Murder in Retribution (A New Scotland Yard Mystery)

by Anne Cleeland

  Almost immediately, the lock clicked. Doyle couldn’t resist smiling kindly at the assistant as she went in, and intercepted a poorly-concealed flash of envy and resentment. Put that in your pipe, Miss Can’t-Be-Disturbed.

  CHAPTER 29

  ACTON HAD BEEN DRINKING, AND SHE HID HER SURPRISE THAT he would drink this much at work. Occasionally he would drink rather heavily at the flat and sit quietly for a time, watching her. During these occasions, she respected the mood and left him alone. She didn’t drink herself, but didn’t mind when he did; she was Irish, after all. Since her pregnancy, however, these sessions had been few and far between.

  She shut the door behind her. Doyle had rarely been in his office, as Acton was constantly busy and was more likely to visit her when time permitted. They also tried to keep their relationship at work on a professional level, so as not to invoke any resentment, and a DC wouldn’t be dropping in to visit a DCI.

  He walked away from her and went over to stand by the window, looking out. He was in a crackin’ foul mood, she saw, and didn’t want her to see that he was swilkin’ drunk. This would take some careful handling and so she waited, trying to gauge him.

  “I used to watch you come into work,” he said. “I still do.”

  “Michael,” she said gently, setting down her rucksack beside his desk, “what is troublin’ you and how can I help?”

  He paused, and she thought for a moment he would not answer her, but then he replied a bit abruptly, “You were declining. I had begun to entertain the possibility that you might die.”

  “We caught it, though, and I have been eating fruit pies all afternoon. I am well, Michael; my hand on my heart.”

  “I wanted to kill her,” he said conversationally.

  “I thought perhaps you had,” she admitted.

  Surprised, he glanced at her. “No.” It was the truth, but she had already come to this realization.

  This was the right tack, she could sense it—to be matter-of-fact and even; he was responding to her, but she wasn’t certain if now was the time to make her confession about Solonik. She wished she knew how best to handle this—unlikely there was a chapter in a marriage manual on the subject. Perhaps she should start with broad generalizations. “You can’t just go about killin’ people, Michael.”

  He turned to look out the window again, and she worried that the generalization was perhaps not broad enough. He mused, “I know you are very clever. I don’t know why I underestimate you.”

  She realized he was speaking of the aqueduct murder. He knew that she knew, then. “You lost your tiepin, my friend.”

  He glanced at her over his shoulder. “Indeed?”

  “Indeed,” she replied, imitating him. When he was drunk, he became more aristocratic than his usual—which meant that he tried to tone it down otherwise, so that she wouldn’t feel so much like an unworthy Cinderella in this unorthodox fairy tale. I used to feel that way—like an unworthy Cinderella—she admitted to herself; but not so much anymore. This man and I are very well-matched, but I cannot help but think his wayward ways will come a cropper, sooner or later, and if I can use my influence to prevent such an outcome, I will. Someone like Acton would not do well in prison—there were too many inmates who were already there, courtesy of him. “You must leave retribution to God, Michael.”

  He shook his head, and leaned against the windowsill so that she wouldn’t see that he was unsteady on his feet. “No. Not if someone tries to kill you.”

  “If you believe that this world is only temporary, and the next one is eternal, then you are servin’ the short-term but sacrificin’ the long-term.” She paused, trying to decide if she had explained it clearly. “It’s a matter of perspective.”

  He said nothing, but turned his gaze to the carpeted floor. Faith, he was in a mood. Reaction, probably—the crisis had passed and he had been thwarted of revenge, unless he was going after his mother, and that did not bear thinking about. Tired of standing—she’d had a long day—she moved over to sit at his desk, maintaining her matter-of-fact air and trying to read him despite his best efforts to block her out. Displayed on his laptop screen was a still photograph from the building’s surveillance tape; Sergey meeting her outside at the deli, his face clearly visible. She looked up in surprise. “Do you know him?”

  “No.”

  She knit her brow, confused. “I wonder why he was so spooked of me, then.” She glanced up. “Munoz says he is a fake.”

  “Munoz is right.”

  In mock-annoyance, she chided, “Now, there’s a phrase I’d rather not be hearin’ again from you, if you don’t mind.”

  But he would not be teased, and lifted his gaze to her. “You must go home and rest. Call the driving service.”

  It was said in the form of a command, but she stood her ground. “I’d rather stay with you.”

  “I am not good company, Kathleen.”

  “Nonsense; you are very appealin’ when you are three sheets to the wind—I have no idea what’s next.” Then an idea dawned on her; why, I know exactly what’s next, she thought. Standing so as to begin unbuttoning her blouse, she issued her own command. “Come over here, husband.”

  He was alarmed, and glanced at the exposed windows. “No,” he said firmly.

  “No, yourself.” She stepped out of her trousers and laid them over the back of the chair before unhooking her bra. “Either you’re comin’ over here, or I’m goin’ over there and puttin’ on a show for whoever is workin’ late across the way.”

  They had not had sex in a week and Acton—being as he was—was ripe for exploitation. “I’m afraid I am drunk.”

  “Then I will go door-to-door until I find someone who can perform.” She was down to her knickers, and she could see he was no match for her scantily-clad self; as though mesmerized, he stood upright and approached the desk. Meeting him halfway, she slowly ran her palms up his chest but he was in no mood for foreplay, and caught her hands, pinioning her arms roughly behind her and bringing his mouth down on hers. He was none too gentle and tasted of scotch.

  Deciding that she would give as good as she got, she bit his lip, gently, and if it was possible, he pressed her more tightly against him and began to move his hands over her body with some urgency. Ordinarily, he was careful not to escalate his lovemaking until she was ready for him, but he was not possessed of patience at this point and so with little preamble, he hoisted her up against him and lifted her onto his desk.

  It was fortunate, she thought as she shifted to accommodate his weight, that he was OCD and the desk was not cluttered. After laying her back, he began kissing her roughly, sliding a hand between them to unfasten his trousers. The heat ignited between them—as always—and she gasped into his mouth with the intensity of it. She could hear him rip her lace knickers aside and then they were joined in their own familiar rhythm; she clinging to him, arms and legs, and panting into his neck.

  When the storm was over, she rested her head back on the desktop, his face buried between her neck and shoulder. Staring at the ceiling in satisfaction, she shifted slightly so that his pen set was not poking her. “My favorite knickers,” she lamented.

  “I’ll replace them.”

  “There’s no point, really.”

  She could feel him chuckle in his chest. Good. She said softly into his ear, “Let’s go home and do this properly.”

  A bit groggy, he lifted his head and kissed her ear. “I’m afraid I have more work to do.”

  “I was thinkin’ I would drive you home.”

  “I’m not that drunk,” he protested. She lifted her hand to brush her hair off her forehead, and she could feel the chuckle again as he rested his head against her. Good one, Doyle; you have discovered the cure for the black mood. It is very similar to the cure for morning sickness, only much more vigorous.

  Acton suddenly said into her ear, “Promise me something.”

  “Anythin’,” she murmured, and meant it.

  “If there is a chance I mi
ght lose you, you must give me warning.”

  “There is no chance, Michael,” she replied with complete sincerity. “I just worry, sometimes.”

  He kissed her throat, and said nothing.

  No time like the present, she thought. “I have to confess somethin’ to you, and beg your pardon on both knees.”

  His fingers stilled on her skin, and she could sense he was struggling to pay attention, aware this was important. “What is it, then?”

  She swallowed. “The real reason Owens wanted to kill me was because he wanted you for himself. He didn’t work for Solonik—it was strictly personal. He even apologized.” She could feel the gooseflesh rise on her arms, remembering. “He realized I was a rival, and wanted to eliminate me so that he could take my place.”

  Acton lay very still and said nothing. She continued, “I didn’t want to tell you; I was afraid—I was afraid it cut a little too close. And I didn’t think it would matter.”

  But it had; Acton had instigated this crackin’ bloodbath and for his final vengeance, had framed Solonik for the murder of his own brother-in-law. Each of the warring tribes would be left in ruins and at least one kingpin would go to prison; it was a brilliant strategy and it had Acton’s fingerprints all over it—not that anyone knew but her. And Williams, apparently. No wonder Williams had been so swiftly promoted; he was Acton’s man, and Acton needed him to rise through the ranks so that he could be of use. She wondered for a moment why someone like Williams would be ripe for such an unorthodox alliance; it did not seem in keeping.

  Acton’s voice, resonating next to her head, interrupted her thoughts. “You could not tell me the truth.”

  “I am so sorry, Michael. I should have.”

  “Not at all; it was my fault, after all, that you couldn’t speak the truth.”

  This was unexpected, but very much in keeping with the whole Section Seven thing; she could do no wrong. “No, you knocker—I should have made a clean breast.”

  “I will seek therapy; you should not have to guard what you say to me.”

  “I’m not leavin’.” She knew instinctively this was why he was making such an effort to be a normal couple; to relinquish his intense privacy. He didn’t want her to abandon ship.

  “You should not have to guard what you say to me,” he repeated, his diction very public-school.

  “We will see,” she temporized, mainly because she could not be easy about such a plan. It did not seem that this particular secret should be shared with anyone, except maybe a stout-hearted priest.

  There was a silence for a few moments, and he evidenced no desire to lift himself off her squashed but compliant body. Smiling to herself, she gently kissed his throat, but it seemed he was not marshaling his energy for another go, but was instead thinking about what she had revealed. “Did you discover why Owens was at the Kempton Park course in the first place? He was a professional—there must have been a reason.”

  Leave it to Acton to think of this; she had not considered this particular loose end, what with being shot and then hiding the truth from her husband. She knit her brow, trying to remember what the raving lunatic had said even though she never wanted to think about it again. “He made some comment about infiltratin’ the course for some reason—he was pursuin’ a relationship with the dead trainer for business.”

  There was a pause. “Did he mention Savoie?”

  “No. What is Sav-waa?” She was not good with words, and this was a strange one.

  There was a small pause, and she knew he was in the process of deciding he was too drunk to discuss whatever it was with her, so she threw his own words back at him. “Michael, you shouldn’t have to guard what you say to me.”

  “Savoie is a person; a Frenchman.”

  This was little enough to go on, but it was enough, and her scalp prickled. “Is this Savoie character a bit reedy, and does he have a tattoo on his neck?”

  “Most certainly not. Why?” This was apparently interesting enough to inspire him to rise up on his elbows and look down at her.

  “The walk-in—the driver from the course. Munoz said he was wearin’ a fine French watch even though he was a bit rough around the edges. I had the impression he was wary, and he asked if I was married.”

  “That is of interest.”

  Mother a’ mercy, she thought; were we dealing with the wrong kingpin, all along? Small wonder Lestrade was wary and confused, if Acton was laying waste to the wrong tribe.

  Her vengeful-but-mistaken husband had lapsed into silence, and she decided he could do his thinking at home where there was no danger his assistant could walk in at any moment. She helped him to straighten up, kissing him repeatedly, and coaxed him down to the premium garage where the Range Rover was parked. He was a bit unsteady on his feet, and she wondered how much scotch was needed to make him so. Without a protest, he allowed her to seat him in the passenger seat, and then she slid behind the wheel, hoping she wouldn’t crash his fine car between here and home. After adjusting the seat so that she could reach the pedals, she unsuccessfully tried to put the gearshift into reverse. He leaned over and showed her that the device had to be pulled to one side to achieve reverse; she tried and it stalled. Unable to help it, she started to giggle.

  “Dosser,” he accused, imitating her accent.

  Laughing, she pulled his head to hers to kiss him, openmouthed, and then they were havin’ at it once again, even though there was little enough room in the passenger seat. Thank God the windows are tinted, thought Doyle; the video surveillance people at the Met were not known for their discretion.

  CHAPTER 30

  He was happy, and the nice lady was happy, too, he told himself as he tried to ignore the mashetani, who hovered so close that he could hear the beating of their wings. Her husband would take care of her—he was a strong man, a shujaa. There was little he could do, after all—and they had fled from the old country so that he would not to be forced to fight. The new God said be not afraid, but it was easier to flee.

  AT DOYLE’S REQUEST THE NEXT MORNING, ACTON ACCOMPA- nied her to the corner store so that she could purchase a supply of the prepackaged fruit pies. When he saw the product in question, however, he was quick to express his general disbelief and horror that she would be inclined to eat such a thing.

  “Isn’t it strange?” she agreed. “But for some reason they’re very appealin’, Michael, and I suppose I should be makin’ up for lost time.” She glanced at him sidelong. “It’s burnin’ up the calories at an alarmin’ rate, I am.” After the lovemaking session in the car, there had been an additional session in the middle of the night that seemed to be over before she fully woke up for it. The cure had worked, and now he seemed himself again, thank the saints and holy martyrs who may not have wholly approved of the remedy administered. “But I have to have a care; if I don’t limit myself to a daily ration of these things, I’ll be enormously fat and you’ll be unable to lift me onto your desk, if the need arises.”

  He smiled, but was preoccupied, as he had been since the revelations of the night before. By contrast, she was in high spirits; she had made her confession, Acton’s dejection had passed, she was no longer miserably sick, and the despicable poisoner had conveniently relieved them of the time and trouble of bringing her to justice—although Doyle could not approve of suicide. The only cloud on the horizon—and it was a crackin’ great big black one—was his mother. If she was involved in Marta’s attempt, she could very well try again—although perhaps the failure of the plan had discouraged her from such a course; by nature, a poisoner was not a bold creature. Another discussion about what was to be done was needful, but she eyed Acton and equivocated; she didn’t want to set him off again—they were out of scotch.

  It was the weekend, and since Reynolds did not work on the weekends, Doyle had phoned him that morning to tell him of Marta’s death so that he was aware the threat had passed and no further attempts would be made. Reynolds, as unperturbed as ever, expressed his satisfaction with thi
s turn of events, and further expressed to Doyle, in measured terms, that he owed her his life.

  “Reynolds,” she reminded him, “if it wasn’t for me you would never have been in danger in the first place.”

  “Nevertheless, I am grateful, madam.” The brown paper wrapping around the plant had contained a mercuric alkaloid ; he would have been dead within minutes. Acton had traced the plant’s purchase and discovered it was paid for in cash and there was no CCTV tape—a dead end. This information, however, only added to the conviction that Marta had not acted alone; it was hard to imagine the woman going to such sophisticated lengths as to poison the paper wrapper on a plant.

  Upon returning to the flat, Doyle happily sat at the kitchen table to eat one of the pies, noting that Acton had to avert his eyes from such an appalling sight. “I should mix it in a bowl with Chinese food,” she teased him. “You’d never be comin’ near me again.”

  To belie this accusation, he came over and kissed her full on the mouth, his hands cradling her head, and she experienced a jolt of blissful happiness—although it may have been only in comparison to how wretched she had been recently. Acton’s kiss made her consider postponing her lunch date with Caroline, but she decided she’d rather just have it done with. She had agreed to meet for lunch today, mainly because she couldn’t come up with a plausible excuse quickly enough—for a detective, she wasn’t always very fast on her feet.

  “After an hour and a half,” she instructed Acton, “you must phone me and insist that I come home. I just don’t want it to turn into an entire afternoon.”

  “I will set my watch,” he agreed.

  Caroline texted to say she was downstairs, and when Doyle came into the lobby, the other woman greeted her by kissing her cheek. Doyle returned the favor as warmly as she was able; she wasn’t a casual kisser, herself. As the weather was turning, Doyle had worn her heavy coat and Caroline expressed her admiration as they walked outside. “Cashmere,” she said, brushing it with an appreciative hand. “Acton chose it, I imagine.”