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

by Anne Cleeland

  This seemed anti-climactic, and somewhat off-topic. “You do? Who is he?”

  “You can see my dilemma—Kath, what on earth are you thinking?”

  Perhaps it wasn’t anti-climactic, as Williams was emanating equal parts distress and concern. She stared at him. “Who is he?”

  He stared back. “You don’t know?”

  “No.”

  He bent his head and ran a distracted hand though his blond hair. “Holy Christ, you will be the death of me.”

  “Don’t blaspheme, and tell me, Thomas; for heaven’s sake.”

  He raised his head. “He’s Philippe Savoie.”

  “Savoie?” She thought about it for a perplexed moment, then shook her head. “No, I don’t think so, Thomas.”

  “You can think whatever you want, but it’s him. He’s on the Interpol List, the Watch List, and any other list you care to name. He’s recently come over from Eastern Europe, and the Home Secretary’s people are all on end trying to figure out why he is here.”

  But this was too far-fetched for Doyle, who was aware, as Williams was not, that her rescuer was working for Solonik. One would think Savoie would not stoop to such a thing, being as he was apparently atop the pecking order in the criminal mastermind world. “I don’t think so, Thomas; why are you thinkin’ so?”

  “I lifted his prints off the photographs you had.”

  She stared at him, astonished. “When?”

  “When you were buying an umbrella and I was hailing the cab. The driver had some cellophane tape.”

  She was all admiration. “Good one, DS Williams—I had no idea.”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “You were distracted.”

  “You are truly an excellent detective—you’ll be a DCI in no time.”

  “Can we get back,” he said heavily, “to the topic at hand?”

  This, of course, was fraught with problems, because she didn’t know how much Williams knew of Acton’s doings, and she couldn’t very well tell him that Solonik was hip-deep in some retribution plot—a retribution plot that apparently involved the notorious Savoie. With all honesty, she confessed, “I’m afraid I can’t tell you. But I am certain that Savoie’s not a danger to me.”

  Williams took another careful look around the area, thinking. “How can you know that?”

  “We are friends. And he did save my life—truly.”

  “What if he goes after Acton?”

  So; Williams apparently remembered that Savoie had been inclined to kiss her—and truth to tell, there was no reason for any of these arch-criminals to pay the slightest attention to her, save the fact that she was Acton’s wife, and therefore his vulnerability. With a start, she suddenly remembered what Savoie had revealed; Owens was his brother, and he was trying to find out what had happened to him. Holy Mother of God, the fair Doyle had killed the dreaded Savoie’s baby brother.

  “What is it?” Williams was watching her like a hawk.

  “Nothin’,” she replied, and wished it were true. “Look, Thomas; I can’t tell Acton about all this, not yet.”

  But Williams was firm. “I think you must tell him.”

  She thought of Acton, and his certain reaction when he learned that she was consorting with the likes of Solonik and Savoie without his knowledge. But I do have his back, she reminded herself; and no one else can do what I can do to help him. “Not yet,” she replied, just as firmly. “But I will need your assistance tomorrow, or the day after. No questions asked,” she reminded him ruthlessly.

  He nodded, and she could sense he was relieved because at least he’d been enlisted to help. He is a good man, she thought with a pang of conscience. “I’m that sorry I’m such a crackin’ trial, Thomas.”

  “Don’t take any chances, is all.”

  She had to smile. “Have you forgotten who it is you’re speakin’ to, DS Williams?”

  CHAPTER 19

  ON THE WAY BACK TO THE MET, DOYLE TOOK A CALL FROM Munoz. “Samuels is dying for bangers and mash and wants to go to the pub on the corner.”

  “Done,” said Doyle. She was ready to eat something fortifying, after her many trials this fine day. “Williams will come, too.”

  “Come where?” Williams asked as she rang off. “I can’t spare any more time today.”

  “All work and no play,” Doyle chided him. “I owe you lunch and please offer Munoz a homicide project; she is drivin’ me and Habib crazy.”

  “She needs a new boyfriend.”

  “Not you,” Doyle cautioned.

  He made a grimace of distaste. “Christ, Kath, do you think so little of me?”

  “You mustn’t blaspheme,” she reminded him. “I think you are pickin’ up bad habits from Acton.”

  “You are full of strictures, aren’t you?” he offered mildly as they descended the stairs to the tube.

  There was a slight pause. “I’m afraid I don’t know what that means.”

  “It means you certainly like to tell me what I can and cannot do.”

  Stricken, she looked back at him as she passed through the turnstile. “Faith, Thomas; I do beg your pardon. I don’t have the orderin’ of you, and I shouldn’t behave as though I do. I’m that sorry that I’m soundin’ like an archwife.”

  “Just so we’re clear.”

  They waited on the platform, Doyle filled with remorse because it was true; she took gross advantage of Williams due to the fact he had a soft spot for her. She should be a better friend, else he’d not come to her rescue as he did with alarming regularity. To this end, she thought she should show an interest in his personal life, as a good friend would. “Are you seein’ anyone, yourself?”

  Although his expression didn’t change, he was suddenly amused—saw right through her, he did. “I’m thinking about Cassie; she seems ready for a go, and I wouldn’t have to spend a lot of money on dinners to get there.”

  She turned to look toward the coming train. “You are horrid , is what you are.”

  “I’d be helping you out.”

  This was the first he’d hinted at what the photographs depicted, and she hesitated, wondering whether she should discuss it at all with him—he was too shrewd by half, was DS Williams. “More like you’d get busted back to DC again.”

  Despite her attempt at lightness, he must have heard something in her voice because he put a hand around her shoulder, squeezing her to him briefly. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said.”

  His sympathy was almost her undoing, and she struggled with her emotions as they boarded the train. It would only be to his benefit, one would think, if Acton were indeed cheating on her, since Williams would presumably be the leading candidate to fill the vacancy as husband number two. Instead, he was solidly in her corner, despite the fact that her latest brush with retribution-minded kingpins may wind up costing him his job. The train was crowded, as it was lunch hour, and she looked up at him as they swayed, hanging on to a pole. “The whole thing is not at all what you think, Thomas. I’d like to tell you more, but I don’t think I can.”

  He nodded, unsurprised—they had already discussed the fact that divided loyalties may work to prevent complete honesty between them—he was loyal to Acton, too. “I’m a little worried that you are in over your head.”

  This was indisputably true, as Williams was aware that Savoie—of all people—had handed her the wretched photographs. “I have a handle on it, I promise. And if I need backup, I’ll call you in two shakes, my hand on my heart.”

  “Excuse me,” said a woman in a tweed coat, standing beside them in the aisleway. “Aren’t you the police officer from the papers—the one who jumped off the bridge?”

  “I am,” Doyle confessed, pinning on her smile and cursing her hair color. “I am pleased to meet you.”

  “Officer Doyle,” a businessman affirmed, sticking his newspaper under his arm to awkwardly shake her hand in the crowded space. “I thought it was you. Well done.”

  “It was nothin’,” Doyle protested, blushing. “Truly.”

/>   “Makes ya think t’police ain’t all rotten,” a dubious man in a knit cap chimed in. “Restores yer faith. Mind effen I takes a snap wi’ me mobile?” He then muscled his way over to lean in with Doyle, raising his mobile to take a photograph of them. A palpable ripple of interest flowed through the train car.

  “Our stop,” announced Williams, even though it wasn’t, and he extricated them out the door and out onto the platform, Doyle bidding good-bye to her well-wishers, who exuded copious amounts of good will and a strange sort of shared pride.

  They walked quickly in silence for a few minutes, navigating their way up the escalators and onto the street. “Thanks,” she finally said.

  “It didn’t seem like you were enjoying yourself.”

  “No—I hate the attention. And it’s hardly fair, Thomas; you were a rescuer as much as I was.”

  “Not true—you deserve every ounce of it.”

  “It’s the papers,” she conceded with sad resignation. “They’ve made me the bridge-jumper, and so I ever shall be; amen.” Her scalp prickled, suddenly. What? she asked herself, exasperated. Why is that so important, for the love o’ Mike? Again, it eluded her and she was left with a faint feeling of frustration—it happened this way, sometimes, and it made her feel that her perceptive ability was standing beside her, tapping its foot with impatience.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by her companion, who remained unsettled even though his outward appearance was benign. “Do you have an end goal?” They were taught at the Academy that there should always be an end goal—one way or another, so that the public’s money would not be wasted on a detective’s whims.

  “I do.” Best not mention the end goal was to save Acton from having to share a cell with Solonik—Williams needn’t be in on that little secret. Besides, while she was aware that Williams acted as Acton’s henchman in the occasional administration of rough justice, she didn’t know if he knew of Acton’s gun smuggling, which was a whole other kettle of blackmail-worthy fish. Mother a’ mercy, it was hard to keep track.

  As if on cue, her mobile pinged. It was Acton. “Lunch?”

  She smiled a bit grimly, aware—in the way she was aware of things—that he knew she’d been speaking to Masterson. She decided to let him stew. “Sorry, lunching with W and M.” She paused, then decided to add, “Will drop by after.” Sometimes when Acton stewed, things got rapidly out of hand—best be careful.

  “I wish you would think again about consulting with him about this.”

  Teasing, she glanced up at Williams as she sheathed her mobile. “What makes you think that was Acton? Maybe it was Savoie.”

  “Was it?”

  She shook her head. “I wouldn’t tell you—you’d lift his mobile number with cellophane tape while I wasn’t lookin’, or somethin’.”

  But Williams, having determined that dark forces were at play, was in no mood. “Not a laughing matter, Kath.”

  And that’s why I’m married to Acton, she thought as they strode along in silence. Acton always thinks I’m funny. Well—maybe not always; but most times.

  They came to the pub—one of the posh kind that was mainly pretending to be the real thing—and once through the door, she was met with the welcome and ubiquitous scent of bacon and ale. Munoz and Samuels had secured a booth in the corner and waved them over. “You’ve been busy this morning,” said Samuels, moving over for her.

  “I’ve been visitin’ like a county nurse, I have. What are you havin’?”

  “We’ve already ordered; you’re having bangers and mash whether you like it or not.”

  She noted that Samuels’s gaze drifted between herself and Williams with a gleam of speculation that she did not appreciate, but there was no point in getting nettled; she was well-used to being the object of gossip, after all. “Like it,” she replied easily. “What’s news?”

  Samuels shrugged in his negligent manner. “Still hunting contraband. We had a tip, and made a raid on a suspected cache, but they must have been warned because it was cleared out by the time we got there.”

  “Bad luck,” said Munoz, who was well-pleased to be situated cheek-by-jowl between the two men. “The trouble with tips is the informants; they take whatever the police will give them, and then happily grass to the suspects that the police are on their tail—a double recovery.”

  But Doyle was doubtful. “I wouldn’t want to be playin’ a double game with the smugglers. Too easy to wind up floatin’ amongst the reeds at the bottom of the river.”

  “We had one two days ago—a dead informant,” Williams offered. “Now we have to start all over, cultivating someone else.”

  “He was in the river?” Munoz knew all there was to know about being fished out of the Thames.

  “His head was.”

  While Munoz took this opportunity to express her feminine horror at such a grisly turn of events, Doyle wondered at the nuances she sensed. Yet again, Williams appeared unruffled, but inwardly he was unsettled about something; wary, and grave—or graver than his usual. She wondered what the newly-dead informant had been informing about; she should follow up with Acton, mental note.

  Samuels changed the subject. “Acton has been butting heads with the deputy commissioner about the contraband protocol. Have you heard who prevailed?” This was directed at Doyle.

  Doyle said honestly, “Haven’t a clue what you are talkin’ about, Samuels.” She reflected that this was the second time in a few days that Samuels was fishing for information about Acton, and, in light of certain recent events, decided this was yet another mental note, as she couldn’t very well start jotting reminders on a napkin. Faith, she thought crossly; I only wanted some flippin’ lunch, not another stack of flippin’ problems.

  The harried waitress served the plates out, and as Doyle reached to assist, Munoz observed, “Will you look at the bruise on your arm, Doyle? How did you manage that?”

  “Acton beats me,” she replied easily, and they all laughed except Williams. “It’s fadin’, now. You should have seen it at first—as black as the third horseman.”

  “I imagine you bruise easily,” offered Williams.

  “My curse,” agreed Doyle. “And I sunburn like you wouldn’t believe.”

  “Then it’s just as well you don’t swim,” said Samuels, and they all laughed again. He continued, “Speaking of such, how is your wound, Munoz? I wish I had a knife wound; it would make me more interesting to the ladies.”

  “I’ll show you.” Munoz was nothing loath as she shifted in the narrow booth to pull at the back of her sweater. “Can you see it?”

  Samuels willingly helped pull the sweater down to expose the wound, although Doyle imagined that Munoz was hoping Williams would do the honors. The others duly admired the small red scar, not yet faded.

  “Impressive,” said Williams. “They should give you the George.”

  “I don’t know,” Doyle teased. “I admit I’m a bit disappointed—it looks more like a chicken pox scar.”

  “Not at all,” chided Samuels, running a finger across it. “Don’t listen to her, Munoz; it makes you look piratical, and dangerous.”

  “Sometimes it itches.” Munoz confessed as she shrugged her sweater back in place.

  “Have you told your beau the tale?” Doyle knew Munoz would appreciate any reference to her admirer, as Williams hadn’t chosen to pursue that role.

  “He has not yet seen my scar; I’m not certain he deserves to.”

  This remark was followed by some good-natured raillery from the men about the injustice of women who played hard-to-get, and Munoz was very much in her element.

  “I’ll warn you; he’ll look for a girl who’s not so coy.” Samuels grinned at her. “Can’t hold out forever, or you’ll lose him.”

  “He’ll wait, and be grateful for the opportunity.”

  Doyle was thoughtful, remembering her interview with Mrs. Bennet. “Has a man ever cheated on you, Munoz?”

  “Is Acton cheating on you? Wait; let me go put on s
ome lipstick.”

  The men found this sally exceedingly humorous, although Doyle could not quite appreciate it as she would have a week ago. Merciful God, she offered up; don’t let any rumor of Acton and Cassie Masterson reach Munoz’s ears, I am begging you. “No, idiot; I had an interview this mornin’ about a girl who bludgeoned her boyfriend to death because she thought he cheated on her.”

  But Munoz was unimpressed. “I can’t imagine any man is worth bludgeoning to death; too much effort.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Williams smiled. “After all, you’d get blood spatter on your shoes.”

  “I’d know enough to wear my wellies,” Munoz chided him with a look. “But it would still be too much effort. Poison is much tidier.”

  “Yes—it’s such a strange and brutal reaction, no matter how upset you are.” Even in those first terrible moments in the bookstore, Doyle had never contemplated violence against Acton.

  “It’s not about love,” Munoz explained patiently, a forkful of mashed potatoes poised. “It’s about control. The person is nicked—obsessive, and can’t stand the thought of losing control. When they kill the other, they regain control again.”

  Doyle decided she’d rather not delve into a discussion about persons who were nicked and obsessive, and hurriedly turned the subject toward local sporting events, which was a tedious topic, but did not hit quite so close to home.

  CHAPTER 20

  AFTER AN HOUR, WILLIAMS REMINDED THEM THAT HE HAD TO get back to work, and Samuels bowed his head in mock-obedience. “Yes, sir; by the way, when’s the announcement to be made?”

  “What announcement?” asked Munoz, like a hound to the point.

  With a gesture of his head toward Williams, Samuels continued, “Youngest DI since Wensley. And well-deserved.” He lifted his glass in a mock-salute.

  “Congratulations, Williams—you deserve it.” Doyle was aware that Williams was not best-pleased by this rather heavy-handed revelation, not to mention it was a crackin’ shame that the news was dropped on Munoz unawares. For a moment, Doyle considered taking cover under the table.

  Munoz, however, was not so foolish as to allow her chagrin to get the better of this opportunity to sweeten up Williams, and offered polite and seemingly heartfelt congratulations. I should watch and learn, thought Doyle; I let my temper get the better of me time after time—it’s the hair, it has a lot to answer for, it does. Although Acton can’t keep his hands from it, so there’s that.