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

by Anne Cleeland

  Her husband came up the aisle to take her arm as they left the church. “Hungry? Shall we pick up Chinese?”

  “No need for such a sacrifice,” she teased. She was fond of Chinese food; he was not. “Is Reynolds in?” She would rather just go home and collapse; Reynolds could prepare something.

  “No, he’s left. I’ll make you something.”

  This was a sweet offer; Acton was no cook, having had various lackeys to do for him his entire life. “Soup does sound good.” Hopefully, he couldn’t ruin soup.

  “Should I pick up some fruit pies? You can wait in the car.”

  “Faith, Michael—you’re to be killin’ me with kindness; have done, please.” She had developed a taste for prepackaged fruit pies, and he feigned horror whenever she ate one; it was a sure sign of the depth of his affection that he was willing to do such a shameful thing.

  As they drove home, he brushed his thumb across the back of her hand; back and forth, back and forth. She caught his hand and lifted it to kiss it. “Thank you for comin’ to get me today.”

  “I wish I had met her.”

  “She would have liked you,” Doyle lied. Her mother would have been twice as intimidated as Doyle had been on meeting Acton, and that bar was set pretty high. No need to say it aloud, though, it was sweet of him to pretend that he and her mother would have anything in common other than her fair self—although perhaps that would have been enough. Her mother would have very much approved of how much Acton loved her and wanted to take care of her, and all tiaras and hereditary estates would have been of secondary importance. Thinking of it, she asked, “Will you be buried at Trestles when you die?”

  There was a slight pause. “Yes, along with everyone else who has ever held the title.”

  “Then I will be buried there, too.” She hadn’t really thought about it before—about how his history was now her history.

  “I know it’s been that kind of day, but do you think we can speak of something else?”

  “Sorry. I was just thinkin’ about it.”

  Once home, Acton managed the soup, and then asked if she would mind if he worked on his case for an hour—he was working on some high-profile investigation, and was very tight-lipped about it; she thought it might be a corruption scandal because she knew he’d met with the Home Secretary and the detective chief superintendent, which would seem to indicate there was a delicate political component. She’d assured him that she was in no need of tending, and so he’d retreated to the bedroom whilst she addressed her thankless spreadsheet yet again.

  I need a good idea, she thought, and was frustrated because she knew there was something here; she needed only to make one of her intuitive leaps. Unfortunately, she had no control over her perceptive ability, and so was left to entering data into the database and waiting for whatever it was to jump out at her. She thought of the case-worker angle, and how Habib had said that when the obvious was not working, it must be something less obvious. A solicitor, perhaps? But she hadn’t focused on the defense attorneys for the same reason she hadn’t focused on the case-workers; a criminal defense attorney would be the last person who would decide he was tired of seeing the villains go free, one would think. On the other hand, that would explain the rather timid killings; it was someone who had to steel himself—or herself—to do it.

  Her thoughts were interrupted when Nellie rang to see how she did, and also to enlist her help at the Christmas masses. Doyle agreed to read at midnight, then paused. “I’m not sure if we have plans, so put me down in pencil until I check in with Acton.” It would be their first Christmas together, and she did not know what he usually did—perhaps he went to Trestles and drank wassail, or roasted a boar in the fireplace, or something.

  Nellie indicated her approval of such a wifely consideration, then she and Doyle spoke of Nellie’s family, which took some time as Nellie had quite an extensive family. They rang off, and Doyle felt better; she had been neglecting her old friend in favor of her new husband, which was to be expected, but was regrettable.

  She opened up the daily homicide report as she did every day to see if any of the fresh set of victims was on record as a suspect in a previous murder, but nothing stood out. Acton continued busy, on his mobile and speaking to someone in low tones, so she texted Williams, who in Doyle’s opinion was almost as smart as Acton. “RU working?”

  “Yes. ’Sup?”

  “Busy? Need ideas.”

  “On the cold cases?”

  “Yes. Need commonality ideas, other than personnel.”

  “Race? Gang affiliation?”

  “Already done.”

  “Kind of crime? Child predator?”

  “Already done.” It made her feel better that he had the same ideas that she had. There was a pause. “Come on, DSW.”

  “Thinking. Where R U?”

  “Home. Don’t ask what I M wearing.” She probably shouldn’t tease him, poor man.

  “Guilt?”

  “?” She didn’t follow.

  “Juror let him off, felt guilty?”

  She thought about this idea. “Wouldn’t b same juror on all.”

  “Right. Sorry.”

  Doyle paused, struck—perhaps guilt was indeed the emotion they were looking for. She’d presumed this vigilante was frustrated with the justice system in general; perhaps it was more personal than that.

  “RU there?”

  “Thinking,” she answered.

  “Acton there?”

  “Yes.”

  There was a pause while Doyle thought about this new idea, turning it over in her mind. “Guilt is good idea,” she typed.

  “?”

  “Someone felt responsible.”

  “Defense team?”

  She stared at the screen. Now, that was why Williams was on the fast track to DI; it had taken her days to have the same idea. “Haven’t really checked,” she admitted.

  “Parole?”

  This was a decent suggestion, as a parole-worker was not as likely as a case-worker to be a hand-wringer, and would also see firsthand the perils of letting a murderer off the hook. “Good one.”

  “Lunch? (friends)”

  She smiled; he had promised they could just be friends and thus far, he’d kept up his end of the bargain. Still and all, she was reluctant to spend a lot of time alone with him and besides, she was already meeting with her rescuer tomorrow at lunchtime—not that she was looking forward to it. Lifting her head, she realized she could assuage her conscience by enlisting the eager-to-help DS Williams. “Can U make early lunch? Need small favor.”

  “Done.”

  “Deli OK?” The deli was next to headquarters and near the bookstore.

  “OK. Text.”

  “Thanks.” She signed off, and then jotted down the ideas she and Williams had come up with before she forgot them. She’d enlist Williams to cover the flank when she went to meet with Solonik’s man—that way she’d be perfectly safe, just in case things went south for some reason. I’m turning into Acton, with my frettin’, she thought. I have to get used to the fact there are no crises looming and relax—it’s jumping at shadows, I am.

  She looked at the clock and debated evicting Acton from the bedroom; she was tired and it had been a long and wretched day—tomorrow could only be better.

  CHAPTER 11

  DOYLE WAS AWAKENED EARLY THE NEXT MORNING BY ACTON, who pulled her against him and left no doubt as to his intention.

  “I see how it is,” she teased sleepily. “Abusin’ my helpless self.”

  “You fell asleep, last night,” he murmured into her mouth.

  “And whose fault is that, if I may be askin’?”

  “Hush,” he said, and she did.

  Afterward, she lay with him and he seemed disinclined to rise, which was a wrinkle—usually he was up with the birds. He held her cradled against his chest, stroking her arms and hands while she closed her eyes, supremely content. “How is your mysterious case comin’ along?”

 
“Very slowly.” His hands paused. “I believe those who gave me the assignment may have not been forthcoming with me.”

  “Oh. That is a handicap.”

  “It is indeed,” he replied absently, and began his stroking circuit again.

  “So they want your help, but they’re hopin’ you don’t find out the sordid details?”

  “Something like that.”

  “And you’re willin’ to be duped? That doesn’t sound very much in keepin’, Michael.”

  He let out a breath that stirred the hair on the top of her head. “It keeps me interested.”

  She giggled. “Like me.”

  He ran a caressing hand down the front of her, north to south, lingering on the south. “Like you.”

  She sighed. “It’s lucky we are—that we found each other.”

  “It was I who found you,” he corrected, his hand gently emphasizing the point.

  “Faith, I’m forgettin’. Then you put me in a headlock, and dragged me to the altar.”

  “My finest hour.”

  She giggled again, and wondered at his willingness to lounge this morning; he wasn’t a lounger, was Acton.

  Absently, he lifted his hand to pull loose a tendril of hair from her temple. “Any progress on the working theory?”

  “No one of interest was murdered yesterday—leastways, as far as I can tell. Williams and I brainstormed for ideas, and he came up with guilt, which is an interestin’ theory; someone feels responsible for some reason—a guilty vigilante, rather than a vengeful one.”

  He thought about it. “Perhaps; but nevertheless there was a trigger. Something prompted him to go after them all at once, all these years later.”

  This made sense, she supposed, and Acton was Acton, so attention should be paid. “What sort of trigger, d’ye think?”

  He played with the tendril of hair. “Something cataclysmic, that sickened him. It was no small thing for this vigilante to purchase a variety of guns and then to kill so many. He couldn’t live with himself.”

  “Or she couldn’t,” she reminded him.

  “I would be surprised if it was a woman.”

  “Habib said women don’t shoot at heads.”

  “In general,” he agreed.

  “Are we so predictable, then?”

  “Not you.”

  She lifted his hand to kiss it in appreciation, then let it go back to its stroking circuit. “Speakin’ of which, what would you like to do for Christmas?”

  The question amused him. “I have no idea. What are my options?”

  Turning over to prop herself up on her elbows, she stared at him through her tousled hair. “Michael; you don’t celebrate Christmas?”

  He continued amused. “Now I do, apparently.”

  Frowning at him, she said with all earnestness, “You were in sorry straits, my friend. I came along just in the nick of time, if I may be sayin’ so.”

  “So it seems.” This with a gleam of amusement as he spread his fingers and pulled them through the fall of her hair.

  “Are you teasin’ me?” she asked suspiciously.

  “Never. I was indeed a sorry fellow until you wandered by.”

  This was of interest, and she ran a fingertip along one of his dark brows. “Did I wander by? I don’t remember ever bein’ within three floors of you.”

  “I saw you out my window.”

  Inordinately pleased by this glimpse, she smiled—he was not one to wax sentimental, and he rarely made any reference to his condition. Nevertheless, she’d always wondered how this whole Section Seven thing had started. “Did you? And that was that?”

  “Yes; that was that.”

  Very pleased with him, she nestled up against his side, and dropped a kiss on his chest as his arms came around her. “Good one.”

  He made no response, and they lay content for a few moments until she remembered the original topic of conversation. “We could have Timothy over—for Christmas, I mean—unless he goes somewhere else. And we could go to Midnight Mass, if you like.”

  “Right then; I’ll ask him. Shall we include Nanda?”

  “As long as they’re not goin’ to be havin’ sex everywhere.”

  “No, that’s our prerogative.”

  She laughed and raised herself up again. “Not on a High Holy Day, Michael; is Father John teachin’ you nothin’?”

  “Haven’t touched on that one yet.”

  “I’ll touch you one, I will.” She suited action to word, and naturally, this gesture initiated another heated session that left the bedcovers on the floor and two of London’s finest destined to be late for work. Doyle’s mobile pinged, and she stirred herself to check the screen. “Munoz wonders where I am.”

  “Let her wonder. Shall we stay home this morning?”

  With a hand, she smoothed her damp hair away from her face. “Can’t; it’s meetin’ Williams for lunch behind your back, I am.”

  “How is that going?”

  This was an interesting little wrinkle; Acton, by all accounts, should not be happy that Williams was so fond of her, but he seemed unalarmed. Of course, as he’d pointed out, it meant that Williams would never put his own interests above hers. “Well enough—he’s behavin’ himself.” Best not mention he’d kissed her; that was a one-off because she’d nearly drowned, and it seemed appropriate to throw caution to the wind at the time.

  Acton sat up, reached for his mobile, and began to listen to the messages left for him as she slid out of bed and went to shower, feeling his gaze follow her—a shame he was willing to lounge about the one day she had multiple assignations lined up. And Munoz wanted something, too—she wouldn’t be contacting Doyle, else.

  As she showered, she realized that her husband had not mentioned the visit to Trestles again—perhaps she’d spooked him, with her talk of ancestral boneyards. That, or he was planning to go without telling her. Frowning, she spread her fingers and let the warm water flow between them—this was an odd thought to pop into her mind; Acton didn’t like to go any distance away from her. But perhaps he planned to confront his horrid mother about something, and didn’t want her as a witness—he may be planning a day trip with Doyle none the wiser, and was hoping she’d forgotten the conversation. She should let him know she truly didn’t mind; they should have no secrets from each other, it wasn’t healthy. Feeling a twinge of guilt about the Williams kiss, she amended—or at least no secrets that mattered.

  CHAPTER 12

  MUNOZ WAS LYING IN WAIT AT DOYLE’S CUBICLE, HOVERING with an aura of impatience mixed with unhappiness.

  Just grand, thought Doyle with foreboding. Now what?

  “Why are you so late?”

  Doyle set down her rucksack. “Acton wanted to inspect my notes.”

  The other girl made a sound of derision. “You need to think of a better euphemism; that one’s stupid.”

  “I’m sorry; I don’t have your experience,” Doyle shot back, blushing. “What is it you’re wantin’?”

  Munoz took a look ’round and lowered her voice. “Can you go for coffee?”

  “For the love o’ Mike, Munoz; I just got here and I’m late already.”

  “I need to speak with you.”

  Doyle paused, because whatever it was, it was worrying the usually unflappable Munoz and she had a quick flash of deep uneasiness from the girl; best she discover what was frettin’ her. “All right, then. Canteen?”

  Munoz made a face, and Doyle couldn’t blame her; they avoided going to the building’s canteen together because everyone in the room would think they were precious, and begin whispering about them. “Conference room?”

  “I don’t want to be overheard.” It was a poorly-kept secret that the conference rooms were subject to monitoring.

  Doyle blew out a breath. “I’m runnin’ out of options, Munoz—want to walk outside? I have to head over to the deli to meet Williams soon, anyway.”

  “Why are you meeting Williams?” Munoz was immediately suspicious.

 
“Because he’s my secret boyfriend.”

  The other girl grimaced in distaste. “It’s tacky to have sex with two different men on the same day.”

  “Wise words, and I will keep them to mind. Give me a mo’ to warm up my latte.” Doyle’s daily latte had grown cold, sitting on her desk, so she warmed it up in the kitchen microwave as she shrugged back into her coat. “How is the new beau?”

  “Nice.”

  Doomed, thought Doyle; but at least it gives her something to do until a better option presents itself.

  They walked outside in silence, and Doyle realized, after a moment, that Munoz was embarrassed, so she softened her tone and asked, “What’s botherin’ you, Izzy? I promise I won’t bite.”

  Munoz looked up ahead and stuck her hands in her pockets. “I was contacted by a tabloid to give an interview about the rescue.”

  Doyle smiled in amusement at the picture thus presented. “Faith, Munoz; did you strangle ’em on the spot?”

  “They were going to pay me five hundred pounds, and they told me it would not say the information came from me.”

  Doyle blinked. It was a princely sum; she could see why Munoz was tempted, although it seemed strange the reporter didn’t want to reveal that the source of the story was the damsel in distress. “What did you say?” Obviously there was a problem of some sort, as the other girl was uneasy—perhaps she’d told them Doyle was drunk at the time, or something.

  Munoz studied the pavement. “That’s just it; the reporter asked a couple of questions about the rescue, but seemed much more interested in anything I could say about you and Holmes.”