Murder in Retribution (A New Scotland Yard Mystery)

by Anne Cleeland

  Doyle almost gaped, and had to resist the urge to look up in surprise. This must be why Acton had brought her in on this unorthodox interview—even though up to now he’d been keeping her well away from it; he needed to know if Solonik was behind the attack against her. It was a valid theory, she supposed; Solonik could have enlisted Marta to take his own vengeance for Acton’s unexplained war on him. And such a turn of events would only illustrate exactly why you stayed out of the vengeance business—it never ends.

  The other man said slowly, “I do not understand.”

  Acton did not yield. “Answer the question—did you arrange to deliver anything to my flat?”

  Doyle glanced up, to see the other man watching Acton, a speculative look in his eye. “No.” It was the truth. “I have heard that you have taken a young wife, Chief Inspector. Perhaps she has taken a lover, and it is he who sends her gifts.”

  But this insinuation did not rattle her husband, who returned, “I have heard you have a young son in St. Petersburg. It is a simple thing to replace a wife; it is not so simple, when a man is in prison, to replace a son.”

  Saints, thought Doyle, trying to decide where to look; little chance of finding this particular interrogation technique in any police manual.

  His unreadable gaze on the other man, Acton continued, “We understand each other?”

  Solonik nodded. “Yes. Speak to the solicitor.”

  Acton tapped his tablet with an emphatic forefinger. “Who is in the photo?”

  “I do not know,” the other reiterated, and Doyle brushed her hair back.

  Acton watched the other man thoughtfully for a moment, then indicated to Doyle that they would leave. As she walked out, Solonik called to her, “Wexton prison is not far, rizhaya. You must visit me, yes?”

  Doyle did not respond, and she and Acton walked out to the car in silence. Once they were out of earshot, Doyle reported in a low tone: “He did not arrange to have anything delivered, and was genuinely surprised by the question. He knew the man in the photo immediately. He was surprised about the Russian question; perhaps the man is not Russian. It was not a staged attack; the other indeed wished to kill him.”

  “Then why protect him?” Acton was deep in thought, and Doyle didn’t interrupt him—she was a bit on end, and trying to regain her equilibrium. A very bad actor was to be put away, but Acton’s behind-the-scenes staging had led to his arrest, and Acton had no problem threatening more behind-the-scenes staging to elicit the information he wanted. Solonik would cooperate because Acton made a thinly-veiled threat in response to Solonik’s thinly-veiled threat. It was all like a knife fight with no rules; a bit shocking to a young constable, steeped in protocol and training. Did the ends justify the means? Acton obviously thought so. She thought about how Solonik had flirted with her, and wondered if he would ever discover she was, in fact, Acton’s wife.

  Turning her mind to the present investigation, she took an educated guess, based mainly on the fact Acton had been careful not to show her the photograph. “Do you think the attacker was Munoz’s Sergey?”

  Acton glanced at her but hesitated in responding. Annoyed because he was still trying to leave her out of it, she persisted, “You might want to talk to Munoz; maybe she can tell you somethin’.”

  “I have talked to Munoz.”

  “Oh,” said Doyle crossly. “You are bein’ so tiresome, Michael.”

  He was unapologetic. “I don’t want you involved. These are bad characters.”

  Without responding, she looked out her window in the car to let him know she was annoyed. It was a continuing problem ; he would rather she spent her time knitting at home, except he would probably put a flippin’ cork on the flippin’ needles so that she wouldn’t flippin’ prick herself. Her job was dangerous, and they had agreed that he could control her assignments to suit his anxiety level, which unfortunately appeared to allow only for a parking ticket detail. She chafed at it, even as she acknowledged he had a valid concern; they had been married less than two months and thus far she had been both shot and poisoned. Still and all, it was a shame he hadn’t fixated on a woman who would love to be pampered and treated like a flippin’ princess in a flippin’ tower.

  She took a long breath and withdrew the thought immediately; it’s not a shame, she amended. I want him and I wouldn’t trade him for anyone, nicked or not. She just needed to face facts and quit being such a baby; there was no shame to being an obscure DC, working behind the scenes—it was not as though she craved fame. “Home?” she asked, to show him that she was done sulking.

  He took her hand. “Office. Before prosecution can cut a deal with the solicitor, I need to speak to the DCS and see what I have. I will drop you off.”

  “I’d rather stay with you.”

  He looked at her, amused. “I do need to work.”

  She assured him, “I will be as prim as a nun, Michael; and remain fully clothed.”

  CHAPTER 33

  DOYLE DIDN’T WANT TO GO FETCH HER OWN LAPTOP, SO SHE looked through some of the manuals Acton kept on his shelves whilst he participated in a conference call with the prosecutor and Solonik’s solicitor. It sounded as though the solicitor was surprised by Solonik’s sudden capitulation—the poor man was a step behind, it seemed—but they were rapidly coming to terms. There was some discussion about the security measures needed at the prison; apparently Acton would keep his word, and see to it that Solonik was protected from the wrath of other prisoners. Perhaps he’d need a favor someday with his guns-running operation—she was fast coming to the realization that her husband tended to hedge his bets.

  Acton rang off and she glanced up, hopeful, but then he rang up someone else, deep in thought. She wondered how much longer he’d be, but did not want to interrupt and so she opened a bloodstains binder and thumbed through it, listening to the negotiations with half an ear. By the tenor of the conversations, she guessed he was speaking to the detective chief superintendent.

  “He’ll plead to twenty years and has agreed to tell us what he knows; we may be able to bring in some others.”

  He listened for a moment. “I wouldn’t recommend letting the Home Secretary’s people put a finger in; Solonik’s very good at manipulation. Next thing we know he’ll be playing them against us and he’ll have them giving him immunity just to spite us.”

  The DCS was apparently in agreement. “Good,” said Acton. “And stay alert for any unexplained reluctance to prosecute over there; Solonik is an expert at digging up blackmail.”

  So is Acton, thought Doyle; and Acton apparently held the trump card, because Solonik capitulated immediately. After all—as Acton had pointed out—a mere wife is replaceable.

  Acton was disagreeing about something. “No; I would keep it as quiet as possible. We wouldn’t want someone getting to him before he gives us what he knows.”

  He listened and was apparently asked to give a prediction as to how helpful Solonik would, in fact, be. “I am skeptical, frankly. He may give us enough to keep us interested, but he may purposefully give misinformation to serve his own ends.”

  The DCS must have expressed some dismay over this, because Acton reassured him, “No—to some extent he must play it straight; he will have reason, believe me.”

  Whether he gives good information or not, at least he’s off the streets for twenty years, thought Doyle, which is to the good. If he survives in prison, that is; he’d already been attacked in custody. She realized that Sergey must have been poking about the Met for the express purpose of planning the attack on Solonik—no wonder Munoz was out of sorts; if Acton had questioned her about Sergey, she must have felt like a fool. I tried to warn her, thought Doyle, with a twinge of self-righteous satisfaction, but she didn’t want to hear it.

  Doyle realized that the manual she was holding was the one that Owens, the raving lunatic, had put together as a project for Acton, before he tried to kill her. Owens had expressed an interest in the science of bloodstains, and Acton had asked him to put tog
ether demonstrative photographs. The project had been a ploy, though; Acton suspicioned that Owens was the killer, and wanted to keep the man close to hand.

  Doyle looked through the photographs, repulsed and fascinated at the same time. One of the photographs portrayed a victim Owens had killed himself. Sick, she thought; how he must have enjoyed putting this together—proud of his handiwork, he was.

  The photograph was of a woman who had been shot in the face. Giselle, thought Doyle, although she was unrecognizable. Doyle and Acton had interviewed the woman at the Laughing Cat pub, and the next day she had been murdered as a result. They’d been gathering information about the Kempton Park racecourse murder, and Owens must have been afraid she would talk. She wasn’t Irish, but she had doings with the Sinn-split people, who were thick on the ground at the Laughing Cat.

  Doyle suddenly remembered where she had heard the name Rourke. The victim from Newmarket was named Rourke, and the owner of the Laughing Cat pub was also named Rourke. It was a common enough name, but Acton often said he didn’t believe in coincidences.

  Acton was still on the phone with the DCS as Doyle approached and silently indicated she wanted to use his laptop. He nodded, and she shifted it toward her and pulled up the file on the Newmarket murder. A photo of the victim was found; Todd Rourke. She minimized it and pulled up the list of witnesses from the Kempton Park investigation. The Laughing Cat owner, Robert Rourke, was on the list. Doyle pulled up his photo and compared the two Rourkes side by side. Not the same person.

  Acton put his hand over his phone and quietly said to her, “Brothers.” She nodded.

  She pondered the photos for a moment, and then felt her scalp prickling as it did when her intuition was making a connection. She pulled up Acton’s surveillance photo of the Belarus man—Sergey—taken the day they had lunch at the deli. She displayed it on the screen next to the photo of Robert Rourke, the Irish pub owner. It was the same person.

  Acton abruptly told the DCS he needed to call back and rang off. He looked at the screen, then at Doyle. “Well done,” he said.

  CHAPTER 34

  ACTON IMMEDIATELY MADE A CALL TO WILLIAMS, EXPLAINING Doyle’s discovery and asking Williams to accompany him to the Laughing Cat to question Robert Rourke.

  He then called forensics and asked them to expedite their analysis with the aim of linking any trace evidence at the Detention Center to Rourke; it would alleviate the need to rely on Solonik’s equivocal identification of his attacker.

  Doyle had been thinking over this latest surprising development, but if anything, it only added to the general confusion. Solonik was apparently trying to protect Rourke, a member of the rival Sinn-split and the man who had tried to kill him—not to mention Solonik’s people had presumably murdered the man’s brother. Why would Solonik try to protect Rourke, even in the face of Acton’s many threats? The two should be bitter enemies. It made little sense, although Doyle now knew why Sergey had been afraid of her; he wanted to stay well away from someone who could expose his deception.

  They were to meet Williams in the premium parking garage, as Acton wanted Williams to accompany him to the pub. Hopefully, Rourke would betray himself during questioning somehow. They could always bring him in for a short hold, but unless they could link him to the attack on Solonik, they had little on which to hold him—it was no crime to impersonate a Russian to impress a girl.

  As they waited for Williams, Doyle asked in as neutral a tone as she was able, “Am I to come along with the both of you?”

  Acton’s own tone was even, and she knew he’d been anticipating the question. “I’d prefer that you wait in the car. It was a mistake to put you in the same room as Solonik.”

  He said nothing further, and Doyle struggled mightily to control her resentful self. It seemed so unfair—it was her catch, after all, and besides, she would know if the man was lying. She tried to remember her new attitude, and her resolution to accept the situation; Acton was as he was and he was not going to place her in danger. The personal was more important than the professional. Grow up, Doyle; don’t be bitter. Her self-scolding didn’t help much, and when Williams arrived at the scene—all bright-eyed and ready to break the case, he was—she had a hard time controlling the sulks.

  Acton realized he’d forgotten to bring his tablet with the surveillance photograph, and so he went back to his office to retrieve it, leaving Doyle and Williams standing by the lift to wait for him. After a moment of silence, Williams asked, “Is everything all right?”

  “No, it is not,” she replied shortly. She refused to look at him, but could feel him watching her.

  In a serious tone he said quietly, “If you ever are in need of help, I will help you, you know. You need only ask.”

  This caught her attention, and she stared at him a little blankly. She could see that Williams was genuinely concerned about her, and she was suddenly reminded that she shouldn’t be alone with him. In her present mood, if he was going to think about kissing her again she would belt him one, she would. She could take him—as long as he didn’t fight back.

  Williams hesitated, and then added, “He was in a bad way, last night. Not himself.”

  “That he was,” she agreed, wondering how Williams knew. Then the light dawned. “Williams,” Doyle said with some heat, “Acton doesn’t beat me.”

  He was acutely embarrassed. “I only meant—”

  “I don’t need you to be protectin’ me from my own husband.”

  “Kath—,” he said, trying to defend himself.

  “And don’t call me Kath,” she retorted through her teeth, furious with him for taking her place on the case and for even thinking that Acton could mistreat her. “I’ll be takin’ no advice nor help from the likes o’ you; I can very ably handle meself.”

  “I didn’t mean to suggest—”

  “Oh, yes you did; you are hopin’ for a chance to pick up the pieces and don’t be denyin’ it.”

  But this was an accusation too far, and Williams was now angry in turn. “You needn’t be so sharp; I had every reason to be concerned—Acton was not himself last night.”

  Enraged, she retorted, “He certainly seemed like himself when we had sex on the desk—”

  “Stop,” he demanded, white with fury.

  “No—you stop,” she hissed. “Enough, Williams.”

  The doors for the lift slid open, and Acton stepped out into what was obviously a heated argument between them. He was surprised, and looked from one to the other.

  “I lost my temper with Williams,” Doyle confessed immediately. She faced the other man, saying with constraint, “I was unforgivably rude, Williams; I am wretchedly sorry.”

  Williams had also brought himself under control and replied stiffly, “No; the fault was entirely mine.”

  There was a small silence. Doyle refused to look at either of them.

  “Then let’s go,” said Acton.

  They got into Acton’s car, Doyle and Williams each insisting that the other take the front seat. As they made their way to the Laughing Cat, Acton and Williams discussed possible strategies in questioning Rourke while Doyle listened and made an occasional subdued suggestion. I am a trial to my poor husband, she thought.

  As it turned out, Rourke was not at the pub and when they asked at his residence, he was not there, either. The personnel at each location were a little vague about where he was or when he was expected. Acton concluded they had little choice but to await the lab results; hopefully an arrest warrant could be issued if the missing man could be linked to the attack ; if nothing else, they could say they were investigating the very real possibility that the Irishman was illegally running numbers from the pub.

  After concluding this unfruitful exercise, they returned to the Met, and Williams was dropped at his car. He and Doyle had been scrupulously polite to one another, but they hadn’t made eye contact. As she drove away with Acton, Doyle looked out her window and bitterly regretted her flippin’ temper. I never learn my lesson;
I never stop to think about the consequences, she chastised herself with shame. Someday it’s going to catch up with me, it is.

  After a moment, Acton offered in a conversational tone, “If you don’t tell me, I am afraid I may presume the worst.”

  “It was so stupid, Michael. He said somethin’ and I took offense.” She felt an absurd desire to cry. “I am too ashamed to tell you.”

  “Should I speak to him?”

  Doyle was not sure how much he guessed. “No; least said, soonest mended, my mother would say. It will blow over.” She managed a smile. “My flippin’ temper.”

  Acton said quietly, “Remember your promise—I am to get a warning.”

  “Michael,” she said in exasperation, pressing her palms to her eyes. “Don’t be an idiot.”

  By the time they arrived back at the flat and had ordered some food, Doyle had found her feet again and miserably repented of her outburst with Williams—she had no idea how she was going to face him again, after what she’d said.

  Acton was at his desk, working on his laptop, and to take her mind off her misery, Doyle walked over to see what he was researching. She needn’t have bothered; Acton was viewing the garage’s CCTV footage of her argument with Williams. Thankfully, there was no sound recording.

  “Oh,” she said. “How humiliatin’.”

  “You are very attractive when you are angry,” he said mildly. “Not the best strategy to take, perhaps.”

  She said fairly, “He has never crossed the line, Michael.” Best not to mention that he wanted to. “It will sort itself out, I promise; I was spoilin’ for a fight.”

  “Speaking of which,” said Acton, “I received a letter from my mother in the post today.”

  Saints, she thought in surprise; all it needed was this. “And?”

  “Read it.” He gave it to her.

  The letter was on heavy vellum, with the Acton coat of arms imprinted at the top in its understated splendor. My dear son, it said. Your wife may have informed you that I had a visit with her the other day. While I cannot endorse your choice, I found her not wholly lacking in redeeming qualities. Perhaps you will bring her to Trestles in the near future. There may have been a misunderstanding which offended; please convey my apologies if this is indeed the case.