Murder In Thrall

by Cleeland, Anne

  She swallowed and said into the silence, “You know, Michael, you can’t just go about killin’ people.”

  There was a pause, and he said with an attempt at lightness, “First you prohibit sexual liaisons and now this. Are you always this unreasonable?”

  “Positively puritanical.” She found the heaviness in her chest would not allow her to match his light tone, and bit her lip. “You must leave retribution to God—God and the CID, I suppose.”

  The silence stretched out as they wound through the Kensington traffic, Acton alert and watchful. “I cannot allow a threat to you.” He admitted it as though they were discussing the weather.

  She drew breath, almost relieved that her half-formed fears were out in the open. “I understand the feeling; none better.” As had any other enforcement officer, Doyle had experienced the exquisite frustration of knowing a suspect was guilty but not having sufficient evidence. Vigilantism, however, was not an option. The safeguards of the justice system were there for a reason, and besides, she believed in an ultimate justice. “But—”

  “I cannot discuss it,” he interrupted. “I am sorry, Kathleen.”

  Trying a different tack, she said as lightly as she was able, “Michael, if you are put in prison, I will have to bring you a cake with a file in it and I have never baked a cake in my life.”

  But he would not be cajoled. “It will not come to that.”

  She closed her eyes briefly. “You canno’ know that.”

  He turned to look at her. “It will not come to that.” She knew the discussion was at an end.

  They circled the block once before parking the unmarked in the hotel’s parking garage, Acton intent on their surroundings. Once they came to their suite, he motioned for her to stay by the door as he walked in before her, his weapon drawn. Turning on the lights in each room, he took a quick look around, even in the closets and the shower, before he holstered his weapon and indicated she should enter. In the bedroom there were fresh roses and a fruit tray on the table, and unsure of her strategy, Doyle sat and nibbled on a strawberry whilst he took off his shoes and his tie, then sat on the edge of the bed, his head bowed and his hands clasped between his knees. The black mood hovered.

  “Can I order you somethin’ to eat?” she ventured.

  “No—thank you. I ate earlier.”

  This was not true and she contemplated what was best to be done as she ate some more of the fruit—she was hungry and a body had to eat, even in the midst of an unexplained crisis. “If you need to go somewhere, Michael, I swear on all the holy martyrs I will stay here locked away as though I were in the Tower itself. Safe as houses.”

  “No.” Then with an effort he focused on her. “Forgive me, Kathleen. It’s nothing; I am tired, is all.”

  This was also untrue. Contemplating him, she decided the situation called for drastic measures, and so she stood up and stretched her arms over her head for a moment, arching her back and sighing before she began unbuttoning her shirt. “Well, then, I’m for bed.”

  It turned the trick; suddenly he was amused, his gaze sliding over toward her. “I know exactly what you are about.”

  “Is it workin’?” Pulling off the shirt, she unbound her hair, shaking it about.

  “Too well.” His tone held a note of warning.

  She was brought up short, remembering they were supposed to abstain. Surely one little lapse wouldn’t result in a pregnancy, would it? Perhaps she shouldn’t take the chance. On the other hand, she was aware there were other avenues to pursue, even if she was untrained. Moving toward him with what she hoped looked like confidence, she began unbuttoning his shirt and kissing the skin beneath.

  He did not want the distraction, however, and stilled her hands with his own. “I think I would like to lie next to you, if you don’t mind.”

  She paused, dubious. “Truly?”

  He was amused again and stood to take off his shirt. “You will have to try to control yourself.”

  She ducked her head to hide a smile. “I don’t know if I can, Michael—you are a fine specimen.”

  “Do you want me to sleep in the other room?” He was serious.

  “Good God, no,” she replied, imitating him.

  “Well, then. Get in.” As he lifted the comforter, she complied, and it was rather nice. In the past they had only lain together thus after a torrid session of sex—not that there was anything wrong with that, either. She lay in the crook of his arm as they watched the fire in the dimness; he was emanating a dark emotion and she wasn’t certain how to proceed. Holding up her hands, she explained to him with some pride, “I am tryin’ to stop bitin’ my nails. “D’you see?”

  He folded her hands in his and pulled them to his chest. “Don’t change anything on my account. It would be a wasted effort.”

  She kept talking. “Samuels says he hates contraband but he doesn’t, not truly.”

  “Who is Samuels?”

  “A DC from Drake’s team. He was at lunch.” Best not to mention Munoz was trying to set her up. “And Williams was in a strange mood, for Williams.”

  “I am sorry I spoiled your outing.”

  “How did you know I had left for lunch?”

  “The GPS in your mobile phone.”

  “Oh.” Not at all a surprise that he kept such close track of her. “Can I do it, too? Does yours have one?”

  “Mine has been disengaged.”

  “D’you want me to stop talkin’?”

  “No.”

  So she kept talking of whatever topic entered her mind while he listened and said nothing. Something is very wrong, she thought in dismay, and eventually the pauses between the topics she expounded upon became longer and finally she could no longer stay awake. She remembered as she drifted off to sleep, feeling his long fingers tracing hers.

  CHAPTER 26

  HE HAD UNDERESTIMATED HIS MAN.

  The next morning Doyle awoke to find Acton dressed and leaning over her, looking grim.

  “What has happened?” She was instantly alert.

  “I have to go secure the lab and the morgue.” His words were clipped. “Stay at your desk until you hear from me. Don’t go off.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said out of habit.

  “I’ve left a passkey and the security code for my flat. You will stay there tonight, even if I am unavailable.” He paused. “I’m afraid that’s an order.”

  “I will,” she said simply.

  “Don’t forget to check in with me.”

  “I won’t.” And he was gone.

  Saints and angels, she thought, rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands—I wonder what’s happened. She scrambled into her clothes and wondered for a moment whether she was supposed to pack her things and check out of the hotel. No, she thought, I’m to follow instructions.

  Acton’s mood had transferred to her. As she left the hotel, she was very vigilant in making her way to work amidst the other commuters, uncomfortable as she always was in crowded quarters. Doggedly blocking out the cross-currents of emotion, she tried to concentrate on this latest crisis; something had gone wrong in Acton’s plan to put this case to bed and he didn’t want to tell her what it was. He must not think she was in danger, though, or he’d lock her in a basement somewhere and never let her out. Considering the possibilities, she carefully moved away from the unhappy gentleman who stood to her right and emanated a bleak misery.

  Last night Acton had been full of suppressed excitement, waiting for the call from Forensics—a call that was coming after hours from a woman at the morgue who was loyal to him, a call that would confirm something so that he could go forth and dispose of the killer. It was pure speculation on her part, but it was based upon her trusty instincts, which rarely let her down, and Acton’s implied confession. Doyle chewed her thumbnail and wondered for a brief moment what she would do if she knew without a doubt that Acton was manipulating evidence to suit his own ends. Nothing, she decided, feeling nearly as bleak as the unhappy gentleman—she
was yet another loyal woman. Heaven help her, it was that personal versus professional thing and it did appear that the personal was reigning triumphant. Instead, perhaps she should worry about saving him from himself; although how to do it was another kettle o’ fish—she couldn’t very well buttonhole Fiona or Williams and demand to know what was going on. Wait and see, she decided. And hope for the best, although hoping for the best never seemed to serve her very well.

  Once she arrived at headquarters, it did not take long to discover what had happened. Munoz couldn’t even wait for Doyle to put her rucksack down before she descended upon her. “Fiona’s been murdered.” She sounded a little too excited. “Remember? We were just talking about her.”

  “Mother of God,” whispered Doyle. “Michael.”

  “What?” said Munoz.

  “What’s happened, Munoz? Quickly.”

  “They found her by her car early this morning in the parking garage—they think it happened last night as she left. Her purse and briefcase were taken.”

  “Shot?”

  “I think so. They are reviewing the surveillance tape.”

  But it won’t show anything, thought Doyle as she leaned against the cubicle partition, utterly dismayed. This one was more difficult for the killer because security personnel monitored the cameras round the clock as an antiterrorism measure; he must have hacked in a false image—he was good at that type of thing. It was the same killer, of course; Munoz didn’t know it, but then she hadn’t spent the evening with Acton, who had been expecting a confirmation from Forensics—from Fiona—that never came. Pulling out her mobile, she debated what to text, feeling ashamed of her silly jealousy and aching for him. She decided to text her symbol, only repeated multiple times across the screen.

  Habib came to join them, his manner brisk. “Anyone using the parking facilities will be escorted by security until further notice.” He made it clear that if Munoz required any heroics to protect her, he was at her disposal. Munoz thanked him in her best imitation of a helpless maiden, but Doyle was not taken in; Munoz had the best hand-to-hand combat scores in their class after Williams.

  Doyle noted that Habib exhibited the same concealed excitement as Munoz—they couldn’t be blamed; it was only human nature. They didn’t have a personal stake in Fiona’s death, and it was big news. Acton texted her with his symbol.

  “Is there any information?” Habib asked as he watched her take the message.

  “Not that I am aware, sir.” Best be careful; she did not know what she was supposed to know. It was interesting that Habib assumed the message was from Acton, that he was aware Acton would text her even in the midst of the crisis.

  “Please continue with your assignments, then. I will inform you as news comes in.”

  “Perhaps I can help process the scene, sir,” suggested Munoz at her most beguiling.

  He was reluctant to disappoint her. “I believe Williams has been recruited.”

  Doyle could swear she heard Munoz grinding her teeth as she retreated into her own cubicle to think about what was best to do. Williams was on the scene, and Williams—with his mysterious ballistics report—apparently served as another loyal stalwart to the chief inspector. It was a surprise, truly; he seemed so straight-arrow and by-the-book.

  “Doyle,” whispered Munoz, “come with me.”

  “We can’t,” Doyle replied at the same decibel level.

  Munoz’s head appeared over the partition, glancing down the hallway to ensure she was not observed. “I want to find out what’s going on, and if I go alone, Habib will write me up.”

  Habib would no more write Munoz up than he would fly to the moon, and Doyle imagined the girl was well-aware of this little fact. “That won’t wash; what’s the real reason?”

  Munoz’s beautiful mouth assumed a mulish pout. “Williams will tell you more than he will tell me.”

  Doyle couldn’t resist. “That’s because I am so much more attractive than you, Munoz—you should try wearin’ less makeup.”

  She waited for the explosion, but the idea was so preposterous that Munoz did not take offense. “Good one,” she said, imitating Doyle’s accent. “Now come with me.”

  Doyle shook her head. “Sorry—I truly can’t go; I am under strict orders from Acton.”

  Munoz tossed her head in frustration then disappeared, only to reappear in Doyle’s entryway, keeping a weather eye out for Habib. “Text Williams, then; find out what’s going on.”

  This seemed a harmless request, although Doyle knew a moment’s qualm that Williams would divulge to Acton that she was asking. Not that it was a sin, but she imagined Acton wouldn’t want her talking with Williams and hence checking facts before Acton had a chance to manipulate the flippin’ evidence. “Anything?” she typed.

  Williams’s reply came promptly. “Not good. Talk later.”

  Showing Munoz the screen, the two stood silently for a moment. “I hate Williams.”

  “Whist, Munoz; he does fine work.” Best not to mention the whole falsifying evidence theory.

  Her dark eyes flashing, the other girl insisted, “I don’t get any homicides and my work is just as fine.”

  “You worked the Leadenhall murders,” Doyle reminded her.

  “Only because you were hung over,” Munoz shot back, refusing to be placated.

  The other’s temper was such that for once Doyle didn’t escalate the argument, instead saying mildly, “I don’t drink, Izzy; have done.”

  “Williams is like a brick wall.”

  Ah—here was the nub, apparently. Doyle tried to tease her out of the sulks. “Never say your fatal charm hasn’t enslaved him.”

  “It’s early days—he’ll come around,” Munoz retorted with some fire.

  “That’s the spirit; take no prisoners.”

  “They’d better not promote him before me.” Apparently Munoz was equal parts enthralled and threatened.

  Doyle did not voice her own opinion, which was if Williams was hip-deep in Acton’s doings, he would be promoted forthwith. But before she had a chance to fashion a reply, Munoz ducked out because Habib was approaching with rapid steps. Their supervisor explained there was to be a general meeting and he would announce the details shortly. Because he lingered next door to discuss Munoz’s caseload, it allowed Doyle to get back to her laptop, which she regarded with a knit brow and a heart full of disquiet. The best thing I can do, she decided, is to follow instructions and not cause Acton any more worry. With this in mind she began to sort the cold cases by priority, which was busy work and did not require concentration.

  She culled the ones with the best-preserved evidence to consider first; the science was literally improving every month—a case that had stalled two years ago because the only evidence was a partial smeared palm print was now solvable. It was only a matter of queuing up for the proper enhancements and then processing a comparison to the database, which was also expanding exponentially. The scientific strides made it a lot harder for the criminals to escape justice, which only made the present murders all the more frustrating; this killer knew his forensics and was behaving accordingly.

  Doyle texted Acton every hour exactly on the hour. Maybe I can develop my own OCD, she thought; we could relate better if I developed a neurosis. This seemed unlikely; she was very easily distracted, which came with the territory.

  When it came time for lunch, Doyle asked Munoz if she would bring back a sandwich from the canteen when she went up. “Chained to my desk,” she explained when Munoz looked very put-upon.

  After Munoz returned with the sandwich, she lingered to complain. “All the fieldwork is on hold—the brass are all working on Fiona’s case.”

  “Did you hear anythin’?” Doyle wished she could ask after Acton.

  “I heard it was a clean scene and looks like robbery.” She paused. “It could have been any of us.”

  No, thought Doyle; it was Fiona for a reason, and Acton knows what that reason is. She assured her colleague, “If it was you
, Munoz, I wouldn’t rest until I’d collared ’im and put ’im in the nick.”

  Munoz was unmoved. “I appreciate that, Doyle. You still owe me for the sandwich.”

  Habib swung by to tell them there was to be a meeting with all hands in the main conference room at two o’clock to discuss the latest developments.

  Good, thought Doyle, a chance to see Acton—to see how he was faring; she longed to comfort him. Her fit of the dreads when she had watched him shaving now seemed like the reaction of a silly girl who was in no way related to her present self. Acton was right; it didn’t matter what anyone else thought. They were well-matched, and what the world may think didn’t matter a pin, even his fearsome mother.

  At the appointed time, Doyle filed into the main conference room with her team. It was crowded with personnel and the mood was somber as befitted the occasion, which would make for a very uncomfortable hour for her. Acton, Drake, one of the superintendents, and the detective chief superintendent were seated at the front table, and Acton’s eyes met hers across the room; even from that distance it made the adrenaline jump in her veins.

  The DCS stood when they were all assembled and made a very heartfelt speech about the terrible loss to the CID family. He told them that all available leads were being pursued and that changes in security measures would be instituted immediately. Funeral arrangements were to be arranged by the decedent’s family and they would all be informed of the details.

  Doyle couldn’t keep her eyes from Acton, who listened with a grave expression. He looked weary, poor man. Samuels was there but she didn’t see Williams. She remembered her theory that her personal file hacker was an inside person and wondered if the killer was present in the room—this killer who made no sense.

  Maddening that Acton wouldn’t tell her what he was about. Whatever it was, it wasn’t according to protocol and had a great deal to do with the fact that the unclaimed man in the morgue was actually her long-lost criminal father—that, along with the danger that a good barrister might convince twelve fine people that the presumption of innocence was somehow involved as opposed to Acton’s own notion of justice. Religious instruction was coming not a moment too soon.