Murder in Hindsight (A New Scotland Yard Mystery Book 3)

by Anne Cleeland

  He ducked his head for a moment, and then looked at her with an expression she knew very well. “Don’t stay late.”

  “I won’t. Don’t be startin’ without me.”

  “Not a chance,” he replied.

  CHAPTER 2

  THE CHARITY MEDICAL CLINIC WAS LOCATED IN AN AREA OF LONDON near high-rise housing projects that were teeming with recent immigrants and other members of the population who were hard-pressed to make ends meet. One of Acton’s oldest friends was Dr. Timothy McGonigal, a well-respected surgeon, and it was the information that Timothy volunteered at the clinic two days a month that had inspired Doyle to volunteer her own services, such as they were. She’d never had an opportunity to engage in charitable work—being as up to now she’d been struggling to keep her head above water, and the devil take the hindmost. Then she’d married Acton—or more correctly, he’d married her—and her life had undergone a dramatic change that made her feel a bit guilty, truth to tell; as though she were masquerading as someone else, and at any moment she’d be found out. Therefore, she’d jumped at the opportunity to help the less fortunate, and as an added blessing there was little doubt that as a result of her involvement, Acton would unlock the vault to meet whatever financial needs the clinic presented. Doyle had no idea how much Acton was worth, only that he seemed steeped in ancient wealth and bore a title that went back to the Conquest. It was something neither of them spoke about; she guessed that he was doing his best to suppress any information which would make her feel even more unworthy, and she was likewise afraid to make any inquiries for fear of what she’d discover.

  After assessing her talents, the director of the clinic had determined that Doyle should be put to work accompanying the visiting nurse as she conducted follow-up visits to the surgical patients, particularly as Doyle was a police officer, and some of the patients lived in questionable neighborhoods. Thus far, Doyle had managed to gloss over this aspect of her duties when she spoke of it to Acton, knowing that he would feel it was too dangerous, and intervene with Timothy. She also left her mobile phone behind when she made these visits, because Acton kept track of her through its GPS system. In truth, she was ashamed of this subterfuge, which arose as a result of the subtle tension in their relationship; he tended to be over-protective and she tended to resent this tendency, and the unfortunate result was this semi-defiant secrecy, which was rather childish and not—she acknowledged honestly—very good for her marriage. She would have to ask to change her role at the clinic after today; she and Acton should have no secrets from one another, and it was true that she tended to be a calamity magnet, if the past few months were any indication. Perhaps instead she could help clean up in surgery—she was well-used to blood spatter, after all; as long as she didn’t have to interact with any needles.

  At the clinic, Doyle greeted the director, a very capable doctor from East Africa, who gave her a list of three patients who required follow-up visits—all three in the nearby housing projects. List in hand, Doyle went to gather up the nurse, but first stopped to greet Nanda, a young Rwandan woman who’d been given a job at the clinic through Acton’s generosity. Upon seeing her, Doyle had to suppress a wrench of grief; Nanda’s husband had been Doyle’s friend, Aiki, and after his murder, Acton and Timothy had arranged for her job at the clinic as a means to support his widow and baby.

  Nanda smiled, and exchanged pleasantries with Doyle in her heavily accented English; Doyle asked after the baby, and was assured he was exceptional in every way. With some surprise, Doyle realized that Nanda was very content, considering the recent tragic events. On the other hand, the young woman had a baby and a new job and life went on—Doyle wondered how she’d manage without Acton, and shied away from the very thought.

  Nanda explained that the visiting nurse had been called home to tend to a sick child, and that Nanda herself would accompany Doyle on the rounds, if Doyle would just wait until the end of Nanda’s shift.

  “Oh—I can handle it, Nanda,” Doyle assured the woman, reluctant to wait so long, with Acton no doubt pacing the floor at home. On the previous visit when she’d accompanied the nurse, the former patients were either not at home or too suspicious to open the door, and in any case, Doyle had an illegal gun in her ankle holster, courtesy of Acton. It was not so late as to make the visit foolhardy and she was a police officer, after all.

  Doyle navigated her way toward the first address on her list, crossing the street and glancing back over her shoulder—she had a vague sense that she was being followed, but didn’t see anything to raise alarm. It happened, sometimes, when she walked along a crowded sidewalk—it seemed to her there were more people than there really were. Paranoid, is what you are, she thought. Comes of knowing Acton would slay you if he was made aware you are knocking on doors by yourself at the projects—you should have brought one of the orderlies along. Hesitating, she considered this idea, but then forged ahead, promising herself that if there was the slightest whisper of trouble, she’d retreat; after all, she was a flippin’ sergeant now and should act like one. I wonder why I’m worried, she thought and glanced over her shoulder yet again; it was not as though there’d been any problems on the earlier visits.

  Her footsteps echoing on the bare metal, Doyle ascended the graffiti-sprayed stairwell until she came to the appropriate door and knocked, announcing that she was from the clinic and was there to check on the former patient. The door remained locked while muffled voices assured her all was well, and with a small sigh, she moved on.

  At the second address, her knock was met with silence, although her instinct told her there was someone on the other side, peering through the peephole as a baby cried in the next flat over. She glanced behind her; the hallway appeared deserted, yet again she had the feeling she was being watched, and there was no crowd this time to cross up her wires, so to speak. Ignoring it, she knocked again. “I’m from the clinic and I’m here to see how”—she checked the name—“how Leticia does.” The patient was a seven-year-old girl who underwent an emergency appendectomy the week before.

  The door suddenly opened a crack, and Doyle was faced with a very serious young man pointing a very serious gun barrel at her. “What do you want?”

  Faith, thought Doyle; moral dilemma. The weapon was undoubtedly illegal and she should make an arrest, but she was here on an errand of mercy and it didn’t seem in keeping. “I’m from the clinic,” she began again. “I’m here to check on your”—gauging his age, she took a guess—“little sister.”

  “You don’t look like a doctor.” The gun did not waver.

  “No, I’m not. But the clinic did send me.” Best not to mention that in her other life she was a police officer.

  He looked her over in a way Doyle could not like, and then the gun was lowered. “Right, then; come in.”

  Doyle, however, was not a fool. “Do you think you can send Leticia out, so I can examine her out here?”

  “You don’t trust me,” he accused with a scowl.

  “No,” she agreed. “Recall that you have a gun.”

  He thought this over, and apparently saw her point. “I’ll get her.”

  In short order, a nervous little girl emerged, her dark eyes wide. Doyle crouched down and smiled in what she hoped was a reassuring manner—she had little experience with children. “May I see your tummy, where the operation was?” She didn’t know much, but certainly she could check for signs of infection. The girl dutifully lifted her shirt, and as Doyle examined the incision, the man pointed his gun to Doyle’s head. “Hand over your drugs and be quick about it.”

  Mother a’ mercy, she thought; if I manage to get out of this alive, Acton will kill me. “I have no drugs,” she protested, speaking in a calm tone as she carefully closed her hand around her own weapon in the ankle holster, and released the safety. “I’m only tryin’ to make sure Leticia—”

  “Now,” he demanded, gesturing with the weapon as he took a quick look down the deserted hallway. “Come inside.”

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nbsp; Although it was almost superfluous at this point, her intuition was doing the equivalent of flashing red lights in her face, and so there was nothing for it; her own illegal weapon would have to make an appearance. Therefore, with a swift motion, she leapt up and grasped his wrist, bending it back and holding her gun to his head. “Police,” she announced. “Drop it.”

  He stared at her in stunned silence and dropped his gun.

  “Go into the flat, Leticia,” Doyle instructed the little girl, who looked from one adult to the other with no real surprise, which seemed a sad commentary. As the girl obediently slipped through the door, Doyle pondered her next move; she had no flex cuffs, as she was off-duty—best enlist a neighbor to call for backup.

  “On the ground, facedown,” she commanded, and as he dropped to his knees, she kept the weapon trained upon him but looked up along the hallway to see if anyone had been curious enough to open a door. Her assailant saw his opening, and lunged at her legs with his body as his hands reached to close around the wrist that held the gun. Off-balance, she struggled to remain upright as he yanked on her arm and threw her backward, forcing her to release her weapon at the risk of breaking her arm.

  “Oh no! Leticia—watch out—” she gasped, and when the man turned to look toward his door, she slammed a fist across his jaw and scrambled to escape. Enraged, he reached at the last moment to grasp at her ankle and she went down headlong, hard. Frantically, she kicked at him as he yanked her leg toward the doorway, calling her a vile epithet and detailing his intention to make her pay for her actions. As she tried to brace against the doorway, she fought a sick sense of panic—she was ovulating, and utter disaster loomed. Turning her head, she shouted for help but the sound only echoed against the walls—even the baby in the next flat had been silenced. Her assailant reached to unpeel her fingers from the doorjamb and while he was left vulnerable for a moment, she managed to kick him in the groin with all the leverage she could muster. He let go of her hand and bent over, cursing in pain whilst she twisted to get away, but he did not relinquish his grip on her ankle, and rose to his knees with a cocked arm and the evident intent to punch her into submission. He did not succeed, however, because another man suddenly appeared behind him, yanked back his head by the hair, and knocked him out with one efficient blow.

  Doyle stared in gratified astonishment as the man held out a hand to her. “Come, come.” He had an accent.

  Taking his hand, Doyle scrambled to her feet, her heartbeat pounding in her ears as she stepped over her fallen assailant. As her rescuer bent to gather the weapons from the floor, she managed to gasp, “Do you have a mobile? I should secure the area—”

  “No.” He began to walk swiftly toward the stairwell, jerking his head briefly to indicate she was to accompany him. Unwilling to linger in this hostile hallway without her champion, she followed him, quickening her pace as they nearly ran down the stairwell—he was obviously interested in vacating the area as quickly as possible. Only when they had cleared the next building over did he stop and allow her to lean against the wall, gasping to recover her breath.

  Doyle had already made a very shrewd guess as to his role in these affairs, and offered with all gratitude, “Thank the saints and holy angels Acton is an over-protective knocker; I was never more glad to see anyone in my life.”

  The man watched her impassively. He was medium sized; wiry and strong, with close- cropped blond hair and a narrow face that featured a slightly crooked nose, as if it had been broken. “You fight well, but he was too strong for you.” He said it with a trace of sympathy, as though he was trying to make her feel better for needing help—and there was the accent again. Doyle was not good with accents, and could not immediately identify it.

  “I’m not ashamed to say I was flailin’, my friend. Thank you again for ridin’ to the rescue.” She smoothed her hair back from her forehead with a hand that still trembled from reaction, and gave him what she hoped was her most beguiling smile. “I suppose there’s nothin’ I can say that would convince you not to report this to Acton.”

  His gaze did not waver. “I do not know this Acton.”

  She stared at him, the smile fading as she realized that she was once again in a precarious situation with a strange man, only this time he had her weapon in his pocket.

  Reading her aright, he shrugged. “Do not be afraid; I will not hurt you.”

  “No,” she replied, a little ashamed of herself. “I’m that sorry; I’m a little on edge, just now. I should be thankin’ you fastin’.”

  He looked at her a little blankly and she could sense he was confused, so she made an effort to control her accent and held out her hand. “I’m Kathleen Doyle.”

  He did not take her hand, but corrected her with a tilt of his head. “No; you are Kathleen Sinclair.”

  She processed the interesting fact that he was no chance stranger and he had not, as yet, offered up an explanation for his presence. “When I’m workin’, I use Doyle.”

  He thought about this, his scrutiny never wavering. “What is a ‘knocker’?”

  Doyle considered, and countered with, “Who are you?”

  There was a gleam of amusement, barely discernable in his pale eyes, even though his impassive expression did not change. “I think it best I not say.”

  She considered again. “Well then; I won’t say anythin’ about this if you won’t. Do we have a bargain?”

  “Yes.” Not a gabbler, he was.

  This was a huge relief, and she teased, “You should say, ‘Done,’ and then we should shake hands to seal it.”

  “Done.” He took her hand formally for a moment. “We must leave.”

  “I’ll be needin’ my gun back, first.” There’d be no explaining this away if she came home without it.

  Her companion obligingly pulled both weapons from his jacket pockets. “Which?”

  “This one.” She took it, and bent to return it to her ankle holster, hoping he didn’t realize it was illegal and she shouldn’t have it in the first place—since he was a foreigner, he probably didn’t know any better.

  “That is a fine pistol,” he observed. “You should be more careful with it.”

  “No argument, here.” At his gesture, they began to walk in silence, he heading back to the clinic without needing direction. Interesting; she now knew why she felt as though she was being followed, earlier. And when they’d shaken hands, she noted he wore a very fine Breguet watch. She’d met only one other man with such a watch, and putting two and two together, thought she may know why her rescuer had been following her; it appeared there were forces other than Acton trying to keep her safe—although not necessarily for the same reasons. If what she’d guessed was true, then she had nothing to fear from this one, and so accompanied him back to the clinic without another qualm.

  CHAPTER 3

  AS SHE WAS BEING DRIVEN HOME IN THE DRIVING SERVICE’S town car, Doyle texted Acton that she was on her way and tried to decide what to confess—ironic that this dilemma was hard on the heels of her resolution to have no secrets from him. Yet again, she had acted recklessly—although she never seemed to realize it until afterwards—and had done something dangerously foolish. This tendency of hers was one of the reasons he wanted her to find another line of work, and if she confessed that she was equally adept at inciting a ruckus whilst doing volunteer work, no doubt he’d forbid that, too. Faith, if Acton had his way, she’d be locked in a flippin’ tower like a flippin’ princess. That she’d been an idiot was inarguable, and she went cold at the thought of what the consequences might have been if her rescuer hadn’t shown up. She had no one to blame but herself, and she’d be ridiculously careful from here on out; best not to let Acton know how close she’d come to complete disaster, and instead make yet another effort to mend her headstrong ways. On the other hand, her fair skin bruised easily, and she would surely have to explain the marks on her arms and her knees—there was no chance at all that he wouldn’t notice them; he noticed every detail.
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br />   She still hadn’t made up her mind when she put her key card in the slot and entered their flat. When they’d married, she moved into Acton’s expensive flat in an exclusive building overlooking the park, and she was just now becoming accustomed to living in the lap of luxury—she was indeed a stranger in a strange land. If her mother were still alive, she’d laugh and call Doyle a thistle dwelling amongst the lilies, and she’d be exactly right.

  Her impatient husband came to meet her at the door, and she obligingly walked into his arms—he’d showered, and no longer smelt of scotch but instead she breathed in the faint scent of expensive soap, which must be some kind of aphrodisiac because it always inspired the kind of thoughts the nuns at St. Brigid’s School would deplore. She met his kiss with equal fervor, grateful for a reprieve and aware that he was in need of the kind of comfort only she could offer him, and that her own need was just as pressing, after her scare. The urgency of the situation was such—apparently—that retreat to the distant bedroom was not an option, and so Doyle soon found herself situated on the rug in front of the fire and divested of her clothing by an eager husband. While Acton was giving the length of her body his full and undivided attention, he must have noticed her scrapes because he made his way northward again to kiss her neck and whisper, “What happened to you?”

  “Michael,” she stalled, raking her fingernails lightly along his back, “If you are goin’ to call a halt to the proceedin’s, I will not be answerable.”

  But he was Acton and would not be diverted, despite her best efforts. “Give me the short version, then.”

  Doyle lifted her head to meet his mouth with her own, and murmured against it, “A donnybrook; I had to fight off a man who wanted drugs.” This, she decided, was an accurate though grossly redacted version of events.

  This gave him pause, and she could see he was winding up to ask some very pertinent questions, so she chided in annoyance, “I thought you didn’t like to talk durin’ sex.”