Murder In Thrall

by Cleeland, Anne

  Take hold of your foolish self, she scolded, and just do your job. Emerging from the station, she strode out quickly for two blocks and then came upon what was usually a welcome and familiar sight—the early morning discovery of a fatal confrontation the night before. The bodies were in an alleyway, between two dumpsters and bordered on three sides by commercial buildings. Even at this hour, PCs were busy keeping the bystanders back and the scene was cordoned off with forensics tape. As it was a business district, the gawkers tended to be more discreet and better dressed, but evidenced the same fascination with sudden death that was a hallmark of the human race. Acton’s tall figure was easy to spot; he was speaking with the SOCOs and indicating what he wanted done. Munoz and Williams appeared to be taking measurements and marking evidence with yellow numbered markers.

  Munoz was a brasser and a nasty piece of work, but Doyle—giving the devil her due—knew she did excellent work and would not allow an opportunity to impress Acton pass her by. Williams’s work was always first-rate. Doyle bit her nail, tired and annoyed and consumed with a burning sense of injustice; apparently she had been relegated to performing an altogether different line of work for the illustrious chief inspector.

  It didn’t help matters that, now that she had arrived at the scene, Doyle felt a little foolish. She was debating what to do when she saw that Acton had spotted her. He showed no surprise, but indicated she should approach. He looked fresh as a daisy, wretched man.

  She stepped under the tape and moved next to him where he stood, reviewing the scene. “Our suspect has been conveniently dispatched.”

  If she hadn’t been so annoyed, she would have considered the nuance in his remark. Instead, she said stiffly, “So I heard from Habib.”

  At her tone he glanced sideways at her, considering, as other personnel moved between the bodies, carefully bagging evidence and taking photographs. She refused to meet his eyes.

  “I did not want to disturb you,” he explained quietly.

  “I would appreciate it,” she ground through her teeth, “if you never say such a thing again.”

  There was a surprised pause. “Fair enough.”

  A silence fell between them and continued while the team began the process of loading the body bags. In a small voice she asked, “May I help in some way?”

  “Witness statements.” He glanced up at the many windows that loomed overhead. “Although this is a commercial area, perhaps someone was here late and heard something.”

  “I’m on it.” She turned and walked away, pulling her fancy mobile from her rucksack. When she had cleared the corner of the nearest building, she stopped and texted: “I M wretchedly sorry.” She waited for a moment, feeling miserable until the return message came: “Don’t be.”

  You are such a crackin’ knocker, she thought, running her thumb over the words on the screen. Lucky for you he’s fatally stricken. Pulling herself together, she went to knock on doors and take down information from the businesses surrounding the scene, the members of which were stationed at the windows and watching the proceedings in the alley. As usual, there was a feeling of excitement among the bystanders; of being involved in the big story. Sometimes this sense of excitement resulted in a fish tale, where a witness would claim to have heard or seen something to inflate his own importance. Fortunately, she was well-suited for sorting the wheat from the chaff and gave those attention-seekers short shrift.

  As she was taking notes, her hands paused; the killer had watched the Teddington crime scene—perhaps he was here, too. Paying careful attention, she began asking the potential witnesses if they worked in the building and she found no one prevaricating. She thought about texting Acton to canvass the bystanders outside, but she decided it wasn’t necessary—Acton would know to do it, and if there was anything to observe, it would be duly observed. He had an amazing capacity for detail, whereas she, by contrast, had an amazing capacity for losing her temper.

  Despite the fact there seemed to be little of interest, she kept at it; someone may have been working late in an office or on a cleaning crew and heard something. It was tedious work, going floor to floor, but she felt the need to atone and worked conscientiously and without inward complaint. It was nearly noon when she finished canvassing the last of the buildings surrounding the site and concluded there were no leads to speak of, but she did get the contact information for the cleaning crews and asked the office managers to check and let her know if any other personnel had been working late last night.

  Doyle leaned back in the lift as it descended and took a deep breath. She was exhausted but knew it was important to get as many leads as possible early on. Mentally reviewing what she had gleaned, she decided to return to the Met and begin contacting the cleaning companies immediately.

  Acton had not texted her since that morning, but this was to be expected, what with the double murder to process. As she exited the building, she beheld the welcome sight of his Range Rover, waiting at the curb. Think o’ the devil, she thought, and smiled at him in relief; apparently she was not in the dog house, thanks be to God.

  He reached across to open the car door for her and she slid in. “Are you hungry?”

  “Contrite.”

  “No,” he said as he pulled away. “You had every right to be angry.”

  She blew out her breath in exasperation. “No, Acton; I should not have spoken to you as I did. I took gross advantage of our personal relationship and it was wrong, wrong, wrong.” She emphasized the words with a finger.

  “But we do have a personal relationship,” he pointed out. “I owed you an explanation because of it.”

  Wary of saying something insulting again about which was more important, she chose her words with care. “When we are at work, you are my superior. I should not treat you with less respect than you deserve.”

  He glanced at her. “And I cannot treat you as I would any other DC—any other person. It would be impossible.”

  Now it was her turn to be thoughtful. “While we puzzle this out, d’you think we could find some crackin’ strong coffee somewhere?”

  Turning onto Gracechurch, he remarked, “You need more sleep—my turn to be wretchedly sorry.”

  She glanced at him sidelong. “I don’t think either one of us is sorry at all.”

  This pronouncement was rewarded with that rare genuine smile. “No.”

  “That’s just it,” she confessed, leaning back and closing her eyes. “I was that tired, and I heard the news from Habib instead of you, and Munoz was takin’ my place—”

  “Is she a problem?”

  Feeling like a petulant child, she complained, “I just don’t want her takin’ my place, Acton; she fancies you.”

  He gave her a look that made her chuckle. “You are remarkably foolish.”

  “Yes,” she sighed. “I know this, I assure you.”

  “Do you want her to be transferred?”

  “Faith, no.” Her exasperation returned with full force. “This is exactly what I am talkin’ about; you should not even offer to do such a thing for me.”

  “There is little I wouldn’t do for you.” It was the pure truth.

  “You are doin’ it again, my friend.” She subsided, having the growing conviction that she was starting to argue against herself. “Do you think we can come to terms over somethin’ to eat?”

  He turned the car. “Candide’s?”

  She hid her surprise. She went to Candide’s after church sometimes with Nellie when they were in the chips; Candide’s had wonderful, strong coffee. She regarded him narrowly. “What time do I attend Mass on Sundays?”

  “Nine o’ clock,” he answered easily.

  She considered this. “I don’t know your middle name.”

  In a mild tone he soothed, “I am not surprised—there are quite a few.”

  CHAPTER 18

  SHE HAD BEEN ANGRY WITH HIM. SHE WAS VERY ATTRACTIVE WHEN she was angry.

  Acton’s mobile vibrated as soon as they were seated at the
restaurant. He glanced at the ID but did not pick up, and Doyle was recalled to the fact that he was in the midst of a brand-new double homicide on an already difficult case. “Please do not humor me—if you need to go, I completely understand.” She added, “Leave your credit card.”

  He didn’t smile in response. “It can wait. I need to talk to you.”

  Oh-oh, she thought. Trouble.

  His expression became serious as his eyes met hers. “There is no easy way to broach this; I’d like you off these cases.”

  She stared at him in surprise and felt the prickling one feels about the eyes when one is about to cry. Knocker, she scolded herself. Buck up—after your fine speech about how he is your superior, don’t you dare. Instead she said as calmly as she was able, “All right. Do you tell Habib or should I?”

  Watching her reaction, his words were gentle. “I’m sorry, Kathleen. It is no reflection on your work.”

  At this crucial point their coffee was served, which gave Doyle the opportunity to regain her equilibrium. The waitress then took their order, and although she had lost her appetite, she ordered anyway because she didn’t want him to think she was upset. Such a wretched, miserable day it was; truly. And it wasn’t noon yet.

  To avoid giving off the impression she was sulking, she made her report. “There was nothing startlin’ to discover in the surrounding buildings; there were only commercial tenants, and no one was reported as workin’ late. I have the names for the cleaning crew who worked up and down the floors on the east side durin’ the night. Do we have an estimated time of death?”

  “Just after one.”

  She brightened a bit. “Then they may have heard somethin’—they were about.”

  Their food came, and Acton watched her and made no attempt to eat his omelet. Despite her steely resolve not to act like a baby, she could only push hers around her plate. With all the sincerity she could muster, she met his eyes. “Please do not let your feelin’s for me supplant your better judgment. Of course I’m disappointed, but I’ll recover.” She could see that he was debating whether to tell her something and added, “It’s all right, Acton—truly. I’ll go home early and take a nap.”

  “I believe you may be in danger.”

  Faith, this was a surprise. She blinked, then suggested, “I think we’re back to our original discussion, about the personal gettin’ mixed up with the professional—”

  He interrupted, “Do you remember the Somers Town couple?”

  Puzzled, she tried to keep up. “Yes—yes, of course—”

  “The dead man was your father.”

  The silence stretched out for a few moments while she stared at him in amazement. “Truly?”

  He nodded, watching her.

  Completely taken aback, she thought about this, plumbing herself for an emotion. There was none, and she shook her head. “It’s not as though I would recognize him on the street, Acton—he meant nothin’ to me.” In fact, her only reaction seemed to be relief; now she knew why Acton had pulled her off the case.

  He released his breath—he had been worried about how she would react—and touched one of her fingers with his own. “It’s an extraordinary coincidence.”

  Struggling to come to grips with it—truly, this was the wrinkle to top all wrinkles—she replied, “Meanin’ you don’t think it’s a coincidence at all.”

  “No.”

  Knitting her brow, she met his concerned gaze and tried to follow his train of thought. “You think it was the same killer as the racecourse killer? And that now he’s comin’ after me?”

  He frowned. “Perhaps—I don’t know what I think. But I will not take any chances.”

  But Doyle was finding that this killer who made no sense continued true to form and slowly shook her head. “Perhaps it is only an extraordinary coincidence, Acton—there seems little point in killin’ me da when I don’t even know it’s me da.”

  Acton reminded her, “The killer may not have known you were estranged. And someone has been into your personal file.”

  Aside from your fine self, that is, thought Doyle. “Who has access?”

  “Only those with security clearance. But a first-class IT would be able to hack in—it’s always a contest to keep ahead of the latest crop of them.”

  They sat in silence for a moment while she tried to assimilate this rather cataclysmic revelation—no question that Acton was certain, he knew to put her father’s name on the wedding register, after all, and he wouldn’t be mistaken about something like this.

  His mobile vibrated again and he checked the identification. “I need to take this one.” He answered and said, “Acton,” then began taking notes, occasionally asking a question—it sounded like forensics to Doyle. “I’m coming in soon, don’t go anywhere.” He rang off. “I am wondering if you should stay at my flat.”

  She considered the idea seriously because she knew he would worry less if she did. Shaking her head, she demurred. “I know you are worried, and I respect your judgment. But all in all, it would have been an easy thing to kill me off already if he wanted to—which makes me think that is not his intent.”

  This pragmatic remark did not seem to soothe his fears. “Your flat is not very secure,” he reminded her. “You live alone.”

  “Not lately I don’t,” she corrected him with a small smile. “And I have a very fine weapon to boot. I will be on high alert, I promise—I’m glad you told me.” She paused. “Does anyone else know?”

  “No.”

  “Good.” She did not hide her relief; she’d rather not have the brethren at the CID in on the sordid fact her father was a petty hoodlum who had come to a bad end—she’d never get that concealed carry permit, else.

  Acton was silent, and she was aware he was frustrated that she wouldn’t follow his desires on this—perhaps she was being unreasonable, and foolhardy besides. It was indeed an incredible coincidence, with the emphasis on incredible. She met his eyes with all sincerity. “If you want me to go to your place, I will—I don’t want to distract you.”

  She could see he was trying not to suffocate her. “Just be ready.”

  “All right—I’ll pack me bag, I will.”

  He made an apologetic gesture with his hands. “I’m afraid I must go back. May I drive you?”

  “You may.” She tried not to think how it would look to the others when she was taken off the racecourse murders as well as the Somers Town murders. It was ironic; they would think she was in Acton’s black book when in fact it was just the opposite. She wondered what he would tell Habib that would convince her supervisor that she was not a dead weight dragging down his team’s reputation. No point to broaching the subject; on the ride back in the car, Acton was constantly on his mobile and it was not the time to ponder her own paltry career, such as it was. He seemed intensely interested in the forensics; he spoke to Williams about the ballistics and someone else about trace and fiber. Upon arrival at the premium garage, he came around to open her door and looked into her face, assessing. “Are we all right?”

  She smiled into his worried eyes. “Of course, Acton—I mean it.”

  “Be very careful.”

  “Yes, sir,” she responded, teasing him.

  “You will pay for that,” he said, “later.”

  It was almost a relief to collapse in front of the laptop at her desk. Tumultuous, she thought, pronouncing the word slowly in her mind. That’s a good word. With a ragged sigh, she tried to marshal her thoughts and decide which task was needed next. If she kept busy at her deskwork, maybe she wouldn’t think about how miserable she was to be taken out of the field—and apparently there were misdemeanor thefts cryin’ out for justice in Pimlico. She was interrupted by Habib, who was suffering from some strong emotion difficult to interpret.

  “Hallo, sir.” With some trepidation, Doyle wondered what could possibly befall her next.

  “Chief Inspector Acton has called and asked that you be assigned to his current homicide docket as well as the C
lass A cold cases.” Habib looked a little harassed.

  Acton, Acton, she thought, the constriction in her breast easing. You just can’t help yourself. “Yes, sir.” She tried to behave as though she were already aware of this, although she had no clue that her Section Seven was going to make it up to her in such a spectacular fashion. The assignment was not at all appropriate for a first-year, particularly one who was not particularly apt at forensics.

  Habib pursed his lips and clearly wanted to make a comment but was having difficulty choosing the words. Doyle took pity on him. “The chief inspector can be very high-handed—I hope he is not upsettin’ our team’s assignment schedule.”

  “Not at all,” Habib conceded with good grace. “He seems to value your services inordinately.”

  Why is it, thought Doyle, that everything Habib says to me is a double entendre? Keeping her countenance, she replied in a grave tone, “I am fortunate to have the opportunity.”

  “He mentioned an afternoon assignment that will take you away from the office.”

  “Yes,” she countered, “but I told him I would have to check with you.”

  Apparently she had gone too far in trying to sweeten Habib, as he reacted with alarm. “No, no—the chief inspector takes precedence—there is no question.”

  “Thank you.” She wasted no time in heading home.

  Remembering what she had promised Acton, she was extra vigilant as she let herself into her building but noticed nothing unusual; she was certain no one observed her. She locked the door behind her, fell into bed, and was immediately asleep. She was awakened hours later by Acton, who folded her into his arms as he slipped in beside her.

  “You have a key?” she asked, sleepily surprised.

  “Yes.” He spoke as if to a simpleton and kissed the mole near the base of her throat to which he seemed much attached. “Are you rested?”