Murder In Thrall

by Cleeland, Anne

  She smiled. “Does it matter?”

  “No.”

  She suspected that he was there out of caution as much as to put a mattress to her back, but she was content either way. “Habib is annoyed.”

  “Good.” He said no more.

  CHAPTER 19

  HE REALIZED HE COULD NOT FORCE HER TO QUIT AND LIVE sequestered with him. The solution, therefore, was to eliminate the threat.

  Acton must have been tired from his long day because they spent most of the night sleeping. In the morning Doyle woke at dawn to hear that he was in her shower, which was a first. She pulled the pillow in a bunch under her head and considered the light that emitted from the crack at the bottom of the bathroom door. From the onset, she had decided there was no point in making excuses; her flat was a grim little economical place and there was little she could do, aside from new linens and towels, to obscure this sad fact. When she had first moved to London, she had very little in savings and few options; when her mother became ill, she moved in with Doyle and money became even scarcer. Now that she was making a respectable salary, she continued to endure the place so as to pay off her debts and save up a down payment as quickly as possible. These good intentions didn’t change the fact that when Acton was there, she felt as though a thoroughbred were slummin’ it in a hack pen. He was too well bred to intimate that the accommodations were less than satisfactory—and it was evident he found her bed to his liking—but nonetheless she cringed a bit to think of him fitting his frame into that miserable, cramped shower.

  When he turned off the water, she knocked on the door. “I’m awake; you don’t have to be quiet.”

  He opened the door and leaned through it to kiss her. He was wet and had a towel wrapped around his hips. Seated on the edge of the bed, she watched him, trying to resist the urge to goggle. “What am I to do with my new assignments? In case Habib asks me, I should pretend to know.” He began preparations to shave; she had never seen a man shave before and was fascinated.

  “All other homicides in my docket,” he said shortly, applying his razor. “Whatever you will.”

  “Thank you.” She was grateful to the soles of her shoes—rescued from misdemeanor purgatory; put that in your pipe, Munoz.

  He said nothing more and continued shaving. He must not like to talk in the morning, she decided—not during sex and not in the morning; mental note.

  Watching him, she realized he brought overnight things with him in a small valise, along with a change of clothes in a garment bag. This is real, she thought, the bottom dropping out of her stomach—this is real; we are a couple. Before me is a man who was the next thing to a stranger a week ago and now he’s got shaving things in my medicine cupboard. She dropped her gaze, trying to tamp down a burgeoning feeling of panic. Even when her mother was alive, she had always been fiercely independent; it was the by-product that came along with knowing the things that she knew. This is all happening far too fast, she thought. Mother a’ mercy, lass—what were you thinking?

  “Kathleen.” She looked up to see that he had finished shaving and was now watching her from the bathroom door, a face towel in his hand. “What is it?”

  Struggling miserably, she tried to find the right words to explain to him that she was having an anxiety attack because she was not yet ready for this reality. “I love you, Michael,” was what came out instead. They stared at each other. She didn’t know who was more surprised.

  He walked over to her and, taking her head in his hands, crouched down to press his forehead against hers, his eyes closed. They didn’t move for a moment. “You know that love does not even begin to describe it.”

  His voice resonated against the bones of her face and she nodded, the emotion in her chest suffocating her.

  Still in his towel, he took her hands in his. “I cannot stay.”

  “I know.” She gave him a wobbly smile. He was elated; she could feel it. “I will see you later,” she whispered. He dressed and left, his mobile already vibrating.

  In the resulting silence, she sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the door. I suppose I truly must love him, she thought in surprise. Fancy that.

  Rising, she walked over to the bathroom, opened the medicine cupboard, and looked at his shaving razor sitting on the shelf within. She closed the door and regarded herself in the mirror. Silly knocker, she thought. Take hold of your foolish self.

  After her own shower, she had a bowl of frosty flakes and strapped on her ankle holster. Despite Acton’s urgings, she hadn’t tried to shoot it, although she had practiced aiming and loading. No question but that it gave one an additional sense of security. She would be extra vigilant; it wasn’t just about her anymore—if anything happened to her, she didn’t like to think about how Acton would react. Still, in all honesty, he appeared to be worried about precious little. If this killer wanted to kill her, there was no doubt she would already be dead.

  Mentally reviewing the cases, she dressed for work. I should make a point of wearing nicer clothes, she thought, looking over her wardrobe. I never seemed to have an incentive before, but I shouldn’t continue in my slapdash ways. He always seems so effortlessly elegant and I . . . well, I am the antithesis. Good one; a vocabulary word.

  Back to the murders. There were four now that seemed to be connected—or six, if the Somers Town murders were connected in some way, although she still wasn’t certain about that, despite what Acton seemed to think. The way the woman was killed was apparently the link that made Acton uneasy. And as an added bonus, there were plenty of Irish people floppin’ about the landscape; her father was Irish, the trainer was Irish, and Capper was Irish. But it may be merely a coincidence, after all—the Irish were thick on the ground around here. Someone had been into her personal file, where presumably her father’s identity could be traced if one was willing to do some sleuthing, as Acton had done. So the Somers Town murders may have had everything to do with her and nothing to do with the other murders, or they had nothing to do with her and the fact that her father was a victim was a total coincidence. Bullets and casings had been found at the Somers Town scene because the killer had staged it to look like a murder-suicide, and therefore removal of evidence would have queered the pitch, but the evidence was carefully cleaned from the racecourse and Giselle’s flat. All in all, the murders were more different than they were similar.

  As she pulled her hair into a low ponytail at the back of her head, she decided that the most likely path was to concentrate on whoever had hacked into her file—presumably this was a smaller universe of suspects. All CID personnel ranked chief inspector or higher had top security clearance. If the hacker was a high-ranking officer, it would not be difficult to determine who had been doing the digging, since passwords were required. She also had a vague idea that the user could be traced to a particular device, although she wasn’t very tech savvy. But Acton—who obviously could cover his own tracks—had suggested it was a first-rate hacker, so he must not have been able to trace the user. Therefore, the list of suspects opened up to include any anonymous techie in greater London, so some other angle would have to be pursued in order to narrow the universe and find a lead, let alone a working theory.

  She rode the tube to St. James’s Park, jostling against her fellow commuters and trying to shut out any incoming perceptions. The Met’s security system was presumably first rate; it would probably be easier for someone who already had access to the system to cover his tracks rather than for someone to hack in from the outside, undetected. As she was no expert, it was just a theory but the thought was chilling. If the killer was someone at CID with access to forensics and the files, God help them.

  Her latte was already waiting when she arrived at her cubicle, where she texted Acton with her symbol. And another thing, she thought as she began sorting through Acton’s docket on her laptop—why would someone want to kill her father so that she would discover his mangled body? A very cruel and despicable act, for the love o’ Mike. She didn’t think she h
ad any enemies. Why, she didn’t even think that anyone she knew had enemies—except Acton, of course.

  Going still for a moment, she pursued the thought. Acton probably had a basketful of enemies; it came with the territory. She examined this angle but it still made no sense. No one at CID knew about their relationship; she was certain. If a rumor even existed, Munoz would have never let her hear the end of it. Doyle was suddenly reminded of Acton’s persistent questions on the way to the China Flower about whether she had told anyone about them. So, he had been to this point already and must have come up empty, as she was coming up empty. Truly, it made no sense. Perhaps someone thought she was pretty or something and wanted to take an innocuous look into her file as Acton had done. And her father’s murder was a strange coincidence, which would have gone unremarked and unrecognized except for Acton’s own transgressions into her personal records.

  In all fairness, she understood why Acton was uneasy—that theory seemed far-fetched. Taken together, the murders did not make sense, but the fact remained that her da was dead, Irish people were dropping like flies, and someone had looked into her personal file and presumably decided to murder her father as a result. Small wonder he was worried about her safety—and he was certainly one to worry. Idly, she wondered for a moment what had happened with Acton so as to start him in on her—perhaps someday she would get the story, if he was willing to relate it. Best to tread carefully; she knew he did not like to speak about his condition. What he had said this morning after her own profession of love was as close as he would come—he said that love did not even begin to describe it.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by Munoz, who was banging about her cubicle in an annoying and triumphant manner. Nothin’ for it, thought Doyle with resignation. You’ll have to listen to her crow. Try to keep your thoughts on a higher level—how Acton looked in his towel, for example.

  “Doyle,” said Munoz, inserting her head into the cubicle and tossing her hair over her shoulder. “I’m really busy. Can you help me out?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” replied Doyle, as though Munoz were her superior officer. “What is it you’re needin’?”

  “Holmes wants me to access the technology used by the dead men.” She cast a wicked glance at Doyle under her lashes. “I’d like to access him.”

  Access denied, thought Doyle, and felt considerably better. “You are all talk and no action, Munoz.”

  The other girl conceded, “I have to be subtle. He’s all business.”

  “Do you even know how to be subtle, Munoz?”

  “Watch and learn, Doyle.”

  Doyle reflected that she was fast becoming aware of what pleased Acton sexually, and it did not appear to feature subtlety. This, however, was a piece of information Munoz need never know. “I am all admiration, my friend.” As much fun as it was to egg on poor deluded Munoz, Doyle realized that eventually Munoz was going to find out that she and Acton were an item—the days were counting down. Therefore, she decided with no little regret that she should drop the topic. “What do you need me to do?” She hoped it was not something high profile, which would require her to confess to Munoz that she had been taken off the case.

  “Go through the emails and files. There’s a laptop and a tablet on my desk. Williams has their mobile phones. I’m needed back in the field.” Her beautiful dark eyes slid to review her companion, a hint of malice contained therein. “What’s your assignment?”

  “I am sortin’ through Acton’s homicide docket,” Doyle replied airily.

  The other girl straightened, her expression incredulous. “You are doing analysis?”

  “That I am.”

  Munoz made a silent whistling sound. “What did you do? Run him over by accident?”

  If you only knew, thought Doyle, but aloud replied, “He’s very busy just now and trusts me to see what needs to be done with his caseload.”

  Munoz started to laugh, and Doyle had to restrain an urge to fly out at her. “No, Doyle, really.”

  “You may believe me or not as you choose. It makes no difference to me.” Doyle resumed typing.

  With what could only be described as a smirk, the other contemplated her while Doyle wished she would just go away. “You aren’t any good at research. Your only talent is interrogation.”

  “Oh, I am good at many things, Munoz.” Doyle hid a smile.

  The other girl cocked her head. “I will find out what you did to disgrace yourself, you know. I am relentless.”

  “Fine. Take your relentless self back to the scene.”

  Munoz tossed her hair in triumph. “See what you can do with the tech stuff.”

  Doyle saw an opportunity to do a little probing of potential suspects and took it. “Done.”

  CHAPTER 20

  HE PHONED TO CONFER WITH FIONA, OFF THE RECORD. SHE HAD indeed found third-party DNA evidence on Smythe’s body, not that he needed proof. He knew.

  Doyle picked up the dead man’s laptop from Munoz’s desk and went to search out Habib, who was in his office doing scheduling. He looked up as she stood at the doorway, his dark eyes opaque and unreadable.

  “How are you at hackin’ into computers, sir?”

  Habib looked a little affronted. “I hope you are not making a stereotypical assumption based upon my heritage, DC Doyle.”

  “Not at all,” Doyle soothed, reflecting that personally, she’d much rather be typecast as a computer wizard than a terrorist, which was the lot of the Irish. “I’m just not very strong on it and I need to know who is.”

  “Forensics has IT people,” he replied shortly, turning back to his task. “Ask them.”

  “Yes, sir.” She wondered why he was annoyed with her—perhaps it was because she was now the apple of the chief inspector’s eye. “All right, if Munoz phones in to check on my progress, tell her I’m working on it.”

  Habib looked up. “You are helping Munoz? I understand she is in the field with Williams.”

  Ah, thought Doyle, seeing an explanation for his foul mood. Munoz, Munoz; another one down. “I think she was walkin’ out to return to the scene, sir. She asked if I would look into this.”

  His manner became more conciliatory. “I’m sorry, DC Doyle; actually I’m not very good at IT.” He attempted a joke. “It is my only lack, I believe.”

  Feeling a bit sorry for him, she rallied. “Never say so, sir—you are without a weakness.” Except one very unprincipled DC who shall remain nameless but with whom you stand absolutely no crackin’ chance. Doyle wasn’t sure why she thought Habib might be a suspect—other than he was unreadable and a little odd—but when he had claimed no expertise in tech, he was telling the truth, so he wasn’t the infiltrator and therefore presumably not the killer. As she walked away, she thought about Habib’s unhappy distraction and decided it served her right for thinking everything was always about her. This inspired another train of thought and made her wonder if perhaps Acton was looking at this puzzle from the wrong angle.

  Making a long and meandering progress down to Forensics IT, she stopped occasionally to ask various personnel the same questions about hacking into the laptop. Although some admitted to an expertise, she did not get the feeling anyone was a potential suspect. I should stop, she thought reluctantly; if Acton knew I was doing this, he would be most unhappy with my sidelined self.

  She thought about her idea and debated whether she should bother Acton before tonight—assuming he would see her tonight—no plans had been made as yet. He would see her, though, and all there was to see besides, because he wouldn’t be able to stay away, the poor, crazed man. Her mobile vibrated and she smiled.

  “Cereal?”

  “Very hungry,” she texted back rather daringly. That should give him something to think about in her absence, what wi’ Munoz at the scene and swingin’ her hips about.

  There was one more person Doyle wanted to test out before she took the laptop to Forensics IT. Entering the research room she saw Owens, sitting on his stool and absorbed in his task
.

  “Hallo, Owens,” she said cheerfully as she approached him.

  “DC Doyle.” Not as unhappy to see her this time—the fruit of good works.

  “Are you interruptible?”

  “Always,” he replied with relative good grace. “What’s up?”

  “Do you know how to hack through a password?” She indicated the laptop under her arm.

  “Let me see.” He cleared a space on the table, moving various dry-looking treatises aside, and glanced up at her. “Is this sequestered evidence? Do I have to worry about proper protocol?”

  “Well—not exactly.” She gave him a conspiratorial look. “I’m supposed to take it to Forensics IT, but it’s already been dusted for prints and I would so like to have a look at it first—it belonged to one of the victims from Leadenhall.”

  He began to fiddle with the keys and glanced at her again. “Trying to impress Holmes?”

  She smiled that he knew the nickname already. “Yes,” she admitted. “It’s dog-eat-dog in the lair of the DCs. Any advantage is a boon.”

  “I am sorry you fell from grace.”

  This wasn’t true, which meant that Owens now counted himself among the dogs in the lair. Everyone must think she was in Acton’s black book and, like Munoz, hoped to gain an advantage from the situation. “I hope it’s only temporary—I miss fieldwork.”

  “I think he’s put Williams on this case in your place. Do you know Williams?” Owens looked up to her, curious.

  Doyle said only, “Williams does fine work.”

  Owens gave her a half-smile and returned to his task. “You are too nice, I think.”

  “Whist, Owens—as if there is such a thing. We’re all workin’ to the same end.”

  The man’s fingers flew on the keyboard as he tried different approaches—he definitely knew his way around the binary system. “Have you heard anything from the scene?”

  “No. The field personnel aren’t back, so there’s no news circulatin’ as yet. I doubt there’s been a big break, though—we’d have heard. It does appear as though our prime suspect has saved us a lot of trouble by bein’ kind enough to get himself killed.”