Murder in Retribution (A New Scotland Yard Mystery)

by Anne Cleeland

  “Report her to Professional Standards,” Doyle suggested. “She’s a menace.”

  “Doyle has a date with a superior officer,” Munoz returned. “You should report her.”

  “Touché,” Doyle acknowledged, rather proud that she had managed to use the word correctly. “You win this round.”

  Despite this reminder that he had no business angling after an underling, Habib offered, “If you need counseling, Munoz, as your supervisor, I am always available.”

  Doyle was half-afraid the girl would say something unkind, but instead she presented a sincere face to him. “I appreciate that, sir. I was wondering if you could put in a good word with Public Relations; I’d like to try my hand at it, and I think if I had an interest on the side I would not be so attracted to unsuitable men.”

  “Indeed,” Habib agreed with alacrity. “I will see what I can do.”

  He hurried away, and Doyle watched him go, all admiration. “That was masterful.”

  With a self-satisfied smile, Munoz retreated to her cubicle. “Watch and learn, Doyle; watch and learn.”

  At noon, Doyle took more aspirin and made her way out to the front sidewalk, determined to show a cheerful face to her husband and eat something. He wasn’t there as yet, but Doyle immediately recognized Father John from St. Michael’s, standing near the entry door and holding a parcel. Doyle greeted him with surprise, “Why, hallo, Father; what brings you here?”

  “Kathleen,” he replied, taking her hand. “Your husband thought you might be needin’ some quiet conversation.”

  Doyle nodded, too overcome to speak; it was exactly what she needed, and trust Acton to know. The priest gazed into her face for a moment, then squeezed her hand. “Shall we go over toward the river, then? Nellie packed us a lunch.”

  “That would be grand,” Doyle whispered when she found her voice. She put her hand in his arm, and as they turned to walk away she lifted her face toward Acton’s office, which faced the street—he would be watching. Thank you, she thought.

  They settled on a bench, and the priest spoke of the divine plan which mortals perceived only through a glass darkly. Doyle wept, and Father John offered his handkerchief and assured her that her loss was heaven’s gain. There was no attempt to speak of blastocytes; only the hard, hard reality of acceptance and faith. The priest held her hands in his while they prayed together, and Doyle felt immeasurably sad and immeasurably comforted at the same time.

  After an hour, Doyle wiped her face with the handkerchief and told the priest that she should return to work, and that she appreciated the visit more than she could say. He seemed reluctant to rise, however.

  “Kathleen,” he began, and she could see that he was troubled. “I must ask that you answer some very delicate questions, and as honestly as you are able.”

  “Yes, Father.” She knit her brow, puzzled by the change in his behavior.

  He looked at her very seriously. “Do you trust that husband o’ yours?”

  She blinked. Whatever she had expected, it wasn’t this. “Yes.” Best not to mention Acton’s other tendencies that were suspect—in the end, she did trust him.

  The priest fixed her with his sharp eyes. “Truly?”

  “Yes, truly.”

  He hesitated for a moment. “Could there be another woman, d’ye think?”

  Doyle had to hide a smile; Acton had neither time nor energy for an affair—she kept him far too busy. “No, Father; I am certain.”

  The priest seemed to relax a little, although he frowned slightly. “Certainly, the man seems devoted to you,” he mused aloud.

  Understatement of the century, thought Doyle.

  The other shot her another shrewd glance. “Is there any chance that he doesn’t want to be married to you anymore?”

  “None at all,” answered Doyle honestly. “And what is this about, if I may be askin’?”

  The priest leaned back, his brows drawn together, thinking. “Let me pray about it, I’ll let you know.”

  Doyle returned to work, bemused. Now, what was that all about? Had the priest heard some salacious rumor? She was not alarmed; she was assured of Acton’s full devotion, and then some. The conversation had invoked another train of thought, however; she was trying to avoid the niggling suspicion that refused to go away, but she knew, in the way that she knew things, that it was past time she took a hard look at these turf war murders in the proper context. Acton’s a devoted man, all right, she thought a little grimly. That’s the problem.

  CHAPTER 22

  UPON HER RETURN, DOYLE CHECKED IN WITH ACTON ON HIS work line and was immediately sent to voice mail. Good; this meant he had his hands full dealing with prosecutors and Solonik’s solicitors. He would be busy for a bit, which meant there was no time like the present.

  Walking lightly so as to spare her poor head, Doyle made her way to the Evidence Locker, which held physical evidence gleaned from pending cases. She pushed her ID card through the slot to gain entrance, then signed the log while her photo was checked by the attendant. After inquiry, she was given the number and location for the cardboard box that held the evidence from the aqueduct murder, and walked through the rows of shelves until she came to the right place. The Evidence Locker was air-conditioned to a cool temperature which actually felt good to her, even though she was ordinarily always cold. Resisting an impulse to sit down and rest on the steel shelf, she opened the evidence box.

  The personal effects of the victim, Yuri Barayev, were stored in a large envelope. The next of kin were in Russia and no one had come forward to claim them—she remembered that he was a widower. Doyle looked through his wallet and jotted down the names from several business cards that Barayev had tucked therein, all English companies that sounded financial in nature, but nothing that struck her as strange. One card was a Russian Orthodox icon of Saint Joseph, well-worn around the edges—a religious man, then. She checked the cash voucher, and saw that Barayev had carried an impressive amount of cash, all British denominations. She paused, frowning, because so far there was nothing that leapt out at her as important, but she knew—she knew the items arrayed before her were indeed important, somehow.

  A paper copy of the ERU forensics report was included in the plastic sleeve that contained the computer drive, and Doyle pulled it out and read it carefully. There was no time of death, only a twelve-hour estimate. The aqueduct was not the kill site; the murder had taken place elsewhere and the body had been dumped there. There was no insect report, and no indication one had even been requested. The victim’s hands had been processed and revealed nothing. There were no wounds or other signs of a defensive struggle before the victim had been shot in the face. There were no stray epithelials or trace fibers, although presumably he had been transported to the aqueduct in a car, and car fibers were notorious for clinging to corpses.

  Clean, thought Doyle; cleaner than any normal person walking down the street would be.

  The photographs of the victim were included, as well as photographs of the area. Doyle remembered her search with Williams, and was now struck by the fact that the shrubbery on either side of the cement aqueduct was undisturbed. There were no signs that the victim had been thrown or dropped from the bridge—there would have been post-mortem injuries sustained in the fall. So how did the body get there? Doyle paused again, leaning against the shelves and thinking about it. Someone could have carried him up the cement aqueduct for a distance—but one would think there would be evidence of this since there had been no water, this time of year, to wash it away.

  Coming to a decision, she straightened up; nothin’ for it—she needed to view the scene again. Last time she was there she had been distracted, busy confessing to Acton she was pregnant. The memory evoked a stab of sadness, but it didn’t seem as overwhelming, this time. Remember what Father said, she thought; world without end.

  With careful, methodic fingers, she reviewed the other evidence, looking for she knew not what, and then reviewed the photographs of miscellaneou
s items found in the area that may or may not have any connection to the murder. Going through them, she suddenly froze, her scalp prickling, as she realized that she had been half-expecting this. A silver tiepin had been found on the bridge, and Doyle was certain it was Acton’s.

  She took a deep breath and ignored her headache—which was suddenly much worse—and thumbed through the envelopes until she found the appropriate one, opening it to look within. Yes; there it was. He hadn’t been wearing the tiepin the day of the investigation—she was certain; she’d noticed he held his tie back with his hand. She was with him the whole time before he left for Newmarket, and he was never on the bridge that day. Acton, Acton, she thought; what am I to do with you?

  Slowly, she shelved the box again as she pondered her next move. The tiepin wasn’t engraved; there was nothing to connect it to Acton and even if someone did, they would presume he lost it during the investigation and not when he brought the body there. Suddenly overwhelmed, she pressed her pounding forehead against one of the cold metal brackets that supported the shelves. What was it Habib had said? The two sides in the turf war had lost all objectivity, and were locked in mortal combat. It was as though a raging bonfire had been ignited between the warring tribes, and the CID was conveniently picking up the collateral damage. A bonfire had been ignited.

  Her head still pressed against the bracket, she checked the time on her mobile. She needed to view the scene and now was a good time, whilst Acton was dealing with the wily Solonik—not so wily, it turned out; he had come to England, sporting his illegal weapon, even though apparently it was very unlike him—he tended to stay close to home. Here was a puzzle; how had Acton lured him here, to land in the middle of this messy turf war?

  She straightened up. No point in wasting time speculating; she needed to review the crime scene whilst Acton was still busy and it was still daylight. There was a problem, though—she needed someone to drive her, and that person should be Williams, as he was her lead on the case. Williams, however, was apparently a loyal foot soldier to the renowned chief inspector, and he had been remarkably uninterested in solving the aqueduct case, which was not his style at all. And on top of these worries—which were many and sundry—she was also reluctant to spend time alone with him again. After viewing the problem from all angles, she decided there was nothin’ for it; it would be very odd indeed if she went to the scene without Williams knowing about it. Not to mention it would be a nightmare for her to get to the aqueduct using public transportation—she didn’t dare drive a car such a distance on the highway. She really needed to practice her driving; mental note. After leaving the Evidence Locker, she scrolled up Williams on her mobile, and he promptly answered.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey yourself. Any chance you are free to be visitin’ the aqueduct scene this afternoon?”

  He didn’t miss a beat. “Certainly, if you’d like.”

  “I just wanted to figure out how the body was deposited on the site. It might lead to some clues.”

  “Good idea,” he said, although he truly thought it wasn’t. “Meet me at the garage?”

  “Grand.” After ringing off, she mentally sighed as she made her way to the utility garage. Faith, she didn’t want to be alone with Williams and forced to fend off the drama—she’d much rather be home with Acton and creating a little drama of her own, preferably beating him with a rolling pin.

  When she arrived at the garage, Williams was already unlocking an unmarked. She slid into the car and said, “I appreciate it, on such short notice. I was lookin’ at the evidence and I couldn’t figure out how the body was dumped.”

  “Let’s take a look,” he said easily. There was a pause while they drove for a bit. “How are you feeling?”

  Here we go, thought Doyle. “Horrible,” she said shortly. That should discourage any further discussion. She immediately repented, feeling childish. “And you?”

  “Slightly less than horrible.”

  Doyle couldn’t suppress a smile. “We’re a pair, aren’t we?” She realized belatedly that she probably shouldn’t put it in those terms—honestly, she had to watch her tongue. “Do you take insulin?”

  “Yes,” he replied in a tone that discouraged any further questions.

  She sighed. “There’s nothin’ worse than havin’ your private weaknesses made public, is there?”

  He thought about it. “It would be worse if there was no one to tell; no one to help you.”

  She turned to consider him. “Don’t you be goin’ all wise on me, Williams; I’m intent on sulkin’.”

  He smiled as he drove. “Be my guest.”

  After a few more minutes of silence, he ventured, “At the risk of being snubbed again, I want to point out that you don’t look well enough to be at work.”

  She found she didn’t have the wherewithal to snub him. “I feel hideous. I am seein’ the doctor tomorrow.”

  His concern was palpable, and he glanced over at her. “Should we call it a day, then? Can I drive you home?”

  “After we take a look, you may.” Good try, she thought, although he was sincerely worried about her; she could feel it. Every man jack I meet wants to wrap me in cotton wool, she thought; little do they know that I am on to them and their wily ways. Reminded, she texted her symbol to Acton, checking in with him as she did every hour. She had considered leaving her mobile behind so that Acton couldn’t keep track of her through the GPS, but there was no shame in investigating the aqueduct murder scene. She gazed out the window and decided that if it made her wayward husband a little uneasy, that was not necessarily a bad thing.

  CHAPTER 23

  DOYLE AND WILLIAMS ARRIVED AT THE AQUEDUCT SCENE AND parked. After emerging from the car, Williams removed his suit coat and then opened the boot of the car to grab a field kit. Doyle thought to lighten the mood, being as this field trip must be a sticky wicket for DS Williams, who in his own way was as loyal to Acton as she was. “Do you note that I’m not callin’ you ‘sir’?”

  He slung the field kit over his shoulder. “I appreciate it.”

  “Habib would skin me.”

  He glanced at her and slammed the boot shut. “No, he wouldn’t; Habib is afraid of you.”

  This was of interest, as she had not gained that impression. “Afraid of me? Because of Acton?”

  “No.” Williams hesitated. “Because you know things.” Indeed, she did—and sometimes better late than never. With a shrug, she tried to joke it off. “He thinks I’m the Hindu equivalent of a witch, then?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Good to know.” She relapsed into silence—the last thing she wanted was to discuss her intuitive abilities with this particular superior officer.

  They began walking the gravel road that led to the aqueduct, and after a moment she ventured, “Takin’ my own chances of bein’ snubbed again, I hope you are bein’ more careful with your health.”

  “I am. I’ve learned my lesson.”

  “And a frightenin’ lesson it was, my hand on my heart. Has somethin’ like that happened before?”

  She could see he was trying to decide whether to discuss it—touchy about his condition, he was. “Nothing that bad. I was not taking care of myself.”

  Oh-oh, she thought; we are wandering back into Doyle-broke-my-heart territory. “If we are to be workin’ together,” she said in a brisk tone, “I should be kept informed. As it was, I had to rifle your wallet.”

  “I am missing some money,” he teased, glancing down at her.

  “I had to pay for your Guinness,” she teased back. “And the orange juice, to boot.”

  They smiled at each other. Better, she thought as their footsteps crunched in the gravel; I believe all that crackin’ awkwardness is nearly gone. She rather hoped they could be friends—as a result of knowing the things she knew, Doyle did not have any close friends. It was no easy thing, to be aware of the insincerity of others, or when they were trying to pull a fast one, with DS Williams being an excellen
t case in point.

  “My mother enjoyed meeting you, even though the circumstances were not the best.”

  “Your mother is a very nice person.” Best not to mention she mistook Doyle for a potential daughter-in-law.

  He gave her a hand as they stepped over the rocky edging that separated the road from the aqueduct. “Does your mother still live in Dublin?”

  “No; my mother died over a year ago.” Doyle thought she delivered this information in a neutral tone, but Williams put his hand on her arm, contrite.

  “I am so sorry; I seem to be saying the wrong thing repeatedly today.”

  She looked at him and mustered a half-smile. “Whist, don’t be sorry—I am in a crackin’ foul mood, is all.” With good reason, she added mentally. As well you know, my friend.

  “Do you want to stop and rest? We can sit on a rock for a minute.”

  She teased him. “Faith, Williams; do I truly look that bad?”

  He smiled. “Yes.” He was not embarrassed this time. “You look completely knackered, and I have half a mind to put you on my back and carry you.”

  “Please refrain.” Although he did have a very fine body, did DS Williams. She glanced at him sidelong, and wondered if she would have fancied Williams if Acton hadn’t gotten to her first. Perhaps, but it would have been slow going; Williams would never have wrestled her to the altar as Acton had.

  They came to the footbridge over the aqueduct, and Doyle leaned on the railing, pausing to catch her breath. She then walked halfway across—where the tiepin had been—to consider the scene below for a few long moments, Williams standing beside her. Aloud, she reflected, “I was thinkin’ that someone may have carried the victim up the floor of the aqueduct for a distance to stick him in the conduit, but it seems unlikely, lookin’ at it. There is no access road for a half mile, and there would have been evidence—footprints, or tamped down leaves along the way.”

  “I see what you mean,” he agreed. “And the shrubbery wasn’t disturbed on either side, so there must have been another means of access.”