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

by Anne Cleeland

  Williams’s gaze rested on Doyle’s, and she slid her eyes sidelong. Go call Acton, she thought. Go get help; I’ll stall him.

  “You forgot your coat, Doyle,” said Williams.

  “I’m quite all right, we’re just goin’ down to the corner—are you comin’ to see Acton? I think he’s expectin’ you.” This said with a great deal of meaning.

  But Williams was nothing if not stubborn. “First, let me lend you my coat.”

  Williams began to shrug out of his coat, but Samuels was not to be diverted by whatever the other man had in mind, and immediately abandoned all pretense, yanking Doyle before him like a shield. “Don’t move, or I swear I’ll shoot her.”

  Williams slowly raised his hands to each side and said reasonably, “Samuels, it’s Doyle. You can’t shoot Doyle; if you need a hostage, take me.”

  Samuels swallowed hard and glanced up, gauging where the CCTV cameras were. “Where is your car?”

  “Across the way,” said Williams, indicating behind him.

  “Right—I’ll take her in your car. Give me your keys and your mobile.”

  “Let her go,” said Williams, who made no move to comply. “I’ll drive you wherever you want to go and say nothing to anyone.”

  “You’re not well,” added Doyle. “C’mon, Samuels; please rethink this.”

  Samuels gave Doyle a slight yank, just for emphasis. “Do you think I’m an idiot? You’re my last chance at staying alive. Now, do what I ask.”

  “Samuels,” Doyle carefully turned one of the shoes around in her hand. “You do sound like an idiot; no one is tryin’ to kill you.”

  Samuels made a derisive, agitated sound that was not at all in keeping with his normally easy-going demeanor. “Don’t you know what happened to Solonik today?”

  “Solonik is dead?” She turned her head to stare at him, so astonished that she dropped one of her shoes.

  “Not a good end.” Samuels took a ragged breath. “And I’m not waiting around to be next—someone is staking my flat.”

  Doyle could not like the implication. “For heaven’s sake, Samuels—Acton did not kill Solonik. Let’s all go back and forget this ever happened.” Tensing her hand on the shoe, she met Williams’s gaze for a quick moment, trying to convey that she was about to make a move and that he should get ready.

  But this plan was interrupted by a passerby, who hailed them from across the narrow street. “Excuse me?”

  Wary, Samuels pressed the gun into Doyle’s ribs and they turned to face a businessman, dressed in a fine suit of clothes and approaching rather apologetically, carrying an umbrella and a briefcase. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but aren’t you that policewoman who jumped off the bridge? Would you mind if I took a snap? My wife will never believe it.”

  “Stay back—she’s—she’s not well,” directed Samuels as he held out a cautioning hand. The movement brought the packing envelope away from Doyle’s side for a moment, and after deciding that there was no time like the present, she jerked up her shoe, trying to aim the heel toward her captor’s eyes and, at the same time, twisting away from the envelope.

  Several things then happened in rapid succession; with a curse, Samuels flinched away from her heel, and Williams lunged, calling out, “Get down!” Doyle, however, was not about to go down to the ground in a short skirt, and wound up sandwiched between the grappling men, getting an arm free so as to shove her palm under Samuels’s chin whilst they all fell against the brick wall with a thud.

  “Everyone, freeze.” Suddenly Acton stood beside them, holding a gun barrel against Samuels’s temple. “Kathleen, step away.”

  “He has a gun,” Doyle advised, not certain whether she should untangle herself whilst Samuels still held it.

  “Drop it.” There was an ominous click as a bullet was loaded into the firing chamber of Acton’s weapon.

  Gasping for breath and grey-faced, Samuels dropped the envelope from shaking fingers and slowly sank to the ground as Doyle and Williams stepped away from him. Acton bent to pat him down with his free hand, his face a grim mask. His hair was damp and he was in his shirtsleeves, which only served as a measure of his agitation—Acton’s appearance was always impeccable. “Report.”

  Williams made to speak, but Doyle interrupted, conscious of the witness who had halted in surprise a few steps away, and continued to watch as events unfolded. “Perhaps not just now.”

  “I say,” said the passerby in alarm. “I think he’s having some sort of seizure.”

  It was true; Samuels had slumped over, his eyes rolling back in his head and his jaw clenching. Acton and Williams crouched over him, Acton loosening his collar and flipping up an eyelid. “Call an ambulance,” he directed Williams. “And then take my wife to the flat and wait there.”

  Williams hesitated. “Should I—”

  “Do as I ask,” said Acton in a tone that brooked no argument, and Williams promptly pulled his mobile, glancing up to note the cross streets.

  The businessman stepped forward to address Acton in a deferential tone. “Am I needed? I was just on my way home.”

  Acton glanced up at him. “You’ll be needed to make a statement, I’m afraid.” Then, to Williams, “Go.”

  Williams took Doyle’s arm, but Doyle had frozen in confusion. When the passerby had leaned over, she’d glimpsed a neck tattoo beneath the starched collar, and realized with a jolt of surprise that he was Gerry Lestrade who—if she could keep her cast of villains straight—was Savoie’s other brother. She was strongly reminded that Acton did not believe in coincidences, and so ventured, “Might I have a word, Michael?”

  Sirens could be heard approaching in the distance as Acton rose to take her aside. “Quickly, then.”

  There was nothing for it—she would have to warn him, and take her lumps. She swallowed. “I believe this man is not a casual passerby. I believe he is affiliated with Savoie, so please be careful.”

  He stared at her for a moment, and she had the feeling he was surprised but not necessarily as alarmed as he should have been. “I see.”

  “Be careful,” she said again, although Acton surely must have drawn his own conclusions.

  “Go,” he directed. “I’ll be there shortly.”

  “Are you angry?” she asked in a tentative tone, unable to stand the suspense.

  “Not at you.” He leaned to kiss her forehead. “Go.”

  CHAPTER 49

  DOYLE AND WILLIAMS SAT QUIETLY ON THE LEATHER SOFA, waiting for Acton. Doyle had been carefully wrapped in a blanket by Reynolds, who was now brewing coffee, pale of lip and emanating guilt and remorse. Doyle could only imagine the scene that had transpired when Acton had stepped out of the shower and wondered where his wife was.

  Williams, glumly seated beside her, was not faring much better than Reynolds. “I’m going to get the sack.”

  “No, you’re not.” She paused. “Don’t tell him about Masterson, though.”

  “I had no idea he would do such a desperate thing—Samuels, of all people.”

  She knit her brow. “Then why were you stakin’ him?”

  “I wasn’t—Acton asked me to go over to his flat tonight, to see if he was there. He must have known about what happened to Solonik, and was aware that Samuels had a connection.”

  “Yes—we think Samuels was feedin’ him information about Acton.”

  “Not a surprise.” Williams watched Reynolds move about in the kitchen and then noted in a neutral tone, “At least that means I’m off the hook as a suspect.”

  Ah—she saw that the memory still smarted, and she was quick to reassure. “Recall that I never believed it was you who was the back-stabber.”

  “Oh yes, you did.”

  She corrected herself. “Well, I realized almost immediately it wasn’t you. You have to admit I had good reason—you were consortin’ with the enemy, an’ all.”

  But it appeared he wasn’t going to let her wriggle off the hook so easily. “If the tables were turned, I never would have
doubted you.”

  “Whist, Thomas; recall you once accused me of bein’ a brasser, tryin’ to seduce Acton for capital gain.”

  “I was in insulin shock at the time,” he explained, annoyed. “That hardly counts.”

  “Let’s call it even, then.” She paused while Reynolds served the coffee, and after a quick internal debate, decided that since she was traumatized, and the baby was the size of a mustard seed, a little cup of coffee would not be outside the line.

  Williams took a sip and then clicked her cup with his own. “Excellent use of a shoe, DS Doyle.”

  She demurred, “I truly was in no danger—he wanted me as a hostage, is all.”

  “Were you going out? You look bang-up. Or you did, anyway.”

  “May I offer sandwiches, perhaps?” Reynolds hovered, giving off just a hint of disapproval.

  Why, I believe I am being chaperoned, Doyle thought in amusement. “No thanks, Reynolds. We’re waitin’ to be chewed out, so we’re not hungry.”

  “I understand completely,” said the servant heavily, with a glance toward the door.

  “Make sure the new vase is not close to hand,” she cautioned.

  Any further commiseration was halted by the appearance of Acton himself, whose gaze rested on Doyle immediately as he came through the door. “Are you all right?”

  “I am,” she replied, then amended, “I have lost a shoe.”

  “What is the protocol?” asked Williams, who had risen to his feet.

  Acton took a warm jacket out of the hall closet, and considered this question as he pulled it on. “It seems we’ve had the tragic death of an off-duty policeman. Perhaps not unexpected; we shall see if he had a history of drug abuse, or a pre-existing condition.”

  Yes; no doubt such a thing would come to light—although whether it was true or not was another matter. There was no question it would be best to keep this little contretemps—and the reasons for it—away from the light of day. “There will be CCTV feed,” Doyle reminded him.

  “No—I don’t think there will,” Acton replied without concern. Then, to Williams, “You may go; I will have a debriefing tomorrow.”

  “May I prepare a light supper?” asked Reynolds.

  “No; you may go, also.”

  Both men took their leave with no further ado, and Doyle watched them go, thinking that she was lucky there was little she could do to earn her husband’s disapproval. “Please don’t be sackin’ people, left and right, Michael—I was an idiot, and I’m that ashamed to call myself a banner.”

  He struggled with it for a moment, but in the end, could not contain himself. “You left the flat to speak to a man who you know is trouble, and you did not take your mobile or your weapon.”

  Poor Acton—he must have been beside himself, and she couldn’t very well tell him why she was so eager to meet with Samuels alone. “I’m an idiot,” she repeated, and hung her head like a good penitent. “Thank the holy saints DC Samuels had some sort of seizure.” She glanced up at him from under her lashes.

  “I did not kill him,” he said immediately, and it was the truth.

  This was a relief, although it went without saying that the man would have sealed his own fate had he indeed kidnapped the fair Doyle, and it was just as well Acton wasn’t given an opportunity to wreak his own revenge. Cradling her cup, she observed in wonder, “So just like that, Solonik and Samuels are both dead. Faith, it’s almost as though the turf war is still goin’ on, in a strange way. At least this time you are not behind the killin’s, Michael—which shows remarkable restraint, all in all. I am very proud of you.”

  He ran a hand, gently, over her head. “I want nothing more,” he said slowly, “than to keep you safe. And happy.”

  There seemed to be an odd nuance beneath the words, and she was moved to take his hand and say with all sincerity, “You always make me happy, Michael—please don’t think it’s dependent on your tryin’ to be someone you are not; I would forgive you anythin’, too.”

  “Let’s not test it, shall we?”

  “When’s the next time we’re due for Trestles?” she teased.

  He mustered up a chuckle, leaning in so that his forehead rested against hers, his hair still damp.

  Rather stricken by this delayed reaction to the dire events, she assured him, “Believe me, Michael, I have learned my lesson—no more walkin’ like a lamb into an ambush.” She thought of her meetings with Solonik and Savoie, and could only thank God fasting that he knew nothing about those particular misdeeds. “I have repented of my wayward ways, my hand on my heart.”

  “I am glad to hear it.”

  He hadn’t moved, and taking his hands in hers, she asked, “How are you? I can’t tell and it’s frustratin’; please put me out of my misery.”

  She felt him draw in a breath. “I am as well as can be expected.”

  “I am a trial to my poor husband,” she lamented.

  “It has not escaped my notice,” he replied softly against her head, “that you would have no trials at all, had you not thrown in your lot with me.”

  “Whist—I’m a bundle o’ bad luck.”

  “Shall we share a fruit pie?”

  She raised her head with a smile. “You’re scarin’ me, Michael. Who are you, and what have you done with the Chief Inspector?”

  He lifted her hand to kiss the palm. “I am determined to keep you well fed, this time.”

  “All right. Do your worst.” He put an arm around her and she leaned her head on his shoulder as they made their way into the kitchen. “This is exactly what I deserve for dressin’ up. It’s against the natural order, is what it is.”

  “Nonsense; you are breathtaking.”

  “Knocker; you’d think I was breathtakin’ in a hopsack.”

  “Or out of one.” He kissed the top of her head.

  “I see how it is,” she teased. “Despite all your fine talk of food.”

  “Hush.” He pulled out a kitchen chair. “Sit.”

  “You’re not to be hushin’ me, husband; it does you no good a’tall.”

  “I know; I can barely face down the neighbors when I see them in the lobby.”

  Scandalized, she hit him with a napkin.

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

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  Copyright © 2015 by Anne Cleeland

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

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  Library of Congress Card Catalogue Number: 2014953096

  ISBN: 978-0-7582-8794-6

  ISBN-10: 0-7582-8794-1

  First Kensington Hardcover Edition: April 2015

  eISBN-13: 978-0-7582-8796-0

  eISBN-10: 0-7582-8796-8

  First Kensington Electronic Edition: April 2015