“Hey.” He was wary, and rightly so, with all his cross-allegiances going on.
“Hey yourself. Are you busy? I need some help on a suspicious package.”
“Bomb squad?” He was obviously wondering why she was enlisting him.
“No, not a bomb.” I hope, she added mentally. “A plant has been delivered to my flat’s concierge and there is reason to believe it may be dangerous.” She wondered how much to tell him, and then decided to err on the side of discretion. “It may contain some sort of harmful chemical, I’m thinkin’.”
There was a pause. He thinks I’m mad, she thought.
“I’ll get some latex bags and gloves. Meet me at the utility garage.” Williams, bless him, understood without her having to say it aloud that this was not to be handled through regular channels. Doyle took several more big bites of the pie and then regretfully threw the remainder away. Brushing off her hands, she made her way to the garage, where Williams was waiting at the lift door when it opened.
“Thank you again—for an inferior officer, I’m pullin’ you hither and yon, lately.”
“It is my pleasure,” he said, and meant it.
They walked over to the unmarked. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you what’s afoot; it’s awkward, but there it is.”
“Understood.” After yesterday, he was well-aware that they may necessarily have secrets from each other. It was all very complicated, but apparently Acton trusted him and so she would also.
As they stopped at the vehicle he paused and indicated her face with a gesture. “You have some sugar or something—there.”
Presumably from the pie, which she had devoured like a starving pilgrim. Embarrassed, she brushed at her cheek.
“It’s there still—here, let me get it.” He stepped forward to brush his thumb near the corner of her mouth, then met her eyes and went very still. She stepped away and could feel herself blush to the roots of her hair. He opened the door for her and she slid in, refusing to look at him. He walked around to the driver’s side, and they drove in silence for a few minutes.
“How do you want to handle this?” he asked, very much himself again.
She had already been pondering this dilemma. “Not as official business. I think we just go in and get it. They’ll recognize me.”
He looked doubtful. “You shouldn’t touch it.”
“They won’t release it to you, Williams—they’ll think you’re some sort of plant thief. I’ll put gloves on.”
“You’ll come in with me and we’ll say you’re allergic.”
She looked over at him with approval. “Good one, DS Williams. Make sure you wear gloves—I’ll not have you keelin’ over again.”
He looked grim. “Let’s not speak of it.”
“Whist, Williams. We bonded in our mutual misery.”
She could see he was trying not to laugh. “Did we?”
“Indeed we did. Never doubt it.”
He couldn’t help himself and started to laugh, and she joined in. Williams, Williams, she thought; what am I going to do with you?
When they entered the lobby, they approached the concierge and explained the alleged allergy situation, which the concierge seemed to accept without a blink. The plant was placed on the mahogany counter, and had a plain brown paper wrapped around it, beneath which was a sheathing of cellophane, all tied up with a satin bow. Under normal circumstances, the brown wrapping would have been removed by Reynolds, and thank all available saints she had given him warning. Doyle stood back, trying her best to appear allergic, whilst Williams carefully took the plant with gloved hands and double-bagged it. Doyle was certain he saw the card indicating the tribute was from the dowager, but there was nothin’ for it; he would get no explanation from her. Doyle smiled her thanks at the man behind the desk and they left before anyone would wonder why they hadn’t simply been asked to keep it, or give it away to someone else.
Williams carefully placed the bagged plant in the boot of the unmarked. “Now what?”
“That’s for Acton to say.” She phoned him again on his work line and this time he answered. She could hear people speaking in the background, in the echoing, muted tones of the interrogation room. He was busy, so she said without preamble, “There was a suspicious plant delivered to me at our building. Williams and I have it and it will need some testin’, I believe.”
He didn’t miss a beat. “Put Williams on.” She handed her mobile over, and Williams listened without expression. “Right.” He rang off. “I’m to take it to the lab.”
“Who’s his person at the lab?”
He glanced at her, quickly. “That’s for Acton to say, I’m afraid.”
“Understood,” she replied philosophically—she’d find out, one way or the other; she was a very fine detective, when people weren’t trying to poison her. “Please see to it the card is removed, but be careful; it may be tainted also.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he teased, as though she were his superior officer.
They arrived back at headquarters, and as they parked in the garage Williams said rather apologetically, “He wanted me to see that you had lunch—he’ll be tied up for a time.”
“Thanks, but I’m meetin’ Munoz.” She would try to avoid being alone with Williams; she knew that if she hadn’t moved away when they were in the garage earlier he would have kissed her, and Acton would then have to be told. Men, she thought in exasperation; honestly.
CHAPTER 28
LUCKILY, DOYLE’S EXCUSE TO AVOID WILLIAMS WAS PLAUSIBLE as Munoz was indeed available for lunch. As the other girl reached for her mobile, Doyle suggested they keep it just the two of them. “But I’ll treat. Where to, the deli? It’s our last chance before the rain comes.”
“Not off-premises,” said Munoz. “I’m trying to avoid Sergey, and he may be watching for me.”
They made their way upstairs to the canteen, and Doyle eyed her. “The prince fell short?”
Munoz’s jaw was rigid, and waves of chagrin were emanating. “I checked his background; I think he’s a poseur.”
“That’s a shame,” said Doyle neutrally, hoping she’d hear more; she knew that Acton had found this romance of extreme interest—although he didn’t want to let on—so something was up, and in light of recent events she wanted to keep abreast if she was to talk her volatile husband down from the precipice.
“He just kept asking a lot of questions—too many questions.” The other girl looked mulish, and said defensively, “I didn’t tell him anything, of course.”
“Of course,” agreed Doyle. “Was he the one askin’ about Owens?”
Munoz scowled in annoyance. “Isn’t that strange? As if I would know or care what happened to Owens.”
Doyle decided there could not be a surer indication that Sergey was up to no good, and she’d best mention it to Acton—if he didn’t know what was afoot already, that was. It was past time that she was brought up to speed; she may be needed to save Acton from himself.
They arrived at the canteen, and Doyle surveyed the waxed-paper fruit pies yet again. Another one certainly wouldn’t hurt—she didn’t get to finish the last one, after all—and there were so many delightful flavors. “What made you decide to check the prince’s background? Did somethin’ give you pause?”
“I wanted to see if he was a potential husband.” With an annoyed gesture, the other girl slid her credit card through the payment machine. “I have to start looking around.”
Doyle blinked, as this was the first time she had ever heard Munoz speak of marriage. On reflection, however, it seemed likely that her own abrupt entry into matrimony had prompted this newfound desire—Munoz was fiercely competitive. Faith, Munoz was fierce, period.
They sat down, and Munoz watched Doyle eat the fruit pie for a moment with thinly-veiled disgust; Munoz had chosen an arugula salad. “Does Acton have any eligible friends?”
Doyle hid her alarm; she wouldn’t willingly pair anyone she cared about with Munoz. Therefore, she equivocated, �
��They’d be older men, you know.”
The girl tossed her head. “Doesn’t matter; if they have money and would like to spoil a younger girl, I could live with it.”
The only friend of Acton’s Doyle had met—thus far—was Timothy, and Munoz would eat Timothy for breakfast. “I’ll ask Acton,” she temporized, and then ventured against her better judgment, “Habib is single.”
Munoz gave her a withering look and didn’t deign to respond as she addressed her salad. I tried, Habib, Doyle thought; believe me, you’re better off. “Drake?” she suggested next. Doyle was not certain of the exact relationship between Munoz and the other team’s DCI.
“Too much like me,” Munoz replied, and Doyle thought this was very perceptive of her. “Does Williams ever speak of me?”
Another flippin’ minefield. “I don’t think he’s lookin’, just now. He seems a slave to work, anyway.”
Munoz drew her mouth down into a sulk. “It’s not fair.”
“Give it some time. You don’t want to rush into it,” suggested Doyle.
This earned a flare of anger in response. “Why not? You did.”
This was inarguably true, and Doyle retorted with her own heat, “I’m tryin’, Munoz, but you’re not makin’ it easy.”
“I’m the one who should be working the turf war cases; you’ve been sick.”
“I’m not sick anymore, and they’re my cases.”
Before they could come to blows, their mobiles rang almost simultaneously. It was Habib, asking them to report to Detention ; an attempt had been made on Solonik, and all available hands were needed to process the scene—Inspector Chiu would take the lead, and they were to report to her.
Annoyed that Munoz was to get her wish, Doyle accompanied the other girl at a brisk pace to Detention, where suspects were held for the brief period allowed by law until the prosecutors decided whether they would be charged with a crime or set free.
By the time they arrived, the solicitor’s briefing room in Detention had already been taped off, and SOCOs were donning their bunny suits, preparing to enter. Samuels was there also, waiting with Inspector Chiu, and once they were assembled the DI informed them that a man posing as Solonik’s solicitor had managed to smuggle a bladed instrument through security. Fortunately, the weapon was necessarily small and Solonik knew how to defend himself; the wound was superficial, but by the time the alarm had been raised, the suspect had fled.
They all listened in surprised silence; such a turn of events was almost unthinkable, here at the Met. Doyle asked, “Is Solonik conscious, ma’am? Was he familiar with the attacker?”
“Yes; he was conscious throughout, but he claims ignorance,” Chiu replied. “They are reviewing CCTV as we speak, and the local PCs have set up a perimeter.”
Doyle did not know Chiu very well, but she felt she should point out what to her seemed rather obvious. “If the suspect wasn’t truly his solicitor, Solonik would have known immediately. Yet he didn’t raise an alarm when the man was shown into the briefin’ room by the guard.”
Munoz brought up another good point, “And all it would have taken was a shout when the attack was attempted; it’s not as though it’s easy to make a quick exit from this place. Solonik must have allowed him time to escape.”
They considered this in silence. “Honor among thieves?” suggested Samuels.
“I don’t know,” said Munoz, dubious. “He tried to kill him; I would think all bets were off.”
This was true, and they all paused, trying to come up with a working theory. The DI, however, must have gone to the school of Acton because she said briskly, “We will gather the evidence and see where it leads. You two; oversee the processing of the scene,” she indicated Doyle and Samuels. “Munoz, oversee what is happening in CCTV and get witness statements—everyone who saw the suspect is already being held in the family waiting room. I’ll have another go at Solonik at the infirmary.”
“Is DCI Acton about?” asked Doyle. Last she was aware, he was here, interrogating Solonik, and no doubt making the man’s future look very bleak. She imagined Acton would like to be the one grilling the Russian at the infirmary, and was rather surprised he wasn’t on the scene.
“No, he is in the field.” The woman gave her a quick, assessing glance. “Carry on, Constable.”
Doyle tried not to be annoyed that the DI thought she was not worthy of Acton—perhaps the woman could compare notes with the SOCO photographer—and stood with Samuels by the briefing room door while they donned paper booties and gloves. “What would you like to take?”
“Bloodstains, I suppose,” said Samuels.
Doyle wished she hadn’t asked, as she liked bloodstains, herself. “Don’t forget to check for inert drops; if the suspect was wounded, we can get a DNA profile.” Knife fights were notoriously messy; oftentimes the attacker cut himself because the blood would make the weapon’s handle slippery. Blood from a standing attacker tended to land in round, inert drops, as opposed to the spray of the victim’s blood.
“Will do,” Samuels agreed, and she could see he was a little annoyed that she thought he needed this obvious instruction. Samuels was not the best detective, though, and the case was too important, so she didn’t care if she offended him.
Whilst Samuels carefully inspected the bloodstains in the room, she helped direct the SOCO team to test the table and chairs for fingerprints, fibers, or other trace evidence. It would be a thankless slog, though; a lot of different people came through the unhappy confines of the solicitor’s briefing room at Detention, and it would be like trying to find a needle in a haystack.
Whilst she was carefully surveying the area under the table, Doyle’s mobile vibrated; it was Acton, and she picked up. “I am knee-deep in Mr. Solonik’s bloodstains.”
“I am at Marta’s residence. She has taken an overdose, and killed herself.”
Doyle leaned back on her heels, stunned. But truly, when you thought about it, not completely unexpected. Turning her head so as to speak quietly, she said as much to Acton. “When she heard you were at the door, she must have known it was over—she would have no chance in court.” England was still England, and no one would look kindly upon a domestic attempting to poison a peeress.
There was only silence in response, and Doyle knew he was profoundly angry; he had been thwarted of whatever action he had wanted to take, which may well be to the good. However, he also was deprived of the chance to find out whether his mother was involved.
“I don’t know if I can come right now,” Doyle cautioned. “I’m processin’ the scene. You’ve heard?”
“Yes,” he said, his tone clipped. “Stay—I have a lot of work to do.”
She didn’t like the way he sounded. “When will you be home?” she persisted.
“Late—you need your rest; don’t wait up.”
She rang off thoughtfully. He was in a state, and it was perplexing that he was at Marta’s house even though he knew Solonik had been attacked. Perhaps he didn’t much care that someone tried to murder Solonik; no doubt Acton had efficiently framed the man for murder already. She froze for a moment, and considered the possibility that Acton had murdered Marta. Acton had disposed of Owens without benefit of authority so that no unwanted attention would be directed at her, and this was a similar situation. He may have wanted to ensure Marta did not implicate his mother, or that the fair Doyle’s testimony would not be required in an attempted murder trial. No, she concluded almost immediately; he didn’t kill Marta—she could sense that he was very unhappy the wretched woman was dead, and that he was without the answers he sought.
“What is it?” asked Samuels, watching her return her mobile to her belt.
“Nothing,” Doyle replied, “I was woolgatherin’ is all.” Samuels was a likeable fellow, but it was a little odd he was a detective—he didn’t have that driving curiosity; indeed, he’d shown little interest in the puzzling circumstances of this attack on Solonik.
After the scene had been thoroughl
y processed, they returned to their workstations late in the afternoon and began writing up their reports. Hopefully, ERU would come up with something; it seemed likely the suspect’s DNA—whoever he was—would be on file because such a bold attack on a kingpin was not your ordinary crime. Munoz had said there was an image on surveillance video, but the suspect had been well-aware of the location of the cameras and a clear shot of his face was never caught; he’d strategically held a folder to obscure his image. He was a bit taller than average, average weight and dark hair—not very helpful. Because he was disguised as a solicitor, security had given him short shrift, and thus he had been able to smuggle in the blade. A very daring attack by someone very desperate, one would think.
Munoz packed up to leave as evening fell; Doyle packed up with her but decided a visit to her errant husband was in order, and they parted at the lobby lifts. Doyle made her way across the walkway, aware that she was tired and not quite recovered from the ordeal of the past week, but also aware that she mustn’t be a baby and keep putting it off—it was her own fault, after all. After contemplating the best way to broach the subjects she needed to broach with Acton, she finally decided she would play it by ear; if he was in one of his black moods, she would proceed cautiously.
His floor was nearly deserted as she approached his office, but his assistant was still at her desk and his door was closed. Doyle had met his assistant only once; at work they moved in different orbits. As she approached, the woman looked up and said quietly, “He has asked not to be disturbed.”
Doyle paused in surprise, thinking that the woman must know that such a stricture shouldn’t be applied to the DCI’s better half. No point in pulling that card, however; his assistant was only doing her job, and loyalty was a virtue. “I’ll check, then,” she replied in a mild tone.
She texted Acton, “I M outside your door.”
Murder in Retribution (A New Scotland Yard Mystery) Page 16