Murder in Retribution (A New Scotland Yard Mystery)

by Anne Cleeland

  She settled in beside her husband to watch the sunset and make an attempt at dinner, although she wasn’t very enthusiastic and mainly entertained herself by using the chopsticks to pinch at Acton’s fingers. In response, he used his chopsticks to feed her, as though he was coaxing a child, and she did manage to consume a small amount in this way—mainly because she liked the way his eyes watched her mouth. Her head still ached—although it had receded to a dull throb—and she still had the unholy aching in her joints. She didn’t mention it to Acton, though; he would only overreact, and the very last thing she wanted was Dr. Easton pokin’ about again.

  Teasing, she used the chopsticks to pull at the dark hair on the back of his hand, and with a deft move, he turned his hand and caught the sticks to thwart her, setting them aside. “Until you’ve had a chance to recover, let’s not set any new visits with Timothy and Caroline.”

  Doyle thought this a little strange coming from Acton, who presumably would like to have the good doctor checking in on her. “I truly don’t mind, Michael; Caroline was much better behaved, last time.”

  With a tilt of his head, he reluctantly confessed, “Caroline has been talking to my mother. She claims she was trying to bring her to terms, but I have asked that she desist.”

  Ouch, thought Doyle—that’s the second time in as many weeks that Acton has reprimanded Caroline, and she can’t be likin’ that. Placing a gentle hand on his arm, she pointed out, “We can’t just drop them, Michael; they’re your friends. Recall we were goin’ to be patient, so that Caroline can grow accustomed to my alien self. Perhaps we can have a standin’ date once a month, instead.”

  “Perhaps,” said Acton with no real conviction. “Tell me about your day—you had a walk-in, I understand.”

  He’d know, of course—he kept a close eye on her, even from afar. “Yes; I had two encounters that seemed a little strange, and I wanted to tell you about them, in case you’re at the root of them. The walk-in seemed to be nothing more than an attention-seeker—he had nothin’ to offer, and spoke vaguely of evil Russians. He said he saw me with Williams at the racecourse, but he didn’t; not truly.”

  Acton nodded, well-aware of her truth-detecting abilities. He rarely alluded to it directly, and in turn she rarely alluded to his obsessive condition—a mutual stand-off, so to speak.

  “I got the impression he was wary, and I wondered if perhaps he’d had a run-in with you—he saw my last name on the badge and asked if I was married. No priors, though; I couldn’t find anythin’ amiss. He said he was a racecourse driver, which was true, but mainly he wanted to know what we knew.”

  “Can you send me a still taken from the CCTV? I’d like to have a look.”

  “Will do. And the other one was when we were havin’ lunch today at the deli; are you familiar with a man named Sergey, a banker from Belarus?”

  “No,” he said immediately. He had very good recall.

  “Well, he came by; he is datin’ Munoz, but I got the distinct impression he was alarmed to have met me, but only after he heard my name.”

  Acton regarded her for a moment, his expression unreadable. “What does he look like?”

  “Tall, dark, and handsome; a very fine suit. Lied to Munoz about losin’ her number.”

  “Could be one of a hundred.”

  She laughed. “Good one; you have to love Munoz.”

  “How does she know him?”

  “She met him comin’ in at the entry desk—he was in the wrong building, and she offered directions.”

  “That is of interest.” He rose and began packing up the leftovers, motioning for her to stay seated.

  Willing to rest for a bit, she watched him for a moment, moving around the kitchen. “I’ve been stewin’ like a barleycorn, tryin’ to find a motive for this turf war—how the Russians fit in.”

  Acton’s voice echoed from within the open fridge. “Perhaps the Russians hoped to simply preside over the rackets from the top, and leave the infrastructure intact.”

  This was a decent point; as was the case in many organized crime organizations, the fight for control was often at the very top while the foot soldiers that actually ran the rackets were left undisturbed—the only change being who would be given the take. She shook her head. “I don’t see it—it’s not just about who can wrestle control away; there are some racial overtones.” She thought of Thackeray, who didn’t even want her under his roof. “Some prejudices are very deep-seated.”

  Acton paused to rest his gaze upon her. “And how will motive be helpful?” Acton had long-ago taught her that motive was not as important as action and reaction; if no working theory could be put forth, it was best to process the evidence without the distraction of a theory.

  She thought about it, tracing a finger on the table. “Just because it doesn’t add up, I suppose. And if we could figure out what both sides are up to; we could be one step ahead—maybe stop the next retribution murder.”

  “Very sound,” he agreed, but he was humoring her and she hated it when he humored her. It seemed clear that Acton was not going to tell her about his own theory on the cases or what he knew, and she found that she was not inclined to press him on it. She did not want to analyze why she wasn’t inclined to press him, even though it was not in her nature to let it go. She also abandoned any thought of complaining about the missing insect report, courtesy of the stupid SOCO photographer. Now that her brain was functioning again, it was entertaining a niggling worry, and she didn’t want to think about it just now—she was still recovering from the last crisis. With this in mind, she changed the subject, and spoke of other things.

  CHAPTER 20

  DOYLE WAITED WHILE ACTON PREPARED HIMSELF A SANDWICH, smiling to herself. Hates Chinese food, loves me—and sometimes beyond what is reasonable. She recalled Williams’s story about Acton’s visit to his bedside. “Please don’t be too hard on poor Williams.”

  He brought his food over and sat next to her again. “Are you softening on that subject?”

  “Indeed I am,” she teased, looking thoughtful. “He’s younger than you, and I am thinkin’ of linin’ him up as husband number two.”

  “By that time, you are welcome to him.”

  “Michael,” she laughed. “When am I to see a show of jealousy? Some Section Seven you are.” Remembering why she raised the subject, she went back on-topic. “After I was sick at the side of the road, he guessed I was pregnant, and so then I had to tell him about the miscarriage. He blamed himself, no thanks to you.”

  Acton looked as though he wanted to say something, but thought the better of it. She had a glimpse of deep unhappiness, and realized with some remorse that this was a subject she probably shouldn’t have brought up—and they’d been doing so well, too. Reaching over, she placed her hand on his. “It was a malfunctionin’ blastocyte,” she reminded him. “It was no one’s fault.” Although she said it calmly, she found that her mouth began to tremble, and he immediately pulled her onto his lap and enfolded her in an embrace. “Change the subject, Michael. Please.”

  “Solonik is in custody,” he said, and kissed her head.

  This was a spectacular change in subject, and she lifted her head in surprise. “Truly? I hadn’t heard.”

  “Just this evening; he’s been booked and we’ll soon have a warrant for DNA samples.”

  “D’you want me at the interrogation?” Together, they performed an excellent pantomime show whereby she sent him secret signals if the witness was not telling the truth.

  He rested his chin on her head. “Not as yet—he’ll hire some very good solicitors and we have to await them. We can hold him, though—the weapon was illegal.” He squeezed her gently. “It was a good catch.”

  “Thanks to Mr. Thackeray, who is a James Bond fan.”

  “And to Solonik, who looks the part of a villain.”

  He began stroking her arms and hands, and it dawned on her that he was moving onto foreplay—which would definitely be a change in subject. He put his mouth
on her shoulder only to hear her mobile vibrate on the table top. Lifting it, he checked the ID. “Caroline.”

  Doyle reached for the mobile. “I’d better take it; we don’t want to hurt her feelin’s.”

  Instead, Acton answered. “Caroline, this is Acton.” He listened, and said, “She is sleeping, but I will give her the message.” He rang off and resumed the movement of his hands. “She wants to meet you for lunch.”

  Doyle suppressed a groan—Caroline must have heard the sad news about the miscarriage from Timothy. She’d be full of platitudes, and Doyle doubted she could bear it without leaping up and overturning the lunch table. Correctly interpreting her silence, Acton said quietly, “I can tell her you will not be fit for company for a while.”

  Doyle weighed her options. She couldn’t avoid Caroline forever, and the woman couldn’t help being annoying, after all—she was one of those people who never realized how others perceived her. “I’ll make time over the weekend—that would be easier, I think.”

  “Don’t do it for me.”

  She placed a placating hand on his chest. “I’ll call her tomorrow ; I have to demonstrate to you how to be civil, husband.”

  “Civility is overrated.”

  Laughing, she shook her head. “That’s easy for you to say, my friend—when you are rude everyone thinks you are brilliant and reclusive; if I did the same, I would be criticized as puttin’ on airs.”

  “Why does it matter?”

  He seemed genuinely curious, the blue-blooded aristocrat, and she had to smile. “I suppose that’s the difference twixt you and me; that it matters.”

  He leaned in and murmured, his mouth on her neck, “There are other differences.”

  “Michael,” she giggled, “d’ye think of nothin’ else?”

  “No,” he admitted.

  Leaning her head back, she kissed him. He responded immediately, deepening the kiss and cradling her jaw in his hand. She was almost surprised to realize she didn’t much feel like it. Get along with you, Doyle, she told herself sternly; the poor man needs the reassurance of sex, and you can certainly go through the motions and be of comfort to him.

  He must have sensed she was not eager, though, because he broke off the kiss and gently pulled her head against his chest again.

  “Sorry,” she whispered.

  “Not at all. We will wait until you are fit for duty.”

  She lay curled on his lap whilst he resumed stroking her head, which he habitually did when he was worried about her, and a wave of sadness and guilt washed over her. Don’t think about it, she commanded herself, and fiddled with the button on his cuff. “Did you ride horses, growin’ up?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “D’you think I could try it sometime?” She had surprised herself with this new ambition whilst she was walking around the stables with Williams.

  “Would you like a horse?”

  She smiled into his chest. “No, Michael; I do not need a horse. I just wanted to tr y it, is all.”

  “Then you shall.” He pulled on a strand of her hair and watched it fall to her shoulder. “Have you ever been to the seashore?”

  “Never. Recall that I don’t swim.”

  “Brighton was very pleasant; I thought you might like it.”

  “Are we to be tourin’ like an old married couple, then?” she teased.

  “I could teach you to swim.”

  “Oh, I don’t know how much learnin’ I would do, what wi’ your fine torso on display.” This pleased him, and she could feel him chuckle. Better, she thought; and I hope I am fit for duty soon—Acton was not one to enjoy abstinence. If only I could feel well again, instead of like a wraith in a witch’s tale. On some level, she knew that they were making these idle plans to combat the grief and allay his anxiety about her health—whatever worked; they were not the kind of couple to make idle plans.

  “I think you may have to visit Dr. Easton again.”

  She grimaced. “Give me a few days to recover, Michael. If I go back there I will relapse, I promise you.”

  He tightened his arms around her. “You couldn’t afford to lose much weight to begin with; I feel as though I could break your bones if I squeeze too hard.”

  “I’m tr yin’ to eat—I did much better today.”

  “You are not doing well.” He lifted her head with his hand to meet her eyes seriously, his thumb brushing her cheek. “I’m afraid I must insist.”

  She sighed. “Aye, then.” He was worried, and she shouldn’t be such a baby. She was, in truth, a bit worried herself.

  That night, the uncontrollable tears came again. Why is it, she thought, that everything that seems bearable during the daylight becomes unbearable in the darkness? She put her hand over her mouth, trying to smother the sobbing so as to not wake Acton, but his arms came around her and he pulled her against him, holding her close while she cried herself into an exhausted sleep.

  CHAPTER 2 1

  He convinced himself that he must have been mistaken,

  and that the mganga was not in any danger from the

  mashetani. Her husband was taking care of her, and was

  taking care of him, too. He had enough money now so

  that he did not have to work two shifts, and his wife was

  so happy. In another month, they would send money to the

  family in the old country, and tell them of his good

  fortune. He would like to tell them about the red-haired

  mganga; they would be astonished. If only he could be

  easy, and if only he did not hear the beating of evil wings.

  BY SHEER FORCE OF WILL, DOYLE ATE BREAKFAST THE NEXT morning and smiled brightly at Aiki when he opened his cab door for her. She had awakened late that morning, and Acton was already dressed and ready to leave when he leaned over her in the bed and studied her as though she were on a slide under a microscope. Frettin’, she thought. She hadn’t slept much, as he well knew.

  “I feel much better,” she lied. “I’ll be in shortly; please don’t worry, Michael.” He had already suggested she stay home and rest, but she was very resistant to the idea and explained to him that such a course of action would only make her mopey. “I was not born to be a dosser,” she explained. “I would go mad.”

  He kissed her, and she could see that he wanted to say something, but changed his mind. “Keep lunch free,” was all he said, and was gone; he had his hands full at work, what with an evil mastermind in custody.

  For the love of Mike, she thought in disgust, as she propped up on an elbow; there is nothing physically wrong with you, ridiculous girl, so it must be mental; time to bite on the bit and fight. You don’t want to lose Acton to some floozy in the bloom of health, after all—you know they’re out there.

  At work she took a double dose of aspirin to combat her unflagging headache and settled down with some reluctance to concentrate on the turf war project. She didn’t want to address the niggling worry, for fear it would mushroom into a cataclysmic worry, and her poor head could not take a cataclysmic worry, just now.

  “DC Doyle, have you seen DC Munoz yet this morning?” Habib asked diffidently from the opening in her cubicle.

  Doyle blinked. She hadn’t realized Munoz was not in yet. Unfortunately for Habib, he worshipped the beauty from afar, and this sad state of affairs could only end badly for him.

  “No,” Doyle admitted, and had the sudden certainty that the Belarus boyfriend had absconded with her. This irrational thought was immediately belied by the entrance of Munoz herself, apologizing for her tardiness. She was as cool and composed as usual, but Doyle could sense that she was unhappy.

  With an attempt at sternness, Habib reprimanded, “You must report to me if you are coming in late, DC Munoz. Fortunately, there were no field assignments this morning.”

  Munoz gazed limpidly at him. “I’m so sorry, sir; female troubles.”

  Habib expressed his complete understanding and sympathy in the manner of the mortified sin
gle man, and Doyle shot Munoz a look that was met with a twinkle. Doyle did not approve of the use of feminine wiles to gain an advantage, but Munoz had no such qualms.

  “Say, did we ever find out what happened to Owens?” Munoz asked Habib as she set down her rucksack.

  Doyle schooled her countenance as she always did when the subject came up. Thankfully, it arose rarely.

  “He did not report to work, and no one has heard from him.” Habib disapproved of such undisciplined behavior, and did not want to give the mysteriously missing constable another thought.

  “Why are you thinkin’ of Owens?” asked Doyle against her better judgment. Munoz was not one to engage in idle speculation.

  “No reason,” said Munoz, as she checked her messages on her mobile. “I just was thinking about him.”

  This was untrue, and Doyle wondered what had triggered the question. Her own mobile vibrated, and the text said: “Front sidewalk; noon.” Doyle smiled.

  Observing this, Munoz asked, “What is it?”

  “It’s makin’ a date, I am.”

  Munoz tossed her hair back and said mulishly, “I’m giving up on dating—an arranged marriage would be miles easier.”

  This pronouncement was met with much interest by Habib, who asked with forced heartiness, “What has happened Munoz? Surely no one has been unkind to you?”

  Munoz hovered on the verge of speaking her mind, but thought better of it. “It’s nothing; I’m just annoyed, is all.”

  “It may be just as well,” ventured Doyle. “I was a bit worried about Sergey, what with all the Russian perps lyin’ thick on the ground.”

  Munoz did not appreciate this aspersion being cast on her judgment, and lifted her lip in scorn. “Don’t be ridiculous—you must try to control your prejudices, Doyle.”

  “It is my besettin’ sin,” agreed Doyle humbly. There; at least she had planted the idea, and Munoz was no fool.

  Habib, however, could not conceal his confusion. “Never say you are romantically interested in a perpetrator, Munoz?”