Murder in Retribution (A New Scotland Yard Mystery)

by Anne Cleeland

  THE NEXT MORNING, ACTON PREPARED TO LEAVE FOR HIS CON-ference in Brighton and Doyle prepared to leave for work. Ordinarily, she was an early riser but in recent days she had been reluctant to rise from their bed, particularly because as soon as she stood on her feet she began to feel out of curl. She found if she took deep breaths and nibbled on a plain, refrigerated biscuit she could control the nausea, and tried to build some optimism based on this discovery. I’m to have a new attitude, she reminded herself; I’m to be a grown-up and not a balking donkey so that Acton will not be worried that I’m incapable of doing battle with the pretenders to the throne.

  Marta came in early to make up for leaving early the day before, and Doyle explained that Acton would be out of town and no dinner need be prepared as Doyle would forage on her own; the last thing she wanted was to spend an evening alone with the disapproving housekeeper.

  Marta replied, “Yes, madam,” because Acton was present, and Doyle smiled to herself; judging from the pillow talk the night before, the poor woman would have a long wait of it, if she was thinking that Acton would come to his senses anytime soon.

  “Timothy and Caroline would like to play cards on Sunday, if you’d like,” Acton said as he kissed her good-bye.

  Doyle smiled. “That would be grand, Michael.”

  She managed to dress for work, and then leaned against the back wall of the lift, fortifying herself as she descended to the lobby of the building. When the doors slid open, she straightened her shoulders and walked past the concierge desk through the revolving doors to catch a cab for work, because Acton didn’t want her riding the tube. Technically, he wanted her to use the concierge driving service, but she shied away from it, still too sensitive about giving the appearance of flaunting her new-found wealth. As a compromise, most days she hailed a cab and as a result, one of the drivers had taken to waiting for her in the mornings. His license said he was Rwandan, and because his English was almost unintelligible, she felt a kinship with him, and appreciated his allegiance. As he held the door for her, he made a comment that she interpreted as a greeting. In return, she mustered up a wan smile and they were under way.

  She raised the window, as the street outside smelt of gasoline fumes which did not aid in the settlement of her poor stomach. Mind over matter, she thought with steely resolve; I will think about other things. Acton must have made the plan for Sunday when he spoke with Timothy; he had called to ask the doctor to recommend an obstetrician. Truth be told, Doyle wasn’t certain she was looking forward to the Sunday get-together. Acton was clearly making an effort to behave as a normal couple would behave in an attempt to please her, and as Timothy and Caroline were his oldest friends, it would seem the ideal way to make a stab at some sort of social life. The problem was that Doyle had never much desired a social life—for the obvious reasons—and didn’t particularly want one just now, whilst she was still coming to grips with the other major changes in her life.

  For the second time that morning, she gave herself a mental shake; this type of socializing may be just the thing to help Acton, as apparently he believed he was in need of treatment. I think that’s the nub of it, she thought in all honesty; I’d rather no one else had a window into the relationship between us, especially a psychiatrist. Not to mention that neither one of them could be completely honest with anyone—faith, they weren’t completely honest with each other, and with good reason.

  They had gone to visit the McGonigal siblings for the first time last week, and Doyle had privately found it a little trying. She had first met Timothy when he’d deftly treated her—no questions asked, thanks be to God—on the infamous night she shot herself in the leg and managed to get impregnated. A few days later, she’d met his sister Caroline at Fiona’s funeral. Fiona had been a forensics scientist at the CID morgue, and she was murdered by the same raving lunatic who had tried to kill Doyle, but no one else knew of it. Acton had given the eulogy, and the occasion was the first time that Doyle had made a public appearance as his wife. Her husband had spoken eloquently of Fiona’s goodness and their friendship, but all the while the general congregation was covertly eying Doyle, rampant curiosity and shock battering her from every angle. So as to be a credit to Acton, she’d tried to maintain her poise, but would not have been at all surprised if her blush had become indelible.

  On top of the general trauma of being revealed as Acton’s unexpected wife, Doyle became aware of two things that day: Timothy had been in love with Fiona, and he was unaware that Fiona and Acton had once had an affair. Doyle was becoming accustomed to such interesting revelations, and was fast coming to the conclusion that the workaday lives around her were merely a dignified veneer, and that underneath it all were undercurrents of love and longing, some seething and some more circumspect. She had never paid much attention to them before Acton; jealousy and lust had been motives for crimes with no real application to daily life. Now, however, she was resonating like a tuning fork, picking up the fluctuating emotions all around her. It all came from having a certain husband shake her from her underpinnings, it did.

  Last week, they’d spent an evening with the McGonigals in an attempt to teach Doyle how to play Brag, a card game the others had played together since university. Timothy was a kind man and liked her simply because Acton did. Caroline, by contrast, liked her only for Acton’s sake. In truth, Caroline reminded Doyle of one of the nuns she had known at St. Brigid’s; a woman who was doggedly determined to do good no matter the sacrifice, not aware that it shouldn’t be a sacrifice at all, if it were done right.

  “Not to worry, Kathleen; I will take you in hand,” Caroline had said to her in a friendly fashion when they were alone in the kitchen.

  Doyle was not certain how to respond, and had instead smiled her appreciation.

  Caroline had lowered her voice. “And if you ever need advice about how to go on, you need only ring me and I will help you. All conversations will be kept strictly confidential, of course.” She then had cast a speaking glance in the direction of Acton.

  I think she meant well, thought Doyle—even if she was privately distressed by Acton’s marriage. And I am glad I resisted the urge to tell her that the only thing I really needed to know was where the nearest available bed was—although a bed was apparently not always needful. Doyle smiled to herself at the memory of the heated session on the entryway rug, and the cab driver smiled into his rear-view mirror and said something friendly and unintelligible.

  The card game had been a mistake. Caroline had explained the game in simple terms so that Doyle could understand, and they played some preliminary hands so that she could get the hang of it. The game was what her mother would have called a vying game, with each player given three cards to parlay as best they could.

  Doyle kept trying to catch Acton’s eye, but he didn’t pick up on her problem until they began to play in earnest, for points. Then he met her eyes and realized what she had been trying to signal; she shouldn’t be playing a game that involved bluffing. She won every trick she could, and relinquished the ones she could not, with the result that she steadily added to her lead. Timothy laughed and was pleased for her, Acton was amused, and Caroline—who was apparently a very shrewd player of cards—was annoyed. As a result, Doyle began to fold where she needn’t, just to mollify the other woman, and then suggested they play Forty-five, a game her mother had taught her that was based wholly on skill with the cards. It went much better.

  As the cab wound its way to the Met, Doyle entertained the unhappy conviction that Acton was going to try to make the card games a weekly event; perhaps he would introduce other friends, gradually. She should try to be a good wife and encourage him to socialize so that she was not the sole object in his universe, but she longed for solitude, and the days where it would be just the two of them were counting down. “Do you have a wife?” she asked her cab driver.

  He nodded and smiled broadly, his white teeth positively gleaming.

  Has no idea what I’m saying, she thought.


  The driver then said something she could not follow, but which contained the unmistakable word “baby,” as he made a rocking motion with his free hand.

  I stand corrected, she thought, and nodded to show she understood. “I’m to have a baby.” The words hung in the air. Holy Mother of God, she thought; I’m to have a baby.

  The driver grinned.

  CHAPTER 6

  ONCE AT WORK, DOYLE COLLAPSED IN HER CHAIR AND DRANK deeply from the latte that awaited her as though she was an alewife at the tap. Although she’d lost her appetite, apparently her craving for coffee continued unabated and she leaned back, savoring her return to the land of the living. Acton arranged to have her favorite coffee concoction delivered to her desk each morning; before they were married, the gesture had been the first indication that she meant something to him, and she fingered the cup fondly. With a start, she wondered if she was allowed to drink coffee in her condition and reluctantly set it aside. I’ll have to ask, she thought with resignation; it wants only this.

  Detective Inspector Habib, her supervisor, appeared in the entryway to her cubicle. He was a very correct and self-contained Pakistani man who would occasionally unbend enough to give Doyle some good insight on her cases. Today, however, he was issuing orders to beat the band, the singsong cadence of his voice rapid-fire. “The chief inspector has asked that you work with Detective Sergeant Williams on the aqueduct and Newmarket cases. He asks that you take witness statements and coordinate forensics with the senior investigating officer.”

  “Yes, sir, I will,” said Doyle, unconsciously speaking as rapidly in return. Acton was careful to respect the hierarchy, and despite their marriage, still delivered all assignments by way of Habib. As Habib was very keen on protocol, this seemed the right tack, although it was clear the man had been a bit thrown by the unexpected turn of events; he admired Acton, but he could not approve of inter-caste marriage.

  “DS Williams will take the lead,” Habib added, not-so-subtly reminding her that Williams outranked her now.

  “Yes, sir.” If Munoz was listening from the cubicle next door she would be fit to be tied; excluded from this plum assignment and reminded of Williams’s promotion all in one fell swoop. After Habib turned on his heel and left, Doyle waited for the explosion, but it did not come, so she decided to tempt fate. “Munoz, have you dropped dead over there?”

  Munoz’s voice came through the cubicle partition wall. “I don’t care, Doyle; Williams is not worth the trouble. You are welcome to him.”

  Doyle correctly interpreted this to mean that Williams had not succumbed to Munoz’s lures, and so did not argue the point. “Ah well; his loss.”

  The other girl continued, “I’m too busy working on a project for Drake, anyway.”

  The hint of triumph in this announcement reminded Doyle that there had been some serious flirtation going on between DCI Drake and Munoz. I hope she’s not having an affair with him, thought Doyle, remembering Drake as vain and self-centered. Nothing I could say to her, of course; she would laugh in my face, what with my own history. “What sort of project?”

  “I’m supposed to keep it under wraps. It has to do with flesh-peddling.”

  Doyle idly reviewed her inbox and found herself drinking from the latte again—it was that forbidden-fruit effect. “Sounds dangerous, if you don’t mind my sayin’. Look to yourself; you’ll be sold to white slavers, else.”

  “I’m not white; they’ll not have me.”

  “Spanish slavers, then,” Doyle corrected. Hopefully she had teased Munoz out of a temper tantrum, but it appeared she had been only partially successful.

  “They like Williams better because he is a man—it is so unfair.”

  This topic was a potential minefield; Williams and Munoz had vied for top honors at the Crime Academy, but Williams had topped Munoz in most subjects. She would not thank Doyle for reminding her of this irritating fact, and so Doyle turned the subject. “Whist, Munoz; you’re an intelligent and good-lookin’ minority female. Go out and exploit your fair self.”

  This comment was met with a few moments of profound silence. “You know, Doyle, every once in a while you have a decent idea.”

  “Don’t be over-kind,” Doyle cautioned. “You’ll get soft.”

  But Munoz wasn’t listening, instead thinking aloud, “I should make myself available to the public relations people; get my face shown about a bit.”

  “That’s the ticket; Williams is nowhere near as politically correct.”

  Munoz made an appearance in the cubicle entryway, surprising Doyle so that she juggled her coffee. “Walk with me over to the deli; I’m sick of the canteen and I’m in need of a bagel.”

  After a quick weighing of Munoz’s mood, Doyle acquiesced. She’d done precious little work thus far, but she decided she could use some fresh air, now that she was feeling more the thing thanks to the forbidden brew. It was a fine, sunny day, and besides, she was married to a DCI—they couldn’t very well sack her, after all. With a guilty start, she made a mental note not to start thinking she could exploit her connection to win favors at work, or she’d soon be without one or the other—the work or the connection.

  The two girls made their way upstairs and out the front doors to the street. Once outside, they ran into DCI Drake, who was headed in. “Now, here’s a striking pair,” he said with practiced charm. “Are you escaping?”

  “Only to get a bagel,” explained Doyle quickly, still feeling guilty for thinking she was immune from repercussions.

  “Join us, sir,” invited Munoz, with a smile that had enslaved many a man. “It will only take a minute.”

  He laughed and declined. “I am tempted, but I have too much work to do.” He turned to Doyle. “I haven’t had a chance to offer my best wishes.”

  “Thank you.” He had, in fact—at Fiona’s funeral, but must have forgotten. Or he was trying to get Munoz’s goat, which was another possibility as Doyle could detect a gleam of amusement in his eyes.

  Munoz, however, was too practiced to allow herself to be shown to disadvantage. “It is such unexpected and wonderful news,” she exclaimed warmly. “I had no idea such a thing was in the offing; did you, sir?”

  “No, Acton played his cards very close to the vest. Cut me out completely.”

  Doyle blushed and Munoz laughed in appreciation. “He who hesitates, sir.”

  “Carry on, detectives.” He strode away.

  Munoz stared at Doyle in abject astonishment. “Don’t tell me he was interested in you, too?”

  Doyle soothed the other girl before her ears started steaming. “Of course not; he was bein’ gallant, you knocker. It’s what men do when there is no chance they’ll be held to it.”

  They continued on their way, and Munoz added after a moment, “It’s not as though I don’t have my own fish on the line.”

  Doyle recognized her cue and asked, “Faith, what has happened, Munoz? Have you met the anti-Williams?”

  “Only that I have a date—a date with a man I met at the security desk.” She pursed her full lips with a self-satisfied air.

  “Truly?” Doyle gave this interesting announcement the response it deserved. “And how did this happy turn of events come about?”

  “He was visiting on business from Belarus, and didn’t know that you couldn’t come into our building without an appointment. He was in the wrong place, anyway—he needed to inquire about tariffs. I overheard him as I walked in, and gave him directions.”

  “He was handsome,” Doyle concluded.

  “Yes.” Munoz tossed her head. “I imagine he is rich, too—he’s a banker.”

  “Send me a postcard from your castle in Belarus,” teased Doyle.

  Munoz shrugged, so as to make it clear she was above being overly-excited about any mere man. “We’re going to some clubs tonight.”

  Doyle felt a qualm. “Be careful; you hardly know him.”

  Munoz gave her a glance that was equal parts amused and superior. “I know h
ow to take care of myself, Doyle.” This was probably true; Munoz had plenty of experience with men. By contrast, before she married Acton, Doyle had the sum total of none.

  They purchased Munoz’s bagel and began the walk back, Munoz’s mood much improved after the Belarus banker discussion. She offered the bagel to Doyle, “Want a bite?”

  Doyle took a quick look at the onion-flavored cream cheese and looked away again. “No thanks.” Her heart sank; when Munoz was informed of her pregnancy she would leap to the obvious conclusion, as would everyone else. It doesn’t matter a pin, Doyle reminded herself stoutly, and tried not to think about it. It was very wearing to have a new attitude.

  Back at her desk, Doyle felt guilty enough about her lack of productivity that she decided to call Williams to ask for instruction on her assignment, thinking it was a little strange he had not yet contacted her—he was usually very much on top of things. He didn’t answer his mobile, and a call to his desk resulted in the relayed information that he was out sick. Doyle hung up and frowned at the phone. He hadn’t looked to be sickening yesterday, and he was definitely not a dosser, looking to miss work. Must have caught something, she decided, and hoped he was not feeling too down-pin; she had a lot more sympathy lately for people who weren’t feeling well. She called again to leave a message on his mobile, and then picked up the threads of her aqueduct report, hoping forensics would send the missing information soon.

  After working steadily for a time, she paused to tilt the coffee cup so as to retrieve the last, cold dregs, and wondered if she would go to Brighton tonight or if Acton would come home late, instead. Truth to tell, she was a little tired and would rather not make the journey, but if he needed her, she would certainly go—she could always sleep in the limousine like a Pharisee. She would wait and see; perhaps she would do some shopping after work, and get it behind her—she’d be needing some new clothes soon. New clothes, new attitude, no coffee, she thought a bit grimly; in all things give thanks.