Murder in Retribution (A New Scotland Yard Mystery)

by Anne Cleeland

  No, Doyle thought almost immediately; Rourke is dead. Surprised, she shifted away from the man thinking lecherous thoughts to her right, and wondered why she was convinced of this, closing her eyes to try to come up with it. After a moment, she gave up; she didn’t know why, but she knew—in the way she knew things—that Solonik’s attacker was no longer amongst the living.

  As she exited at the nearest station to the bridge, she realized that now they may never know why Rourke attacked Solonik, and that in any event, she shouldn’t be so jealous and territorial. Munoz was right; Doyle had been investigating interesting and high-profile homicides alongside Acton when she should have been collecting statistics or reviewing CCTV tape like any other first-year DC, and it wasn’t fair. By the time she emerged from the stairway, she’d resolved to take a secondary role today, and help Munoz win some acclaim. I am sorry, she offered up, thinking of Aiki and how fragile life was; I have to be remembering what’s what.

  CHAPTER 39

  DOYLE APPROACHED GREYFRIARS BRIDGE, WHICH WAS DEserted. Very few people were about due to the rain, which pattered steadily on Doyle’s umbrella. She wondered if Munoz had already spoken to the tipster, or if she hadn’t yet appeared on the scene, having been stuck in traffic. Doyle decided to walk out to the center of the bridge so as to be conspicuous in the event the tipster was watching from some concealed position, which was always a possibility.

  As she waited there a few moments, shivering in the cold wind, she looked about. There was no one who remotely looked like a tipster in the area. After glancing at her mobile to check the time, she decided to wait twenty more minutes and then stop in a pub for coffee—she shouldn’t have come without a jacket, and now she was paying the price. As she put her mobile away, she thought she heard a small sound, coming from beneath her. Leaning carefully over the railing, Doyle peered at the flowing river, brown and churning below her. The light was not good, and she didn’t see anything of interest.

  But there. A movement. Doyle strained her eyes and made out the outline of a figure clinging to one of the cement supports as the strong current flowed past. She couldn’t make out the face, but knew immediately that it was Munoz.

  Her mouth dry, Doyle dropped her umbrella and looked frantically in all directions, but there was no one about. She leaned over the railing to look again at Munoz and shouted at her, “Izzy! Can you hear me?”

  No response. The girl’s arms clung to the cement base of the support, but her face appeared to be nearly submerged in the swirling water—she was losing consciousness. Think, Doyle. Stay calm.

  Quickly pulling out her mobile, she texted an exclamation point to Acton’s private line; it was their symbol for an emergency, and she had never used it before. She laid the phone on the bridge, propped her umbrella over it, then turned her rucksack upside down and dumped out its contents—even her tablet, which broke apart upon impact with the concrete walkway. Holding the empty rucksack upside down against her chest, she pushed her arms through the straps, and climbed to balance atop the rail, which was slick with the rain. I can’t hesitate, even to say a prayer, she thought, or I’ll change my mind. Just as she jumped, she could hear her mobile ring.

  She aimed to land in the water a few feet into the current, up from the support to which Munoz clung, and with this in mind held the bottom of her upside-down backpack open as she fell through the air, her midsection clenching with the sensation. Hitting the surface of the river with a roaring jolt, she bobbed up immediately, the trapped air in the rucksack making her buoyant. The water was an unbelievably cold shock, and the current began to move her as she frantically flailed her legs so as to grab on to the support. There was a terrible, terrible moment when she had trouble securing a grip on the wet cement and she was almost swept past, but then she flung her arms wide and managed to scramble onto the support next to Munoz, gasping for breath. Nothing to this swimming business, she thought; good one, Doyle.

  Her relief was short-lived, however, as Munoz began to sink into the river, her hands trailing limply on the cement base. Doyle grabbed at her, trying not to lose her own grip on both the rucksack and the support, and just managed to grasp the hood of Munoz’s coat. My coat, Doyle amended.

  Doyle strained to heave the other girl back onto the support, but the coat was heavy with water and she decided she would have to let go of the rucksack, which was in the way. Thanks to her recent bouts with poison and pregnancy, she was not as strong as she normally was, but she managed to leverage Munoz into a position so that her face was above the swirling water. “Izzy,” she gasped. “You have to help me.”

  Munoz moaned and her eyes fluttered open. Doyle could have wept with relief; she had been afraid, for a moment, that the other girl was dead. “Help me take the coat off—it’s too heavy.”

  Weakly, Munoz obeyed by moving one arm at a time and between them they removed the coat, and let it sink.

  “I’m hurt,” mumbled Munoz. “Back.”

  Doyle leaned out, trying to look, but found she did not want to risk her precarious grip on the support and on Munoz. “It’s hardly anythin’, Munoz, you’ll be fine,” she said firmly. “The cold water will help.”

  Munoz’s eyes slowly closed again, and Doyle could see the delicate blue veins on her eyelids. “Izzy,” she called sharply. “You must stay awake—help is comin’ and I can’t hold you.”

  Munoz lifted her head weakly in response, but did not open her eyes and after a moment, her head slipped back again. Gritting her teeth, Doyle closed her own eyes, fiercely concentrating on not letting her hands release their weak grip on the cement as the other girl’s weight became heavier and heavier. I can’t let her go, she thought in despair; I am so sorry, Michael—I can’t let her go.

  Through her eyelids, Doyle thought she could see flashing blue lights and opened her eyes again, equal parts incredulous and relieved to see the reflection of emergency vehicle lights on the water—a rescue crew must be on the bridge. A few more minutes, a few more minutes. She had to keep Munoz awake; she could not maintain her grip if the other girl lost consciousness and became dead weight—and they were so close, so close to being rescued. “You never gave me a weddin’ present, Munoz,” Doyle loudly accused in the other girl’s ear.

  “Shut up, Doyle,” murmured Munoz weakly.

  Doyle heard someone shouting. She didn’t want to move her head, but shouted “Help!” as loudly as she could, and Munoz started from the noise as it echoed along the rafters under the truss.

  “I’ll want one of your drawin’s,” Doyle gabbled. “Of the Madonna. I’ll hang it over my fireplace, I will.”

  Munoz moaned and began to slowly roll away. “Izzy,” scolded Doyle desperately, “don’t you dare.”

  She started in surprise at a large splash near her side, but didn’t want to turn around to look as the displaced water landed on her in a wave. An arm was felt, supporting her upward so that she could get a better grip, higher up on the support.

  “How are we doing?” asked Williams, slightly out of breath, from behind her head.

  “Ach,” panted Doyle, “not so very grand, I’m afraid. Munoz is hurt.”

  She could feel Williams lean back to inspect Munoz, and lean in again. “They’ll bring her up with a lift—right now they’re spanning a rope across the river downstream, in case we let go. Cover your ears.” He leaned back and shouted that one of them was hurt and needed medical. The person on the bridge had a megaphone and assured him a lift would be lowered straight away.

  Williams returned to his position supporting them from behind, his arms securely around both girls as the cold water rushed by. Doyle was shivering uncontrollably. “Sorry,” she chattered. “It’s s—so cold.”

  “It is a shame there is no desk nearby,” he replied. “We could have sex.”

  She started to laugh, and so did he, huddled together with Munoz’s limp form firmly wedged between them. “I didn’t know how I could face you again,” she confessed. “I shouldn’t have s
aid what I did.”

  “You definitely got your point across.” With a lunge, he reached over to grasp the canvas harness that had been lowered to the water.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t respond to your messages.” She helped him fasten the harness around the unconscious girl. “But there’s nothin’ I can say to make it better.”

  They watched anxiously as Munoz was briefly suspended over the water and then, swinging slightly, disappeared above them into the darkness that was punctuated by flashing blue lights.

  Williams maintained his grip on Doyle and lowered his head to hers so that they were face-to-face, inches apart. “Promise me something.”

  “That depends,” she answered cautiously. He may have saved her, but that didn’t mean she would throw caution to the winds.

  “If I promise not to bother you anymore, please don’t shut me out of your life.”

  “That’s fair enough,” she agreed through chattering teeth.

  “I love you,” he said simply. “I know I shouldn’t, but there it is.”

  She swallowed and shivered, not knowing what to say and fighting an almost overwhelming urge to cry. He continued gently, “I’ll get over it, don’t worry.”

  “I would like us to be friends,” she replied, as steadily as she was able. “But it may not be possible.”

  “I will make it possible.”

  Then, because he was so sincere and because she figured she wouldn’t get the chance for the next fifty years or so, she leaned in and kissed him, even though her mouth was nearly numb with the cold. He returned the kiss, and it was rather nice. It was the sort of kiss she may have had after a promising first date, and she couldn’t help but compare it to the first time she’d kissed Acton, when it felt as though they’d set the room on fire.

  They disengaged when a harness splashed behind her, and Williams helped fasten her in. He then held her legs carefully so she didn’t bang against the support as they pulled her up. The cold wind hit her and she shivered convulsively as she was lifted to the rail where many hands reached for her, including her husband’s.

  CHAPTER 40

  THE RESCUE TEAM IMMEDIATELY WRAPPED AN EMERGENCY FOIL blanket around her as Acton crouched before her, chafing her hands as he looked into her face, assessing. He is having trouble breathing, she thought, so she smiled at him through shivering lips. “Stupid Munoz.”

  “Are you injured?”

  “Not at all; just cold.”

  Munoz had already been transported away and the medical team from the second ambulance asked Acton if they could examine her. Doyle threw him a stricken look; she had an extreme distaste of being examined as a result of her miscarriage, and there was the small matter of her illegal weapon, wet but intact in her ankle holster.

  “Not necessary,” said Acton, reading her aright. As the ambulance personnel retreated, he said, “Come into the car. Can you give a statement?” He motioned to Samuels, who joined them, taking out his tablet.

  They retreated to Acton’s Range Rover and he engaged the engine and turned up the heat. Doyle’s shivering was now under control, and she threw off only an occasional shudder. “How is Munoz?”

  “Stabbed. Between T-5 and T-6.”

  “Mother a’ mercy,” said Doyle, stunned. “I couldn’t see. It’s a miracle she didn’t bleed out. ”

  “The cold water, plus there wasn’t sufficient penetration,” said Acton. “Her vitals are stable—she should be all right. What happened?”

  This, of course, was a good question. “I don’t know, Michael. There was a call to Dispatch; an anonymous tipster wantin’ to give information on Solonik. I was in the Evidence Locker, so Munoz took it.”

  The back door opened, and Williams joined them in the car, wrapped in his own foil blanket with his wet hair plastered against his head. Acton said to him, “Well done,” and then returned his attention to Doyle.

  “I came because I thought I could help,” she continued, which was the truth, after all. “When I got here I didn’t see anyone, but then I heard Munoz. She was barely hangin’ on to the support, in the water.”

  “Did you see anyone leave? Anything unusual?”

  Doyle closed her eyes to concentrate. “No. No one was about. There was no one to shout to, so I texted you and jumped.”

  Acton paused. “You jumped in the river?”

  Faith, thought Doyle; he’s going to have an apoplexy, he is.

  “Quite a jump,” said Samuels admiringly.

  “She cannot swim,” Acton revealed. This announcement was met by the other two men with the incredulous silence it deserved.

  “I caught some air in my rucksack,” Doyle explained, demonstrating with her hands. “For buoyancy—it worked really well.” Proud of her own ingenuity, she looked at the others for approval, but they seemed unable to respond.

  “Let’s go home and get you out of these wet clothes,” her husband suggested. To Samuels he said, “See if you can find a witness or a CCTV that caught something.”

  “I want to stay with Munoz,” insisted Doyle. “I don’t know if anyone is with her.”

  “She’ll be in surgery, and her family has been notified. If you feel up to it, we’ll go after you are put to rights.” Acton gave more instruction to Samuels and thanked Williams, shaking his hand.

  “Yes; thank you Williams,” added Doyle sincerely. “I don’t know how much longer I could have held on.” She would show Acton that they were to be civil, now that they had made their peace.

  The others exited the car, and Acton put it in gear and headed for home. He took one of her hands and stroked the back with his thumb; back and forth, back and forth.

  “I couldn’t help it, Michael; there was nothin’ for it.”

  “No,” he agreed. “You did well.”

  “Then you’ll not be regrettin’ the loss of my fine coat.”

  “No,” he said. “I will buy you a dozen.”

  “To be accurate, it was Munoz’s fault—she borrowed it without askin’.”

  This offhand comment, however, received his full and alert attention. He asked slowly, “Was Munoz wearing your coat when she was attacked?”

  Doyle saw where this was going, and protested, “Michael, Munoz looks nothin’ like me.” She added, “Even if you were color blind.”

  Acton looked forward again. “It was raining; if she had the hood up, someone approaching from behind may not know the difference.”

  Doyle thought about this, feeling a twinge of alarm. She admitted, “It is true she didn’t have an umbrella.”

  There was a silence. The stroking had stopped. He knows something, she thought. She waited to hear what he was thinking, but he remained silent. She prompted, “Do you think it was done on Solonik’s order?” This never-ending vengeance business.

  “Perhaps,” said Acton neutrally, so that she couldn’t read whether this was indeed what he thought. “Was the tip specifically for you?”

  “Yes,” she conceded, not liking the implication at all.

  He made no reply, and she eyed him—Mother of God; the man would drive a saint to sin. “Don’t be tiresome, Michael. Do you think this was connected to the turf war?”

  He wrestled with it, and finally admitted, “I’d rather not say.”

  This admission was almost welcome; he didn’t want to put her off, but he didn’t want her to read a lie. She pointed out reasonably, “If you’re thinkin’ that I’m a target for some reason, you shouldn’t keep it a secret.”

  “No,” he said immediately. “I don’t think you will be attacked again.”

  It was the truth. Well, she thought—here’s a relief, although it was a mystery; how could he be so sure?

  His mobile vibrated, and he checked the ID, and then picked up. “I’m afraid I am unavailable just now, may I call you back?” He waited for a response then rang off.

  She teased him, “Was that your girlfriend?”

  He smiled as he drove, genuinely amused. “I have nothing left over for a g
irlfriend.”

  “Keep that to mind,” she teased him. “Else you’ll be embarrassin’ yourself.”

  They arrived home, and Doyle did not pause but stepped immediately into a shower so hot it was painful. Before she did, she could hear Acton begin to explain to Reynolds what had happened, and couldn’t control her giggle—Reynolds must think this place is disaster central; best raise his salary or he’ll flee in horror.

  She let the hot water wash over her and began to feel her toes and fingers tingle. I wonder, she thought, if that knife was meant for me. It was a chilling thought. She also wondered where Acton had been—he’d arrived at the scene later than Williams, although he must have contacted Williams to come to her aid. He was at a distance, then—farther away than the Met. She remembered how terse he’d been when she’d rung him up earlier; lucky it was, that it hadn’t been their last conversation on earth.

  She turned to rinse her hair and saw Acton looming outside the shower door. He stepped in, and his mouth found hers, gently. She put her arms around his neck and decided this was all that was needed to warm her up completely.

  Later, she dried her hair, embarrassed to note that Reynolds was still there and surely must have noted that all other residents were in the same shower. Acton watched her dress, unable to take his eyes from her, and she tried to ease him down. “Are you plannin’ on taking a bite out o’ the scotch?”

  “No,” he replied, then amended. “Not yet.”

  “I don’t mind, my friend. I can be the barkeeper.”

  He smiled. “You don’t know the first thing about bar keeping.”

  “I do know the first thing about you, however.”