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

by Anne Cleeland

  With this improved attitude, Doyle voluntarily ducked her head into Munoz’s cubicle on the way to her own. “How was your weekend, Munoz?”

  “Miserable. I’m to take the veil.”

  Doyle considered this pronouncement. “You’d be quite the nun, Munoz. They’d have to dedicate a twenty-four-hour confessional booth to you alone.”

  With a twist of her swivel chair, Munoz turned to face Doyle. “Help me, then; Acton must know some eligible men. And you know what I mean by eligible.”

  Rich, thought Doyle correctly. “I will ask him, Munoz. I will, I promise.” She thought about it. “What if it’s a choice between someone unexciting but with lots of money who would adore you, versus excitement and less of the other two?”

  “I will make those types of assessments,” Munoz replied. “Just get me some names.”

  “Will do,” Doyle agreed, and briefly toyed with the idea of Sir Stephen, but then decided Munoz shouldn’t be hooked up with a pretender to the throne, so to speak; Acton had enough troubles. And even Munoz didn’t deserve the likes of Sir Stephen.

  To be courteous, Munoz asked Doyle about her weekend.

  “Fraught with peril,” Doyle replied. “We visited Acton’s mother.”

  The other girl arched an amused brow. “Did you? What’s she like?”

  “A harridan. Hates me from my Irish insides out.”

  Munoz laughed in appreciation. “She’s one to talk; there was that scandal about Acton’s father, after all.”

  Doyle’s antennae quivered and she pretended that she knew. “His disappearance, you mean?”

  “DCI Drake said it was generally thought she did away with him; the insurance wouldn’t pay.”

  Saints, thought Doyle in abject dismay. Was it true, then?

  “Ask Acton if he knows any eligible men whose mothers are dead already,” Munoz said thoughtfully. “That would be ideal.”

  “Amen to that,” said Doyle fervently, and turned back toward her cubicle. She’d just settled in to look through the updates on her files when Williams rang in. Lifting her mobile, she answered, “Are you callin’ in with a report, like a good underling?”

  But as it turned out, indeed he was. “I thought I’d swing by the London World News to review the archives—the old coverage of the mother’s murder.”

  “And check in on Masterson in the meantime,” she added in admiration. “You are a trump, Thomas.”

  He lowered his voice. “Apparently, earlier today there were shouting matches in her office and the owners of the paper are meeting with the publisher. I’ll see what else I can find out.”

  “Excellent sleuthin’, if I may say so.” No need to tell him that this was no longer breaking news; he had gone to all the effort, after all.

  “I don’t think she’s here; after I do the research, I may try to track her down to see if she’s drowning her sorrows and would like a sympathetic ear.”

  “Remember that you are no longer to be sacrificin’ your virtue on that particular altar, me boyo.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He rang off.

  So—this corroborated what Maguire had reported; Masterson was in disgrace and getting the sack, thanks be to God. It had occurred to her, after Acton’s phone call to Previ, that even if Masterson had the goods on Acton, the powers-that-be might not allow the story to run. Doyle knew such things happened—even the mighty press could be stifled. Still, it was hard to stare disaster in the face, and it was an enormous relief to know that Acton’s plan seemed to be working. She then realized that Williams was on a sleeveless errand, and rang him up again.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey, yourself. What’s up?”

  “Thomas, about the research . . .” She belatedly realized she wasn’t certain what she wanted to tell him.

  “What is it? Do you have a lead?”

  She offered hesitantly, “More than that; I think I’ve solved it—but it’s tricky and I need some advice from Acton.”

  There was a small silence and she grimaced—didn’t handle that very well; it was Williams who had been helping her out like he was a first-year peeler, every step of the way.

  “He’s tied up on the Wexton Prison case, can I substitute?”

  She tried to make amends. “Your advice is excellent, Thomas. It’s the identity of the suspect that creates the problem.”

  “Oh, I see; a political issue?”

  “Sort of,” she hedged. Williams’s feelings wouldn’t be hurt with that excuse, and it really was political, in a way.

  “Are you there?”

  “Sorry,” she said. “I wish I knew what to do.”

  “To recap, you think you know who the killer is, but you can’t move on it for some reason.”

  “Yes. And meanwhile I’m worried he’s going to murder one more former killer before he’s done.”

  There was a pause. “That’s some detective work, DS Doyle.”

  “Thank you, DI Williams. I’m not sure it will amount to anythin’; I’m sorry I’m bein’ so mysterious.”

  “So everything’s on hold?”

  “Yes,” she said slowly. “Let me see what Acton wants to do.”

  Doyle rang off, and then decided to call Acton on his private line, even though she knew he was interviewing suspects in the prison corruption investigation; apparently at least one judge was involved, and so Acton had been called in to handle yet another politically delicate case. He answered immediately, as he always did when she used the private line. “Kathleen.”

  “Are you hip-deep in anythin’?”

  “I’m interviewing personnel.”

  A code of silence had been erected around the rumors of judicial graft, and she hoped he could unearth something helpful. “I won’t keep you then. I’ll be needin’ your advice on the vigilante case.”

  There was a small pause. “You’ve solved the case?”

  She smiled in surprise. “Faith, am I that transparent?”

  “To me, you are. If you need me now, I can spare an hour.”

  “No, it can wait.”

  “Right, then; I’ll leave for home soon.”

  She hesitated. “I may be a bit late—I have some shoppin’ to do.” This, in the event he checked her GPS and wondered what she was doing at the bookstore; she was not one for books.

  “Don’t be too late; you need your rest.”

  She smiled into the mobile and rang off. Hopefully Acton would know what to do with Maguire; there was precious little evidence to support a prosecution there, also.

  The rest of the afternoon passed uneventfully as Doyle tried to come up with the parameters for a search with respect to the other crimes Maguire had covered; she had a half-formed idea in the back of her mind that if she could identify Maguire’s next victim, she could dissuade him from the last murder on the list. It would probably be another sensational case with a sympathetic killer—a domestic abuse victim? Or perhaps another hero of the community? She tapped the eraser end of a pencil on the desk as she thought about it, and checked the time. In another twenty minutes or so, she’d pack up and wander over to the bookstore. With any luck, she’d dissuade Savoie from carrying out Solonik’s evil plan, and send him home none the wiser that she’d shot his brother dead. All in all, it would be the capper to a good day’s work.

  CHAPTER 45

  HE WAITED, AND WHILE HE WAITED HE ADMIRED THE VIEW, BEING careful to stand back so as not to be seen. It was dark early at this time of year, and the lamps were lit on the street below. The alarm system had been a challenge; it was intricate and customized, one of the best he’d seen. He did not mind; he was a patient man.

  He heard the lift land at the floor, and he turned his head, listening, although the sound was barely perceptible. He had always had exceptional hearing. He had to.

  Softly, he stepped over to his position and waited, balanced on the balls of his feet. A key card was placed in the slot and he drew a breath and held it; it was always the first few seconds that were crucial. The
door opened and Acton stepped in, then turned to the wall to switch on the light.

  He stepped behind Acton and let him feel the barrel of the gun at his head. “Do not move. I am a friend to your wife, and I must speak to you. Do not set off the alarm.”

  Acton had frozen at the first movement. He now said slowly, “Right, then.”

  “I will not take your gun, but you must not reach for it; understood?”

  “I am unarmed.”

  This falsehood was unworthy of such a one, and he made a derisive noise of disapproval.

  “I beg your pardon—I will not draw. May I move, now?”

  He stepped back. “Yes. Slowly.”

  Acton turned and looked at him, carefully lowering his hands.

  “Do you know who I am?”

  “Yes,” Acton said. “Where is my wife?”

  “She is at work. She does not know we are cahoots.”

  There was a small silence while they measured each other, and he allowed Acton to recover from the surprise. This was important; if things happened too quickly, men became nervous. This one was also tall, like the blond man. She needed a man closer to her height—she was not so tall.

  “How do you know my wife?”

  “She was fighting un violeur, but she was going to lose.”

  Acton had an involuntary reaction; a slight movement in his facial muscles he could not control. So; he did not like to hear this about his wife.

  “I took care of this problem for her.”

  “Merci,” said Acton.

  He smiled. This was a courtesy, to use his language, and it was appreciated.

  “Why do you help my wife?”

  He shrugged, and quoted what she had said to the tall blond man. “Believe it or not, she is a friend.” He paused and added regretfully, “Nothing more; she is not that kind.”

  “No,” agreed Acton.

  “She has another problem, that one.” He added, gently scolding, “I think that you do not keep track of her as you should.”

  There was a small pause, and then Acton bowed his head in acknowledgment. “No doubt.”

  “Solonik is after her—he is the wolf wearing the clothes from the lambs. He asked that I bring her to him—to meet.”

  Acton listened and said nothing.

  Watching him in return, he observed, “Your wife, she was not afraid of him. She says that Solonik is taking your goat.”

  Again, there was a small pause before Acton nodded in agreement. “That does sound like something she would say.”

  He shrugged a shoulder. “She is a comic, that one.”

  “Yes.” Acton smiled slightly in return.

  “She says Solonik is having la revanche, but does not want you to see that it is him.”

  “I see.”

  This seemed too measured a reaction, in light of the nature of the disclosure, and so he explained plainly, “The woman at the newspaper—Solonik sent her to your bed.”

  Acton nodded. “Yes.”

  So—he already knew of this. This was interesting; perhaps his wife had told him of the photos—although she did not seem the type to confront him. She would be a sad little bird, instead. He continued, “Solonik asked me to do terrible things—and take photographs. When I do not do them, he will find someone else.”

  “Then he must die,” said Acton.

  “Yes.” As it turned out, Acton was an easy man to speak to.

  “Name your price.”

  He looked at Acton thoughtfully for a moment. “This wife of yours; you tire of her—yes? There are many other women; perhaps you will set her aside.”

  There it was again; the involuntary movement of the face. “No.”

  He conceded with good grace, and named a sum, instead. He could see, now that he had met him, that Acton wanted his wife, although she did not seem to his taste. It had been a chance, only, and he was a patient man. Although he would not want Acton angry at him; he measured men for a living, and this was not one to cross.

  “Shall I pay you now?”

  He was sorry to put an end to this pleasant conversation, but the time had come to address that which was unpleasant. “I must ask you for information, first.”

  Acton’s posture shifted slightly. “I’m afraid I cannot share any official—”

  He shook his head impatiently. “No; not that kind of information. I would like to know what happened to my brother.”

  Acton was silent.

  “I think you know who I mean; you brought him into your office. He thought you did not guess, but I think to myself—why would such a man take such an interest in one such as him? So I think you knew.”

  Acton said only, “What information would you like about him?”

  “I believe he last came here, to this flat; but your wife says you did not kill him.” He tilted his head. “I believe her, because she does not make a good liar.”

  “No, she doesn’t,” Acton agreed.

  “But I think she knows more than she says.”

  Acton contemplated him gravely for a moment. “Yes; she knows who killed him, but she does not wish to cause you pain.”

  So—it was true that Emile was dead. This was not unexpected, but was not welcome news, nevertheless. He took a breath. “You will tell me what you know, if you please. I would like to know what happened to my brother.”

  Acton bowed his head and said without emotion, “Your brother was a man who preferred the company of men.”

  This was not a surprise. “Yes.”

  “There was another policeman who pursued your brother, but your brother was no longer interested. The other came to deliver evidence to me—evidence of correspondence between Rourke and Solonik. Your brother was here, also, and there was a quarrel—”

  He lifted his brows in surprise. “They fought here? In your home?”

  Acton explained, “I was not here, but my wife was.” He paused, and offered in apology, “I had to hush it up; my wife would have been involved in the scandal.”

  “Of course,” he said slowly. “I understand this.”

  “Please accept my condolences for your loss.”

  He nodded, absently, and then focused, lowering his brows. “You will tell me who killed him—who this other policeman was.”

  Acton lifted a hand in apology. “Surely you see that I cannot.”

  There was a small silence. “If it was your brother, you would wish me to say.”

  “I would,” Acton agreed. “But you would not tell me, either.”

  Dropping his gaze to the floor, he pretended to shrug in concession. “Perhaps not.” It did not matter; it would not be so very difficult to discover the name of the policeman who had delivered such evidence.

  “May I fetch your funds, now?”

  He nodded, and followed the other through a door to the back of the flat.

  Acton asked, “How did you get past the alarm?”

  He shrugged. “I would rather not say.” He watched his host deactivate another alarm and open a wall safe, so that he could plainly see what was inside. There were rows of weapons, and Acton paused and met his eyes for a moment. “If you are available for a project, I could use some assistance.”

  His gaze rested thoughtfully on the cache of weapons in the safe. “Tell me of this.”

  “Someone is not telling me the truth at the Home Office; someone who can be influenced by outside interests.” Acton pulled a stack of bills out of a small strongbox, and casually handed him the stack without counting them.

  “This is so? It is a shame that no one can be trusted in the government, in these times. It is the same in my country. They are knockers, I think.”

  “Perhaps,” said Acton, shutting the safe, “we can speak again soon.”

  “Done,” he said. “But first, I would have one more thing from you.”

  Acton waited, showing no concern.

  “I have too much information for you to be easy, so you must swear on the soul of your wife that you will not come after m
e.”

  “I swear it,” said Acton immediately. “I owe you a debt I can never repay.” He offered his hand.

  He appreciated the handshake and felt generous. “There is a flaw in the third redundancy,” he disclosed, referring to the alarm system. “The electromagnetic pulse is intermittent.”

  “Merci,” said Acton.

  CHAPTER 46

  DOYLE IDLY WANDERED DOWN THE AISLE FOR THE THIRD OR fourth time, so bored that she actually was tempted to buy a book. Annoying, it was, that she had no way to check with Savoie to see if he’d been called away by some other, more pressing skullduggery. Just as she was checking the time on her mobile, he appeared at the end of the aisle, his pale eyes upon hers and his hands in his pockets. “Greetin’s,” she offered with false heartiness. “Are you here for your pound o’ flesh?”

  In an unexpected gesture, he reached to take her hand. “Ah—we would be good together, little bird. You will change your mind?”

  Resisting an urge to snatch her hand away, she replied, “We would be like chalk and cheese, my friend.”

  He cocked his head as he puzzled it out. “Very different.”

  “Yes; and I would spend all my days prayin’ for your poor soul.”

  He laughed aloud at this, the sound a little harsh, as though he did not laugh often. He was in a festive mood, she saw. “I will speak to Solonik; I will tell him to leave you alone.”

  Doyle stared at him in surprise. “And he will? Just like that?”

  “Mais oui,” he said easily, and relinquished her hand.

  She harbored an uneasy suspicion that this casual reassurance deliberately omitted her better half. “Will he leave Acton alone, too?”

  “Bien sûr.”

  Doyle took this to be an affirmation, but was understandably skeptical of this unlooked-for turn of events. “Why would you help me, if I have no money?”

  “I help myself,” he corrected her with a thin smile. “I have interests, you remember.”

  Recalling his involvement in the contraband rig, she wisely refrained from asking any more questions—she shouldn’t withhold that type of information from Acton, so it was better if she didn’t know any of the illicit particulars.