Murder in Retribution (A New Scotland Yard Mystery)

by Anne Cleeland

  CHAPTER 7

  DOYLE INSERTED HER SECURITY CARD IN THE SLOT AT THEIR flat, tired but nevertheless feeling that she’d completed a putoff chore. Acton had phoned to say he would drive back that evening, and so in the meantime she’d girded her loins and made good on her intention to purchase some new clothing. Never one to care much about her appearance, she now had the burden of trying to convince the general public that Acton had not committed matrimonial suicide. To this end, she would try to appear a bit more polished than in the past without, she hoped, making the transformation too noticeable—no need to appear to be putting on airs.

  She had stopped by the local shops on the way home and made some purchases with the aid of the shop girls who were remarkably helpful, once they saw Acton’s title on her credit card. She bought two sweaters which would serve her well in the next few months, and trousers in the next size larger. Although it was too early to be thickening, she had discovered that she did better in the mornings if she wasn’t wearing anything too constrictive around her middle.

  She had also passed by the jewelry shop where they had purchased Acton’s wedding ring, and on impulse, she’d gone inside and chosen a new tie clip for him. He’d lost his old one—she’d noticed that he had to hold his tie back with his hand when they were examining the corpse yesterday. He would be delighted with it, which was one of the advantages of his condition; she could do no wrong.

  She pushed opened the door to her flat with her shoulder since her hands were full, and realized as soon as she entered that she had visitors. An older woman sat on the leather sofa, ramrod straight and regal. Doyle recognized her in an instant, and paused in surprise. “Why, you are very like him.”

  The dowager Lady Acton was indeed very like Acton. She was tall and lean, with dark eyes and brows. Her hair was colored silver, but Doyle imagined it was once dark like his. Poor Acton’s father, she thought; he made little contribution, here.

  Marta stood in the kitchen, making tea even though she was not supposed to be here in the first place, emanating a mixture of defiance and uneasiness. I’m to be outnumbered, then, thought Doyle grimly; we shall see.

  Acton’s mother did not rise or offer her hand, but scrutinized Doyle coldly and made no response to her comment. Doyle realized that she appeared to disadvantage, coming in laden with packages from expensive stores whilst her husband was away, but any thought of offering an explanation was dismissed; she knew she talked too much when she was nervous, and she refused to be nervous before this woman, whom Acton so disliked. Instead, she walked to the table and calmly set down her packages. “I will also take tea, Marta.” Marta looked as though she expected a donnybrook, which, Doyle realized, was to her own advantage; if it came down to hand-to-hand, Doyle had the benefit of Academy training, even though the older woman outweighed her.

  As she walked around to seat herself across from the dowager, she remarked, “If I had known you were to be visitin’, ma’am, I would have been at home.”

  It was an implied rebuke, and if it was possible, the woman stiffened even more. Good one, thought Doyle with deep satisfaction ; perhaps I should mention that I recently shot and killed a man from the very spot the old dragon now sits. Unbidden, she felt a twinge of conscience; her mother’s daughter should overlook all insults in the interest of family peace, and make an effort to be civil—perhaps this visit was an olive branch.

  “I am here because I could not credit what I have heard,” the older woman rasped in a dry voice.

  Then again, thought Doyle, perhaps not.

  “How old are you?” The dowager’s tone indicated if Doyle had been fourteen she would not have been surprised.

  “I am twenty-four,” said Doyle, wishing she had put on some lip gloss; it was true she did not appear her age.

  “And undoubtedly Irish,” the older woman mused in extreme distaste, as though she hadn’t been able to credit this report without verifying it for herself.

  Doyle couldn’t resist. “Aye, that.”

  They regarded each other for a long moment, while Doyle held her tongue and tried to remember whether the Fourth Commandment applied to one’s in-laws.

  Marta brought over the tea tray to set it down, and Doyle recalled that the Commandment definitely did not apply to traitorous housekeepers. “It’s surprised I am to see you today, Marta.”

  The woman stood and crossed her hands before her; her expression wooden as she emanated waves of wariness and resentment. She is wary because she knows Acton will back me against all comers, Doyle thought; and she is right.

  “My lady was in town and thought to make a visit; I saw no harm in it—” Marta hesitated, realizing that she was in a corner, but nevertheless added deferentially, “—my lady.”

  But this was an honorific too far for the dowager, who made an aristocratic sound of outrage and shifted in her seat to address Doyle in an icy tone. “It is clear,” the woman gave Marta a sidelong glance, “—that you hold my son in some sort of sexual thrall. Deplorable.”

  Holding on to her temper only with an effort, Doyle concluded that his mother didn’t know Acton very well; she certainly wouldn’t have made such a remark if she knew how close to the truth it came, although anyone who took a gander at Doyle would not mistake her for a sexual temptress. “I’m afraid I’d rather not be bandyin’ personal matters abroad, ma’am.”

  At this additional implied rebuke, the other woman nearly quivered with outrage. “You will mind your manners, child.”

  “ ’Tis you who should mind her manners,” Doyle retorted hotly. “Have done.”

  After staring at Doyle incredulously for a long and ominous moment, the dowager rose to her feet and pronounced, “It is far worse than I could have ever imagined. I will await such time as my son comes to his senses.”

  Although she was inclined to think this a very good plan, Doyle realized that this person would be the only surviving grandparent—although it boggled the mind to imagine her baking ginger cake at Christmas. “Lady Acton, shouldn’t we be comin’ to terms? We have a common interest, after all.”

  “I shall never have a common interest with you,” the woman declared with finality as she pulled on her gloves with a jerk.

  Wait eight more months, thought Doyle, and tried again. “I will never see my own mother on this earth again, ma’am; that is the terrible meanin’ of never. Please think on it.”

  It was clear the dowager did not appreciate being lectured on familial obligations by a miscreant, and made her stately way to the door. “My ridiculous son has entered into a miscegenation of the worst order. I have nothing more to say.”

  The words touched a very sensitive nerve, and Doyle’s fury was suddenly unchecked as she sprang to her feet. “You’ll not be comin’ into my home and be insultin’ my husband,” she hissed through her teeth. “Out the door wi’ ye, ye harridan.” She took a threatening step toward the older woman, tempted to draw her weapon for emphasis.

  So as to avoid bloodshed, Marta hurried forward to open the door, and Lady Acton exited with as much dignity as she could muster under the circumstances. After the door was shut, Doyle had to struggle with her temper for a moment before addressing Marta. “How did this come about?” She had no illusions; Marta had obviously contacted Acton’s mother as soon as she realized Doyle would be home alone. Nevertheless, she wanted to hear what the housekeeper would say.

  The other made no effort to concoct a story. “I do beg your pardon, my lady.”

  Ah, thought Doyle; when I’m in a fury, I’m “my lady.”

  “She is my old mistress, and I could not refuse her.”

  This was a lie, but no more than Doyle had expected. “You may go, Marta,” she said coldly. She then retreated to the bedroom to lie down, still trembling with rage. As is human nature, she relived every word of the encounter, and thought of a good many things she should have said. Her mobile rang; it was Acton.

  “I’m on my way; I should be home within the hour.”

&nbs
p; “That’s grand, Michael,” she replied, keeping her tone neutral.

  “What has happened?” he asked immediately. No point in trying to hide it if something had upset her; his radar was extremely fine-tuned.

  She sighed. “Your mother came to visit.”

  There was an astonished pause. “My mother?”

  “Aye, that.”

  There was another pause. “Is all the crockery broken?”

  She smiled, and felt better immediately. “I controlled myself, I did.”

  “Good girl. Should we talk about it now or when I get in?”

  “It can wait,” she replied. “I did not show to advantage.”

  “Impossible,” he assured her, and rang off.

  She decided she felt well enough to get up and make herself presentable, which meant taking off her clothes and brushing out her hair. If Acton was in sexual thrall, she’d best look lively.

  He arrived a commendably short while later and kissed her as he came in, running his eyes over the area where her robe gaped. He was distracted, however, and wanted to hear what had happened.

  “You may be needin’ the scotch,” she warned him.

  “That’s as may be,” he said. “Let’s hear it.”

  She realized that Acton had not been drinking as much these past several weeks, and she felt another stab of shame—another indication that he was the grown-up, between them. Trying to stay calm, as though she were giving a report, she described to him in general terms the battle between the Lady Actons, thinking to edit the more explicit insults. He listened to the recitation, making no comment. Although she put it off as long as possible, she reluctantly concluded, “I should mention that durin’ the conversation she made a comment about our sex life.” He would draw his own conclusion as to the nature of the comment, of course; they would probably qualify for an Olympic team, if there were such an event.

  He was furious, as she knew he would be. “Marta?”

  “I imagine so. They were both already here when I came in.”

  Acton looked grim. “She has no business letting anyone into our flat.”

  Doyle decided that she may as well make a full confession. “It does not surprise me, Michael; when you are not present, Marta is not always very respectful to me.”

  There was a pause while he struggled to control his reaction—he was most unhappy, was our Acton. “Kathleen, you should have told me; no one is allowed to disrespect you.”

  “Yes, I should have told you,” she agreed.

  “It is a reflection on me, after all.”

  Good one, she thought—he is trying to couch it in terms that may inspire me to change my non-assertive ways; good luck to him. “I see that now,” she said humbly. “I’m that sorry, Michael; I should have thrown Marta out headlong—or at least put her in the stocks.”

  He ducked his head, and finally had to smile. “I am expecting too much, am I?”

  “A little.” She smiled in return. “I am still findin’ my way in all this; give me another week to become accustomed to demandin’ off with their heads.”

  He pulled her to him and rested his chin on her head. “No one has license to make you feel inferior. I will ring her up now, and fire her.”

  This was much appreciated; it was a fine thing to have such a champion, but she felt she had to warn him, “Your mother said she was goin’ to wait for you to come to your senses.”

  Scrolling for Marta’s number, he absently replied, “My mother will relent; in the end, she has no choice.”

  Deciding that she’d rather not ask him to elaborate on this ambiguous remark, Doyle listened in as Marta was given the well-deserved sack.

  CHAPTER 8

  DOYLE WAS WORKING AT HOME ON SUNDAY AFTERNOON whilst Acton sat on the sofa, reading the contraband manual from his conference and entering notes on his laptop. He seemed very interested in the new procedures the Home Secretary was instituting to counteract smuggling and black market trade, and Doyle had a very good idea as to why this was, although he didn’t know she knew. She had a shrewd suspicion that he was running a smuggling rig with illegal weapons, which presented a fine dilemma for her; she was a policewoman, after all, with a healthy respect for the rule of law—it was a dangerous thing to be a rule unto oneself, there was no telling where it would end. Hopefully, not in some prison somewhere; she couldn’t imagine Acton would do well in prison.

  She was seated at the table, researching the Sinn-split information on file and cross-referencing the Russian mafia information. Her main object was to find a nexus having to do with racecourse crimes—such as doping, money laundering, or illegal gambling—because such a nexus could provide some insight as to what had touched off the turf war. Williams had suggested that something might have changed; some unsavory activity had suddenly become more lucrative so that the factions were willing to go to war over it, and this seemed as good a theory as any, if only she could find some hint. Thus far, however, she had found no indication that the long shots were winning when they shouldn’t, or that more money was passing hands than was usual.

  Another angle was to research the victims’ biographical information so as to cross-check the Watch List with suspected racecourse activities. Strangely, the most recent Russian victim—Barayev-of–the-maggoty-face—did not fit the usual profile. He was by all appearances an ordinary businessman from Moscow—or as ordinary as one could be in such an environment ; the high achievers tended to have unsavory connections due to the nature of the beast. That he was a high achiever seemed evident; the man’s clothes and shoes were of the highest quality, and his fingernails had been manicured. His biography showed that he was on the board for several banks and import-export companies, and the majority of his time was spent as the CFO in a venture capital firm—or what passed for one in the questionable climate of the Russian oligarchies. Interpol had no record of him, and as far as she could see, he had not raised any eyebrows anywhere. Strange that he had wound up in a London aqueduct with his face shot off in the midst of this turf war. “I’m thinkin’ that you may be right; it may have been a shadow murder,” she mused aloud. Mainly, she was angling to make Acton take a break from his worrying interest in contraband protocols—it made her very uneasy, it did.

  Acton looked up. “Barayev?”

  “Yes. By all accounts he was just mindin’ his own business. Perhaps someone not connected to the turf wars read about all the murderin’ in the papers, and decided to seize the main chance.”

  Acton made the obvious suggestions involving the usual obvious suspects. “A disgruntled wife, or business partner?”

  Doyle frowned with regret—the reason the usual obvious suspects were usual and obvious was because they were so easy to twig. Not in this case, however. “He was a widower, and it looks like he was mainly an advisor—not someone whose death would help anyone else out, financially.”

  Acton looked out the window for a moment. “Perhaps it was a message to another player.”

  This was of interest, and she looked over at him. “That’s what you think, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” he admitted, and it was the truth.

  Ah, she thought; now we are getting somewhere—when Acton came up with a theory, it was usually spot-on. But thinking on it, she frowned again. “That’s a tangled theory, Michael; it’s a shadow murder to send a message? How would the supposed recipient know it was a message as opposed to just another dead Ruskie in the turf war?”

  “Keep digging,” he suggested. “But first, what can I make that would tempt you to eat?”

  She considered this as he walked over to gently click shut her laptop. It was true she had only nibbled on a dry biscuit that day; it was wretchedly hard to even contemplate taking a bite of anything.

  He led her over to the sofa. “Does nothing sound appetizing?”

  She thought about it. “Somethin’ cold, I think.”

  “Timothy said ginger tea is sometimes helpful.”

  She was touched that he had asked f
or advice. “That does sound good,” she lied.

  He smiled, seeing right through her. “It’s worth a try; if you can’t do it, you can’t do it.”

  “Do we have ginger tea?”

  “We do now. I will brew some.”

  “Pour it over ice,” she suggested.

  After he prepared the tea, they sat together on the sofa while she valiantly tried to take a few sips. His arm rested on the sofa back behind her, and he held a strand of her hair between his fingers, absently rolling it back and forth whilst he watched her. Frettin’, she thought; I am a sad trial to my poor husband. “It’s the strangest thing, Michael; I have completely lost my appetite.”

  He thought about it. “Is there anything that makes you feel better, even if for a little while? A hot shower? Fresh air?”

  “I feel best,” she confessed, “when I am lyin’ on my back with your weight atop me.”

  His fingers pausing on her hair, he gave her a glance that was openly skeptical. “Is that so?”

  “My hand on my heart, Michael. I think it has somethin’ to do with the heat and the pressure.”

  They regarded each other for a moment before he said, “All right, but you must eat something first.”

  This seemed counterproductive. “I’m to be blackmailed, then?”

  “Choose,” he said firmly.

  “Toast,” she decided. “I believe the ginger tea is actually helpin’ a bit.”

  After she had eaten a half slice of dry toast, they experimented, lying on the tiled floor before the windows so that the heat of the sun was intensified. “Not too heavy,” she cautioned, “I have to be able to breathe.” He adjusted, and it did make her feel better, with the cool tiles to her back and the warm body pressed against her. She even began to feel a bit sleepy, but soon became aware that her husband was not at all sleepy and with a giggle, turned her head to nuzzle his neck as an invitation.

  “None of that,” he said sternly. “You shouldn’t burn any more calories.”

  “You can’t help yourself,” she teased, moving her hips against his. “It’s a sexual temptress, I am.”