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

by Anne Cleeland

  “Does it hurt?”

  “I’m goin’ to hurt you one if you don’t finish up, Michael.”

  “You don’t dare; I still outrank you.”

  She started to laugh—there was no help for it, and she could feel him chuckle in his chest as he rested his mouth on the side of her neck. “Now look what you’ve done; you’ve broken the mood, Michael.”

  “Allow me to mend it, then.” The conversation thus concluded.

  Later, she lay cradled with her back against his chest, drowsily watching the fire and listening to the rain against the windows. “When we were first solvin’ cases together, I used to try to make you laugh. It was my sacred goal, it was—you were such a sobersides.”

  “I had an entirely different goal.” He ran a meaningful hand along her hip.

  She smiled in appreciation. “Then we were successful, the both of us.”

  “I more than you,” he admitted.

  “Don’t go to therapy anymore,” she said suddenly. “We’re runnin’ out of scotch.”

  “No,” he agreed.

  Faith, she thought with surprise—that was easy.

  He ran his hand down her arm and stroked the back of her hand, then laced her fingers with his as she could feel his breath on the nape of her neck. “You don’t want to tell me, do you?”

  “No,” she admitted. “I was a monumental knocker and I am thoroughly ashamed.”

  She waited, to see if he would leave it at that. He was silent, and so she decided to add, “A man came to help—a Good Samaritan—and it all turned out all right. I learned my lesson, and I’ll find some other way to help.”

  “Good,” he said. “I worried.”

  She had to smile. Of course he did, poor man. “And I had another idea; if I concentrate on these vigilante murders, there’s little fieldwork involved—the leads will be in the cold case files.” Shifting to her back, she turned to look at his face, illuminated in relief by the firelight. “Less worry.”

  “Thank you.” He leaned to kiss her, then lay down on his back, whilst she twisted to prop herself on her elbows and look down at him—such a handsome man, he was. She lifted his hand and kissed his wedding ring. “I’m sorry I’m such a crackin’ trial.”

  “Worth every moment.” He pulled a tendril of her hair from her temple and fingered it. “I would like to tell you something, but I’m not certain I should—you are such a Puritan.”

  With a shake of her head—it tickled where he pulled at her hair—she regarded him with amused surprise; Acton was not one to gossip. “You must, now, Michael; I promise I will try not to be righteously shocked.”

  “Nanda is so grateful that Timothy has employed her at the clinic that she is offering him the only commodity she has available.”

  There was a moment of astonished silence. “Michael,” she breathed, thoroughly shocked despite her promise. “He did not take advantage of her in such a way, surely.”

  “Didn’t hesitate.”

  “But Aiki’s not dead three months.”

  He pulled the tendril through his fingers. “It sounds to me as though both parties are well-satisfied with the situation.”

  She thought about this in wonderment. “He tells you?”

  “Indeed. He asks for advice.”

  This was too much for Doyle, and she couldn’t help laughing at the thought. Acton tugged at the tendril, pretending to be offended. “And what is so funny about that, if I may ask?”

  “Nothin’ at all,” she assured him. “You are the grand master, my friend.”

  With gentle pressure, he pulled her head to rest on his chest. “It is good to see him so happy.”

  She made no comment, and squeezed him fondly as she stared thoughtfully at the fire. Timothy’s recent unhappiness had been due to what he thought was his sister Caroline’s unexpected suicide, but she had actually been killed by Acton. Not that Caroline was an innocent victim; Caroline had unsuccessfully tried to murder Doyle, and had successfully murdered Nanda’s husband, Aiki. “All very symmetrical, it is,” she observed in wonderment. “The irony is thick on the ground.”

  “Yes,” he agreed soberly. Doyle knew he was thinking about that terrible scene when Caroline had died with Doyle as a witness to it—she was made very unhappy when Acton dispensed his own version of justice, and in turn, Acton didn’t do well when Doyle was unhappy.

  Trying to regain their previous tone, she observed lightly, “Promise me you’ll never tell Nanda that you’re payin’ her salary at the clinic; you’ll not be cashin’ in on that particular commodity.”

  He closed his eyes. “She could ply her wiles all she might; you’ve knackered me out, and I’ve nothing to draw from.”

  “It’s self-preservation, it is—it’s the best defense to keep you from strayin’.”

  He smiled to himself, and made no rejoinder. Doyle truly did not get jealous—she was absolutely certain of him, after all—but she knew it pleased him when she teased. After a minute, she realized he’d fallen asleep, which meant he must be more tired than his usual; normally he was good for another session, at least. Smiling, she closed her eyes and followed his lead, listening sleepily to the rain and thanking all available saints and holy angels that she’d averted yet another disaster. Acton was going to quit therapy, and for the first time in a long while there were no clouds looming on the horizon; this marriage business wasn’t so hard, after all.

  CHAPTER 4

  THE NEXT MORNING, DOYLE AND ACTON WERE PREPARING TO leave for work when Reynolds arrived. Reynolds was their domestic, and despite the fact that the presence of a servant made Doyle feel as though she were in an episode of The Thin Man, she was fond of him—although it may have been only because their last domestic had tried to poison her, and so by contrast this one seemed exceptional. Doyle had the feeling that Reynolds was aware of a great deal more than he let on; he was very discreet, however, and Doyle knew he was well-pleased to work for them, being as Acton was a renowned figure and it probably gave him boasting rights at the butlers’ pub, if there was such a thing.

  “How cold is it, Reynolds?” she asked. “Heavy coat or light coat?”

  Reynolds considered this question, giving it the weight it deserved, then suggested, “Light coat and scarf,” and went to fetch them out of the hall closet. As he held her coat for her, Doyle could sense a flare of alarm from the servant, and turned to regard him with surprise. “What is it?”

  He said only, “Will you be in for dinner tonight, madam?”

  “I will, but Acton won’t.” The illustrious chief inspector was going to give a lecture at the Crime Academy, much against his inclination. However, he was brilliant at his job, and Doyle reminded him that he should make a push to improve the corps that served him; he had given her some very useful instruction when she had first worked with him—although in retrospect, she realized that mainly he’d wanted to keep her eyes on his. Nevertheless, the criminal justice system would be best served if he shared his knowledge, even though Acton was not by nature a teacher.

  I wouldn’t mind teaching—if I knew anything, she thought as she arranged her scarf around her neck. However, her perceptive ability couldn’t be taught to another, and she was not very proficient at the scientific part of her job. Once a month, the charity clinic gave classes on first aid and immunizations, and she was thinking that perhaps she could assist with these, although they may want volunteers who knew more than one language. She didn’t—unless you counted Gaelic, of course. She would ask.

  Acton shrugged into the coat offered by Reynolds and reminded her, “It will be cold in the basement, so bring your gloves, Kathleen. And make certain your mobile is working, if you please.” Doyle was slated to spend a tedious day looking through cold case files in the basement—which was the next thing to a dungeon—and mobile service was spotty at best. Her thankless task would be to sift through the files in search of old, unsolved cases that had an apparent link to the murders by this vigilante, who—unlike your ordina
ry serial killer—was trying very hard to hide the fact that he was one. Usually serial killers were remarkably vain, having a narcissistic complex that was almost frightening to behold. The fact that this one was different only strengthened the working theory that he was a vigilante, and was murdering people solely to right past wrongs, rather than to serve some weird power-ego complex, like they taught you at the Crime Academy.

  She and Acton had brainstormed at breakfast, trying to come up with some new search criteria in an attempt to narrow the broad database, much of which was unfortunately in hard paper format. Their old search criteria hadn’t been very helpful; they had first decided she should try to see if there was a pattern to the law enforcement personnel in the cold cases, the theory being that someone assigned to the old cases got tired of seeing the villains get off, and after reaching a had-it-up-to-here flash point, started dispensing Wild West justice. It was a good working theory, but the personnel involved in the cold cases had not been so consistent that there was an obvious lead. This morning, Acton had suggested she check to see if there was a pattern in the case-workers from social services—hard to imagine a case-worker type as a vengeful murderer—but they were in need of a common theme, and it was elusive at this point.

  “Good-bye, Reynolds; I’ll be seein’ you later.” The servant bowed his head, and she eyed him narrowly. Something was up, and she’d winkle it out of him this evening—he would be more forthcoming when Acton wasn’t present.

  Once at work, she parted from Acton in the lobby, and then tried to pin a smile on her lips—truly, it was a gauntlet every morning just to make it to her desk.

  “Good morning, Officer Doyle.” The desk sergeant’s voice rang out respectfully from across the room.

  She entered the lift and mingled amongst other well-wishers who radiated good will and affection. “DS Doyle; good morning.” “Good morning.” “Good morning, ma’am.”

  I hate this, she thought; I wish everyone would just go ’way.

  After emerging from the lift, she made her way through the cubicle forest to her new station—a slighter larger cubicle to reflect her new rank—nodding at those who immediately halted whatever conversation they were having to smile and greet her. Finally, she made it to the safe haven of her desk, feeling miserably guilty about her bad attitude, and harboring a lingering conviction that she should have just left stupid Munoz to drown.

  Ever since she’d leapt off Greyfriars Bridge into the Thames, she’d been afforded a strange new respect; instead of everyone’s wondering how Acton could have made such a monumental mismatch, now they all thought him very discerning in recognizing her obvious merit beforehand. Doyle was now—and forever would be—the bridge-jumper and a hero; will-she or nil-she. There was little question it was this and this alone that had prompted the powers-that-be to promote her forthwith—even though her scores on the test weren’t very good—and little question this was the reason Munoz was promoted right along with her. The two of them were yoked, now, and according to the storyline, had to play the part of devoted friends, even though this was not the case at all. Ironic, is what it is, thought Doyle, as she grimly sought refuge in her tall latte; in all things give thanks.

  Almost immediately, she pulled up the computer files from the now-closed turf war case, and reviewed her notes about a walk-in witness named Gerry Lestrade, a driver working for the racecourse who hadn’t been very helpful, considering he had put himself forward as a witness. At the time, Doyle had the impression that he was wary, and more intent in trying to find out what she knew than in telling her anything of interest. There was nothing in the file to indicate he was French, but blue-collar Gerry had been wearing a Breguet watch, which should have rightfully set him back several years’ salary. She pulled up his photo, and felt her scalp prickle as it did when she was making an intuitive connection. Her mysterious rescuer must be French, then, and was no doubt affiliated with Savoie’s group. Savoie was a shadowy French kingpin in the arms-selling business, and the turf wars had exposed a plot by a Russian national named Solonik to muscle in on his territory. At the time, none of the villains involved were aware that Acton himself had instigated the turf war, decimating their ranks so that the London underworld was still reeling.

  Doyle leaned back in her chair and sipped the latte thoughtfully. It seemed a logical conclusion that the mysterious and powerful Savoie had deemed it in his best interests to send some foot soldiers to keep tabs on the fair Doyle—no doubt the man had twigged Acton’s role in the turf wars, and was trying to ensure that business would not be disrupted again by a vengeful DCI. This theory seemed sound, and also explained why she was certain her rescuer meant no harm to her—her intuition was rarely wrong, and indeed, he’d intervened to save her even though by all indications he should have kept a very low profile.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by Inspector Habib, who approached with his measured stride to pause before her cubicle entryway. He was her supervisor, and any qualms he may have entertained about Acton’s having married outside of his caste were now set aside in light of Doyle’s actions in saving DS Munoz, who was the object of Habib’s rather awkward affections.

  “Good morning, DS Doyle.”

  Don’t throw your coffee at him, she cautioned herself. “Good mornin’, sir. DCI Acton has requested that I work on the park murder cases today, with your permission.” Habib would never countermand Acton, but she always offered him a fig leaf of authority, being as he was her supervisor.

  “Any leads?” Habib was aware of her theory, although it necessarily had to be kept quiet in the event the vigilante killer was currently working in the justice system.

  She shook her head. “None as yet, sir. DCI Acton and I were trying to come up with search criteria this mornin’; he wondered if I should have a look at social case-workers, although this seems a little unlikely.”

  But Habib was not going to disagree with Acton, and crossed his arms thoughtfully. “If the obvious is not helpful, then we must pursue the less obvious.” He thought about it. “Are any of the personnel the same, in the cold cases?”

  “Some—but not with any consistency, and no one who seems at all likely as a suspect.”

  “Could any of the victims instead be an ABC murder?”

  The reference was to an Agatha Christie story, in which it appeared that a serial killer was at work when, in fact, the killer had a single, intended victim and hoped to obscure the crime amongst the many. Doyle had already rejected such a theory, and again shook her head. “Unlikely, sir; all the victims are almost certainly killers who—for one reason or another—escaped justice in an earlier cold case. There are four fairly solid cold case connections, thus far; and perhaps two more. I just need to find the common thread.”

  He nodded, the gesture quick and bird-like. “It may be helpful to discover what led the vigilante to realize, in hindsight, that justice had been denied.”

  This was a different way of looking at it, and Doyle knit her brow. “I was thinkin’ that it was someone who just snapped, after too many killers went free.”

  “Perhaps. Although there may also have been an external trigger; the vigilante came into knowledge, in some manner—knowledge that no other would have.”

  This theory was discouraging, as it could mean she was looking for a needle in a haystack; if the vigilante was not a frustrated justice system worker, he could be anyone.

  “Keep looking,” Habib offered, reading her aright. “If you can find another murder connected to a cold case, the commonality may become more apparent.”

  “What commonality is that?” Munoz asked as she passed by, sporting a scowl that was nevertheless attractive in a smoldering-gypsy sort of way. Doyle could no more smolder than she could stay out in the sun without a heavy coating of SPF 50.

  “DS Munoz; come, we are in need of your insights.” Habib came as close as he could come to sounding hearty. “DS Doyle is looking for a commonality in the park murders.”

  Munoz pause
d to offer with heavy irony, “Everyone died in a park.”

  “Excellent insight,” Doyle responded crossly.

  “It may be important, that they were in a park.” Habib was willing to go to any lengths to humor his crush, which did not seem very professional to Doyle. She then remembered that Habib was a pale shadow compared to what Acton would do to humor his crush, and bit back a skeptical retort. She truly needed to improve her attitude; theoretically, Habib could get her fired—although with her newly-celebrated status, it was more likely Doyle could get him fired. With an effort, she moderated her tone and pointed out the obvious: “It doesn’t make much sense to me; there’s the risk of witnesses, out in the open.”

  “But he is not on CCTV, correct?”

  “Correct,” Doyle conceded. The killer was careful to avoid having the crime caught on the cameras that recorded most public areas in London.

  Habib continued, “He must believe there is more of a risk indoors.”

  This was actually rather a good point, and one that Doyle hadn’t considered, which was all the more annoying. “I suppose that points back to law enforcement—he can’t meet the victims where he works or lives.”

  Munoz propped an elbow on the cubicle wall, thinking it over. “Do the victims know he’s there, or is it an ambush?”

  “Forensics thinks they walked abreast, so presumably he’s not someone who would be incitin’ alarm.”

  “A woman?”

  “Perhaps,” Doyle conceded. “If she wore track shoes and weighed about one-seventy.”

  “Unlikely.” Habib disagreed with a little shake of his head. “Women do not shoot at heads.”

  Although this seemed a sexist remark, Doyle knew better than to question him because he knew a thing or two, did Inspector Habib. Munoz, however, was not so certain, and flipped her hair back. “I don’t know; some women could do it, I think—if they wanted to get the job done with only one shot.”

  “There are always exceptions,” Habib willingly agreed.