He listened, and while Doyle couldn’t hear the words the other man said, she could hear the apologies and assurances in his tone.
“Thank you,” Acton said. “I feel rather guilty, turning her in like this, but the problem seems to be escalating.”
After listening a bit more, he apologized again and rang off.
“Michael,” breathed Doyle. “That is diabolical.”
“Yes,” he replied briefly.
She glanced at him, wary; he was staring straight ahead, and the black mood was fast approaching, which meant she had only a limited amount of time to prime him for information. “Are you tryin’ to get her to shoot you dead, out of spite? I don’t know if that’s your best plan, my friend.”
But he replied with perfect sincerity, “I confess I was tempted to shoot her; and on more than one occasion. But then another would be sent in her place—and the next one might not be so malleable.”
“And you mustn’t go about killin’ people,” she reminded him gently. He tended to forget.
“That, too.” He reached to place an apologetic hand on her leg. “I must beg your forgiveness, Kathleen, but this seemed the best way out.”
“Whist; it was a rare crack, it was. Never had a nicer time, I assure you.” There was a small pause whilst she tried to make sense of this particular way out. If Masterson had been willing to double-cross Solonik by taking up with Acton, that plan was now in ruins. I am going to be very unhappy, she thought with a surge of annoyance, if all that playacting was for nothing.
“I confess I am tired,” he said suddenly, his warm hand moving gently along her thigh.
She hid a smile. “And you can also confess you’ve been drinkin’ like an alderman during the course of this wondrous weekend.”
“Yes.” He sighed, his chest rising and falling. “I couldn’t sleep without you.”
She glanced at him sidelong. “As long as you weren’t sleeping with her.”
He faced her and leaned in, intent. “I wasn’t. I swear it.”
This was true, and a relief. But before she could make an inquiry about what was to happen next, he began kissing her neck, his breath warm against the nape while his hands wandered over her breasts.
“Oh,” she said, her hands gripping the wheel. “I don’t know as I can multi-task, Michael.”
“There is a small road coming up to the right,” he murmured into her throat. “Perhaps we should stop for a bit.”
“All right.” She carefully turned the vehicle into the small lane off the highway, and drove on the unpaved road for a few seconds while his attentions escalated. All in all, she was willing; when the black mood was upon him he wanted either to have sex or get drunk—and neither one too gently. Therefore, when he reached to turn off the ignition, she did not hesitate to clamber onto his lap, kissing him something fierce even as the car started rolling and he had to reach around her to put the gear into park. While the windows steamed up, Doyle decided that the warnings the nuns always gave about avoiding intimacy in cars surely did not apply after one was married, and happily settled in to enjoy herself.
When the storm was spent, they lay on the lowered passenger seat, limbs entwined, damp and unmoving. Not enough room in these cars for this, she thought, although where there is a will, there is indeed a way.
His mobile pinged, but he ignored it, instead pulling his fingers slowly through her hair. “You will be re-bruised. Sorry.”
She gently bit his ear. “I’ll sorry you one, I will.”
He chuckled deep in his chest and she thought, good; maybe she could stave off the worst of it so that his wits were about him when Masterson made her next move.
After they straightened up, he pulled out his mobile, entered some digits, then reached for hers and did the same. “I’m blocking her calls.”
“I see,” she said, although she didn’t at all. “D’you want to stop and get a drink, or d’you want to get home?”
He kissed her mouth, lingeringly. “You are a commendable wife. I will wait for home.”
“Aye then,” she said, starting the car as though she knew what she was doing. “Home it is.”
CHAPTER 41
WHEN THEY WALKED INTO THE FLAT, ACTON IMMEDIATELY poured himself a tall scotch and stood, gazing out the windows and lost in thought. Doyle was rather proud of herself; she drove all the way back to their parking garage without mishap, although Acton had to help her gauge the distances to park the car in the slot. He’d been quiet, saying little on the drive, and she respected his mood and made no comment, trying to hide her concern. Apparently, she had not been very successful.
“If I tell you what is planned, will you try to relax?”
“Yes,” she replied, and sat down on the sofa, taut as a bowstring.
He began to pace, holding the glass by the rim in a casual hand. “The object is to make her angry—to humiliate her. To provoke her into attempting to run the story immediately, so as to take a revenge.”
There was a pause. “D’you think that is the best plan, Michael?” she asked in a small voice.
“Yes. Her editor will be made aware that there is a situation. Anything she offers will be carefully scrutinized, and it will be unbelievable.”
“What if she has evidence,” asked Doyle carefully, “—evidence of the unbelievable?”
He paused to look at her. The scotch was half gone and she could see he was making an effort to focus. “If you discredit the source, the quality of the evidence has no relevance.”
She thought about this; her scalp prickling. “So that even if you build a case on a hard-and-fast fact, if no one wants to believe you, no one will.”
He turned back to the window. “Yes—something like that. You should know this better than most; perception is as powerful as empirical knowledge. It is what helps the species survive.”
She was silent, not quite following, but hoping he knew what he was about.
“I planted some information in the archives that she will attempt to use; Previ and those who control the paper will know immediately that it is not true.”
“Saints,” said Doyle admiringly, feeling the tension drain from her body. “Somethin’ about the war?” She remembered the discussion at the table, back when Masterson was lying about not finding anything of interest.
“Yes, the second war. She found information that indicated my grandfather was a Nazi sympathizer—that he had supported the Third Reich.”
“But he hadn’t?”
“No. The story is not well known, but he was very mechanically-minded, and was fascinated with airplanes. During the Battle of Britain, he volunteered to help piece together the damaged planes at great risk to himself.”
Doyle was not clear on the historical reference, but she well understood that any accusation that the man was a Nazi would be disbelieved.
“There were also some documents suggesting my mother did away with my father and fought to recover insurance proceeds, which were disallowed due to the suspicious circumstances.”
“Michael,” she breathed in admiration. “They will think Masterson is ravin’ mad.” Doyle realized this was perhaps not the most diplomatic thing to say to Acton, and hastily added, “She’ll be sacked.”
“More importantly, she’ll be discredited.” He set his glass down with a sharp click; it was almost empty. “I am going to bed; I would appreciate it if you would accompany me.” He held out a hand to her.
“My pleasure,” she teased, feeling immeasurably better as she took his hand. “You’re makin’ up for lost time with a vengeance, if I may be sayin’ so.”
He stopped suddenly, and faced her, running his hands down her arms. “Perhaps you should eat something first. You are in a delicate condition.”
She smiled to herself, and gently placed her palms on his chest. “Right, then; go on, and I’ll meet you in a few.”
He covered one of her hands with his. “If it is a girl, we shall name her Mary.”
After a mome
nt’s struggle with her emotions, she found her voice. “It’s a very old-fashioned name, Michael.”
“Nonetheless.”
She stood for a moment, watching her husband make his slightly unsteady way toward the bedroom, and offered up her heartfelt thanks—God had given her another go, and she would relish every moment; every sick morning. And thanks to all available saints and angels that there was no question of paternity; she owed Savoie an enormous debt of gratitude for rescuing her that night. Hopefully she would not have to shoot him, like his stupid brother.
Reminded, she checked her mobile to see whether any unknown numbers were listed under recent contacts, but it appeared that Savoie hadn’t made any attempt to contact her over the weekend. This was not necessarily good news; she felt it was important to keep in his good graces so that he wouldn’t be distracted if Solonik dangled more riches before him. But it was unlikely someone like Savoie would be moved by riches; more like Solonik would promise him some lucrative rig, or damning information about his baby brother’s last days.
With a sigh, she moved from crisis number two to crisis number three, and scrolled up Williams’s number. “Hey.”
“Hey, yourself.”
“I’m back from the wars.”
“How did it go?”
“It’s a long and sordid story, and not worth repeatin’. I wanted to have a talk with the coroner tomorrow mornin’ about our latest victim, and if you’d come along I’d appreciate it.” She added belatedly, “Sir.”
“I have an interview at nine—can we meet at ten?”
“Who’s the interview with?” she asked, immediately suspicious.
“Morgan Percy, the junior we met at Moran’s chambers.”
She tried for a moment to imagine how Morgan Percy would fit in with any Solonik-connected scheme, but gave it up as unlikely. She then thought of suggesting that Williams should smile once in a while during the interview, so as to seem more approachable, but decided she shouldn’t be giving him helpful advice about the opposite sex until she first found out if he was ruthlessly stabbing Acton in the back. And besides, Williams had a stubborn streak, and if she suggested he smile, he’d probably scowl the poor girl down, just to be contrary.
“It’s about the Wexford Prison corruption case; you are welcome to come along.”
She hid a smile, as this last was not exactly true. “No thanks; I’ll take the opportunity to have a lie-in—it’s an exhausted casualty I am, from the aforementioned wars. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She rang off, and almost immediately had an incoming call, which she assumed was Williams, having forgotten to tell her something. “Hey,” she answered, lifting a slice of hot toast to the plate with quick fingers.
“We must discuss your problem.” It was Savoie.
Speak o’ the devil, and up pops crisis number two again. Doyle paused, and slowly lowered the plate to the counter. “Yes; well—I may need a bit more time to hold a bake sale, or somethin’.”
There was a silence. “It means you sell baked goods—like cakes—to raise money,” she explained.
“You have no money? How can this be?”
“It’s Acton who has the money,” she explained in an apologetic tone. “I’ve always been as poor as a church mouse—believe me, if I could pay for all of this to go away, I would.”
“I understand,” he said generously. “I was a mouse in the church, also.”
“There you go.”
“But we must meet tomorrow; I think I can make the arrangements to solve all your cracking problems.”
“If you could pull off such a trick, I’d be cock a’ hoop, my friend.” She was wary, though; he was not the type to be generous.
“In the evening—I will meet you at the same place. I may come late,” he cautioned. “I have another meeting, first.”
She swallowed. “Are you meeting with Solonik?” Hopefully she would not be going to her doom, although the bookstore seemed an unlikely place for bloody revenge-taking.
He did not deign to answer, but instead repeated, “Go after work and wait. I may be late, but I will come.”
As she opened her mouth to agree, she realized he’d already rung off.
CHAPTER 42
“SEVRES,” SAID REYNOLDS REVERENTLY AS HE LIFTED THE VASE from the gift packaging. “And worth a pretty penny, if I may say so.” He glanced at her, a hint of alarm in his eye. “Am I unaware that it is your birthday, madam?”
“No—there is no particular reason, Reynolds. Acton is very thoughtful.” The vase was identical to the one he’d smashed at Trestles, and in the future she’d best be careful about what she admired aloud, mental note.
The package had arrived whilst Doyle was explaining to Reynolds that the next time they went to Trestles, she would bring him along to knock some heads together, and the servant, as always, expressed his willingness to do her bidding.
She placed the vase carefully on the mantel. “The steward’s the type that will be there till the crack o’ doom, though. You’d have to challenge him to a duel, or somethin’, to pry him loose.”
“Oh, no—I’d be quite content to assist Lord Acton as his valet,” the domestic demurred. “I have no ambition to steward a large estate.” This was untrue, but forgivable, as everyone had a secret ambition. Her own, for example, was to survive the next three crises.
Acton had slept soundly the night through, and then in the morning had risen early to sit at his desk, addressing the workload that had been stacking up in his absence. Upon Reynolds’s arrival, the servant had taken an assessing look at him, and then had taken pains to stay out of his way until he left for work. Doyle could hardly blame him; she imagined Acton would not be easy until he knew what had happened with Masterson and the newspaper.
On the way to the morgue, she thought over how she’d best handle Williams, and then decided that nothing she did ever went according to plan, so she may as well just see how it went and gauge the situation as it unfolded. He was waiting outside when she arrived, holding a coffee cup, which she eyed with longing; she’d decided to cut back on caffeine and it was already killing her.
“Have some,” he offered, reading her aright.
“Just a sip, then.” Taking the cup, she accompanied him down the stairs into the cold storage room, where the remains of those who’d died unattended deaths were stored until the coroner decided whether there was anything of interest to report to law enforcement. Dr. Hsu, the coroner, knew they were coming, and greeted them in his usual subdued manner as he pulled out a drawer that contained the body of a sixtyish white man, a member of the prestigious Health and Care Professions Council. They gazed upon the still, sunken face for a moment, and Doyle was struck—as she always was—by the enormous difference between a live person and a dead person, and how inexplicable it was that most just took it for granted. “Anythin’ of interest to report?”
The coroner shrugged. “Not much, I fear. Dead as a result of a small caliber bullet, fired from close range to the back of his head. Victim was upright; had no defensive wounds and was probably unaware.”
She looked to Williams. “Anythin’ at the scene?”
“Nothing. No casings, no footprints.”
Doyle nodded as she contemplated the decedent. They’d already established that this killer knew how homicides were investigated, and also knew the police wouldn’t be too keen on evidence recovery in the first place—a bad one met a bad end, and a good riddance. She said to Williams, “Acton said to look carefully at any discrepancies, however small, but this one seems very similar to the others, at least in terms of evidence.”
The coroner offered, “No signs of alcohol or drug abuse. Last meal was a beefsteak.”
“So not a thug,” Williams observed. “That’s different.”
“The female victim who beat up her boyfriend was not a thug, either,” she reminded him. “Just an unlikely murderer, which is what helped her get off.”
Williams indicated the corpse. “We
ll, I suppose you could say he was an unlikely Section Five, and that helped him get off.”
This seemed of interest, and she lifted her head. “Tell me about that, then.”
Obligingly, he pulled up a screen on his mobile, and recited, “He was involved in charities for at-risk youth; raised money for the safe house program run by the Council. He—along with some other civic-minded people—started an organized sports program at the city parks; the idea was to give disadvantaged boys positive team-building experience, and keep them out of trouble. From what I can glean, there had long been rumors of pedophilia, but then a formal complaint of molestation was actually filed by one of the boys about six years ago. The mother had already made an extortion attempt, however, so the authorities felt they didn’t have much of a case—since it may have all been a frame-up—and the accused man was a civic leader.” With a thumb, he closed the screen. “It won’t be easy to research the cold case; the alleged victim died in a car crash, and the mother died in a drug deal gone bad about six months ago.”
Doyle met his eyes. “Is there any evidence that might implicate this victim as the perpetrator for either of those deaths?”
He nodded, slowly. “Good catch, DS Doyle; I will put someone on it.”
She quirked her mouth. “If you wouldn’t mind. And I appreciate the pretense that I outrank you; pigs will fly.”
With a shrug, he opened his mobile again to make a note. “It’s your theory—you figured out we had a vigilante in the first place. I’m happy to work as a team on this one.”
The words hung in the air, and the moment was upon her—nothin’ for it. “Let’s go into the consultation room, Thomas. I need to ask you somethin’.”
After indicating to the coroner that they were finished, they stepped across the hallway into the small chamber where grieving relatives gathered before viewing the remains of their loved ones. It held several chairs and a bouquet of fake flowers in a futile attempt to lighten the grim atmosphere, and Doyle shut the door behind them with a click. “I need you to give me an honest answer, if you please.”
Murder in Hindsight (A New Scotland Yard Mystery Book 3) Page 25
