Murder In Thrall

by Cleeland, Anne

  He paused. “I’d rather not, I’m afraid. But I would like an answer.”

  It was a measure of her respect for him that she did not pursue it; whatever rumor he was trying to quash she was apparently better off not knowing—although she was well-aware there was rife speculation about their association. She thought for a moment. “Perhaps Habib.”

  “Your supervisor?” He raised his brows in surprise.

  “He’s very sharp, is Habib. He saw you on the mornin’ of Giselle’s murder when you were searchin’ for me.”

  Acton frowned. “He doesn’t strike me as a gossip.”

  “Definitely not,” Doyle agreed.

  Acton mulled it over. “The woman who is your friend from church?”

  Doyle blinked. “Nellie? No. She knows who you are, but she doesn’t know about us.” She didn’t mention that there had hardly been enough time to know about “us” herself, let alone tell anyone else.

  “How about the dark-haired DC?”

  Very pleased that he couldn’t seem to remember her name, Doyle said, “Munoz? I don’t think she has guessed unless she is trying to spread a false rumor to get me in trouble not knowin’ it is, in fact, the truth. Do you understand what I’m sayin’?”

  He gave her a look. “She sounds charming.”

  Doyle chuckled. “Oh, we’re cutthroat at the bottom and no love lost, I assure you.”

  He reached to touch her hand. “You needn’t work there any longer, if you’d rather not.”

  “We’re gettin’ ahead of ourselves,” Doyle replied in a fluster. “Work is one of my two questions.”

  “I beg your pardon,” he said gravely. “I withdraw the comment.”

  She smiled out the window at the city lights—definite sightings of a sense of humor. This was not so difficult after all. In fact, it was rather fun, except that he was worried that someone knew about their relationship, which seemed a bit odd, as he had not indicated he wanted to keep it a clandestine type of thing. She wondered what he had heard and then decided that whatever it was, it couldn’t hold a candle to the truth.

  When they arrived at the upscale restaurant, she realized it was a good choice for a private discussion. The back wall of the China Flower was lined with semi-enclosed wooden booths, and it was to one of these they were escorted by a deferential host. As was his custom, Acton sat where he could watch the restaurant and Doyle sat facing him. They ordered, and he opened the conversation by saying without preamble, “I’d like you to start wearing a weapon.”

  So much for romance, she thought—all in all, this is a very odd sort of date. “I am not authorized to wear a weapon, Acton.” The protocol required six weeks of weapons training before a concealed weapon could be carried by a detective.

  He contemplated her. “Nevertheless.”

  She contemplated him right back. “So I’m to ignore the protocol?”

  His eyes didn’t waver. “Yes.”

  She considered this. “I suppose I should not be surprised, comin’ as it is from the man who wanted to have his way wi’ me in the midst of a sequestered crime scene.”

  He smiled that rare and wonderful smile. Proud of it, he is, she thought—men; honestly.

  “I’d like you to start tonight.”

  She remembered his questions on the ride over and could not suppress a twinge of alarm. “Is there a particular reason that I should be concerned about my safety?”

  He paused, deciding what to say. “Nothing specific. It is a precaution, and your safety is important to me.”

  This was true, which was a relief. She decided there was no harm in it—at least if she didn’t get caught. The fact that she could be sacked and arrested—and not necessarily in that order—did not seem to enter into the equation. Come to think of it, this request was very much in keeping with their conversation after the pawnshop visit, when Acton had been trying to avoid a direct statement that would reveal he was involved in selling illegal weapons. A rare brumble, this was—a DCI selling black market; and here she was worrying about such trivialities as departmental policy. “All right, then. And where am I to get a weapon?” She listened for his answer with veiled interest; obtaining a legal gun in England was the equivalent of pulling hen’s teeth.

  But as could be expected, he was not going to give specifics. “I have it in the car—it’s an ankle holster and shouldn’t weigh you down much. I’ll show you how to wear it.”

  Nodding as though this were an ordinary conversation, she privately thought that she’d best look lively and get to weapons training to keep them both out of trouble. She knew how to fire a gun—they had been taught at the Academy—but she hadn’t practiced in a while. No question he was concerned about something tonight. Or he might be suffering from a general paranoia; he was a Section Seven, after all.

  Their food was served and they began to eat, sharing between them. Despite it being a first date, he showed little curiosity about her past—apparently because he already knew everything. Aware on some level that she should probably be uneasy about this situation, she realized she was not; she trusted him. She knew—the way she knew the things she knew—that he would never harm her. And she knew she made him vulnerable—perhaps was the only thing in the world that made him vulnerable—which in turn made her fiercely long to protect him.

  Any attempts to draw him out about his own background were deftly turned aside, giving her a very good guess he didn’t want her to have a clear picture of how disparate their lives were. I am a coward, she thought, and I’d rather not know—not yet, anyway. Much of the meal was spent in companionable silence, which was one thing that had not changed between them; neither was inclined to idle conversation.

  Nothin’ for it, she thought. “I need to tell you two things.” He waited, watching her. Doesn’t like this whole discussion business, she thought; but there’s no bunkin’ it. With a steadying breath, she began her recitation. “My parents didn’t have much; my mother met my father at a dance and I made my appearance in short order. My da left us before I was two, so I don’t have any memory of him. My mother died of cancer two years ago.” She paused, because here it was and no putting it off. “I am not sure that my parents ever married—my mother never spoke of it to me.”

  “Yes,” he said. “There is a record of it.”

  She stared at him in surprise. “There is?”

  He leaned back, his manner matter-of-fact. “You’ve been vetted, of course, and because you are Irish, it’s been very thorough. Their history is in your personal file and it shows they were married at St. Bridget’s Church outside of Dublin. It notes you were born six months later.” He showed a glint of humor. “I can show you the record, if you’d like, even though it would be against protocol.”

  “No,” she replied, lowering her eyes. “That won’t be necessary. Well, that is a relief—I was worried about stainin’ the Acton escutcheon.” She glanced at him to see if he appreciated the ten-pound word.

  “It wouldn’t matter to me in any event.”

  Doyle smiled at him, as it was the truth. “No, I suppose not.” There was no question, of course, that a review of the parish records of St. Bridget’s would show her parents’ wedding. The real question was whether it had actually taken place, and she very much doubted it had. It didn’t matter; she would not pursue it in deference to him—she had duly noted that he had couched his words so that she could not spot the lie. He was a wily one, he was.

  One tangle patch down, one more to go. She soldiered on, “The other thing I have to tell you is about sex.” Ah, this caught his full attention. “Truth to tell, I haven’t much experience.”

  He met her gaze thoughtfully. “That is not a qualification.”

  She smothered a smile and explained, “And by not much, I mean none.”

  There was a pause. “I see.”

  So here was something he didn’t know. She tried valiantly not to color up but failed. “Just so you are aware.”

  “Yes. Thank you.”
>
  CHAPTER 12

  THEY HAD NOT BEEN FOLLOWED. HE SAW NO SIGN THEY WERE BEING watched. It was almost disappointing; he didn’t like the uncertainty. He didn’t like Chinese food either, but he would have to develop a taste for it; she was well worth it. He was almost desperate to touch her.

  “You have two questions,” Acton prompted.

  “Yes,” she agreed, “—and then I’ll not be botherin’ you with a discussion ever again.”

  “Work,” he prompted. Apparently he did not want to linger over the meal, and this was exactly what she deserved for bringing up sex.

  “Can we continue to work together?”

  “There is no policy that would prevent it, although I would be precluded from recommending you for advancement.” He crossed his arms on the table, clearly having already considered this. “And I imagine if we continue to have success—and if it is a mutual desire—it would not be a problem.”

  She smiled with relief. “That’s grand, then. I wouldn’t like to be choosin’ between the professional and the personal.” His eyes held hers for a moment and she immediately realized her error. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded, Acton; it’s only that I do enjoy workin’ with you.”

  The planes of his face softened. “I can’t be offended. I know this has happened very quickly; you have every right to be cautious.”

  “No—that’s the wrong tack.” She struggled to articulate her half-formed thoughts from these tumultuous two days. “I don’t want you to feel you have to be—careful—because of—everythin’.” Faith, how did one put this delicately? “Please, I hate it.”

  He was watching her intently but did not respond.

  “Do you understand what it is I’m sayin”?

  “Yes,” he said.

  He does not want to talk about this, she thought; he hates it just as much. “I’m not goin’ to give it up,” she assured him. “No matter what.”

  At his silence she dropped her gaze and fiddled with a chopstick. He was not going to let her in, probably for fear she would abandon ship. She shouldn’t push him; he knew himself. Wishing she had paid closer attention in forensic psychology, she concluded, “So you can be yourself with me; or at least as much as you are able.”

  “All right,” he replied, and she knew he was equivocating.

  She was compelled to reach across the table and take his hand. As a result, she experienced a jolt of awareness from him that was unmistakable in its heat. Now I’ve done it, she thought; best hurry this along before he loses all patience and starts mauling me about with the Chinese waiter looking on.

  “The second question is a wee bit deep,” she admitted.

  He seemed equal parts intrigued and relieved by the change in subject and leaned back, crossing his arms before him. “I am forewarned, then.”

  “Do you believe in God?”

  He pondered the question for a long moment, seriously, his gaze moving around the room. “I am open to the suggestion.”

  This was true, and she decided that this response was better than the one she had anticipated.

  “Particularly after recent events.” His eyes met hers.

  Faith, she thought with no small sense of righteousness— I’ve no choice but to continue on with him—it’s for the salvation of souls, it is. And the man could kiss.

  “I will take instruction if that is what you desire.”

  She blinked in surprise. “I don’t know if they’ll take you if you don’t truly feel the call, Acton—I have a suspicion that you would take instruction in Hindu if that is what I wanted.”

  His mouth drew down in amusement. “I may draw that line.”

  “We’ll talk about it some other time,” she temporized. “Enough discussion.”

  She was relieved, thinking she had brushed through it as well as could be expected and had covered the important points. She did not fool herself into thinking he would be sharing innermost thoughts with her; she was well-aware he was not able. In her own way, she was equally reserved—perhaps they would manage to deal well together. On the other hand, she would have liked to know more about the details of his life thus far. It wasn’t important, she decided; hopefully he wasn’t the brides-in-the-bath sort.

  He drank green tea, which she declined, thinking it a sorry excuse for a decent cup of coffee. “I contacted Giselle’s parents; they live in Yorkshire.”

  He tilted his head to the side and contemplated the tea. “I wasn’t going to talk shop tonight.”

  She was touched. “That is very sweet, Acton, but I think I’ve held out as long as I can.”

  He lifted his gaze. “What did they say?” Apparently he was at the same point.

  “There was little contact; they are country people and disapproved of her lifestyle. They did say she was to make a visit very soon, however.” A bit sadly, she wondered if there were any regrets that they did not have the chance to reconcile or if they were the type that felt their estrangement was vindicated by her gruesome murder. “I wonder if Giselle is a dead end, so to speak—there is nothin’ in her background that would be an indicator. Perhaps we should be delvin’ into the trainer’s death—he’s the one who started it all, as far as we know.”

  Acton nodded. “It seems evident he was executed. Usually that kind of murder is a result of double-crossing or self-dealing with the wrong sort of people.”

  “D’you know what he was involved in, why he was on the Watch List?” Her security clearance wasn’t high enough to allow her to research it, and she wondered if Acton would tell her.

  Acton did not hesitate, which was only to be expected—come to think of it—as he seemed to have little patience with protocols or even the law of the realm. “He had some unsavory ‘known associates’ and was believed to belong to a Sinn Féin splinter group that is under scrutiny for suspected arms stockpiling.”

  But this revelation was puzzling in its own right, and Doyle knit her brow. “I thought Sinn Féin laid down their weapons.” She had always steered well clear of the violent political doings in her home country.

  “Which is why it is a splinter group,” he explained patiently. “It is believed they have turned to black market and are arming some of the zealots who do not agree with the cease-fire.”

  With an inward sigh, she considered the sorry fact that many of her fellow citizens could not seem to gravitate toward peace—not for the life of them. Or the life of anyone else who happened to be in the way, for that matter. “So—perhaps there’s a motive; the Irish trainer was double-crossin’ the Irish splinter group, skimmin’ the money or somethin’ instead of supportin’ the cause.”

  He thought about it, his gaze resting on the party entering the restaurant as a matter of habit. “I do not have a working theory as yet. But it does seem likely the murder is connected in some way.”

  But Doyle was making her own connection with what she had learned from Acton at the pawnshop. “Or how about your Russians, my friend? Perhaps they’re unhappy with this Irish splinter group, if they’re runnin’ guns also—they’d be competitors.”

  His reaction was to become guarded; his eyes hooded. “There is that.”

  She eyed him for a moment, but he volunteered nothing further. Interesting, she thought; another forbidden subject—life with this man is going to be a rare crack.

  He continued smoothly, “There are other possibilities, of course, and I am looking into his dealings at the track.”

  This went without saying—there were a lot of temptations at a racecourse that may not be connected to terrorism. The trainer may have been throwing races in some way or taking illegal wagers. Laundering money. The only thing that was clear was the man had crossed the wrong people and had paid the ultimate price.

  Recalling his comment about checking for significant underworld events, she asked, “Did you find out if there were any shipments or other goings-on that day?” She kept her tone neutral, not wanting him to know she had a very good guess as to how he came by his own knowle
dge of such things.

  “No, nothing significant.”

  “Other than Drake was out of town, wretched man; bad luck for us; bad luck for Giselle. Drake would have probably taken her home with no further ado.”

  “It is a puzzling case,” Acton agreed. “Not your ordinary assassin.”

  Which seemed to be the theme lately among the villains of London, and she reminded him, “Nor were the murders today—the O’Briens were executed, but whoever they crossed didn’t want it to appear as an execution, which seems strange; executions also serve as a warnin’ to others.”

  Apparently, however, he was done talking shop. “We’ll sort it out later. Shall we go?”

  As they walked to his car, he was quiet and she could feel the tension emanating from him, although he was trying to hide it. The moment of truth is coming up, she thought; nothin’ for it.

  They drove to her building in the rather ragged Chelsea district and pulled up to the curb in front. He then reached beneath his seat to pull out a small black bag. “Here is your weapon.” He withdrew a .38-caliber pistol, along with a nylon and Velcro holster and turning on the interior light, he leaned toward her to demonstrate how the safety was released and how to load a cartridge of ammunition in the grip. Doyle watched carefully; she wanted him to have confidence that she could protect herself from whatever it was that was worrying him.

  “You may want to go up on the heath and practice shooting into a log or a tree—if you go to the range, they might ask questions.”

  “Right, then.” No question it might raise some eyebrows if she were to show up at the New Scotland Yard shooting range with a black market weapon.

  He glanced at her sideways. “Your target scores at the Academy were not the best.”

  Nettled, she retorted, “I would for once like to know somethin’ that you don’t do well.”

  With a gesture, he indicated the two of them. “I don’t do this well.” She understood that he meant their relationship. “But I want to.”