As she listened to the DCS make his closing remarks, she considered her plans for the rest of the day. Acton had said he may not be home this evening; she hoped he could snatch some rest. She longed to stay here with him and help, but she would follow instructions and not cause him worry—therefore, she would retreat to his flat to abide in all patience. The only problem being she didn’t know where he lived.
CHAPTER 27
FIONA WAS DEAD BECAUSE SHE KNEW THE KILLER’S IDENTITY, AND AS he was the only other person who knew, he had to be careful; there was so much to live for, now. He would keep her well away from it.
At the conclusion of the meeting, some left to return to work and some gravitated into small groups to deplore the murder in low voices. Trying to appear unobtrusive, Doyle worked her way over to the gathering that surrounded the DCS, Acton, and Drake. They were in conversation with another man whom Doyle recognized as the head of Forensics, although she could not recall his name. Lingering on the fringes, she waited along with several others for an opportunity to make a comment or ask a question. In grave tones, the four men were discussing something having to do with the lab, and Doyle listened in to the conversation already in progress and tried not to feel self-conscious. Hopefully Acton would realize she needed to speak to him privately and would break away for a moment.
“No,” the head of Forensics said with emphasis. “I tested it immediately; there was no breach.”
Doyle was so startled that she was frozen for a moment. Then she brushed her hair off her forehead. After waiting a few seconds she glanced at Acton, who was watching her. Meeting his eyes, she then looked at the floor.
“And nothing was out of place?” asked Acton.
“Nothing,” said the nameless man firmly. “No sign of tampering.”
Doyle brushed her hair back.
“There is nothing to indicate that Fiona’s work was a factor in her death,” Drake noted, observing Acton’s intense interest with a doubtful expression. “It appears to have been a simple robbery.”
But Acton would not concede and continued to scrutinize the other man, who was not enjoying the experience. Nervous, thought Doyle, despite his bravado.
Watching Acton’s reaction, the DCS commented, “It does seem a strange place for a random crime—there was no easy exit for the shooter where she was shot.”
“There was no record in her log of anything unusual,” Drake noted. “I had DC Williams check it out immediately.”
Wretched Williams, Doyle thought. On the fast track to detective sergeant, he was; Munoz will have an apoplexy.
There was a pause while the men considered the issue, and Doyle awaited her next cue. In due course, it came; Acton asked the head of Forensics, “Did you check the lab for unknown prints?”
“Of course.” The other man sounded as though he was annoyed by the persistent questioning but was aware that he shouldn’t cross a DCI. Doyle brushed her hair off her forehead and tried not to think about how simple it would be for the head of Forensics to murder people and then manipulate the evidence; she kept her gaze fixed on the floor for fear she would gape.
Acton turned to the DCS. “I would like to convene in my office, if you can spare a few moments.”
“Certainly.” The DCS gave Acton a sharp glance.
He is no fool, thought Doyle, and knows it is no casual request.
Acton included Drake and the Forensics head. “Come join us, if you would.”
The men began to leave and the others who were hovering in the vicinity gave way, recognizing that no questions would be answered at this time. Acton turned to Doyle. “Did you need something, Constable?”
Still shell-shocked by the implications arising from the previous conversation, it took a moment for Doyle to remember why she was there. “Only that address, sir—it can wait.” He nodded and left with the others.
Trying with little success to control her acute horror, Doyle retreated back to her basement cubicle. Was this it? Was it this simple? Needful of more information, she went, for once, to seek out her neighbor. “Munoz, who is the head of Forensics?”
Munoz was typing up the final report of her activities on the Leadenhall murders and said without stopping, “Prickett. He’s a creep.”
“Meanin’ what?”
“Put me to the touch. No thanks.”
This seemed unhelpful. “Know anythin’ else about him?”
“No. You interested?”
“Everythin’s not always about sex, Munoz,” Doyle said, affronted.
“Usually, it is.”
Doyle returned to her desk and settled into her chair, willing her mobile to ping. It did not. What was happening in Acton’s office? It was truly a wretched shame she was consigned to her desk and had promised Acton she would stay. Perhaps this was the break they needed; Prickett was their man and it was all over. No more hotel, no more trips to a public phone with a spooked chief inspector. She could go back into the field and wrest her laurels away from Williams. She could make flippant remarks and earn disapproving looks. She could spend her lunchtime with Acton instead of Munoz. Please, please, please. The reflection in her laptop screen stared back at her. Not to mention, she amended, that there would be no more corpses piling up, which was, after all, the greater good. But oh, it would be nice to be back to normal—although she wasn’t certain what normal was, as yet—it certainly seemed to involve a lot of sex. With an effort, she halted this line of thought—she shouldn’t be thinking about sex, not at such a moment with the cases in crisis and poor Fiona lying in her own morgue. Reminded, she offered up a sincere prayer for the repose of Fiona’s soul. I hope it happened quickly and she didn’t know it was coming—there must be nothing worse than facing the man who has killed so many, knowing that you were next.
Habib wandered by to look over Munoz’s shoulder whilst she ignored him and continued with her report. Unable to contain herself, Doyle accosted him as he stepped into the hallway. “I have never met Prickett, the head of Forensics. Do you know much about him, sir?”
Habib’s dark eyes betrayed a hint of incredulity. “You are interested in Forensics, Constable Doyle?” Doyle’s deficiency in the sciences was not a secret.
“She’s sweet on him,” threw in Munoz through the partition.
Doyle ignored her. “I was wonderin’ about him, with Fiona’s loss and all—he’ll be understaffed.”
Habib regarded her with a hint of disapproval. “I would not advise you to consider him as a potential husband.”
Munoz snorted inelegantly.
Controlling herself only with an effort, Doyle assured him, “No—no; I am not interested in him as a husband, I am just curious.” Why is it, she thought crossly, that everyone thinks I’m in need of advice?
“I believe he does excellent work.” The praise was tepid; Habib was not going to gossip.
“But not a good man, perhaps?” Doyle had no such qualms.
Habib thought about it and managed to come up with a positive accolade. “I believe he follows Man U.” Habib was a huge fan of the football team, which was surprising in and of itself.
Munoz’s head appeared over the partition. “Does he? I’m a Chelsea girl, myself.” The two then entered into a spirited comparison of the two teams while Doyle retreated back to her desk with the certain knowledge that she would learn no more while the merits of various midfielders and the shortcomings of various coaches were being dissected.
Two hours passed. Doyle was unable to concentrate and checked her mobile every few minutes even though there had been no ping. Acton hadn’t texted her since the meeting, even though he must know she was in a fever, and on reflection, this seemed an ominous sign. Laying her mobile on the desk beside her, she regarded it, wondering whether she should try to give him a ring even as she knew she should not; he was well-aware she was dyin’ here. She continued to text her symbol on the hour.
On top of everything else, she was not unaware that Acton was himself in danger; he was in p
ossession of whatever information it was that had made him triumphant at church last night and that had gotten poor Fiona murdered. And this strange silence did not bode well. Her fingers stilled on the keyboard. Keep your head, my girl, she thought—you’ll do no good by panicking; Acton is well-able to take care of himself. She debated sending him a text other than her symbol but decided against it. If he was not contacting her, he must have good reason, given his need for it.
Munoz was done with her report and could be heard packing up next door. “I’ll go home early, this murder has me nervous.” She carefully reapplied her lipstick. “I wonder who is doing the escorts?”
“Not Williams—he’s helpin’ on the case.” This was unkind, and a measure of Doyle’s own agitation.
“Naturally.” Munoz eyed her. “What did you think of Samuels?”
Doyle knit her brow. “I don’t know what I think of Samuels.” It was the truth; he was very hard to read.
Munoz shut her lipstick case with a snap. “You are hopeless, Doyle. I wash my hands of you.”
Doyle shot her a sidelong glance. “Perhaps I’m not needin’ a man just now.”
“You are forgetting that everything is always about sex. Write it down.” Munoz hoisted her rucksack. “Are you coming?”
“I’ve a bit more to do.”
“Suit yourself. Try not to get murdered.”
“You’re chokin’ me up, Munoz.”
Her mobile having remained silent, Doyle was not very surprised when the usual messenger appeared with a latte even though it was nearly five o’clock. “Thanks,” she said, wondering what was afoot. The man handed her another plain envelope and left.
The note was in Acton’s distinctive handwriting and said: Meet at the place we met this morning. Do not text or phone. Leave your mobile at your desk. Do not turn it off.
Re-reading it several times over, she could hardly believe what it portended and then closed her eyes, bitterly disappointed. Prickett must not be their man—unless they didn’t have enough to hold him and Acton was worried about his reaction. Ah well, she would soon know; it was pointless to speculate. She folded the envelope and put it in her pocket; trouble, then. If he didn’t want her to text or phone, he must believe that someone was monitoring their communications—the killer, presumably. The murdered trainer had been worried that his mobile was being monitored, which was why Giselle had sent Capper to him, despite Capper’s ban. Thinking of the texted symbol she had sent to Acton all day long, she bit her nail, uneasy. On the other hand, it may simply be Acton being cautious—no question the killer had outmaneuvered him when Fiona was killed, and Acton was not one who was easily outmaneuvered.
After waiting a few minutes, she began packing up as unobtrusively as possible, sliding her mobile into the top drawer. She left without telling anyone she was leaving and walked past the usual St. James’s Park station, instead walking briskly to the next one, Victoria. She passed through that busy station, down a platform, and then exited from the other side without taking a train. Walking on to the next station, she paid close attention to those around her—no one was shadowing her; she was certain. With some relief, she took the tube to the Kensington stop and as she emerged on the pavement, she carefully swept her gaze across the area, looking for anyone familiar or showing an unusual interest in her. She knew their hotel room faced this direction, and so she looked up and smiled—it went without saying that he’d be watching her from the window.
CHAPTER 28
HE WAS REMINDED OF THE FIRST TIME HE HAD WATCHED HER THUS, through these binoculars. He hoped she had not made a bad bargain.
Acton anticipated her approach to the hotel room door and opened it just as Doyle arrived. She walked into his arms and they stood for a moment, embracing, while the door closed behind her.
“I am so sorry,” she whispered. “Not a happy birthday.”
He said nothing but rested his chin on the top of her head. She could feel him take a long breath. “That was good work, today.”
“More like luck, really. What did he say?”
Acton indicated she should sit on the sofa in the suite’s main room and then sat beside her, absently caressing the back of her hand with his thumb. The tropical fish meandered around their tank, undisturbed.
“I confronted him in my office, and implied I knew more than I did. He blustered for a while but eventually confessed he had been using the lab for sexual liaisons with at least two employees that he would admit to—I imagine there are more. When he heard word of Fiona’s murder, he knew the lab would be scrutinized for clues and so he panicked and scrubbed it down. Any potential evidence was destroyed.”
Doyle took this in for a moment and then observed, much struck, “Munoz was right—it was about sex.”
Acton tilted his head, trying to make sense of this non sequitur. “I thought you didn’t care for Munoz.”
“Doesn’t mean she’s never right. So Prickett was sacked?”
“Yes; the DCS was furious. But it didn’t change the fact that the lab has been compromised.”
But to Doyle, this seemed the least of their concerns. “This killer wouldn’t have left any evidence behind anyway, Michael.”
He said nothing and continued brushing the back of her hand, but she had intercepted a brief leap of emotion from him. “What?”
His eyes met hers. “I beg your pardon?”
“What did he leave behind? What is it you know?”
He turned her hand over, as though examining it. She hoped he didn’t notice that she had been biting her nails again—not a good day to give up the habit. After waiting a moment while she could see he debated telling her, she prompted, “Fiona was examinin’ some evidence, only off the books.” Acton, the tiresome knocker, was going to be careful with what he told her again—she could feel it.
“Yes.”
She closed her eyes briefly. “Michael,” she pleaded. “Just tell me—I promise I won’t have the vapors.”
He lifted his head. “She was going to report to me when she made the match, but she never made the report.”
“Who is it?” Clearly it was someone from whom Acton already had sample DNA, or they wouldn’t be attempting a match.
“I’d rather not say.”
At least it was the truth and he didn’t attempt to fob her off. He didn’t want to tell her because he was going to kill the killer, if the killer didn’t kill him first. She could have remonstrated with him once again about the evils of vigilantism but refrained; the memory of Fiona’s body was too fresh for her words to have much of an impact. The whole thing made her very uneasy, particularly since Fiona was killed despite Acton’s best efforts. “Do you think he is after you? Is that why we are here?”
She tried to ask in a neutral tone and thought she had been largely successful except that he gathered her in his arms and embraced her, saying into her ear, “Please don’t worry—I am not taking any chances is all.”
She nodded, closing her eyes briefly as she rested her chin on his shoulder. “So we are playin’ least-in-sight for the time bein’?”
He paused, and she could feel his chest expand as he took a breath. “I believe Fiona’s communications with me may have been monitored—it is the only explanation for the surgical strike at exactly the right time.”
Yes, Doyle had already guessed as much when he had asked her to leave her mobile behind—although it was fortunate they communicated using symbols; the killer wouldn’t know what to make of it.
Disengaging from her, he reached into his coat pocket. “I have acquired new mobiles—yours is programmed with my new number.”
She glanced at it—it was exactly like the last one and she bent to slide it into her rucksack. “Do I keep textin’ to check in?”
He hesitated. “Yes, if you don’t mind.”
She nodded without comment and hoped it was the right thing to do—if the killer had figured out the last set, he may well figure out these, too, but Acton needed to know she was
safe, her sweet Section Seven. Trying to sound reassured, she said, “All right. Are you hungry?” She was starving; Munoz was not good at the sandwich-choosing.
With real regret, he shook his head. “I can’t stay.”
Struggling with it, she decided she couldn’t not say. “You must promise you will be very careful, Michael.”
He bent his head to meet her eyes so as to reassure her. “I don’t think he’s after me, for the same reason you didn’t think he was after you. If he wanted to kill me, he could have already done so—especially early on, when we didn’t know what we were dealing with.”
She knit her brow, considering this. “But he’s monitorin’ you—or at least you think he is. That seems rather ominous.”
“He’s protecting himself. That’s the pattern—he was protecting himself when he killed the trainer, and Giselle, and Capper, and Smythe, and Fiona. The only one that does not fit the pattern—”
“Is Somers Town,” she concluded for him. “My father.”
“And he may yet have been protecting himself, but we are not aware what was at stake, there—or at least not yet. He’s been on the defensive, Kathleen, not the offensive; therefore, he’s not a lone wolf. I believe he is aligned with outside forces.”
Stupid Ruskies, she thought. Muckin’ up my love life.
He touched her face briefly, then withdrew his hand—she could sense that he was trying to avoid becoming aroused, probably because when he became aroused, Katy bar the door. “I am afraid I must drive to my estate and speak with my mother.”
Doyle was silent for a moment and then decided she hadn’t heard him aright. Now? With all hell breaking loose on this case?
He frowned, considering her. “I can’t decide if it would be best for you to accompany me.”
Doyle was certain that she paled—she could feel it—and all her fine resolutions about facing the music flew out the window as she stared at him in dismay. But surely it couldn’t be a social visit—something else must be at play. “What’s afoot, my friend?”
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