Murder in Hindsight (6 page)

C
HAPTER
9

T
HE NEXT DAY,
D
OYLE ASKED
H
ABIB IF SHE COULD LEAVE WORK
early. “Personal reasons,” she explained. Terrified that he would intrude on House of Acton family matters, Habib readily agreed, which was exactly what Doyle had expected.

“Where are you going?” called Munoz from across the way.

“Church,” answered Doyle. Then, changing the subject, “How goes it with the lamb to the slaughter?”

“Good,” Munoz airily replied. “He is very nice to me.” This was said in the tone of someone trying to convince herself that this was a good thing.

“Not a lot of chemistry?” asked Doyle sympathetically, who knew how important this was, post-Acton.

“We’ll see. It’s early days.”

Doyle was beginning to pack up when she received a text from Williams. “Just checking in,” it said. Doyle surmised this was code for “Is Acton still beating you?”

“I’m good; how R U?” she answered. She would make it clear there were no problems that DS Williams need worry about; it was actually a very dicey situation for him—he was Acton’s man and, she surmised, more loyal to her husband than to the CID.

“I have nu coffee.”

She smiled at her mobile screen. “Can’t, leaving early. Tomorrow, promise.”

“OK.”

Gathering up her rucksack, she headed out.

Doyle attended St. Michael’s church near Chelsea, which is where she’d lived prior to the Acton invasion. She still attended, out of loyalty and friendship, even though it was technically no longer her parish. The small church had been in dire financial straits until Acton had requested instruction in Roman Catholicism; now he was a regular contributor, and the church had a brand-new roof to show for it.

Doyle entered the nave, which was nearly empty at this time of day, and met her friend Nellie, an older Filipino woman who capably helped Father John manage the parish. The two women walked together to the Mary chapel and lit a candle, then knelt together and recited a rosary. Father John walked by at one point and briefly rested a hand on Doyle’s shoulder; she went silent for a few beads, until she could control her voice again.

Afterward, Doyle readied to leave. She asked Nellie if she could leave her electronic devices in the office, and come by to pick them up later.

“Shall I come?” asked Nellie gently.

“No, thank you. I will be fine.”

Doyle rode the tube to Holy Redeemer Cemetery, and walked the path until she came to her mother’s grave marker. She hadn’t much money when her mother died two years ago today, and the small stone plaque simply read: “Mary Doyle.” Doyle took a small brush out of her rucksack and carefully brushed off the marker. She then sat cross-legged next to it, and wept for half-an-hour.

She knew that her mother would not want to see her so upset, and knew that it wouldn’t matter a pin to her if Doyle never came to this sad, sad place. But she did. She and her mother had only each other, and so she felt compelled to come to the last place on earth she’d been, on the last day she’d been here.

Her grief was not as sharp this time; her loss not as unbearable. Time does heal, she thought, and so much had happened since last year. She spoke aloud to her mother, knowing it was merely therapeutic, and that her mother did not reside in this grim, crowded cemetery. It was cathartic for Doyle to say aloud what she’d accomplished in the past year, and how much she missed her. She spoke of Acton and her extraordinary marriage; she didn’t mention he was a peer, as she wasn’t sure her mother would approve. Each to each, her mother used to say; no point in marrying chalk to cheese.

She spoke of her miscarriage, and dissolved into a fresh bout of tears at the guilt she felt for not being enthusiastic about the baby. Her mother, abandoned and alone, had managed to raise Doyle whilst scraping together a living for them both, and had never, ever complained. Just when it seemed that Doyle would be able to return the favor, her mother had been gathered up. She bequeathed to Doyle her undaunted determination and her sense of humor, and Doyle missed her every single day. In all things give thanks, thought Doyle; there’s no point in having faith unless you put it to use.

The light was fading, and so Doyle readied to leave. She placed a hand on the marker in a gesture similar to Father John’s, and then rose to make her way back down the path.

Outside the gates, Acton was waiting, leaning on the Range Rover with his hands in his coat pockets as he watched her approach. She quickly wiped her cheeks with the palm of her hand—Acton didn’t do well when she cried. He stood upright, and pulled her into his arms, resting his cheek on the top of her head. Trust him to know what day it was, and where she would be; she didn’t know why she had even attempted the subterfuge with her electronics.

“Want to talk?” he asked quietly, his voice resonating against her head.

“No,” she replied into his shoulder.

“Want me to go?”

“No.”

They stood together and night fell quickly, as it tended to do this time of year. He finally said, “It’s cold; button your coat and we’ll go fetch your mobile.”

“I’m glad you came, Michael.”

“Next time may I accompany you?”

She sighed into his lapel. “Oh, I don’t know; there’s a lot of weepin’ and wailin’ involved.”

“I can handle it,” he said firmly as he opened the door for her. “I love you.”

Granting him a wan smile for this accolade, she slid into the car. She was emotionally drained and just wanted to go to bed, but she was indeed glad he’d come; she hadn’t told him about her plans because he overreacted when she was upset about anything, and this visit was always the queen of all upsets.

They returned to the church to fetch her things, and Acton visited with Father John for a few moments, making plans for his next class of instruction. Whilst waiting, Doyle turned to observe the faithful who were beginning to file in for the evening service, and then she saw him. He was seated near the back, watching her. Doyle met his eyes for an astonished moment, and watched as he deliberately raised a hand to display a small paper wedged between his fingers; then lowered it. For one confused moment, she thought her rescuer attended her church, but then he rose and left without looking back.

C
HAPTER
10

I
N A CASUAL MANNER,
D
OYLE STROLLED TO THE BACK OF THE
church and retrieved the wedge of paper, left on the pew. It said: “Tomorrow. Same time and place.”

After tucking it in the missal box, she dithered, trying to decide what was best to do. She’d already made it clear she wasn’t going to fall in with whatever plan Solonik was cooking up, and she definitely didn’t want her rescuer to believe she was now at his beck and call—although he’d had some questions of his own at their last meeting, so perhaps he wanted to meet again because he was seeking more answers about Solonik. It didn’t matter, she should put an end to it; nothing good could come from another meeting, and her rescuer was definitely wearing out his welcome. Trying to come to a decision, she looked toward the sanctuary to see if Acton was coming, but he was still in conversation with the good father. Perhaps she should confess it all to Acton; it was Solonik, after all, and she was far out of her element. On the other hand, Acton himself was edgy for undisclosed reasons, and he was still recovering from the stupid therapy sessions that seemed to have done no good at all. She could go tomorrow and see what her wretched rescuer had to say; it was not as though she could be duped into doing something she didn’t want to do—she was wise to them. If it turned out to be anything remotely alarming, then she would confess the whole to Acton.

Her husband came up the aisle to take her arm as they left the church. “Hungry? Shall we pick up Chinese?”

“No need for such a sacrifice,” she teased. She was fond of Chinese food; he was not. “Is Reynolds in?” She would rather just go home and collapse; Reynolds could prepare something.

“No, he’s left. I’ll make you something.”

This was a sweet offer; Acton was no cook, having had various lackeys to do for him his entire life. “Soup does sound good.” Hopefully, he couldn’t ruin soup.

“Should I pick up some fruit pies? You can wait in the car.”

“Faith, Michael—you’re to be killin’ me with kindness; have done, please.” She had developed a taste for prepackaged fruit pies, and he feigned horror whenever she ate one; it was a sure sign of the depth of his affection that he was willing to do such a shameful thing.

As they drove home, he brushed his thumb across the back of her hand; back and forth, back and forth. She caught his hand and lifted it to kiss it. “Thank you for comin’ to get me today.”

“I wish I had met her.”

“She would have liked you,” Doyle lied. Her mother would have been twice as intimidated as Doyle had been on meeting Acton, and that bar was set pretty high. No need to say it aloud, though, it was sweet of him to pretend that he and her mother would have anything in common other than her fair self—although perhaps that would have been enough. Her mother would have very much approved of how much Acton loved her and wanted to take care of her, and all tiaras and hereditary estates would have been of secondary importance. Thinking of it, she asked, “Will you be buried at Trestles when you die?”

There was a slight pause. “Yes, along with everyone else who has ever held the title.”

“Then I will be buried there, too.” She hadn’t really thought about it before—about how his history was now her history.

“I know it’s been that kind of day, but do you think we can speak of something else?”

“Sorry. I was just thinkin’ about it.”

Once home, Acton managed the soup, and then asked if she would mind if he worked on his case for an hour—he was working on some high-profile investigation, and was very tight-lipped about it; she thought it might be a corruption scandal because she knew he’d met with the Home Secretary and the detective chief superintendent, which would seem to indicate there was a delicate political component. She’d assured him that she was in no need of tending, and so he’d retreated to the bedroom whilst she addressed her thankless spreadsheet yet again.

I need a good idea, she thought, and was frustrated because she knew there was
something
here; she needed only to make one of her intuitive leaps. Unfortunately, she had no control over her perceptive ability, and so was left to entering data into the database and waiting for whatever it was to jump out at her. She thought of the case-worker angle, and how Habib had said that when the obvious was not working, it must be something less obvious. A solicitor, perhaps? But she hadn’t focused on the defense attorneys for the same reason she hadn’t focused on the case-workers; a criminal defense attorney would be the last person who would decide he was tired of seeing the villains go free, one would think. On the other hand, that would explain the rather timid killings; it was someone who had to steel himself—or herself—to do it.

Her thoughts were interrupted when Nellie rang to see how she did, and also to enlist her help at the Christmas masses. Doyle agreed to read at midnight, then paused. “I’m not sure if we have plans, so put me down in pencil until I check in with Acton.” It would be their first Christmas together, and she did not know what he usually did—perhaps he went to Trestles and drank wassail, or roasted a boar in the fireplace, or something.

Nellie indicated her approval of such a wifely consideration, then she and Doyle spoke of Nellie’s family, which took some time as Nellie had quite an extensive family. They rang off, and Doyle felt better; she had been neglecting her old friend in favor of her new husband, which was to be expected, but was regrettable.

She opened up the daily homicide report as she did every day to see if any of the fresh set of victims was on record as a suspect in a previous murder, but nothing stood out. Acton continued busy, on his mobile and speaking to someone in low tones, so she texted Williams, who in Doyle’s opinion was almost as smart as Acton. “RU working?”

“Yes. ’Sup?”

“Busy? Need ideas.”

“On the cold cases?”

“Yes. Need commonality ideas, other than personnel.”

“Race? Gang affiliation?”

“Already done.”

“Kind of crime? Child predator?”

“Already done.” It made her feel better that he had the same ideas that she had. There was a pause. “Come on, DSW.”

“Thinking. Where R U?”

“Home. Don’t ask what I M wearing.” She probably shouldn’t tease him, poor man.

“Guilt?”

“?” She didn’t follow.

“Juror let him off, felt guilty?”

She thought about this idea. “Wouldn’t b same juror on all.”

“Right. Sorry.”

Doyle paused, struck—perhaps guilt was indeed the emotion they were looking for. She’d presumed this vigilante was frustrated with the justice system in general; perhaps it was more personal than that.

“RU there?”

“Thinking,” she answered.

“Acton there?”

“Yes.”

There was a pause while Doyle thought about this new idea, turning it over in her mind. “Guilt is good idea,” she typed.

“?”

“Someone felt responsible.”

“Defense team?”

She stared at the screen. Now, that was why Williams was on the fast track to DI; it had taken her days to have the same idea. “Haven’t really checked,” she admitted.

“Parole?”

This was a decent suggestion, as a parole-worker was not as likely as a case-worker to be a hand-wringer, and would also see firsthand the perils of letting a murderer off the hook. “Good one.”

“Lunch? (friends)”

She smiled; he had promised they could just be friends and thus far, he’d kept up his end of the bargain. Still and all, she was reluctant to spend a lot of time alone with him and besides, she was already meeting with her rescuer tomorrow at lunchtime—not that she was looking forward to it. Lifting her head, she realized she could assuage her conscience by enlisting the eager-to-help DS Williams. “Can U make early lunch? Need small favor.”

“Done.”

“Deli OK?” The deli was next to headquarters and near the bookstore.

“OK. Text.”

“Thanks.” She signed off, and then jotted down the ideas she and Williams had come up with before she forgot them. She’d enlist Williams to cover the flank when she went to meet with Solonik’s man—that way she’d be perfectly safe, just in case things went south for some reason. I’m turning into Acton, with my frettin’, she thought. I have to get used to the fact there are no crises looming and relax—it’s jumping at shadows, I am.

She looked at the clock and debated evicting Acton from the bedroom; she was tired and it had been a long and wretched day—tomorrow could only be better.