“Sir,” Doyle said. “May I speak with you for a moment?”
He was very surprised she would interrupt; thus far she had been reserved and careful in his presence. She took him outside and glanced around to make certain they would not be overheard.
“What is it?” He tried to curb his impatience.
“She’s lyin’, sir.”
They stared at each other. Beautiful brown eyes, he thought. He actually forgot where he was and what he was doing for a brief moment. He pulled himself back with an effort. “Why do you think she’s lying, Constable?”
She was nervous but stuck to her guns. “I just know, sir. It’s hard to explain.” She added, “She’s actually very, very happy.”
He regarded her for a moment, trying to decide what to do. The woman appeared genuinely grief-stricken and to haul her in for questioning would seem cruel and unwarranted. On the other hand, there could be no better opportunity for a disgruntled wife to dispatch her husband, while all suspicion was diverted elsewhere.
He asked that the wife be brought in for questioning, much to the astonishment of everyone else present. By the time he had her seated with a solicitor in the interrogation room, she was already breaking down. He had a confession within twenty minutes; the newspapers had a field day.
He thought about it after he went home, sitting at his desk and staring out the window, the scotch untouched. She was extraordinarily intuitive, he decided. He would have to be very careful to guard himself when he was near her. Because he would continue to be near her, of course—he was completely fascinated by her, every aspect, every detail. She was intelligent, although not well educated. She was willing to work hard and seemed devoted to her job. She had tried to rein in her accent early in the day, but as she became more relaxed around him, it became stronger and he found it enchanting. She had a reserve, a dignity that masked, he was certain, her vulnerability. He glanced idly at his laptop screen, which displayed her personnel photograph. He needed a better photograph—he would have to take one when she was unaware. He couldn’t wait for tomorrow.
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
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New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2013 by Anne Cleeland
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
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Library of Congress Card Catalogue Number: 2013936491
ISBN: 978-0-7582-8791-5
eISBN-13: 978-0-7582-8793-9 eISBN-10: 0-7582-8793-3 First Kensington Electronic Edition: August 2013
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