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

by Anne Cleeland

  She slid out of the bed even though Acton’s hand was resting on her hip, and leaned to kiss him to show there were no hard feelings. “Too much to do. And besides, Reynolds is due any minute.”

  “Can we meet for lunch?”

  “I’m to interview the latest victim’s mother; I’m not sure what my schedule is goin’ to be, dependin’ on how it goes.” She was not going to go out of her way to make him suffer, but on the other hand, she was equally determined not to go out of her way to accommodate his guilt. She was RC, after all; guilt had its uses.

  They prepared to go to work and Reynolds arrived, disclosing almost immediately that he had been contacted by a tabloid, hoping to acquire personal information about them.

  “Did they offer you five hundred pounds?” This inquiry earned Doyle a sharp look from Acton.

  “I do not know, madam; I’d hung up before terms could be discussed.”

  Doyle turned to Acton. “I forgot to tell you that a reporter was fishin’ for information from Munoz.” Rummaging through her rucksack, she found the card and showed it to Acton. “It’s a false name; I checked with the tabloid yesterday.”

  He made no response, but nodded and pocketed the card—nothing could be said before Reynolds, but little doubt it was his reporter, digging up dirt for her nefarious purposes—or Solonik’s nefarious purposes, more accurately. For a brief moment, she considered telling Acton what had happened, and that Solonik was trying to blackmail her into taking some as-yet-undisclosed action, but she rejected the idea almost immediately. Acton would put paid to any attempt by his better half to render aid, and she had the very strong feeling that her aid was essential, for some reason. I’m to be spending my time with villains and brassers, she thought with resignation—it’ll be like the old days in Dublin, it will.

  She and Acton drove into work together, and parted at the lifts in the lobby. He kissed her, even though there were many interested onlookers, which was unusual for him; he was not openly affectionate in public. The contrition tour continues, she thought.

  “Are we all right?”

  “Please, Michael; have done. I’m tryin’ to get past it.” She could feel his anxiety and softened. “I’ll ring you up later and let you know; maybe we can meet up after work—some place that has a smokin’ section.” This sally earned her a relieved half-smile, and they parted on amicable terms.

  Once on her floor, Doyle looked both ways down the aisleway to be certain the coast was clear, then slunk over to Munoz’s cubicle to use her desk phone, as the other girl was not yet in. Pulling out her mobile, she scrolled to find her rescuer’s number, then dialed it on the desk phone. He did not answer, but when Doyle began to leave a message at the beep, he picked up. “Whose telephone is this?”

  Not a man for preliminaries, thought Doyle. “I would rather not use my mobile to be callin’ you.” He could draw his own conclusions.

  “It does not matter; mine is a disposable. What should I tell Solonik?”

  “Tell him I will meet with him, tomorrow or the next day if he wants.”

  “Very good.”

  “Are you to be comin’ along?”

  This surprised him. “No.”

  “Oh; do you think I’ll be safe?” She was hoping to convince him to accompany her when she spoke to Solonik—if she could get them to converse with each other, she could see what there was to see. At present, she had several unformed theories, but was not certain how to go about testing them.

  But he was not to be so beguiled, and instead temporized, “I will drive you, but I will not go inside.”

  This was better than nothing, and much appreciated; she was not used to driving, and taking a side trip to Wexton Prison on public transportation would have been complicated. “That would be grand—thank you. Text, and let me know when and where to meet you.”

  She recited her mobile number, and as she did saw an incoming text from Williams: “Need to talk ASAP.”

  She rang off, and was preparing to respond to Williams when Munoz spoke from behind her, making her jump. “Making a secret date? I didn’t know you had it in you.”

  As Doyle had no ready explanation for using the other girl’s phone, she took refuge in bristling. “None of your business, Munoz.”

  Munoz only laughed and deposited her rucksack on the desk. “I’m only kidding, you idiot; lightning wouldn’t strike twice.”

  Doyle found this comment unfair; it wasn’t as though she was not attractive to men. There was Williams, certainly, and Solonik’s henchman, who also seemed fascinated to some extent—but not enough to escort her into the prison, more’s the pity. A shame she could never boast of them to Munoz, although the other girl would probably rattle off three of her own and trump her without even breaking a sweat.

  One such candidate appeared, as Habib made his measured way toward them. “Good morning, DS Doyle; DS Munoz.”

  “Give me more homicides,” Munoz complained. “I need to raise my profile.” The rumors about Williams’s promotion were biting at her, apparently. “All I’ve got now is unsolvable burglaries and larceny-by-trick.” Belatedly, she added, “Sir.”

  Habib’s serene brow furrowed, as Munoz’s worries were his worries. “I can recommend you to the Women’s Issues Task Force.”

  But Munoz made a face. “Immigrants forced into prostitution—no, thanks, I already did a round with Drake.”

  “It’s what the papers like—women’s issues.’” Doyle reminded her. “And it’s nothin’ short of slavery, truly. You’d be fightin’ the good fight.”

  “I’m not good with wailing women,” Munoz confessed bluntly. “I’d rather be dealing with dead people.”

  Much struck, Doyle could only applaud this shrewd self-truth; Munoz would have little tolerance for oppressed and exploited women—she’d be more likely to give them the back of her hand. Doyle had the same handicap, but for different reasons; there was too much emotion involved, and she’d be exhausted all the time.

  “Do you need assistance in your park cases, DS Doyle?” Habib had apparently latched upon an easy avenue to appease the disgruntled beauty.

  “No,” protested both girls at the same time.

  Habib nodded in concession. “No; it would be best if you did not work together until the press’s interest has died down—there would be a danger of compromising the cases.” Reminded, he asked Doyle, “Is there any information to be learned from the new case?”

  “What new case?” Munoz made no effort to conceal her annoyance at another corpse having made its way into Doyle’s caseload.

  “Another victim, we think—although we’re keepin’ it quiet. A woman, this time.”

  This was of interest, and Munoz paused in her sulking. “Really? What’s her history?”

  “Killed a boyfriend, she did.”

  Munoz lifted a well-groomed brow. “And got off? I wish I had known it was so easy.”

  Habib shook a playful finger. “Now, DS Munoz; I will not believe some young man could make you so angry.”

  “And this woman did get murdered, for her sins,” Doyle reminded her. “Crime does not pay.”

  But the other girl was lost in thought. “I think I could murder someone, if the need arose.”

  Been there, thought Doyle, but she warned Munoz, “Best say nothing incriminating—you don’t want DI Habib to be a witness for the prosecution.”

  “I wouldn’t get caught, Doyle.” Munoz regarded her with a full measure of scorn.

  You’re no Acton, my girl, thought Doyle, and then cautioned herself, lest she accidentally say the wrong thing aloud.

  Hastily, Habib changed the subject. “Any leads?”

  “Yes, sir; this one’s got a cooperative mother, and I’m due to interview her soon.” Doyle glanced at her mobile to check the time, and was reminded she should respond to Williams, who had texted again.

  “What does Williams want?” Munoz was a sharp-eyed shrew, she was.

  “He wants to make sure you aren’t ass
igned to any of his cases.”

  “Very funny, Doyle. I’ll work on his cases, and he’ll like it.”

  Before it could be determined if this was, in fact, an off-color remark by his subordinate, Habib quickly intervened to suggest they come to his office to review the team’s assignments.

  “Can’t,” said Doyle, quickly backing away. “I have my interview, I do.” With a last, triumphant glance at the other girl, she escaped.

  CHAPTER 16

  DOYLE’S MOBILE PINGED AS SHE TRAVELED ON THE TUBE TO the mother’s house in Brockley. Williams again; she’d forgotten to get back to him. “NEED.2.TALK,” the message said, and she regarded the screen for a moment. Very demanding, he was, with his capital letters and all. If it was anything important, he’d just spell it out, which meant he wanted to check in with her after the many and varied traumatic events of yesterday. She should be grateful, he’d been nice and—more important—he’d been circumspect, but she didn’t want to think about the Acton-and-the-reporter crisis just now; she’d a grieving mother to interview.

  “Busy—soon,” she replied, and mentally girded her loins as she approached the listed address. This was the worst part of the job—meeting with the bereft relatives. Doyle didn’t mind examining the victim’s grisly remains or confronting the unrepentant killers, but it was a hard, hard thing for someone like her to come face-to-face with those who—through no fault of their own—were forced to pick up the shattered pieces of their lives and carry on. Raw grief, shock, and anger were a miserable combination to pick up like a tuning fork. Squaring her shoulders, Doyle knocked on the door.

  In response, the door opened a crack, a chain suspended across the gap. A small woman of perhaps fifty years peered out. “Mrs. Bennet?” Doyle asked. “I’m Detective Sergeant Doyle from the CID—we spoke on the phone.” She showed her identification.

  “Yes,” the woman said, closing the door slightly to release the chain. “Please come in.”

  Doyle was ushered to the sofa where a tea was laid out—faith, strawberry jam, too. The woman asked if she would partake and Doyle accepted, noting that the woman seemed composed and resigned. Sad, but not bitter or hysterical, which was a blessing. “I am sorry about your daughter,” Doyle began gently as she was seated. “Please accept my condolences.”

  The woman met her eyes. “It’s just as well,” she said calmly. “Will you take sugar, dear?”

  After a startled moment, Doyle accepted—she wasn’t much of a tea drinker, but coffee did not seem to be in the offing. “You are not surprised, then?”

  The woman handed her the steaming cup. “Oh, I’m surprised all right. But it is just as well; better she’s in the ground than another one dead.”

  Her own grief fresh in her mind, Doyle tried to make sense of it, and came up short. “I’m not certain what you mean, Mrs. Bennet.”

  The woman looked a little surprised. “You’re with the police; you know that she killed those two—and the first one still a boy, really.” Shaking her head with resignation, she dipped her little finger in her cup to test the temperature. “There would have been more.”

  “Your daughter was acquitted the first time,” Doyle noted carefully, “—and I’m not aware of any other suspicious deaths.”

  “Oh.” Mrs. Bennet knit her brow. “Her husband died also—killed in a robbery, they said. But I knew she was behind it; that she’d arranged for it. They were not getting on.”

  “I see.” This information was definitely not in the case file, and so Doyle took a stern tone with the woman. “Did you withhold your suspicions from the police?”

  “Oh, no,” the other woman disclaimed, startled. “But nothing could be proven.”

  They stared at each other in silence for a moment, the mantel clock ticking in the background. “Tell me about her,” said Doyle finally.

  Absently, her companion stirred her tea without drinking it. “She had a terrible temper—from her father; he was killed in a football brawl. She was wild. I had a time, trying to rear her up, but—she was wild. And pretty, which meant men would pay attention to her. But then—” She stared into space for a moment, remembering something unpleasant.

  “Yes?” prompted Doyle.

  “She would follow them, and become jealous for no reason. The fighting and throwing things—it was terrible to see.” With a world-weary sigh, the woman grimaced as she remembered. “She would convince herself they were cheating on her, you see.”

  Know how that feels, thought Doyle. “So you believe she killed them both?”

  Mrs. Bennet met her eyes. “Oh, yes,” she said simply. “I know; I am her mother.”

  Doyle sipped her tea and was thoughtful. Apparently there were more hazards to motherhood than the wretched morning sickness; mental note.

  “It was the newspapers, the first time,” the woman added sadly. “The newspapers made her up to be a victim, and didn’t rest until she was acquitted. She loved it, and played it up—had her snap in all the papers.”

  Yes, thought Doyle, thinking of Acton and his flippin’ reporter. The newspapers have a lot to answer for, they do. “Do you have any idea who would have killed her?”

  The woman knit her brow. “She’d taken up with a married man—his wife, perhaps?”

  “D’you know his name?” Doyle set down the cup and saucer and dutifully wrote down the boyfriend’s name, knowing it would be a dead end. A cuckolded spouse would not be inspired to become a vigilante. “Did she have any unusual visitors, d’you know? Or mention who she was to meet when she went to the Heath?”

  “She didn’t share her doings with me,” the woman confessed. “She knew I wouldn’t approve.”

  Someone else didn’t approve, thought Doyle. A vigilante, who took the imperfect justice system into his own hands, years later, so that it wouldn’t be obvious that this was indeed his motivation. A private wrong that needed to be made right, done by someone who could no longer live with the terrible guilt.

  “She was so brassy; thought she couldn’t be touched—thought she could get away with anything.”

  Like Acton, thought Doyle, unbidden. Suddenly she froze, her scalp prickling; there was something here—something just out of reach—

  “It was the papers, they could tell any story they wished, whether it was true or not.”

  Mother a’ mercy, thought Doyle, staring at her in horror; that’s it—they’re framing Acton. That’s what Solonik is about, he’s framing Acton for these murders.

  “What is it, dear?” Mrs. Bennet leaned forward, gently concerned.

  “Oh—nothin’,” Doyle replied through stiff lips, and forced herself to calm down. That theory was flawed six ways to Sunday; there was no planted evidence—or any evidence at all, come to think of it. There was no indication that Acton was the object of some Solonik-backed frame-up—and it wouldn’t be much of a frame-up unless there was some planted evidence. Use your head, lass.

  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, and I can’t blame you—a young thing like you, having this kind of job. More tea, will that help?”

  “No, it’s all right; I’m the bridge-jumper.” Doyle was surprised that she’d admitted such a thing, her scalp prickling yet again. Now, why was that important?

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand—do you need to lie down? You’re a little wan, I think.”

  Doyle smiled. “I only meant that I was in the papers, myself, because I jumped off Greyfriars Bridge to save someone. So I may be small, but I am mighty.”

  Mrs. Bennet was suitably impressed. “Did you, dear? Well, I never.” She shook her head in apology. “I’m afraid I don’t read the papers anymore—they’ve caused me no end of trouble.”

  “It’s a two-edged sword,” Doyle responded absently, still trying to understand whatever it was she was trying to understand. “Sometimes they cause trouble, but sometimes they’re the watchdogs, savin’ the day.” And I need to find out their role in this little drama, she thought—there’s something here; somet
hing I’m missing. Perhaps the vigilante is a woman, after all—a nasty brasser with a fine coat. Such a shame if I have to put her in the nick; she would have to pass the time playing cards with Solonik.

  “If you say so,” her companion agreed with little enthusiasm. “I don’t think they much care about the truth, anymore.”

  Reining in her wayward thoughts, Doyle packed away her occurrence book and rose. “I won’t take up any more of your time, Mrs. Bennet, but I will let you know when we find out who killed your daughter.”

  “Do you think you will?” the woman asked with little enthusiasm, smoothing her skirt.

  “We will,” Doyle replied, and knew that this was true. “Murder is murder.”

  “If you say,” the other offered doubtfully. “Not everyone thinks so.”

  “I do.” After thanking the woman for the tea, Doyle took her leave. Once outside, she pulled out her mobile, checked in with Acton, closed out the latest message from Williams, and searched for the address of the London World News.

  CHAPTER 17

  DOYLE TOOK THE TUBE BACK INTO THE CITY, AND, FOR ONCE, wasn’t buffeted by the emotions of the people around her because she was too busy mulling over her next move. Acton would no doubt be very unhappy with her brazen self, but he was currently residing in the doghouse, and therefore had no standing to complain. Besides, she knew he was meeting with the DCS mid-morning on his high-profile case; hopefully he’d be too busy to check her movements through the GPS unit in her mobile. Coward, she scolded herself; you have nothing to be ashamed of, and shouldn’t be made to feel as though you are skulkin’ about—you need to face this brasser down and find out whether she’s murdering people, left and right.

  After exiting the tube, she walked two crowded blocks to the offices of the London World News and entered through the revolving door. Once inside, she was surprised how familiar it felt, and paused for a moment. It reminded her of the Met in a strange way—the ionized atmosphere of busy people, engrossed in their work. They think what they do is every bit as important as what we do, she realized. It’s a counter—counter-something; Acton would know the right word.