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

by Anne Cleeland

  He turned back to contemplate the road. “Done,” he corrected her.

  “Done,” she amended.

  “Be careful who you trust,” he added.

  She wondered if he was referring to Williams again. “All right,” she agreed, and then tentatively teased, “Do I trust you?”

  He smiled again. “De vrai; I am the Saint Bernard.”

  They drove the way back in silence, and as was his custom, he said nothing when she alighted at the drop-off place. The black sedan then drove away.

  CHAPTER 27

  DOYLE BEGAN THE WALK BACK TO THE MET. I AM IN WAY OVER my head, she thought with some anxiety. I should turn the whole over to Acton and spend the next few months learning how to cook. She remembered they were going to Trestles tomorrow and nearly groaned aloud. What to do?

  She’d promised Savoie she would say nothing, and, like a coward, she was willing to honor her promise. Hopefully he was not going to help frame her for murder anytime soon, although he’d made no promises on that front. He had sworn off kidnap and rape, which was surely a step in the right direction. She’d blundered, though, when she’d revealed her knowledge of the contraband rig; she was married to a DCI and Savoie may decide he had no choice but to assure her silence—he was not the type to trust anyone, by his own admission. Except that he had a thing for her, apparently, and was disappointed she wasn’t willing to jump into an affair, like her wayward husband. Annoyed, she hunched her shoulders. Between Williams and Percy and Savoie and Masterson, everyone seemed to think her notions of morality were a bit out-of-date. Honestly; it was time to start building an ark, or something.

  Back at the Met, she shook the rain off her jacket as she walked down the hallway to her desk. Munoz materialized to stride along beside her, even though there really wasn’t room enough for two abreast. “And just where have you been? I’ve had to cover for your worthless Irish behind again, and I am not your secretary.”

  “Who was lookin’ for me?” Not Acton, Doyle pleaded mentally.

  “Holmes, Williams, Samuels,” said Munoz, ticking them off and very much put-upon. “And Habib.”

  Saints and angels; worse and worse. “I left my mobile at an interview this mornin’, and I was out in the field before I realized it—could you text Williams and ask him to bring it?” This was an attempt at diversion, and it worked well; Munoz forgot her pique, and paused to raise Williams on her mobile.

  Doyle collapsed in a heap at her desk as Munoz tailed along behind her, her fingers working the screen. “He’s finishing up an interview—he’ll be right over.” Thoughtfully, the girl checked the time. “Maybe he’s available for dinner.”

  “Ask him,” Doyle encouraged, hoping to put off her inevitable reckoning with DI Williams. Reminded, she decided she’d best ring up Acton and take her medicine—Williams would be angry, whereas Acton would be worried, and she didn’t know which was worse.

  Using her land line, she rang him up and he answered immediately. “Kathleen.”

  “I’m back,” she said cheerily. “I’m sorry about the mix-up.”

  “Are you all right?”

  She was reminded that her husband was no fool. “Of course, Michael; I’ll explain when I see you. Shall we go home together?”

  “I’m home already; my four o’ clock cancelled.”

  He’d gone home to fret about her; she was a sad trial to her poor husband. Although to be fair, he was an occasional trial himself, when he was off smoking in dim joints with conniving brassers. “I’ll be there soon, then. First I have to see what Habib wants.”

  “I asked him to look out for you.”

  “Oh,” she said, feeling wretchedly guilty. There was no explanation she could give as to why she hadn’t contacted him; leastwise, not one that Munoz could hear. “I’m sorry—I’ll make it up to you, I promise.” Let him start thinking about sex; maybe he would forget about her many transgressions.

  “Shall I come get you?”

  Her attempt at diversion hadn’t worked, and she’d need time to get her story straight, so she stalled. “I’ll let you know; Williams is bringin’ my mobile and perhaps I can get a ride. I’ll finish up as quickly as I can.” After bidding him good-bye, she rang off.

  “You’re in trouble,” pronounced Munoz, eavesdropping without a shred of shame. “Poor planning; next time give me some story to feed to him.”

  “I’m not needin’ your help with my husband, Munoz.”

  “I beg to differ; if you’re going to make it up to him with sex, you can’t be so subtle. Tell him you were out buying lingerie.”

  As this was a sore subject, Doyle glowered up at her. “I don’t think sex should be a tradin’ chip.”

  Munoz seemed to find this pronouncement very amusing, and laughed aloud. “Do you need to stay at my flat again?”

  “No,” Doyle said crossly. “It’s none of your business, Munoz; I’ve had a crackin’ foul day.”

  “No worse than mine,” retorted Munoz. “At least Acton is stuck with you.”

  This hinted at a shocking turn of events, and in her surprise Doyle forgot her own shocking turn of events. “Never say the bookstore clerk broke up with you?”

  Munoz’s brows drew down ominously. “He said he needed to concentrate on his studies. He didn’t give me a chance to break up with him, first.”

  “I’m that sorry, Munoz. Go out tonight and enslave some other poor man.”

  “I don’t suppose you can come with me? We make a good contrast.”

  This seemed a dubious compliment, but in any event, flight wasn’t an option. “I’ve got plans this weekend, although I’d honestly rather I didn’t. Sorry.”

  Munoz sulked for a moment. “I’ll call Lizzie from the lab; if Holmes is busy, she may be free to go.” She shot an arch glance at Doyle under her lashes.

  Faith, thought Doyle; now what? “Have I met Lizzie?”

  “I doubt it,” said Munoz with a great deal of meaning. “She’s been given a lot of responsibility in the lab and I’ll bet she’s not subtle about the trading chip.”

  Doyle bristled at the implication. “Acton is not having an affair with a girl in the lab, Munoz; have done.”

  “Of course not,” said Munoz, very much shocked. “As if I would suggest such a thing.”

  Doyle was well-aware that Munoz was taking her goat, so to speak, but found she was completely out of patience on this day of all days. “Not everyone is tryin’ to steal Acton from me, present company excepted.”

  “Oh-ho, apparently I struck a nerve. I wondered why you were so touchy—has he finally come to his senses?”

  Doyle seethed and said through her teeth, “If you dare spread such a rumor, I promise you will be made to answer for it.”

  Munoz resented the implied threat and took a step toward Doyle, only to have her arms restrained by Williams, who had appeared behind her.

  Doyle felt herself color to the roots of her hair, and wondered how much he’d overheard. Munoz, having ascertained who held her, made no attempt to free herself, so Williams released her and said only, “No bloodshed ’til after hours.”

  “Can’t take a joke,” pronounced Munoz in disgust, tossing back her hair. Doyle held her head in her hands and counted to ten.

  “Go to a neutral corner, Munoz,” said Williams. “I need to give Doyle her mobile.”

  With a casual air, Munoz made her way over to her cubicle, making it clear she was in no way retreating.

  Intercepting Williams’s simmering emotions, Doyle decided she desperately wanted to go home even though she still hadn’t decided what she should say to Acton; the morning’s interview with Morgan Percy seemed like it was ages ago. “I was just leavin’; do you have my mobile?” Williams handed it to her, and watched her pack it away in her rucksack without moving. Here we go, she thought; I would give ten pounds to be left alone. Rising, she exited past him but he turned to follow her. She strode down the hallway but she couldn’t out-walk him; his legs were too long. “Do we
have to do this now?”

  “Yes,” he replied tersely.

  “At least wait until we get outside, then.”

  They walked together in grim silence and exited the building. “I’m sorry I ditched you, Thomas, but I knew you would follow me.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “You are insane.”

  But she was in no mood and whirled on him. “Leave it, Thomas. It is not your concern.”

  He was angry, and bent so that his face was close to hers. “Of course it is—you can’t do this to me, Kath. It’s me.”

  “I don’t need you to help me.”

  “Yes, you do.” Distracted, he ran a hand through his blond hair. “Things have changed.”

  Oh-oh, she thought, surprise interrupting her fit of temper. This is big.

  Williams glanced up to be certain no one was near, and lowered his voice. “Acton’s filed for divorce.”

  Doyle felt as though the air had been sucked out of her lungs. She stared at him. “What?”

  He hesitated for a moment, and even in the fading light, she could see that he was pale. “Acton is getting a divorce. He has already started the proceedings.”

  Unwilling to believe what this portended, she asked through stiff lips, “Where did you hear that—from Acton?”

  He set his jaw. “I’d rather not say.” Meeting her eyes, he continued in a grim tone, “You can’t count on him to help you with all this, and you’re going to need some help.”

  There was only one person on earth who would believe Acton was getting a divorce—Williams must have been meeting with Masterson. She remembered their friendly flirtation in the microfiche room, and closed her eyes for a moment, trying to remember if she’d had the impression they’d met before.

  “Kath? Are you all right?”

  Masterson was gathering information about Acton to ruin him—Doyle had assumed it was investigative work, but that seemed unlikely; Acton was an expert at covering his tracks. So perhaps she had a source—a very knowledgeable source—

  “Christ, Kath; here—”

  Williams supported her in his arms as she swayed on her feet, having trouble with her eyesight. Steering her to a bench, he pushed her head down between her knees and she breathed deeply for a moment, coming to grips with it, and vividly reminded of Savoie’s comments about not trusting Williams. Williams, she thought with sick misery—he knows where all the bodies are buried; literally. Williams. Think, Doyle—don’t let him know you know. Slowly she sat up, staring blankly ahead while he sat beside her, emanating anxiety.

  “I’m sorry,” he said gently. “I shouldn’t have dropped it on you like that.”

  “I’m goin’ to go home now.” She brushed her palms against her cheeks; she was crying.

  “I will drive you,” he offered.

  “No, you won’t.” She hoisted her rucksack on her shoulder and stood, feeling as though her chest was numb. She began to walk, head down, whilst she brushed at her cheeks—she could not stop crying.

  He walked beside her, and bent to say quietly, “Do you want me to try to speak to him?”

  “No,” she said immediately. Faith, no; Acton would reach the same conclusion she had, and the repercussions would be swift and terrible. She needed to think. “Leave me alone, Thomas.”

  He dropped back, and she never looked at him again but she knew that he followed, watching, all the way to her door.

  CHAPTER 28

  WHEN DOYLE ENTERED THEIR FLAT, ACTON WAS WAITING ON the other side of the door. She walked into his arms and felt miserably guilty; he was all on end, and trying to hide it. She wrapped her arms around his waist, and wished she could think of something to say.

  “Your hair is wet,” he said softly. It was no doubt soaking through his shirt, but she was disinclined to move.

  “I need to get another umbrella; I lost the one from the Heath somewhere.”

  “May I take your coat, madam?” Reynolds discreetly appeared, and Acton reluctantly released her. The servant threw Doyle an admonishing glance as he hung up her coat, and she grimaced at him in apology—no doubt Acton had been pacing like a caged animal.

  She rose up on tiptoe to kiss her husband. “I hear the shower callin’ my name; come and watch.”

  But these unsubtle divertive tactics—taking Munoz’s advice, she was—were unsuccessful as he took a sharp, assessing look at her face. It was no doubt evident that she’d been crying; she was still on the verge of tears, and only fought them by refusing to think about that-which-must-not-be-thought-of. “In a moment,” he said quietly. “Let me see to Reynolds.”

  “Oh—he was going to help me decide what to pack,” she stalled. If Reynolds was dismissed, she’d have no choice but to face the music.

  “I will help you pack,” he said firmly. “Go shower.”

  She half-expected her husband to join her in the shower, but he left her to herself, which was nevertheless appreciated because she still hadn’t come up with a plausible tale to explain her misspent day. After she emerged into the steam-filled room, she began to feel a bit less buffeted, and wiped off a spot on the mirror to scrutinize her face. Ragged, she was; and she hadn’t the will or the energy to dry her hair. Acton had laid her robe out on the bed for her, and she gratefully draped herself in the luxurious folds before heading to the kitchen, where he was checking on whatever was in the oven.

  “Hungry?” he asked.

  “I suppose.” She wasn’t; not really—she was too miserable.

  He straightened up and considered her for a moment. “I know where the fruit pies are hidden.”

  Of course he did. She started to laugh and then started to cry, ashamed and hiding her face in her hands. Acton was beside her in an instant, gathering her up in his arms and lifting her onto his lap as he settled onto a kitchen chair. The pent-up emotions of the day could no longer be contained, and she cried into his shoulder and clung. “I am so sorry, Michael—I am not a good wife, to make you worry so.”

  His voice resonated near her ear. “Can you tell me about it?”

  She sniffled, and fiddled with a button on his cuff. “I fought with Munoz, and then I fought with Williams, and there are parts of it I truly cannot tell you; not yet.”

  “Right, then.” He kissed her temple, gently. “Let me turn off the oven.”

  “You should eat,” she insisted, brushing her eyes with the back of her hand. “I’ll watch.”

  She did, and it looked so good that she began eating off his plate and then he began kissing her throat and in no time they were abed and she felt much, much better.

  Afterward, she lay burrowed in the pillows, watching the flames in the bedroom fireplace. Acton held her nestled in his arm, his mouth against her hair. “You didn’t want me to know where you were,” he said quietly.

  “I had a good reason,” she offered in a small voice.

  “Were you in trouble? Or under duress?”

  “No.” For emphasis, she propped up on her elbow and looked into his dark, unreadable eyes. “I wasn’t. I was tryin’ to help.”

  He laid a hand against the side of her face. “I trust you. I do. But if anything were to happen to you, nothing else would matter at all.”

  “I know, Michael—I am bein’ very careful.” Never let Acton know about Savoie; mental note.

  “You shouldn’t play such a trick on Williams.”

  Acton must think she’d duped Williams by leaving her mobile behind, but she didn’t want to think about Williams; not yet. Instead, she kissed Acton’s chest, wondering if he would let her change the subject. “What’s the plan for Trestles?”

  “Endure.” He shifted so that she was lying tucked under his arm again. “We should pack for two nights, although we may only stay for one.”

  She nodded her understanding. Apparently, events were dependent on Ms. Masterson and her home-wrecking plans.

  Acton lifted her hand and kissed it. “How are you at sulking b
ecause you are neglected?”

  Here was a hint of his plan for the weekend, and she leapt upon it. “Faith, Michael; I can sulk with the best of them. I’ve lived cheek-to-jowl with Munoz for over a year.”

  “Good. Because someone from the staff at Trestles has been feeding Masterson information.”

  “Oh—I see.” The penny dropped, and she realized why Acton wanted her to come along on this illicit archives-searching junket. “So I should hang about and see if anyone tries to cultivate poor, resentful me.”

  “If you would.”

  Saints, she thought distractedly; was no one loyal anymore? She suddenly remembered that Percy was—Morgan Percy had loyally protected her boss, unlike DI Williams, who was a back-stabber of the worst stripe. She frowned, forcefully struck by the wrongness of this thought. Impossible to imagine that Williams wasn’t loyal to Acton—even if he fancied himself as the fair Doyle’s husband-in-waiting. It was unthinkable; loyalty was his middle name, and besides, Acton had the goods on Williams, too—what with the whole shuffling the evil uncle off this mortal coil. She need only test it out; find a way to ask him some pertinent questions when she was with him again—no need to assume the worst, like a hysterical Nell. What ailed her?

  “What are you thinking?”

  She offered up a more generalized version. “I suppose I’m wonderin’ whatever happened to loyalty.”

  “Sometimes other considerations get in the way—money, or power. It’s the way of it.”

  Just because it was the way of it didn’t make it excusable, and so she protested, “You are way too forgivin’, Michael.”

  Absently, he began to stroke her upper arm where his hand rested. “It is not as much a matter of forgiving, as it is a matter of recognizing where loyalty is lacking, and using that lack to advantage.”

  No doubt he referred to Masterson, and his plan to dangle a better offer than Solonik’s. Acton obviously knew of what he spoke—he was a wily one, and a prodigious planner. She wished she had a wily plan to address her many and sundry troubles, but unfortunately, she was fresh out. So instead, she pulled herself up to his ear and whispered into it, “Let’s not go. Let’s go to Brighton instead, and hide out.” For emphasis, she gently bit his lobe.