Murder In Thrall

by Cleeland, Anne

  Immediately, another one came. “Who?”

  Feeling a little foolish, she typed abbreviated names as quickly as she was able, holding the mobile under the table.

  Munoz teased her, “Who is it this time?”

  “My parole officer,” Doyle replied absently. “Wants a word with me, he does.”

  There was general laughter and then Munoz added archly for the benefit of the unattached males at the table, “Do you have a secret boyfriend, Doyle?”

  Doyle replied mildly, “Not at present, no.”

  As she could see that Munoz was winding up to make another smart remark, Doyle forestalled her. “Anythin’ interestin’ come up with respect to the Leadenhall murders?”

  Munoz was happy to be the center of attention again. “I heard a rumor that there were fibers on one of the men from the murdered girl’s sweater, which pretty well slams the door. There’s no official report yet. It’s just a rumor.”

  Ah, thought Doyle—just as expected. “Are you helping with the ballistics report, Williams? Anything unusual?”

  Instead of answering directly, Williams deftly turned the subject. “Where do all the illegal guns come from, anyway? Everyone has one—it’s like the bloody Wild West out there.”

  Doyle carefully pulled her left leg further under the table. “Too much money to be made,” agreed Samuels. “The runners always find a way.”

  Time to change the subject, thought Doyle. “Aren’t you working on contraband, Samuels?”

  “I am. It’s like herding cats; you have no way of measuring your progress. Very frustrating.”

  Interestingly enough, this last was untrue. I wonder what that is about? Doyle thought, brought up short; perhaps I am losing my touch.

  “Put in for a transfer,” suggested Williams.

  “Yes, come join me in the archives,” teased Doyle.

  “I’ll stick it out for the time being; I don’t want them to think I’m a complainer.” He glanced up the street and announced, “Look, its Holmes.”

  They all turned to see Acton’s tall figure striding along the sidewalk, heading back to the Met. Munoz called out to him and he paused, spotted her, and then approached their table.

  Saints, thought Doyle, hiding her surprise. Does he want me away from here? She waited to see if he would give her a cue as they all stood up and greeted him, Munoz looking like the cat at the cream pot.

  “We were discussing the proliferation of illegal weapons,” said Williams, his tone deferential.

  Polishing the apple, thought Doyle. Good one.

  “A major problem,” Acton agreed. “The more restraints that are attempted, the more the black market flourishes.” Doyle was grateful he made no attempt to meet her eye.

  “Is the Leadenhall case near a resolution?” asked Munoz, who decided she had ceded the floor long enough.

  “I believe so.”

  “I have the final ballistics report for you,” offered Williams, which earned him a sharp look from Doyle.

  “Come, then.” To the rest, he looked at his watch and said, “Who is saving the city?”

  They immediately disassembled.

  Doyle was forced to listen to Munoz chortle as they retreated back to their basement. “Did you see him come over when I called? He is so tall—and you know what they say about men who are tall.”

  “Munoz,” warned Doyle, and then was not sure what it was she wanted to say.

  “I know, I know—I’m not his type. I’m just having fun.” Munoz lowered her voice. “There’s a rumor that he’s very friendly with that woman from the morgue.”

  Doyle blinked. “Fiona?”

  “Yes, but it’s not clear whether it’s anything other than friendship—they went to school together or something.”

  Fiona, thought Doyle. She remembered the inter-team conference when Fiona was eating her doughnut and expertly fielding Acton’s questions at the same time—they did have an easy camaraderie. She tried to picture Fiona and Acton together and decided she’d rather not. One thing was clear; he didn’t have a preference when it came to women—Doyle was very slender; her mother had always referred to her fondly as a bundle o’ bones. Well then, mystery solved. Fiona seemed like a nice, kind person. She glanced sideways at Munoz. It could have been much worse.

  CHAPTER 24

  HE WOULD EXTRACT ANY INFORMATION HE COULD BY ANY MEANS HE could, but he didn’t want to come back to her too late; she needed her sleep.

  Doyle left work with plenty of time to arrive early at the reconciliation service at St. Michael’s—she didn’t want Acton to arrive before she did and have to fend for himself. Waiting in the church vestibule, she tried not to be anxious about this anticipated clash of civilizations even as her eyes flew to every congregant who came through the door. It was a good sign that he was willing to come; she should be welcoming and not a bundle of nerves. It was just that people who hadn’t been steeped in it from birth may find the whole thing a bit off-putting. She tried not to think about what she would do if he found the whole thing off-putting.

  Next to her was the fund-raising chart, which showed the anemic progress the parish was making toward a new roof, and she decided she should move away from it so as not to make a bad impression from the start. It was a small parish and not in an affluent area, so there was always an ongoing appeal for funds. Nellie was a wizard at fund-raising ideas; she had instituted a raffle for the pastor’s parking spot at Midnight Mass and had raised nearly five hundred pounds. Her latest plan was to institute a weekly bingo night, but Father John, who abhorred gambling, was standing firm. Doyle put her money on Nellie.

  Acton appeared in the doorway and came toward her. Taking her hand, he bent to kiss her cheek as though it was the most natural thing in the world, which, of course, it wasn’t—not in public. Struggling to catch her breath, she blurted out, “You know you may not have sex with—with anyone else anymore.”

  He regarded her for a moment, his expression unreadable. “Yes, I am aware.”

  Horrified, but unable to control her tongue, she continued in a rush. “Because I know the aristocracy has a different view a’ these kinds of things.” Pausing, and well-aware she sounded slightly hysterical, she then added in a small voice, “I would be very unhappy, Michael.”

  He said nothing for a moment and she could see the glint of humor in his eyes. “Is this part of the service?”

  “No,” she confessed. “I am havin’ a fit o’ the absurds.”

  He squeezed her hand gently. “Let’s go in. I promise I won’t embarrass you or ask anyone to have sex.”

  “Thank you,” she replied, gathering up her dignity. “I would appreciate it.”

  They entered the nave and slid into a pew near the back—she wanted him to know that the place did not show to advantage in the evening. “There are lovely stained-glass windows, but you can’t appreciate them at night. One is of St. Michael and is quite fine.”

  He took her hand in his and she calmed down; she always talked too much when she was nervous. As the service was not heavily attended, Doyle’s presence with a male companion attracted a few covert stares from the regulars. She and Acton sat in silence for a few moments, until Doyle realized—once she stopped worrying about what everyone else was thinking—that Acton was full of news.

  “What has happened?” she whispered.

  “To what?” he whispered in return.

  “Have you solved the case?”

  She had caught him off guard, she saw, but he recovered and said in a neutral tone, “I have some information that is helpful.”

  “Can you tell me?”

  Running his thumb over the back of her hand, he bent his head, thinking. “I’d rather not, I’m afraid.”

  Maddening, is what it was, but she refused to be annoyed at church. “Don’t forget,” she reminded him, “I’d rather not be humored.”

  “I won’t,” he assured her.

  She shot him a look, not clear on whether he wouldn’t humor he
r or wouldn’t forget, but he had moved on to the next topic. “I’m afraid I’ll need to do some work later tonight, and in the meantime I may have to take a call from—Forensics.”

  She knew he was going to say “Fiona” but caught himself, which showed that he’d guessed that she knew. Honestly; the way she was behaving it was a small wonder he didn’t want to tell her anything about the case. Grow up, she castigated herself; he told you it was over and now he is all Doyle, all the time. Change the subject. “What exactly happened at lunch?”

  This, however, was apparently another shrouded subject. “Aren’t you supposed to be praying?”

  With ill-concealed exasperation she replied, “I am prayin’ for patience, my friend, but it does not seem to be workin’.”

  Relenting, he chose his words with care. “I continue to be concerned about your safety—if I overreacted today, I apologize. It would be best, perhaps, if you stayed away from crowds for the time being.”

  She eyed him, aware that he had probably never overreacted to anything in this life—with the possible exception of that memorable occasion when she kissed him at the Somers Town crime scene—but that was understandable, considering how she threw herself at him like a Montgomery Street brasser. And another thing—she didn’t think it was the nameless crowd he was worried about; he had wanted to know who was with her at lunch. Pointless to try to pursue it; he wouldn’t tell her.

  A touch on her shoulder heralded the arrival of Nellie. Acton stood for their introduction and Doyle did the honors as they shook hands. Nellie was the mother of nine children, a grandmother to three, and was the kind of capable, efficient woman upon whom churches tend to rely. They had met when she helped Doyle with her mother’s funeral arrangements, and the two had become friends—Doyle suspected her motherless self served as a project for Nellie’s capable nurturing skills. At present, Nellie was shooting Doyle a glance that promised severe repercussions for failing to fill her in on this very interesting development.

  They sat through the half-hour service, Acton observing while Doyle and Nellie stood, knelt, and responded where appropriate. At the conclusion, the penitents lined up at the confessionals, awaiting their turns. Doyle preferred to be shriven by Father John, who tended to remind her that she was only human, after all, and not to be so hard on herself. When it was her turn, she entered the confessional booth, thinking carefully about what she would confess and wondering if she could get away with speaking in broad generalities—she didn’t want to give Father John an apoplexy. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” said Doyle through the screen.

  “Is that Lord Acton out there?”

  “Yes,” Doyle admitted. “It is.”

  “Well, I don’t want to be pesterin’ him, Kathleen, but do you think he would mind if I introduced myself?”

  Father John was an avid follower of sensational crimes, which he would explain was strictly a professional interest. He would often listen, rapt, as Doyle described some of the wages of sin she witnessed on a regular basis.

  “I will introduce you, Father—that is, if you absolve me from my sins.” Perhaps this would be easier than originally anticipated.

  “Is he an Anglican?”

  Doyle paused. “He hasn’t said.”

  “Ah.”

  “I’ve had some impure thoughts,” she ventured, hoping she needn’t be too graphic.

  “D’you think he’s sweet on you, if I may be askin’?”

  She couldn’t lie to a priest. “Yes.”

  “Ah.”

  “There’s been a bit of wrath and envy,” she offered cautiously. It did seem as though broad generalities were acceptable tonight.

  “You’re a fine girl. I’m not surprised.”

  She realized they were speaking at cross-purposes and decided she would have to wait to catalog her transgressions at a later date, given the circumstances. Accepting absolution, she promised herself she would do a more thorough job next time, when the officiate wasn’t starstruck.

  When she rejoined Acton, he was in conversation with Nellie—trust Nellie to make short shrift to beat Doyle back to the pew; she was bent on buttonholing Acton without Doyle there to monitor the conversation. Doyle wasn’t sure who would prevail; Nellie was the irresistible force, but Acton was the immovable object.

  “Father John would like to meet you, if you don’t mind.” She knew Acton avoided all admirers and well-wishers and generally disliked having to carry on a conversation that wasn’t work-related, but he waited patiently while the final blessing was said, shook the priest’s hand when introduced, and was very gracious. Father John expressed his admiration for Acton’s work and asked several intelligent questions, the substance of which he had gleaned from his conversations with Doyle. Give over, Father, thought Doyle—you’ll not be sweetening him into taking Holy Orders.

  In this, however, she proved to be somewhat mistaken. After a pause in the conversation, Acton asked, “To whom do I speak if I am interested in taking instruction?”

  To his credit, it took only the barest moment for the priest to recover from his astonishment. “Why, myself. If you will call for an appointment, I can explain the process.” Doyle stood by, blushing and silent, and noted that both Nellie and Father John carefully refrained from staring at her in stunned amazement, although it couldn’t have been more obvious that she was the cause of this unlooked-for conversion. Good one, Acton, she thought with grudging admiration. The cat is well out of the bag.

  CHAPTER 25

  HE SHOULD HAVE HEARD CONFIRMATION BY NOW. HE DARED NOT call in the event his location could be triangulated.

  Doyle noted that Acton paused as they stepped out of the church door to survey the immediate area, his eyes hooded, before proceeding down the sidewalk. He is still cautious, Doyle thought, despite whatever breakthrough that he won’t tell me about, wretched man. Wretched Roman Catholic man, apparently.

  They turned to walk up the block, their footsteps echoing on the damp pavement; there must have been a rain shower while they were inside. “You are a basketful o’ holy surprises,” she observed in a mild tone.

  “It is important to you.” He said it as though this was a sufficient explanation and she supposed that, for him, it was. To compound the effect, he had also presented the priest with a check toward the building fund. Doyle did not need to ask how much it was for; it would be a ridiculous amount—Father John had the look of a man who had personally witnessed the Transfiguration.

  Doyle took Acton’s arm as they walked past the corner grocery, its door and windows gated up. She felt a little shy; she had never physically claimed him in such a way before but for once, he did not react to her touch. She noted he surveyed the area by looking in the window’s reflection—an old trick they were taught at the Academy.

  She found that her mouth was dry, for no reason she could discern. “Back to the hotel?” she asked, trying to gauge the situation.

  “Yes.” He was distracted and checked his mobile for messages. He then stopped at a distance to remotely unlock an unmarked police vehicle that was parked on the street, taking another quick glance around. He didn’t want to drive his own car, then, Doyle thought. Interesting.

  When they got into the car, she leaned over to him and pulled on his lapel. Taking the hint, he kissed her. “Sorry.”

  “You are distracted,” she said gently. “Can I help?”

  His expression impassive, he considered her in the dimness, and she was reminded of that night on Grantham Street when he had made his unexpected proposal. “I’m afraid not.”

  As they drove in silence to the hotel, she thought about what had happened at the church. Acton was subtly and efficiently arranging things so that she had no option for retreat. It was masterful, truly, and a shame that he felt such a campaign was necessary. She knew now that retreat was unthinkable—she had been on pins and needles worrying more about Acton and what the priest would think than worrying about her own immortal soul. I’m done for, she thought.
I’m aiding and abetting a Section Seven and ever shall be. Amen.

  Unexpectedly, he pulled over and parked next to a busy pub. “Will you come in with me for a minute? I have to make a phone call.”

  “Lead on.” She was careful not to let her gaze rest on the mobile phone at his belt.

  He watched the street for a moment and then left the car to open her door. With his hand on her arm, they entered through the swinging door. The place was quite a bit more crowded than the reconciliation service due to a rugby game on the telly, which probably was a reflection on the trying times in which they lived or some such thing—Doyle was too preoccupied with Acton’s behavior to finish the thought. It was clear that he did not want her to be more than arm’s length from him.

  Moving toward the public phone in the back, he took a long, sharp look around the pub before he bent to dial a number. He waited, glancing up again to survey the place, waited, then hung up when there was no answer. Taking her arm again, he escorted her out the door and they returned to the car. He made no comment and she asked no questions. This is very serious, she thought in acute dismay; I wish I knew what I should do. It was as though a black, ominous mood had descended on her companion and she was powerless to penetrate it.

  As they drove toward the hotel, she noted he was paying very close attention to the other cars around them. She could feel the weight of the weapon in her ankle holster and thought about the Leadenhall murders, which everyone had been led to believe was a kill-on-kill, and the ballistics report that Williams didn’t want to discuss—the one that should have revealed that a silencer was used but apparently did not. It all pointed to one conclusion: Acton was content to create the appearance that the racecourse murders case was now closed. Except that it wasn’t and the killer was still out there, the one who had killed her father, the hoodlum. The one who was connected, in some way, to those pesky Russians who haunted Acton’s every thought. No, she corrected, actually it is I who haunt Acton’s every thought. Her scalp tingled and she was reminded that Acton had said there was little he wouldn’t do for her.