive struggle, or an attempt to escape.”

Doyle blew out a breath, stymied yet again. “Right you are; these victims would not have been comfortable and unsuspectin’ if they were walkin’ along with a law enforcement type.”

Acton offered, “It was not a bad idea, though; it does seem the killer knows his forensics.”

“Don’t humor me when I have a dumb idea,” she reminded him dryly.

“You never have a dumb idea,” he protested, and leaned to kiss her, which was very much appreciated and inspired her to take a break and close her laptop—sometimes it was best to stew about it for a bit, when she was coming up empty.

“It’s a crackin’ shame there are so many variables. Habib thinks if I can find another vigilante murder, the commonality may become more obvious.”

“The abundance of variables is what makes it all the more interesting.” Acton leaned back in his chair to review the city lights. “And consequently more satisfying when it is resolved.”

She hid a smile at the high-flying language. “Easy for you to say; you’re not the one sloggin’ through the dusty files.” Feeling stiff, she stretched her arms up over her head, holding one wrist with the other hand and then flinching at the contact with her bruises.

Immediately, he reached to take hold of one of her hands, sliding back the sleeve. Oh-oh, she thought; here we go.

He firmly pulled her chair around to face him, and began unbuttoning her shirt. “Stand up, if you please.”

“I’ll be warnin’ you, it’s not pretty.” She stood, and allowed him to peel off her shirt.

He lifted an arm and examined it. “Christ.”

“You mustn’t blaspheme, Michael,” she scolded gently.

He lifted the other arm. “
Christ
.”

“It looks worse than it is; you of all people know that I bruise easily.” She smiled down at him, teasing. When they’d first married, he often bruised her during sex and was wracked with guilt afterward. Sometimes he still did, when he got carried away.

But he was not to be distracted. “Who did this?”

As this was not an avenue she wished to pursue, she said with finality, “A man who wanted drugs, I told you; I was helped by a passerby and we subdued him—it’s water under the bridge, it is.” He was furious—she could feel it—and it didn’t help matters that he was bosky, to boot. “Michael,” she said quietly. “Please.”

He met her eyes. “Why don’t you want me to know?”

“You already know the answer to that, my friend,” she replied softly. Let him think that she was worried he would run amok—which indeed he would, if he caught the slightest hint of what had happened. She bent down to kiss him gently, and he withstood this assault for a long moment—which only showed how upset he was—then pulled her onto his lap, albeit very carefully. “Let’s go to bed,” she whispered. “I want to show you some areas that remained unbruised; at least for the time bein’.”

Sometime later, she sat once again at the table, rosy of face and dressed in her robe, considering new ideas for search criteria based on their earlier conversation. Acton was on the sofa, supposedly reading a file, but she could feel him watching her. It didn’t bother her; he would watch her for hours, sometimes.

“I have a question,” he finally said.

“Ask away.”

“When are you going to wear the dress in your drawer?”

She raised her head, amused. She hadn’t worn a dress in many years, but on impulse had purchased a very chic black one, some months ago. It remained hidden in her drawer, awaiting an appropriate occasion. “It is impossible to surprise you, Michael. You are an incurable Section Seven.” The reference was to the anti-stalking law.

“The dress has been there for quite some time,” he offered in his own defense.

She admitted, “I bought it for Brighton.”

There was a poignant pause. While Doyle was recovering from poisoning and her miscarriage, Acton had planned a weekend trip to Brighton to cheer them both up. The pleasure trip was cancelled because Acton had killed Caroline, and then stayed in town to help Timothy with his sister’s apparent suicide.

“Shall we reschedule?” he offered.

She thought about it. Neither one of them was much for going out nor traveling; they were very content to live quietly with each other and away from other people—not that it had been very quiet, thus far. “Perhaps when it is warmer; then we can swim.” He had promised to teach her to swim, after the bridge-jumping incident.

“Will you put the dress on now, so that I can see?”

“You’ll just take it off,” she responded with a smile. “At least wait until the bruises fade.”

He relapsed into silence. Something is afoot, she thought, and wished she knew what it was.

“I must travel to Trestles,” he said.

This was out of the clear blue, and she stared at him in surprise. Trestles was his estate somewhere to the north of London; he held an ancient barony. His mother, the dowager Lady Acton, was a very unpleasant woman whom Doyle had met on one memorable occasion when she’d been forced to throw the old harridan out of the flat. Doyle had never been to Trestles and, truth to tell, was reluctant to go—Acton had married well beneath him, and a visit to his ancestral estate would only drive home this undeniable fact. However, as he could not spend the night away from her, this meant she was to accompany him.

“You may stay here, if you like.”

Immediately, her instinct went on red alert. “I don’t know, Michael; wither thou goest, I will go. It’s past time I took a look at the place, I think.”

She caught a glimpse of dismay, quickly extinguished. Whatever was afoot, he wanted her well-away from it, which only meant she’d best hang on to his coat tails like grim death. “Right then; I’m not certain when we will go, as yet.”

Trying to hedge, he was. “Are there horses at Trestles?” She had been put in the presence of horses during the investigation of the racecourse murders, and—to her profound surprise—had discovered that the idea of riding a horse was very appealing. “You can teach me to ride, instead of swim.”

He had recovered his equilibrium, and replied, “Fair enough.” Rising, he walked over to look out the windows again, and she watched him out of the corner of her eye. She could ask what was distressing him, but it would only force him to give an equivocal answer so she wouldn’t know he was lying. As it was a stalemate, she would await events.

“Anything happening tomorrow?” he asked.

Tomorrow is the worst day of the year, she thought. “I was goin’ to go over to the church after work, and spend some time with Nellie, if that’s all right.”

He turned to her. “Will you be home for dinner?”

“Yes,” she said, looking up and smiling at him. “Indeed I will.”