He hesitated and met her eyes. “Who is he?”
“Believe it or not, he is a friend. Please wait outside, I will be right there, I promise.”
“Call if you need me.” Giving the other man a last, long look, Williams turned and walked away.
Doyle’s rescuer turned to her in surprise. “He is your lover?”
“No,” she said crossly. “Of course not.”
He eyed her. “He wants to be.”
But Doyle was in no mood, and snapped, “You’re to mind your tongue; you’ve caused enough trouble already.”
But he only shook his head. “It is not me, with the trouble-causing.”
She took a breath, trying to quell the sick panic that threatened to overwhelm her, and remembering that she should try to stay on his good side. “No; I suppose you’re right. I’m just wantin’ to shoot the messenger.”
“So; what should I tell Solonik?”
“I don’t know.” She was trying to suppress the images in the photographs so that she could think clearly, and held her palms against her eyes for a moment. “I have to think. Can I ring you?”
“Yes.” He reached for the mobile at her belt, then programmed a number into it. “Soon; I will need an answer.”
“Aye, then.” She took her mobile from his hand, turned, and blindly walked out.
CHAPTER 14
WILLIAMS WAS WAITING BY THE DOOR, ON EDGE. SHE DIDN’T look up at him, and walked past as though he wasn’t there, but she wasn’t the only one who was angry. “What the hell was that?” he demanded furiously, keeping pace with her.
“Why didn’t you follow the protocol?”
“I did—you didn’t answer the second time.”
She unbent enough to glance up at him. “Oh. I’m sorry—I didn’t realize you’d checked in a second time.” She was having trouble controlling her voice, so she lowered her head and stopped talking. The female reporter had been all dressed up at the crime scene, and Acton had been drinking; they’d been together when he got the call, and the brasser couldn’t resist coming to the cordon, probably to take a gloating assessment of his stupid little wife. It was beyond all bearing, and although she’d never been able to fathom the unholy urge to murder before, it didn’t seem so completely unfathomable at present.
It was raining, and as they strode past a pharmacy, Williams took her elbow and pulled her into the doorway. “Wait; let’s talk about this for a minute—I think you owe it to me.”
“I want to go home,” she replied through stiff lips, and then wondered if that was a good plan; she may walk in on them—on Acton and the reporter. Bowing her head, she fought an almost overwhelming urge to cry.
“All right,” he soothed, his tone less angry as he assessed her. “Let’s put your things away—do you have an umbrella?” He gently pulled her mobile from her nerveless hand. “Let me help you.”
Instinctively, she resisted, and as a result her mobile fell to the floor, along with the two photographs. She watched in frozen horror as they floated down, the images revealed. In a rush of fury, she scrambled to gather up the mobile and the photographs. “No,” she hissed through her teeth, “I dinna’ need your help.” She sprang up, clutching the items with her right hand so that she could pound his chest with her left fist, emphasizing each word: “I—don’t—need—your—help.” Behind her, she could hear the shopkeeper’s chair scrape back in alarm. She was past caring.
“All right—all right, Kath.” Williams pulled her to him and she did not resist, but stood still in the circle of his arms for a moment. Pressing her forehead against the same chest she had just been abusing, she took a ragged breath and then offered in a small voice, “I am so sorry, Thomas. Please, please forgive me.”
“Let’s wait a minute,” he suggested. “Until you feel more the thing.”
She took some breaths and didn’t move. He said nothing, but moved his hands gently on her upper arms in a soothing motion. There is something inherently comforting, she thought, about a broad-shouldered man—women must be genetically programmed to appreciate it.
Doyle’s mobile vibrated and she ignored it. “How is your health, Thomas?”
He didn’t miss a beat. “Better; I am trying to be more careful with my diet.” Williams was a diabetic, and had a recent brush with insulin shock.
“That’s grand.” She lifted her head and stepped back, smoothing down her hair self-consciously. She turned to the shopkeeper, who was staring at her in alarm. “I’m so sorry.” Her mobile vibrated again, and she carefully tucked the photographs into her rucksack and then reviewed the text message. “Acton thinks there’s another park murder. I should go.”
“Want me to come?”
“Best not.” It was clear he was not offering his aid just to process the scene; he had her back, did DS Williams, and suddenly she was reminded of what the anonymous instructor at the Crime Academy had said—that it was important for them to have each other’s backs, no matter what. Acton is in trouble, she thought, briefly closing her eyes; and I do have his back—no matter what. There must be a method to his madness, but oh—how I’d like to brain him with a joint stool for putting me through this.
“At least let me drop you off.” With a decisive movement, Williams lifted her rucksack. “Here’s a fiver—buy an umbrella while I get a cab.”
“All right,” she agreed, and purchased an umbrella from the shopkeeper—who continued to eye her askance—before going out to meet him and the waiting cab at the curb. “It’s at the Heath—I’m not sure exactly where, though.”
“I imagine it will be obvious.” He instructed the driver, and they drove off.
After a few minutes, she said in a stiff voice, “Please do not mention any of this to anyone.” She was certain he’d seen the photographs, although he hadn’t betrayed any reaction.
Williams glanced over at her, but made no reply, so she said to him with careful emphasis, “If you say anythin’ to Acton, Thomas, I swear by all the saints I will never speak to you again.”
“That wouldn’t matter—if I thought you were in trouble.”
She was angry again, and tried to rein in her temper. “So when you gave me your fine speech about unconditional help, you really meant you will help by runnin’ my life for me.”
Williams said nothing for a moment. “How did you meet your bookstore friend?”
With a sigh, she answered dryly, “Not at church.”
“No, that’s pretty obvious.”
She debated for a moment what to tell him, then decided that the truth was most expedient. “He saved my life.”
He glanced at her in surprise. “How was this?”
She shook her head. “I’d rather not say. It’s complicated.”
“I’ll bet,” he agreed, and Doyle knew they were both thinking about the photographs. “If you need me you will ring me?”
“Yes. I’m sorry I hit you—I don’t think I’ve ever hit anyone in my life.”
“Makes me feel special, then.” The cab pulled up to the curb where various police vehicles were parked, lights flashing, and a cordon had been marked off, with PCs stationed along the perimeter. Without another word, she left the cab and walked toward the yellow tape, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other.
The crime scene was up the hill, and she pulled her coat close around her as she trudged in the soft, wet turf. The rain had paused, but it was threatening again, which meant the SOCOs would have to hurry if they were to recover anything of interest. This time, the body was left in a forested area of the heath, perhaps another attempt to mix up the m.o., as the others had been left in city parks within a two-mile radius.
Coming to the top of the rise, she walked toward the small canopy that had been erected to shelter the victim from the incipient rain. The body was not very far from the road, she noted, and thought it was in keeping with the vigilante’s methods; forensics had concluded the other victims had been killed where they were found. The vigilante must h
ave lured them somehow, as it seemed unlikely these particular victims would be the park-visiting types. The wives or girlfriends had not been helpful; the victims had received no strange visitors or unknown calls in the days before the attacks. It was unclear how they were contacted, and unclear how they were lured to their deaths in peaceful surroundings.
Acton’s tall figure could be seen, studying the scene, and he walked to meet her once he spotted her. “Here you are; I couldn’t reach you.” Although the words were mild, he was emanating waves of concern.
She’d wondered how she would react upon seeing him again, but she found that her main reaction was to be honestly perplexed; he was genuinely fretting because he couldn’t get hold of her for an hour, but was willing to run a risk that might make her leave him forever. Her initial reaction still held true; it all didn’t make any sense.
“Sorry; I was in the bookstore, and I had the ringer off.”
His gaze sharp upon hers, he leaned in to ask, “What’s happened?” His antennae were very fine-tuned when it came to her, and the fact that she was in a bookstore probably gave him pause, too, as it was not her natural habitat.
“I’ve had a crackin’ foul day, my friend.” He waited, but she offered nothing further, instead indicating the scene with a nod of her head. “What’s the report?”
They turned and walked together toward the canopy. “A woman, this time. Bludgeoned a live-in boyfriend years ago, but got off with a battered woman syndrome defense.”
Doyle crouched beside him and reviewed the body, facedown with an entry wound in the base of the skull, her limbs close to her torso. “She didn’t know it was comin’—no attempt to struggle or flee.”
“No; shot from behind while walking. Unlikely we’ll find trace evidence, and with the cold it will be difficult to establish exact time of death.”
“Sir; it’s looking to rain again.” The SOCO photographer lingered near Acton, and Doyle, in her current mood, suppressed an urge to pick up a shovel and deck her with it.
“Right, then; let’s have a look.” They stood, and he accompanied the photographer as they walked through the scene, scrutinizing the ground and occasionally asking for a photo, although it didn’t appear he was very enthused about what he saw. He gave permission to bag the body, and the crew leapt to comply, as it was cold and miserable.
Doyle watched them and thought about this odd sort of vigilante, carefully trying to hide his purpose, even though there were many who’d think him a hero—no one would mourn these victims, and he was no doubt banking on the fact that no one would be fervently pursuing justice for them. It must be as Acton surmised; he was only doing it because he could no longer live with himself, and was trying to atone on some personal level.
Drawing a ragged breath, Doyle decided it was past time that her wayward husband did some atoning himself; there was nothin’ for it. Therefore, when he returned to stand by her side, she observed in a quiet tone, “I didn’t know you smoked, Michael.”
He paused, and kept his eyes on the ground for a long moment before he raised them to hers. She returned his gaze calmly, and said nothing. He was wary. Good.
“I smoked at university,” he admitted.
There was a long pause. “Is there anythin’ else I should know?”
A member of the SOCO team approached, but Acton held him off, signaling to wait as he bent his head to Doyle. “What have you learned?”
“Now, that’s not a proper answer, is it?”
Acton allowed the SOCO to speak to him, and gave instructions for the clean-up phase and a thorough search of the area between the street and the kill site. He then took Doyle’s arm and led her a small distance away, where they could stand under her umbrella and not be overheard. Meeting her eyes, he repeated something she had once said to him. “You know that I love you, and I will love you until the day I die.”
“That day may be fast approachin’, my friend. Are you goin’ to be tiresome about this?” It drove her mad when he was up to something and refused to tell her.
He thought about it carefully. “For the time being, yes.”
She made a sound of extreme impatience and refused to look at him.
“Remember your promise.” He’d made her promise that if there was a chance she would leave him, he would be given a warning.
“We’re not there yet,” she conceded, “but we’re circlin’ the airport.” She didn’t want him to think he had carte blanche to drive her mad, which, unfortunately, he did.
“Let’s go home,” he said quietly.
“Can’t. I haven’t accomplished a thimbleful of work as yet.”
“Bring it home; I will help you.”
She glanced at him, scornful. “Are you sure that you don’t have other plans?”
“Don’t.” He drew her to him, and kissed her forehead, much to the embarrassment of the PC who was posted at the hilltop.
“All right; I suppose if I’m with you, Habib won’t sack me.”
They descended the hill to his car, and Doyle stayed quiet as he checked in with his assistant on his mobile, informing her that he could be reached at home, but only if it was important. She looked out the window and reflected how interesting it was that—once she was beside him—she was reassured; whatever was going on, his single-minded focus on her fair self was unshaken. This did not change the fact that she had multiple crises piling up, but at least her husband’s fidelity was not one of them.
Acton said quietly into the silence, “I had to get into her flat.”
She continued to gaze out the window, and shook her head. “That won’t wash, my friend—as if you ever needed anyone’s permission.” Acton was a first-class picklock.
He corrected himself. “I had to get into her flat, and watch her once she was there.”
“Why?”
He paused. “I’m afraid I’d rather not say.”
She thought about this, and drew the obvious conclusion; whatever scheme Solonik had cooked up, Acton already knew and was working to counter it. She felt immeasurably better—she’d bet on Acton over Solonik any day of the week. She needed to know, however, what sort of sacrifices his counter-plot called for. “Did you—” She was having trouble saying it.
“No,” he replied immediately.
She wanted to make sure he wasn’t being wily, so she made herself say it. “Did you have sex with her?”
“No.” It was the pure truth. She was surprised at her relief; she’d already assumed the worst.
“I pretended that I had drunk too much.”
“Good one.” Acton could always perform, drunk or not, and usually more than once. “But I’ll have your promise—on your honor, Michael—that there’ll not be a second attempt made.”
“No,” he agreed immediately, then hesitated. “I may have to see her again, and lead her to think otherwise.”
She turned to stare at him in disbelief. “You’re a step above a prostitute, then?”
He replied a bit grimly, “It is important, or I wouldn’t spend another moment with her.”
This was the truth, and she decided she wouldn’t press him; he didn’t want to tell her, but it was clearly all wound up in the Solonik plot, somehow. Her rescuer had implied that Acton was telling this brasser his dark secrets, which was ludicrous—Acton didn’t even tell Doyle his dark secrets. So the logical conclusion was Acton was turning the tables, somehow. She would hold out hope he wasn’t to be arrested at any moment, and meanwhile do what she could to put a spanner in Solonik’s wheel at her end—there were certain things that only she could do; certain truths that only she could hear, and if she disclosed what she knew to Acton, there was little doubt he’d lock her up somewhere and never let her see the light of day again.
When they returned to their flat, they spent the last part of the afternoon cross-indexing this latest murder. It was encouraging; this victim could indeed provide some fresh insights. She was female, so commonalities might stand out more. Doyle could see from
the report that the victim had a mother, living in Brockley, which was a respectable middle-class neighborhood—not someone indoctrinated from birth to distrust the police. The woman had been informed of her daughter’s death, and was willing to speak to the detectives, to offer whatever help she could.
As for how to behave with her maddening husband, Doyle decided she would not sulk, but that she would make it clear he had run a huge risk, so that in the future he would think twice if a similar situation arose—there had to be a heavy price to pay. To this end, she was subdued and didn’t tease him, or speak more than was necessary. He helped her, and they brainstormed, but she could sense his underlying concern, and when he began to absently roll a strand of her hair between his fingers, she decided to have pity on the wretched man. She gently disengaged his hand and kissed the palm, and his arms were around her immediately; his cheek pressed against hers. “Kathleen. Forgive me.”
“It’s all right, Michael.” They went to the bedroom and he was tender and careful and said sweet things to her, which told her that he had been very worried, indeed.
As they lay together afterward, he asked quietly, “Are you going to tell me how you knew?”
“No.” It was a time for secrets, apparently; and it would be up to the fair Doyle to perform yet another rescue.
CHAPTER 15
THE NEXT MORNING, DOYLE AWOKE WITH THE FEELING THAT she had a great deal to accomplish in a short amount of time. Acton was still abed as a result of his contrition tour—he’d insisted the night before on dressing and taking a walk down to the corner coffeehouse to purchase her an extravagant concoction. She was tired from the emotional day and their lovemaking, but she went anyway; she knew he wanted to make it clear that he’d repented of his transgressions and besides, they hadn’t been out together publicly in a while, and maybe his stupid reporter would hear of it. One silver lining from her rescuer’s revelation—Acton was going to be very careful from here on out.
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