Murder in Retribution (A New Scotland Yard Mystery)

by Anne Cleeland

  Doyle couldn’t help laughing. “I threw her out, Michael, bag and baggage.”

  “Good one,” he replied, imitating her.

  “What do you suppose she wants?” Doyle asked tentatively. They still hadn’t discussed the very real possibility that his mother wanted to kill her, as it was not an easy topic to bring up in everyday conversation. The fact that the woman was trying to lure her to her lair did not bode well.

  “I do not know what she wants, but you will not be subjected to her.”

  “Thank you—she’s terrifyin’; I’d rather face Solonik.”

  But this was apparently the wrong thing to say. “You will never face Solonik again.”

  She ventured to tease him. “I don’t know, Michael—he is fond of redheads and he probably wouldn’t quarrel with me like Williams does. Is he very rich?”

  “Not funny.” But she could see he was amused as he looked at the time. “Are you hungry yet?”

  “Time for another fruit pie,” she announced, and wandered into the kitchen.

  CHAPTER 35

  He closed his eyes, and thought of his home country and the bright, bright sky there—not like here. In his mind, he could see the white clouds against the blue sky—so peaceful. In the end, he could not stand by, could not leave the mganga to face the mashetani with no one to defend her. He thought of his home country, and could hear his grandmother’s voice.

  IN THE MORNING, ACTON MADE READY TO LEAVE FOR HIS FINAL conference with the prosecutor and Solonik’s solicitor; they would go to court to enter the plea deal on the record and formally transfer the Russian into custody. Acton seemed a bit preoccupied, and so she respected his mood and stayed quiet until he departed.

  “I have to do some fieldwork,” he informed her as he shrugged into his coat. “But be certain to check in.”

  “I will, Michael.”

  It was not a day for Reynolds, and so Doyle had the flat to herself as she made ready for work. She enjoyed the solitude—she missed it sometimes, having been on her own for so long before she met Acton. The place was silent; Acton did not use the television unless he was monitoring the news for a case, and he never listened to music, not even in the car. Not very Holmesian, she thought. She remembered that Caroline had said that Acton and Timothy had studied music together, and thought it odd that he would take such a class if he had no interest.

  Unable to resist, she took the opportunity to pull out a package she had hidden away in her drawer. It was a black knit dress; she had seen it displayed in a window several weeks before and had made the purchase on impulse. Pulling it over her head, she regarded herself in the mirror; the last time she had worn a dress was her confirmation, many years ago. It was pretty; Acton would like it, she knew, which was why she bought it in the first place. It had simple lines and he told her she looked well in black. She had no idea when she would wear it, but the comment Caroline had made about her wardrobe stung because it was true; Doyle made little effort. Acton didn’t care, but her appearance did reflect on him and she should at least make an attempt to look the part—perhaps their monumental mismatch wouldn’t be as obvious. The shopgirl had been very kind; not letting on that she thought Doyle was the next thing to a barbarian, so perhaps she could enlist the girl’s aid in the future. A little guidance was needful, but it would have to be someone other than Caroline, who would only set her teeth on edge.

  She turned around and reviewed herself critically over her shoulder. Yes, it was nice. She would buy shoes with heels, perhaps, just to see if she could manage it. And a purse, to put her gun in—couldn’t accessorize an ankle holster, really. After smiling at her reflection, she pulled the dress off again and carefully folded it away.

  The morning was a fine one, crisp and a little cool; the sunlight beginning to slant as it did this time of year. Doyle walked out in front of the building and looked for Aiki, but he was not leaning against his cab waiting for her. Instead, she saw him parked in the taxi queue and seated inside—praying, perhaps; she had the impression he was a spiritual man. She did not want to interrupt him, and so did not approach for a few moments, instead hovering on the sidewalk. He didn’t move, however, and his posture seemed strange—perhaps he was unwell. Tentatively, she walked up the sidewalk to the passenger-side door and leaned down to peer in the window. “Aiki?”

  His only response was to moan softly. Alarmed, she opened the door and slid onto the seat, reaching over to touch him. “Aiki,” she repeated, “are you all right?” He fell sideways toward her and she could see a smear of blood on the seat behind him, and blood pooling on the seat itself. Quashing her horror, she went into police mode, pulling out her mobile as she propped him back up against the seat. “I need an ambulance for a wounded cab driver.” After giving the address, she shouted out the window for the doorman to help. He ran over, and together they pulled Aiki out and laid him carefully on the sidewalk while Doyle wadded up her windbreaker and pressed it against the wound in his back. The concierge came running with a first aid kit, and Doyle replaced her bloody jacket with a bundle of gauze—the blood was only oozing, but Doyle knew he had lost a substantial amount already. Hearing a siren in the distance, she felt his pulse; it was thready and weak. Passersby were beginning to stop and gawk.

  “Aiki,” she commanded in a loud voice, “listen to me; try to stay awake.” His eyelids fluttered open and he mumbled something in what sounded like French. Doyle said to the assemblage, “Does anyone speak French?”

  No one volunteered. Doyle bent over Aiki, holding his hand tightly, her face close to his. “Help is comin’ Aiki—you are goin’ to be all right.”

  Aiki mumbled again. The wound was in the back, so he may not have seen his attacker. “Who did this, Aiki? Do you know?”

  No response. He did not look well, and his eyes were beginning to appear glazed—Doyle had seen that look before, and shied away from the unbidden memory of her dying mother. A small silver crucifix hung around his neck on a chain, exposed where his shirt had been unbuttoned. Doyle stared at it for a moment, then made the sign of the cross and leaned in so that she was inches from his ear. “May the Lord who saves you from sin, save you and raise you up, Aiki.”

  She could see a tiny spark of awareness in his eyes as they opened to meet hers, and she felt a jolt of something—something strange and powerful, that seemed familiar, somehow. She recited what she could remember of the last rites as his eyes closed and, almost imperceptibly, he squeezed her hand. Then he was gone.

  The ambulance came a moment later, but Doyle was already calling for a police unit and wiping away angry tears with the back of her hand. “It’s a homicide investigation now,” she explained to the medical personnel. She showed her ID card. “Thanks, anyway.”

  Pulling herself together, she asked the concierge and the doorman if they had seen anything, anyone arguing with Aiki. They hadn’t noticed anything unusual or suspicious, and at this time in the morning there were many passersby; if he had brought a fare, the doorman did not remember opening the door for the cab.

  Doyle looked up to gauge where the security cameras were, but the cab was not close enough to the entrance to be in the frame. To calm herself, she pulled out her occurrence book and began making notes. The doorman fetched a blanket and respectfully asked if he could cover Aiki; Doyle gave permission but asked that he not touch anything.

  The police unit pulled up and two uniformed PCs alighted; Doyle did not recognize either, as they were from the local station. She introduced herself as a DC, and requested that they call for a SOCO team.

  One of the constables, a world-weary-looking woman, surveyed the scene and offered very practically, “Do you think that’s a good idea? It’s unlikely we’ll be able to isolate anything of interest.”

  Doyle turned on her and said with icy calm, “I am Lady Acton, the chief inspector’s wife, and I would like every possible avenue pursued, if you would not mind.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the woman said immediately, and was on
her mobile, enlisting a SOCO team.

  Doyle’s mobile vibrated, it was Acton. She took the call; he would be wondering why she had not moved from the front of the building. “Michael, Aiki’s been stabbed.”

  “Are you injured?” he asked immediately.

  “No, it happened perhaps a half hour ago.” It was so flippin’ unfair. Poor Aiki.

  “Has he been hospitalized?”

  “No,” she replied. “It was too late.”

  “Do you need me?”

  “No, I’m gettin’ a SOCO team, although it seems hopeless—there’ll be all kinds of prints and trace everywhere.”

  “I’m so sorry, Kathleen.”

  She paused and took a breath. “I’m afraid I invoked the power of your name.”

  “You’re entitled,” he replied gently. “It’s your name, too.”

  She rang off, and put her mind to directing the SOCO team.

  CHAPTER 36

  DOYLE MADE HER APPEARANCE AT WORK JUST AFTER LUNCH, having endured a thoroughly miserable morning. Forensics had duly dusted the cab, inside and out, but Doyle didn’t need to see the glances the team exchanged between them to know it was hopeless; even if they could isolate a suspect’s DNA, any solicitor worth his salt would argue there was nothing to prove that the suspect was a killer as opposed to a mere passenger. The coroner’s people reported that the stab wound was a slim blade, and Doyle immediately thought of the blade that had attacked Solonik, but discarded the thought just as quickly. There could not be a link; she just had stabbings on the brain.

  She then took on the grim task of informing Aiki’s family. After contacting the cab company to verify that the dead man had a wife and child, she explained the situation and was given the address. The cab company spokesman wondered how soon they could have the cab returned from forensics, and Doyle didn’t trust herself to speak for a moment.

  Aiki’s little flat was located in a crowded housing project, and Doyle gently informed the stricken woman that she was now a widow. Wiping away tears, she recited her profound sorrow and described how kind Aiki had been to her. The widow listened and nodded but did not weep, her eyes dry and wide. The weeping comes later, thought Doyle; I remember it all too well. She contacted their parish priest, and waited with the woman until his arrival.

  Acton texted to ask if she was available for lunch, and she felt an almost overwhelming desire to be next to him; such a sad day, truly. “Please,” she texted. She met him in the lobby at headquarters and kissed him, not caring who saw. “I love you,” she said. “I love, love, love you and I don’t tell you near enough. Don’t die.”

  “You are beginning to sound like me,” he replied, and took her arm in a comforting gesture. They walked to a local restaurant and went in; it was too cold to sit outside. She told him of the stabbing, and of her actions afterward while he listened sympathetically. “I was that angry, Michael; it seemed so unfair. He was such a nice man.”

  He warned her, “It is unlikely something like this will ever be solved.”

  “I know, I know, believe me. And the robber was a crackin’ idiot; why rob a cab driver in the mornin’ when he hasn’t made any money yet?”

  “Perhaps money was not the motive. That is not an area where random crime usually occurs.”

  “Then what would it be?” asked Doyle, who’d traced this logic herself. “Did he overhear one of his fares say somethin’, or did he witness somethin’? Even if that was the case, we’ll never find out.”

  “I am sorry, Kathleen, I know you will miss him.”

  “Yes.” She rested her head in her hands for a moment. “I’m overreactin’, I know—we see this kind of thing every day. But I felt like we were kindred spirits, or somethin’.” She lifted her head and confessed, “I’m afraid I got carried away, and mentioned to his widow that there was a pension payout comin’.”

  “Ah,” said Acton.

  Contrite, she reached to take his hand. “I know I should have asked you first, but they were so poor, Michael. I thought perhaps some of the fungible assets could be used; we don’t need them now.”

  “We soon may.”

  She couldn’t suppress a pleased smile—they hadn’t discussed having another baby, being as he didn’t like discussions, but now that she’d suffered the loss she felt an unexpected yearning, burgeoning within her breast. “Yes, I suppose we can’t let your vile cousin be inheritin’ your estate.”

  “Perish the thought.” He said it mildly, but she caught a flash of extreme dislike, and wondered if she would ever hear the backstor y to yet another Acton family rift. He continued, “A pension would be too difficult to put into place with the cab company; instead the widow will be informed there was a third party administrator, and I will arrange for a trust that can come through Layton.”

  “Thank you, Michael.” She squeezed his hand in gratitude, thinking that now Aiki’s wife and child would at least have a chance to break away from their scratching existence—some good would come from his death. “The widow said she trained as a nurse assistant, but she’s had trouble landin’ a job. Timothy’s charity clinic is near there; perhaps he can hire her.” Doyle had a burning need to help, to erase the powerlessness she had felt all morning.

  They telephoned Timothy, and found that he was taking his own lunch at home with Caroline. Acton explained the situation, and gave Timothy the widow’s address. “I will stand the salary, as a donation,” he added. There was a pause while Acton listened, and he then said, “No, I’m afraid we can’t make plans; Kathleen and I are going to Brighton this weekend.” His eyes rested on her, and Doyle mustered up a grateful smile. Cheering her up, he was. It would be too cold for swimming; so presumably he planned on strictly indoor activities. The thought of a holiday was immensely appealing; there had been a lot of trouble lately, both in their personal lives and at work, but now that the turf war was winding up and she was back on her feet, they could take a break for a few days. She would wear her dress and surprise him—although it was unlikely she would be wearing it for very long. When the mood hit him, it was every lass for herself.

  After he rang off, she said, “That sounds grand, Michael.”

  They smiled at each other for a moment. Faith, thought Doyle—maybe we truly are an ordinary mister and missus; next we’ll be wearing matching shirts and taking photos together on the boardwalk.

  “Good news; Timothy says your liver scan shows no damage.”

  This was indeed good news. “I feel like my old self, I do.”

  He reached to touch her cheek with a finger. “Your face is beginning to fill in a bit.”

  “It should be; I’ve been eatin’ like a horse.”

  “I love you,” he said softly. “I don’t say it near enough, either.”

  Doyle returned to work in a far better frame of mind. She went to look up Habib, and as she approached down the hall, she could hear him arguing with Munoz—not really arguing, she amended; just being firm with her for a change.

  “It’s not fair,” Munoz complained, and Doyle would not have been surprised if the girl had stamped her foot; she was in a temper.

  “What’s not fair?” asked Doyle.

  Munoz whirled on her, and accused, “You went on the Solonik interview because you’re married to Acton. I am passed over, every time.”

  Habib offered fairly, “Doyle has very good interrogation skills.”

  He’s probably making the sign against the evil eye as we speak, thought Doyle, remembering what Williams had said. “It was no big deal, Munoz, and I was handy.” Not to mention that Acton would not have allowed anyone else to hear the verbal knife fight between the two men—he was regretting he’d allowed Doyle to hear it.

  But Munoz would not be mollified and turned back to Habib. “Doyle has an unfair advantage; I should file a complaint.”

  As Habib was caught between his two loves—his job and the fair Munoz—Doyle stepped in to give an assist. “The interview wasn’t helpful; Solonik claimed he knew nothin
’ about the attack and Acton did all the talkin’, believe me.” She wondered if Solonik would have told Munoz her hair was beautiful in his insinuating way; it was probably his usual procedure. To divert Munoz’s rage, she added, “And I wanted to ask the both of you for ideas; Solonik’s attacker was an Irishman posin’ as a Russian.” She carefully didn’t look at Munoz—no point in letting Habib know about her foolishness. “He was actually one of the Sinn-split people—a pub owner named Rourke—but Solonik is protectin’ him and let him get away. Why would that be?”

  This puzzle did work to divert Munoz, who had firsthand knowledge of the hoax, and the three of them thought about it for a moment. “Solonik’s motivation may not be to protect Rourke,” offered Habib in his precise voice. “Solonik may be unwilling to identify him because it is in Solonik’s best interests.”

  “I don’t understand why Rourke tried to kill him in the first place,” added Munoz.

  Doyle looked at her, not following, and Munoz impatiently explained, “Solonik will be going to a maximum-security prison for years—he’ll be out of the picture. Why take such a chance to try to kill him? There’s really no point.”

  “Was it just a wild attempt at revenge, then?” Doyle glanced at Habib, thinking of their earlier conversation about tribal warfare. “Rourke not carin’ about anythin’ other than gettin’ retribution for his brother’s murder?”

  “If it was just that—an attempt at retribution—Solonik would not hesitate to identify him,” Habib pointed out logically. “Something else is at stake. Perhaps it was a business decision, not to identify Rourke. Solonik is acting as a businessman in this instance, not a member of a rival tribe.”