Doyle overlooked what may have been an aspersion on her own taste and agreed. “He did indeed—he told me I needed a proper coat.” It was black, three-quarter length with a fur-lined hood; it was entirely unlike anything Doyle had ever owned, and truth to tell, she felt a bit ambivalent about walking about in such an expensive thing. She wore it because Acton liked it, and said it went well with her hair.
“He is very generous with you, I think.”
Again, Doyle sensed an underlying unkindness that had not been evident when last they met. She had the impression Caroline was amusing herself, thinking Doyle was not clever enough to recognize the implied insults. Honestly; if the woman was only being nice to her in front of Acton, then why set up this lunch date? Doyle would much rather be with Acton, trading sexual innuendos. With this in mind, Doyle was able to answer mildly, “He is a giver, that man.” Three times last evening, in fact. Behave, she warned herself.
They were to walk to the fashionable café Caroline had selected, and although Doyle had made up her mind to be friendly, her resolution was tested almost immediately. Aiki was in front of the building, leaning against his cab and reading a newspaper, which Doyle noted was in English. Good one, Aiki, she thought, and said, “Bonjour,” having practiced it with Acton.
Aiki dropped the paper and smiled his white smile. “Bonjour,” he replied with delight. He then added something in rapid French which Doyle didn’t understand, and so she spread her hands helplessly whilst he laughed.
“Come along,” said Caroline, taking Doyle’s arm. “You must remember your station, Kathleen.”
This was uncalled-for, and Doyle gently rebuked her companion. “Aiki drives me to work, Caroline; Acton put him on a retainer so that he’s always here if I need him. We are friends.”
Caroline glanced at her in acute surprise, her disapproval palpable. “Kathleen, you are Lady Acton, now. You mustn’t encourage people like that—who are only trying to make up to you. It reflects poorly on Acton.”
Doyle was speechless, as this stricture was wrong on so many levels she didn’t know which to address first. Instead, on reflection, she said nothing; best not to lose her temper before they’d gone fifty paces.
Caroline interpreted her silence for acquiescence and pulled Doyle’s arm through hers approvingly. “You will learn how to go on—it’s only a matter of becoming accustomed. Isn’t it lovely, to be out and about, just the two of us? And I have something for you.” She pulled a security card from her purse and presented it to Doyle. “Here is my key; I hope you will not stand on ceremony, and will drop over anytime you like—just us girls.”
It was falsely hearty but true, and Doyle gave her points for trying to make the usurper feel welcome. “Thank you, Caroline ; I appreciate it.”
“I thought perhaps you could come over from time to time and I could give you lessons in comportment—discreetly, of course; no one need know. You wouldn’t feel as lost.”
Then again, perhaps the points had been awarded too hastily. Rather than refuse outright, Doyle said only, “You are very kind, Caroline.”
They arrived at the café for lunch, and Caroline ordered wine for both of them before Doyle demurred, saying she would have water, instead, as she did not drink alcohol. Caroline apologized; she had assumed Doyle hadn’t been drinking due to her condition. This naturally led to an expression of sorrow about the miscarriage which Doyle took in good part. The other woman then lowered her voice. “If you need any advice of a medical nature, you may always ask me. It may be too embarrassing to ask a male doctor.”
Doyle expressed her appreciation for the offer, having no idea what was meant. If she is going to start giving me advice about sex, Doyle thought, I am going to fall out of my chair.
Watching her reaction, Caroline hid her frustration and was more explicit. “Are you using birth control?”
Deciding this was none of her business, Doyle simply replied, “Yes,” meaning if they were going to rely on Acton’s controlling himself, the births would be many and plentiful.
“Good,” said the other woman, leaning back in satisfaction as she reviewed the menu. “Acton must have been taken by surprise last time; I know he doesn’t want children.”
Doyle hid her reaction by studying her own menu. It was possible Acton had expressed such a view in the past, but things had definitely changed; he had said it was wonderful news that she was pregnant, and it had been the pure truth. He wanted to father a child on her—perhaps as part of his need to bind her irrevocably to him. In any event, it was time to change the subject. “Tell me, Caroline; what it was like—the four of you such friends at university together?”
This was the correct tack, as it allowed Caroline to recite their history and make it clear that Doyle was merely a looker-in. “I was two years behind the others, but I met Acton through Tim. They shared some classes—music, I believe, and biology. Tim became Acton’s good friend, and Fiona was in Tim’s study group.” She smiled at the memory. “It was a challenging time—except for Acton, who was always so brilliant. We spent a great deal of time together, and we were very close-knit.”
She thinks this is true, thought Doyle as she listened politely, even though I know Acton is nowhere near as fond of her as he is of Timothy, and no one is close to Acton—not even me, although I believe I am as close as he will allow. And I think Caroline is one of those people whose own unhappiness makes them want to take jabs at others. If I pointed out to her that she speaks in a way that is unkind, or does not show me to advantage, she would be aghast and apologetic; then she would keep doing it.
“Of course, Acton and Fiona were extremely close; her death was a terrible blow.” Caroline carefully kept her gaze on her wineglass; the words said in a way to make it clear there was more to be said, but that she was refraining.
Annoyed, Doyle offered up her own little jab. “I hadn’t realized you were aware they had an affair.”
Caroline lifted her gaze in surprise. “Acton told you?”
How else would I know? thought Doyle, but instead answered mildly, “Yes, of course.” She regretted the comment; she should better control her wretched tongue. There was no point in retaliating with this kind of person; it would only result in escalating the covert hostility.
But before Caroline could marshal a pointed response, they were unexpectedly joined by Timothy and Acton himself. Her husband met her eyes, and Doyle nearly laughed aloud. He has come to rescue me, she thought. Good one.
CHAPTER 31
“ACTON,” CAROLINE LAUGHED. “YOU ARE AFRAID YOUR WIFE is revealing all your secrets, I see. How did you know we were here?”
The GPS in my mobile, thought Doyle, and waited with interest to hear what he would say.
“Educated guess,” he replied easily, and indicated to the waitress that more place settings would be needed.
“Yes, we would be delighted if you would join us.”
Interesting, Doyle thought; she is not at all happy about this development—she must have wanted to prime me for information, not that I would have given her any. I suppose I could have told her that Acton beats me, which probably would have been welcome news.
“Have you ordered?” Timothy looked over the menu while Doyle leaned over to help him decide what he would like, and the next hour was spent more pleasurably than she could have hoped. Acton, as always, spent more time listening than speaking, and Timothy entertained them with tales of yesterday’s cases at the charity clinic.
“Goiters, and pertussis—diseases I’ve only seen in medical school books. And there is such ignorance and superstition; it is very difficult to convince the new mothers to inoculate their children because they believe we mean to harm them.”
“How do you manage it?” Doyle was secretly sympathetic, feeling as she did about needles.
The doctor sighed. “It’s slow going. One evening as we were cleaning up, there was a knock at the back door. It was one of the young mothers, and she wanted to inoculate her infant
. She would only do it under cover of darkness and anonymously, so that none of her friends would know. It is so frustrating; if she would tell the others they would see no harm was done, and they would be encouraged.”
“Who funds the clinic?” asked Doyle.
“Holy Trinity Church, mostly; along with other donors. We never charge for treatment, but the patients will nonetheless try to pay me. Oftentimes it is some inedible offering that I must pretend to enjoy.”
They laughed; Timothy liked plain food, plainly served. Such a nice man, thought Doyle, and with a good heart—even though he had a lucrative practice, he spent two days a month at the clinic. She should be volunteering somewhere, herself; she didn’t have a talent to share, but surely an extra hand would be appreciated.
“Who does your cooking, now?” asked Caroline of Acton; the question made it clear she had dismissed Doyle as incapable.
“We have a new domestic named Reynolds,” Doyle volunteered, just to show she was up to speed.
“Is that so? And is he satisfactory?”
Acton made no response, and so Doyle replied, “Yes, we’re very pleased with him.”
Timothy asked, “Is Marta back at Trestles, then?”
There was a pause. Saints, thought Doyle; this will not sound good.
“Marta is dead,” Acton announced in his abrupt way.
Timothy and Caroline stared in silence. Acton seemed disinclined to elaborate, so Doyle disclosed, “Unfortunately, she’s killed herself.”
“A shame,” said Timothy. “When was this?”
“A day ago.” Grand, thought Doyle—it sounds as though I threw her out and drove her to suicide.
“I can’t imagine taking my own life,” Timothy mused, rather shocked. “There is too much to hope for.”
“It would show a lack of faith,” agreed Doyle.
“I don’t know,” said Caroline. “I think you can never know what another person’s life is like—perhaps it became unbearable.”
To Timothy and me, it would be unthinkable, thought Doyle. Acton and Caroline, on the other hand, are another story—she had little doubt that Acton was capable of taking his own life. Not that such a thing would happen now; he wouldn’t leave her under any circumstances. Struck by this, she explored the thought. I do keep him happy, and it’s not just the fixation—the man delights in me, he does. She found his gaze resting on her, and so she smiled at him.
“It is clear you two are newlyweds,” teased Caroline in mock-chagrin. “And here I hoped to have Kathleen to myself.”
As if on cue, Acton glanced at his watch. “I’m afraid I must spirit her away.”
“I won’t have it, Acton,” Caroline protested with a smile. “I was going to take her shopping and help her put together some outfits to impress you.”
Again, an implied insult, thought Doyle. But I won’t let it bother me; Acton is at his most impressed when I am not wearing anything, anyway.
“I’m afraid its work-related, Caroline. We are going to interrogate a suspect who has been hospitalized.”
This was true, and Doyle hid her surprise. They must be going to see Solonik, and Acton needed a truth-detector, after all.
“Another time, then. I will have your promise, Kathleen.”
“Of course,” Doyle agreed, thinking it unlikely. She had gained the distinct impression that Acton was unhappy, and didn’t want her to converse privately with Caroline. On board with that, she thought.
They rose and said their good-byes, and then she and Acton walked back toward the flat while the McGonigals departed in the other direction. Doyle waited a few moments, but Acton walked in silence, and seemed deep in thought. “Thank you,” she said finally. “I was havin’ uncharitable thoughts, I was.”
“I think you should avoid her. She does not mean well by you.”
This was true, and Doyle gazed at him thoughtfully, but he did not elaborate. He would not say it unless he meant it. It didn’t matter; she had already come to the same conclusion and she was tired of talking about Caroline. She put her hand through his arm. “I’m to visit the wounded Mr. Solonik, then?”
“If you would. I would like to ask a few questions.”
Again, the maddening man wouldn’t elaborate, and so Doyle ventured, “The attack on him made little sense. I was wonderin’ if perhaps it was preplanned so that he could more easily escape from the infirmary. That would explain why he didn’t raise an alarm, and instead let the attacker take a bunk.”
“I don’t know what I think.” After a moment, he continued, “He is a very dangerous man, and I would appreciate it if you would stand quietly and say as little as possible, please.”
She teased, “That’s askin’ a lot of me, Michael.”
But he met her gaze with his own serious one. “Not a laughing matter, I’m afraid.”
“Sorry—I will be silent as the grave.”
He nearly recoiled, and she mentally chastised herself for her poor choice of words. Still touchy, he was.
CHAPTER 32
DOYLE AND ACTON SHOWED THEIR IDENTIFICATION AT THE INfirmary’s security suite, and went through a rigorous security check; after the episode with the fake solicitor, no chances were being taken. They arrived at the room, and were asked to show identification once again to the guard who was posted outside the door, although the man had immediately risen when he recognized Acton. On occasion, Doyle had been inside a prison to question a witness or a suspect, and she heartily disliked the experience, being one who was so attuned to undercurrents and atmosphere. Unimaginable, to have to reside day after day in so bleak a place—having no hope of being free to wander about for the foreseeable future. It went against her nature completely, and she was well-aware that Acton had arranged just this kind of future for the man he thought had masterminded the attack on her. Glancing at her husband, she wondered if he had any regrets, and then decided it was unlikely; Acton was not one to dwell on past mistakes. Instead, he would think the world well-rid of a criminal, and move on to the next case.
She entered the fortified, windowless room after Acton, and saw that Solonik was lying in the hospital bed, bound with restraints and hooked to an IV from which she averted her eyes. The bandaged corner of a dressing was exposed at the neck of his hospital gown, near his throat. The attacker had meant to slash his throat, then, which was probably the most lethal option when the blade was a small one. Solonik looked like the image in Thackeray’s photograph, and he watched them enter with interest, his dark eyes focused on his visitors. Acton said nothing to him and did not introduce Doyle, so she stood against the wall in her best imitation of a DC poised to take notes. She didn’t lift her gaze, but could feel Solonik’s eyes resting upon her.
“Rizhaya,” he said. “That is what we call hair that color. Like a beautiful sunset.”
Doyle made no response and Acton ignored him, instead pulling up a photograph on his tablet. He approached Solonik and showed it to him. “Do you recognize this man?”
Solonik looked at it carefully. Doyle had the impression he recognized him immediately, but was wary. “Perhaps,” he equivocated.
“Is he Russian?” asked Acton.
Solonik is surprised by the question, thought Doyle, and is trying to hide his surprise. “I do not know every rooskiy in England, Chief Inspector.”
Acton referred to the photograph. “Is this the man who attacked you?”
Solonik pretended to study the photograph, but continued wary. “It is possible. I did not get a close look at him.” This was untrue, and Doyle brushed her hair back.
“Did he say anything to you?”
“No.” This was true.
“Do you think his intent was to kill you?”
Solonik looked amused. “It would seem so, certainly.” True again.
Acton leaned forward. “Who is he?”
Solonik tilted his head to the side and hunched his shoulders, but then winced because it hurt. “I know not.”
Doyle paused to brush h
er hair off her forehead with the hand that held her pen.
“Shall I call for your solicitor? I would like to know why you are protecting this man.”
Solonik was surprised and dismayed, but he stared at Acton without evidencing this. “Why do you think I am protecting him? I do not know him, and he tried to kill me. You make no sense, Chief Inspector.”
Acton regarded him for a long moment, and then with a resigned gesture, closed the photograph. “If you will not cooperate, I cannot give you assurances.”
The other man was suddenly alert, and seemed to be reassessing. He asked slowly, “What kind of assurances?”
Acton stood before him, implacable. “The evidence shows you murdered Barayev. Your solicitors are putting up a brave front, but you and I both know you are going to prison. You are a dangerous man—who knows, perhaps there are even more murders which would implicate you under the Anti-Terrorism Act. If this is the case, you could wind up in a Category A prison—Maghaberry, perhaps.” Acton paused, to let the man picture his future in a maximum-security Irish prison. “I imagine you would be a marked man.”
Solonik sat very still, never taking his eyes off Acton. Despite his unreadable expression, he was emanating waves of hatred and frustrated rage, the intensity of which made Doyle drop her gaze.
There was a small silence, and then Acton continued, “Or, perhaps you will not be implicated in any others, in which case you would no doubt be placed in a Category B—Wexton is a possibility.” Doyle listened in surprise; the reference was to a moderate-security prison on the outskirts of greater London, currently in the director-general’s black book because the guards had been caught taking bribes.
Solonik’s gaze traveled to Doyle, who had not betrayed by the flicker of an eyelash her realization that the law enforcement officer was threatening a suspect with trumped-up murder charges. “Why should I trust you?”
“Perhaps you shouldn’t, but I will have some answers from you, or all bets are off. Did you arrange for anyone to make a delivery to my flat?”
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