Doyle paused, her instinct telling her that this was important, and tested this idea aloud, saying slowly, “For some reason, Solonik cannot afford to grass on Rourke—it would hurt him more than the satisfaction he would get in turnin’ him in to the police.”
“Yes,” agreed Habib with a quick nod. “But as Munoz pointed out, why is this? There is nothing left for Solonik but prison, and indeed, any information he could offer against Rourke may help him in a plea deal.”
It was a puzzle, and they traded ideas for the next few minutes, but could not come up with a plausible theory. Nevertheless, Doyle went back to her desk feeling they were on to something. She wrote Acton an e-mail, suggesting that they consider this angle; if it wasn’t a revenge attack, why would Rourke want Solonik dead, rather than locked away in prison? And how were Solonik’s interests served by protecting Rourke, who had tried to kill him? She looked over the message, and then sent it. Acton may have some good insight; in truth, sometimes she had the uneasy feeling that his thought processes aligned with the perpetrators’.
She saw she had a message from Williams, asking if she could meet for coffee. She didn’t respond; there would be more apologies and stifled feelings, and she just didn’t feel up to it. It was too soon to face him again after her tantrum, and she had certainly put paid to any chivalric feelings he may have entertained toward her. She couldn’t avoid him forever, though; if he was Acton’s man and she was Acton’s wife they’d be thrown together regularly and she must not make her husband’s work more difficult. There were difficulties enough; hopefully he’d not be sharing a cell with Solonik anytime in the near future—that would be the wrong kind of matching shirts.
CHAPTER 37
THE NEXT MORNING, DOYLE AWOKE TO ACTON’S MOUTH, IN- sistent upon hers. “Reynolds,” she murmured to remind him.
“He will have to wait his turn.”
She smiled while he kissed her throat, moving southward. “Michael,” she said, looking at the clock. “He’ll be here any minute.”
“This won’t take long,” he said, and it didn’t.
When Reynolds arrived, Doyle was in her robe and heaping strawberry jam on toast, her face as rosy as the jam. She found she couldn’t bring herself to eat frosty flakes anymore, which was a crackin’ shame, but there it was.
Reynolds brushed off his coat, as it was raining. “You will need a coat and umbrella, madam; the weather has turned with a vengeance.”
Doyle gazed out the window at the rain, her bare feet curled under her on the chair. When it rained in Ireland, the shades of green simply became less vibrant. In London, the gray only became grayer. And, she added mentally, it was always raining in this wretched country; any fieldwork needing to be done today would be a miserable slog because of it. Mentally, she shook herself; it was unlike her to be melancholy, especially after the wake-up she’d received.
Acton crossed through the kitchen and dropped a kiss on her head on his way to pack up his electronics, and she asked, “Have we heard whether forensics can put Rourke at the scene of the Solonik attack?”
“Nothing yet—I may have to bring Rourke in for questioning with only Solonik’s ID as a basis, such as it is; if I can’t shake him, I will have to let him go.”
Doyle considered the stormy sky out the window. “Why do you suppose Solonik is protectin’ him? We tried to puzzle it out yesterday, with little luck.”
Acton put his arms through the coat that Reynolds held for him, and replied almost matter-of-factly, “There is a secret. Rourke would only attempt such a risky attack if he was very much afraid of Solonik, and as Solonik is no longer a threat to Rourke or his organization, he was afraid of what Solonik might reveal.”
Doyle knit her brow, following this logic, which seemed sound. “But then, why doesn’t Solonik reveal whatever it is?”
Acton took his umbrella. “Because Solonik cannot afford to reveal it, either. It is a mutual secret.” He paused before heading to the door. “Have you heard anything useful about Aiki?”
“No,” she replied sadly, and explained to Reynolds, “My cab driver was killed yesterday.”
The servant considered this in silence. “Another poisoned plant, madam?”
“No; I’m afraid he was simply stabbed. Right outside the building, no less.”
“That is indeed a shame,” said Reynolds in extreme disapproval. “Not what one would expect at this address, if I may say so.” It was clear he was offended by such bad taste.
“This place is worse than the Sailortown Docks,” Doyle agreed. “Let’s hope bad luck doesn’t come in threes, as my mother used to say. If only Aiki could have given me somethin’ to go on before he died—a random crime like this is a bear to solve.” Clasping her knees to her chest, she sighed. “Aiki mumbled a few words, but no one there spoke French.”
“You were there, madam?” Reynolds was very much shocked.
“I wish I had been, Reynolds; but I came down after he was wounded, and it was too late.” She frowned, trying to remember. “I thought he said, ‘Notify Amy,’ and that perhaps he wanted me to notify his wife, but her name is not Amy.”
The front door shut abruptly, and she looked up in surprise; Acton had left. How odd that he didn’t say good-bye.
She prepared for work, and at the door Reynolds held her black coat for her, having notified the driving service that she would need a ride to the Met. I’m to be chauffeured in cashmere, she thought, and wondered what her mother would say about such a thing—she’d have laughed, probably, and called Doyle a mushroom. Times had certainly changed; when she’d first met Acton, she was living a very simple and solitary existence, trying to scrape together a down payment for a small condo and barely keeping her head above water. No question that everything was a million times better now, but she was still trying to adjust to the whirlwind change and her new status in life.
With a small smile, she remembered their quick session that morning, and consoled herself with the fact she had definitely adjusted to marriage—they were finding their way as a couple, and he was letting her see an occasional glimpse of himself, even though he was still very careful around her. No point in quizzing him; he’d only reveal what he wished, but he was trusting her more and more—she could feel it—and because of this, perhaps his symptoms would ease. She still could not be easy about Acton’s going to a therapist.
When Doyle arrived at her desk, Munoz was already hard at work next door, so Doyle didn’t disturb her—it sounded as though the keys were being pounded in annoyance, so best to stay well away. Williams had sent another message, but she didn’t open it—she’d give it another day before they made their peace.
Reviewing the other messages, she saw that Habib had given her an assignment stemming from a lead she’d uncovered whilst she was researching Acton’s cold cases. It appeared that several murders over the few months, in hindsight, could be considered the work of a single perpetrator. Due to the nature of the crimes, they could very well be the work of someone in law enforcement, and so the assignment was to be kept as quiet as possible.
Because a serial killer was always cause for concern, Doyle decided she would check the boxes in the Evidence Locker straightaway; she had solved the aqueduct murder by taking a look at the hard evidence, and sometimes her instinct worked best when she handled the various items.
As she rose to leave, Doyle was confronted by Munoz, who had appeared at the entrance to her cubicle. “Hallo, Munoz,” said Doyle with false heartiness; Munoz, she could see, was still in a temper, and Doyle yet again marveled that the male of the species seemed to find such a trait so attractive.
“There’s no point in even making a complaint,” complained Munoz. “Acton is too powerful.”
“Whist, Munoz,” Doyle retorted, very much annoyed. “You will draw the wrong sort of attention if you make such a complaint. Think on it; the PR people are not goin’ to take on someone who’s not a team player.”
“I wouldn’t want to get you in tr
ouble,” the other replied grudgingly, although this was not exactly true.
Doyle, as it turned out, had her own sulking to do. “You have nothin’ to fear from the likes of me, I promise you. I’ll not be in the field much, anymore.”
Munoz was instantly suspicious of what should have been good news. “Why?”
Doyle replied honestly, “Our job is dangerous, and Acton would prefer it.”
Naturally, Munoz had to find fault with this plan. “You are quitting fieldwork because your husband told you to?”
“Of course not.” Doyle was annoyed yet again, and threw out her own little dart. “Marriage is about compromise, Munoz—not that you’d know.”
“So what is his compromise, then?”
Doyle was not about to discuss such matters with anyone, let alone Munoz, and particularly when she had no ready answer. Instead, she retorted in exasperation, “Faith, there’s no pleasin’ you; I thought you’d be happy with less competition.”
Munoz, true to form, was going to be contrary, and tossed her hair. “It is ridiculous to take you out of the field—that’s the only thing you can do well.”
Nettled, Doyle retorted, “That is not fair—I can do a lot of things well.”
“I meant outside of the bedroom.”
Barely hanging on to her temper, Doyle flashed at her, “Now there’s a foine case o’ the pot an’ th’ kettle.”
Before blows could be exchanged, Habib stepped between them, looking from one to the other in well-bred dismay. Doyle, her blood still boiling, excused herself in muffled tones and stalked down the hallway to take the lift to the Evidence Locker, all the while thinking very uncharitable thoughts. After a few minutes of silent reflection, however, she felt a little ashamed. First Williams, and now Munoz; she was losing her temper more easily than she was used. She would hate to believe it was the result of feeling she was untouchable, like Caesar’s wife.
I am behaving badly, she conceded; I must beg everyone’s pardon and try not to be so touchy. Father John would say we are always being led, and I must try not to resent being led into people who always seem to bring out the worst in me—it can’t be in the grand plan to be constantly spoiling for a donnybrook, and it does not reflect well on Acton, either. It would only confirm everyone’s assumptions if his new Irish bride was always brawling like a fishwife—although it would be so nice, just once, to take a swing at Munoz. I could take her, she thought with some optimism—although maybe not until I’ve gained a bit more weight back.
CHAPTER 38
DOYLE SIGNED IN TO THE EVIDENCE LOCKER, AND LOCATED the boxes containing evidence from several recent cases that were now loosely termed the park murders because the killings had occurred in park settings. Because the room was chilly, she wished she had remembered to wear her coat—although she probably would have looked ridiculous in it amongst the dusty shelves. She would buy a less ostentatious coat to keep at her workstation so she didn’t hurt Acton’s feelings—she could wear the black one to and fro, and he’d be none the wiser.
After spending several hours studying the hard evidence along with the case notes, she felt the familiar prickling of her scalp; there was indeed a pattern, and she began to take careful notes so that she didn’t forget her first impressions. Absorbed in the task, she didn’t realize how much time had elapsed until she stretched her back and glanced at her mobile to check the time. She had forgotten to text her symbol to Acton, but he had not checked in with her, as he invariably did when she was late or forgot. This was a surprise; perhaps she couldn’t get service, here in the bowels of the building. As she walked down the linoleum hallway, she phoned his private line, hoping he wasn’t worried about her.
“Yes.”
She was a little surprised by his abruptness, considering he knew it was her, and teased him, “I see how it is; you’ve had your way wi’ me this mornin’ and now I’m to be neglected.”
“I’m sorry, Kathleen; I’m trying to track down a suspect who’s agreed to speak with me. I’m afraid it’s rather important.”
She paused. This was true; and equally true was the fact he was in no mood to speak to her for perhaps the first time in recorded history. “Is everythin’ all right?” she asked, trying to stifle a pang of alarm.
“Yes—I will ring you later, once this is straightened out.”
“Of course.” She rang off, and frowned at the blank screen on her mobile for a moment. Something was afoot; he was preoccupied, and she was uneasy—mother a’ mercy, here we go again. As she considered this strange turn of events, the mobile vibrated in her hand; it was Samuels.
“Ho, Doyle, I wondered if you’d heard anything about Solonik’s attack—have they found the suspect yet?”
He was actually wondering if she’d heard anything from Acton; Samuels would have the same access to reports that she had. “No, I haven’t heard yet, which is probably not good news.”
“No,” he agreed. “Should we brainstorm for ideas?”
“Absolutely; I’ll be right over.”
Doyle made her way to Samuels’s corner of the basement, feeling that it was the least she could do. Compared to Williams, Munoz, and her fair self, Samuels didn’t have much of a portfolio and the Solonik attack was a fine chance to be involved in a high-profile case—she would make good work of her latest resolution to be kinder, and hope it lasted longer than her last resolution to be kinder.
She joined the other DC at his desk, and together they reviewed the Solonik report on-line, which listed all the latest efforts that were being made to track down Rourke, including the addresses of relatives and known associates. He had many relatives, some in Ireland and some in England, which meant a lot of slog work to check in with them—assuming a relative would grass on him in the first place. All agencies had been alerted that he was wanted for questioning, but no leads had been called in, even by paid informants. It was almost incredible, except that it had happened; Rourke had attacked Solonik, walked out of the high security Detention Center, and disappeared—even the CCTV cameras around the facility and in the street were unhelpful. He was good with disguises, thought Doyle; but still and all, it was baffling—where did he go?
“Has Acton mentioned whether there are any other leads? Perhaps this is not up to date.”
Doyle remembered her preoccupied and distracted husband, and shook her head. “I think he’s handlin’ somethin’ else; in any event, I haven’t heard.”
“Too bad.”
This was true, which meant that Samuels was trying to gain an advantage by priming her for information the others wouldn’t have. She felt a bit sorry for him, and it was a shame she couldn’t help him out. To make up for it, she offered, “Acton seems to think that Solonik and Rourke have a mutual secret.”
Samuels stared at her for a moment. “Is that so?”
Doyle rose, since she needed to return to her station and begin entering her notes from the other case. “It doesn’t make much sense, though; you wouldn’t think Solonik and Rourke would be willin’ to collaborate on anythin’.”
Thoughtfully, he eyed her for a moment. “Tell you what; drop me a line if you hear anything—I’d love to help break this one.”
She decided not to mention the obvious; that by the time the fair Doyle heard anything, it was usually all over but the shouting. “I will. Sorry I couldn’t be of more use.”
He expressed his thanks, and Doyle returned to her cubicle, thinking Samuels was a bit odd; if you were hoping to impress the brass by tracking down the Irish kingpin, one would think you’d be out in the field following the leads and hoping for a break, not sitting at headquarters trying to find out what Doyle knew.
As she came down the aisle way, Habib spied her and said in surprise, “DC Doyle; have you not left yet?”
“Left where?” she asked blankly.
He pursed his lips slightly to express his disapproval that she was not well-informed. “Dispatch received a call from a tipster on the Solonik attack, specifically
asking to meet with you—it was someone who didn’t want to be seen coming in. I could not reach you on your mobile, and so Munoz said she would find you.”
With a faint twinge of alarm, she thought of the walk-in who had asked for her—the one who may have been sent by that Savoie person—but decided it couldn’t be the same man; Lestrade hadn’t been afraid to come into the Met. And this was a very good sign; usually, if an informant wanted to keep a meeting with the police quiet, he was not the usual gate-crasher but instead someone with valid information, hoping to cut a deal. “How long ago?”
“Twenty minutes, perhaps,” said Habib. “Where is Munoz?”
With a flash of dismay, Doyle whirled and looked into Munoz’s cubicle—she was gone and Doyle was suddenly certain that the other girl had made no attempt to find her, but had gone to meet the tipster herself. Making a monumental effort to moderate her voice, Doyle asked Habib the location of the rendezvous point and discovered it was Greyfriars Bridge, off Battersea.
“I’ll go straightaway, sir,” she said a bit grimly. She noted that her coat was missing, and added, “Believe me.”
Nearly grinding her teeth with frustration that Munoz had not only pulled such a trick, but had left her without a coat, to boot, Doyle debated borrowing someone’s jacket, but then decided she didn’t want to miss the meeting altogether, and so grabbed her rucksack and left with all speed. It was still raining, and at least Munoz had not taken Doyle’s umbrella—although it was probably unnecessary because the flippin’ coat had a hood. Come to think of it, the rain may actually be a boon; if traffic was slow, Doyle might even beat Munoz there by taking the tube—it would serve her right.
After sitting uncomfortably amongst the wet and crowded passengers on the tube for a few minutes, Doyle began to calm down, and reflect upon her actions. She was still holding on to her anger at Munoz from their argument that morning and as a result, her reaction was perhaps a bit overwrought. Munoz, like Samuels, had seen a chance to try to break this important case by exploiting Doyle’s connection and—to be fair—she shouldn’t be angry at Munoz if she wasn’t angry at Samuels. In addition, Doyle had been in the bowels of the Evidence Locker, and valuable time would have been wasted in going to fetch her. And Munoz may also feel some residual guilt for her role in squiring Rourke around when he was posing as Sergey—indeed, perhaps the tipster was Rourke himself, hoping to cut a deal and be brought in.
Murder in Retribution (A New Scotland Yard Mystery) Page 21