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

by Anne Cleeland

  CHAPTER 25

  DOYLE HAD BEEN REQUIRED TO MAKE PRISON VISITS ON A FEW occasions in the past, as often prisoners would be interviewed in connection with other crimes. As she entered through the doors and felt the oppressive atmosphere, she fought an almost overwhelming urge to turn on her heel and abandon ship. Not a good place, she concluded; no one here is content, and a good many are utterly despairing. Hopefully, she would not be joining the ranks of the utterly despairing anytime soon.

  In this subdued state of mind she checked in at the visitor’s desk as “Kathleen Sinclair” and showed her government-issued ID as opposed to her CID-issued one. She had little doubt if she revealed her professional identity, bridge-jumper fans would line up in short order and her better half would probably hear of this little excursion within the hour. There was always the chance Acton would hear of it anyway—he was another one who watched and saw—but she had little choice and could only hope to evade detection as best she was able. And only for the time being, she assured herself; I will make a clean breast as soon as I discover what I can, and then Acton and I will have no secrets from each other—or at least no secrets involving this latest crisis. She paused for a moment, and then decided that Savoie’s participation needn’t ever be revealed; his was only a minor role, after all.

  After she passed through a metal detector, her rucksack was searched, and then she was escorted by a guard who eyed her in a way that was probably against regulations as he showed her into a visiting room that had the look of a place that no one ever bothered to clean very thoroughly. She was instructed to have a seat at a station that faced a reinforced glass panel through which she and the prisoner could speak, and noted that a security camera was mounted on the wall to monitor all conversations. The guard then withdrew to the door and she waited, the silence stretching out. She was acutely uncomfortable, and closed her eyes briefly in an attempt to regain her equilibrium. Impossible to imagine having to reside in such a place for an extended period of time; the atmosphere was oppressive, hopeless, and made her very anxious. Don’t be committing a felony, she thought; mental note.

  A gate clanged in the near distance, and she jumped slightly. Enough, she scolded herself; pull yourself together, for the love o’ Mike—you’re the flippin’ bridge-jumper. And the aim here is to stop this evil plot to expose Acton, else he’ll be having to serve out a sentence, with you sitting here in this miserable visiting room on a regular basis. Such a thought couldn’t be borne; she honestly didn’t know if Acton would survive such an experience, being as he was. Not to mention he would be a target for every vengeful inmate who was here, courtesy of him. Better that he married Masterson to scotch her plan—if it came down to that—than wind up here. Faith, she thought with no small surprise; I suppose I must truly love him.

  Her thoughts were interrupted when Solonik appeared on the other side of the glass, dressed in prison garb. He smiled when he saw her, and seated himself so that they were face-to-face.

  “Rizhaya,” he began, his amused gaze resting for a moment on the cap that covered her hair. “We meet again.”

  “You look well,” she replied politely. It was true; he did. He’d lost weight, and appeared much healthier—nothing like a prison diet, she thought. Although the last time they’d met, his throat had been sliced, so there was that. “I brought you somethin’.” She pulled a well-worn Russian icon card out of her rucksack and displayed it to him; it was of St. Joseph, and had been taken from the body of his dead brother-in-law. It went without saying that the aforesaid brother-in-law was dead by Acton’s hand.

  They regarded each other for a long moment. She wanted to make it clear, without saying anything aloud for the surveillance camera, that she was wise to his scheming, and not one to be blackmailed or intimidated into doing whatever it was he was trying to accomplish by sending Savoie to plague her with his stupid photographs. No doubt Solonik assumed Acton’s young and foolish wife could be easily manipulated, and she would disabuse him of this notion immediately. He saw her as Acton’s vulnerability—which indeed she was; he must have been astonished to discover Acton had married—and so she would make it very clear that she had her husband’s back, come what may.

  Solonik broke the silence. “I thank you, Rizhaya; he is the patron saint of my hometown.”

  With a nod, she placed the icon card on the counter before her. “I’m thinkin’ that you need all the help you can get—there may not be enough saints in heaven.”

  He bowed his head in acknowledgment. “I will treasure it, and think of our friendship.”

  This seemed a rather strange thing to say, being as this was the first time she’d spoken to him. Reminded, she set about to do a bit of truth-detecting. “I understand you have somethin’ to discuss with me.” She waited, wondering how he would broach the subjects he wished, what with the camera monitoring them overhead.

  “You have met my associate?”

  She blinked, as this seemed off-topic, but assumed he referred to Savoie, as she was aware of no other associates—unless he referred to Masterson. “A gentleman?”

  He nodded solemnly. “My associate can help you solve your problem.”

  “Which problem is that?” she asked cautiously. She had more than a few, after all.

  There was a flash of irritation, quickly suppressed, but his expression remained benign. “The newspaper reporter,” he reminded her gently.

  Confused, she knit her brow. “And here I thought she was your doin’.”

  “No,” he said sincerely, shaking his head. It was a lie.

  Ah—now we are getting somewhere, Doyle thought in satisfaction, and feigned confusion, which was not very hard to do, given the circumstances. “I don’t believe you.”

  He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “No, she is not mine—and it would be in both our interests to resolve that problem.”

  Aside from being untrue, this seemed another strange thing for him to say, and so she asked suspiciously, “Why would you wish to help me?” She noted that he’d been careful not to mention Acton, or even refer to a husband, so she did the same.

  He lowered his gaze for a few moments, studying his hands. He finally said carefully, “I am concerned that if too much information is discovered, it will not serve my interests. I have interests which are aligned with—someone who is close to you.”

  She thought about this for a moment, knitting her brow. “I don’t understand,” she finally admitted. It was true; she was at sea. I’m not cut out for cryptic conversations, she thought; I have enough trouble keeping up with the not-so-cryptic ones.

  Again, there was a swift flash of irritation—and perhaps contempt—that belied his calm appearance. With a show of patience, he explained, “If the newspaper woman succeeds, then certain information will be made public. I do not wish this because I have my own interests.” He gave her a meaningful look.

  He referred, it seemed, to the illegal guns-running. Apparently he was intimating that if Acton’s dark doings were exposed, this would throw a spanner in his own wheel of dark doings. She responded with cautious incredulity, “Surely you can have no further interests, bein’ as you are locked up in this fine place.”

  He looked upon her indulgently. “Rizhaya, you are such an innocent; it refreshes me.”

  While she stared at him, trying to decide what he was about, he pressed his advantage, glancing quickly at the monitor and lowering his voice. “There is information about killings, and corruption. At the highest levels.”

  This rang true, and Doyle digested this unfortunate news, allowing her dismay to show. Unbidden, she had a sudden memory of the Home Office official who’d been the murder victim in the first case she’d worked with Acton, and her scalp prickled.

  To her surprise, Solonik suddenly brought the meeting to a close, and rose. “I will say no more; you have only to contact my associate.” He smiled. “Thank you for St. Joseph; I will pray for you in this most difficult time.”

  The guard ind
icated she should rise. “This way, Ms. Sinclair.” She had the immediate impression the guard was pleased, and also contemptuous of her as he exchanged a glance with the departing Solonik.

  Horrified realization dawned, and Doyle allowed the guard to escort her away, willing her feet to move only with an immense effort. Holy Mother of God, she thought; I’ve been roundly outfoxed.

  CHAPTER 26

  DOYLE WALKED UP THE ROAD TO THE BUS STOP, QUASHING down her panic and concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. He doesn’t know you know what he intends, she rallied herself; you can thwart it, now. And our Mr. Savoie will not be best-pleased to hear of this, either. Unless, of course, he was in on it from the start. She halted for a moment in the dusty gravel, utterly dismayed by this thought. Do not panic, she directed herself, and started walking again. You have the advantage, thanks to the guard who could not control his glee. I thank You for the warning, she offered up; now let’s hope I can do a little manipulating of my own.

  After reaching the bus stop, she turned on her mobile and texted Savoie. She then texted Williams to tell him her errand had gone well, and she would meet him back at the Met in an hour or so to retrieve her mobile, hoping there was no way for Williams to triangulate her location. Small matter if he could; she had bigger problems to worry about. She sat at the bus stop for a few minutes until the black sedan pulled up, and she opened the door and settled into the passenger seat.

  “Saint Bernard,” Savoie said immediately, very pleased with himself.

  “Yes—oh, yes, that’s it. And it’s a wretched shame I don’t drink, because I could sorely use some brandy.”

  “I do not drink, also,” Savoie revealed.

  “No, I suppose you need to stay sharp.”

  “I am the wolf wearing the clothes from the lambs,” he agreed as they drove away. “I trust no one.”

  He was emanating good will—fond of her, he was—and she decided there was no time like the present. “I’m wonderin’ if you’d mind bein’ a Saint Bernard, just once more. I have a favor to ask.”

  He eyed her, not liking this talk of favors. “Why? What did he say?”

  Doyle found that she was hungry, and couldn’t face potential ruination on an empty stomach. “Can I buy you somethin’ to eat?”

  He shrugged his apology. “Me, I am not easy in strange places.”

  Of course not, she thought, I suppose that goes with the territory. “We can talk in the car, then, but would you mind if I buy a fruit pie somewhere? I am starvin’.”

  After a stretch of empty roadway, they came across a light commercial area and he stopped at a small market that served the local work force. Doyle went in to make her purchase, and returned to the car. After turning into a side street, Savoie parked the sedan along a nearly deserted road that fronted an abandoned industrial building. She’d bought a fruit pie for him—it seemed rude, otherwise—and he folded the waxed paper back and ate it without comment. Doyle passed him a napkin and reflected that she was alone and eating pie with a renowned killer in a deserted area. Nothin’ for it.

  “Whatever Solonik has told you, this is not about anythin’ other than takin’ Acton’s goat. It is about revenge, pure and simple.”

  Her companion chewed on the pie and watched her, his expression unreadable.

  “Acton put him in prison, and Solonik wants revenge, but Acton has the upper hand.”

  Savoie paused for a moment, puzzled by the reference.

  “Acton has a way to make him do what he wants.”

  The Frenchman indicated he understood, and took another bite. “Solonik has a son.”

  She’d hoped he wouldn’t remember; she didn’t want an innocent child to be a pawn in all this. “Do you think we can leave him out of it?”

  But she was to be given no such assurance. “Continue, if you please.”

  “Solonik wants revenge against Acton, but it cannot appear to come from him. The woman in the photo with Acton—she works for Solonik.” She scrutinized his reaction carefully, but could not decide if he already knew this. Here goes, she thought, and took a breath. “But I think she is slated to be murdered, and Solonik will make it look like I paid someone to have her killed.”

  It went without saying that Savoie was to perform Masterson’s murder, and truly, it was a well thought-out scheme. The police would be shown the photos, and Doyle would be seen as the jealous and vengeful wife. And now there was a roll of spanking-fresh prison surveillance tape, lending support to this story. She’d wanted to show Solonik that she couldn’t be manipulated, unaware that this was not his intent; he sought only to bring her to him so as to frame her, and she’d fallen for it. Stupid knocker, she chastised herself; a bigger idiot never put her arm through a coat.

  She pulled her attention back to Savoie, who was regarding her steadily as he silently finished up the pie. “The newspaper story Masterson is puttin’ together about Acton would be published, and even if nothin’ could be proved, he would be ruined. I would be in prison and Masterson—who is the only one who knows of Solonik’s connection to all this—would be dead.” She thought about it. “He’s had a lot of time and nothin’ else to think about; it is a crackin’ good plan.”

  After pausing for a moment to fortify herself, she met his eyes. “I’m worried that you saved me that day—from the man who attacked me—not because you were a Saint Bernard, but because if I were killed, it would put paid to this wretched plan.”

  “No, no,” he assured her immediately. “I was to have sex with you—with drugs, if needed—and take more photographs.”

  She stared at him in acute horror. “Mother of God,” she breathed. Solonik would then use said photos to blackmail her—or torture Acton. Or both.

  There was a small silence. “How much of this do you know?” she asked in a small voice. If he knew the whole already, matters were a bit bleak, and about to get bleaker.

  He brushed the crumbs from his lap with the napkin. “I have the business interests here, but lately there have been some problems with the business interests. Solonik says to me that such problems would be no more if I would arrange this meeting, and arrange”—he shrugged a shoulder in her direction—“other matters also.”

  “In exchange for your cooperation, he’ll give up any plan to muscle in on the contraband in the horse trailers,” she guessed.

  Her companion’s cold eyes were suddenly intent on hers, and she realized that perhaps she was gabbling a bit too much. Hastily, she added, “And he’d tell you what happened to your brother.” Solonik would no doubt finger Acton—whether he had any evidence or not—and a vengeful Savoie would then dispatch Acton without a second thought. For Solonik, all debts would then be well and properly settled.

  She leaned toward him, intent. “D’you see? There is no guarantee that he’ll not turn on you, too—like he will turn on Masterson. He’s safe and protected in prison, after all; if he implicates you in Masterson’s and Acton’s murders, he’d then have the contraband operation all to himself.”

  She paused, trying to decide if he was buying what she was selling, but he was gazing into the distance and giving no clue as to what he was thinking. “You can’t trust him, Philippe; perhaps you can help me stop him and we can take Solonik’s goat, instead of Acton’s.”

  He tilted his head and met her eyes. “I am a businessman. Will I be paid?”

  She gazed at him in dismay. “Oh. Oh—I don’t have much money of my own.” She thought about asking Acton for whatever large sum such things must cost, and could feel herself turn pale at the idea. Perhaps she could get hold of the fungible assets, instead, but she discarded that thought immediately; Layton was first and foremost loyal to Acton, and he would regretfully turn her in without hesitation.

  Her companion’s voice cut into her thoughts. “Perhaps it is not money I wish from you.”

  Her eyes flew to his and his meaning was unmistakable as he slid an arm across the top of her car seat. “Truly?” she asked in abj
ect astonishment.

  “Come, come,” he said reasonably. “Do not be ingénue.”

  With a mighty effort, she pulled her scattered wits together. “I’m afraid that is not an option, my friend.”

  He cocked his head and drew a finger along her shoulder. “Acton has this option. Such arrangements are not unusual—I will take a place in the city, nearby to where you live.”

  Frowning at him, she accused, “You are lookin’ to take your photos.”

  “No, my promise—I would not do such a thing to you.”

  He didn’t need to promise because it was true, and she stared at him in bemusement. He spoke casually, as though they were discussing the weather, and she was reminded of Acton, who also spoke casually about cataclysmic topics. She suddenly remembered Nanda, thanking Timothy with the only commodity she had available. She also remembered her musings in the prison waiting room; how she would be willing to give up Acton to Masterson if that was what it took to save him. As a result, she actually considered Savoie’s offer for a long moment.

  She finally shook her head. “I’m that sorry,” she admitted. “I can’t do it.”

  He said nothing, but bent his head and contemplated the steering wheel.

  “You are a very handsome man,” she offered sincerely, hoping she hadn’t hurt his feelings; men were sensitive about such things.

  He gave a quick bark of laughter—the first she’d heard from him—and it startled her. He withdrew his arm and started the car. “Eh bien; we will go back.”

  “What will you do?” she asked tentatively. Hopefully it did not include framing her for murder.

  But again, he reminded her of Acton when he made no response. Instead, he turned to look at her with some severity as they turned onto the main highway. “You must tell no one what we have spoken of. No one. This is understood?”

  “Yes, I promise.” This was no problem at all for her.