“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.”
CHAPTER 9
THE NEXT DAY, DOYLE ASKED HABIB 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.
CHAPTER 10
IN A CASUAL MANNER, DOYLE 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.
Murder in Hindsight (A New Scotland Yard Mystery Book 3) Page 6
