Murder in Retribution (A New Scotland Yard Mystery)

by Anne Cleeland

  They regarded each other for a long moment. He was not going to budge, so she gave up trying to find out what he was thinking. “Let’s be off to the hospital, then.”

  They left after explaining to Reynolds that they were going to visit Munoz. Once in the car, Doyle took a long breath. “I’ll be needin’ a new coat for Brighton—Brighton is goin’ to be glorious and much needed, after this little episode.” She leaned her head back against the leather headrest. “Between you and me, I’m ready for glorious.”

  “Yes,” he agreed.

  Mother a’ mercy, she thought in dismay; we are not going to Brighton.

  CHAPTER 41

  THERE WAS A GUARD POSTED OUTSIDE MUNOZ’S ROOM, AND Acton showed his ID as a formality. Munoz lay on the hospital bed, propped up on her side and conversing with the others who were in the room and clearly related to her; a middle-aged couple who must have been her parents, along with a young woman—who was unmistakably her sister—and a grandmother, seated closest to the injured girl. They all turned to regard the newcomers, and Doyle was much struck; the group resembled the portraits of the Spanish royal family one saw in museums. Between these people and Acton, thought Doyle, I am a stranger in a strange land.

  Doyle went straight to the patient and stood beside the bed. “Munoz,” she said accusingly. “You owe me a coat.”

  “That’s not fair; I’m not the one who put a knife in it.”

  Acton asked, “Did you see the attacker?”

  Munoz shook her head. “No, sir—I was coshed first. There was no one on the bridge that raised any alarm; I was taken completely unawares, and Samuels has taken a report.”

  Doyle leaned to examine her head. “Oh, Munoz,” she said in dismay. “They’ve had to shave some of your fine hair.”

  “Yes—the doctor said it was a sacrilege.” This said with the slightest touch of smugness.

  “Another one down,” Doyle proclaimed, and Munoz smiled.

  The older woman interrupted to speak in a torrent of Spanish, and Munoz answered in kind. Doyle heard her name, and the others stood with one accord and approached her, thanking her profusely; Munoz’s mother embracing her fiercely and kissing both cheeks while Doyle blushed mightily.

  “They’re going to give you a commendation for bravery,” said Munoz dryly. “Samuels told me.”

  Doyle smiled and shook her head. “I’m that sorry, Munoz; it’s unlucky, you are.”

  Munoz threw back her head and laughed aloud, much to the surprise of her family. Her grandmother directed a stream of Spanish at Munoz, who then responded and turned to interpret to Doyle. “My grandmother wanted to offer you a sum of money, but I told her you were married to this rich man whom you stole from me, and she has now withdrawn the offer.”

  It appeared she wasn’t joking, as the grandmother had furrowed her stately brow and now fixed her incredulous gaze on Acton, who stood against the back wall. Before the woman could confront him, Doyle decided they should take their leave, and so she said to Munoz with a smile, “Well, I’m glad you’re all right, Izzy.”

  “I’ll start on that project we discussed as soon as I am able.”

  Doyle found, suddenly, that she had to wipe away tears with the back of her knuckles until Acton put a handkerchief in her hand. “That’s grand,” she whispered.

  “Doyle,” Munoz remonstrated. “Don’t go soft on me.”

  After they left, Doyle and Acton sat in the car for a few minutes whilst she cried on his chest, thoroughly wetting his shirt. When the tears stopped, she sat up and had recourse to his handkerchief once again. “Sorry. It’s reaction, I think, from seein’ her again.”

  “You’re entitled.” He started the car. “I’ve asked Reynolds to prepare something to eat.”

  “I think,” she ventured, “that we are out of fruit pies.”

  He turned his head to look at her. “Please,” he teased, “you’ve put me through enough today; don’t do this to me.”

  Delighted that he seemed in a teasing mood, she insisted. “Recall that I’m to be gettin’ a commendation. It’s deservin’, I am.”

  They stopped at a corner convenience store and Doyle assured him she was willing to go in alone. “Although it’s not like we’re buyin’ pornography, Michael, and no one will recognize us, anyway.”

  He accompanied her with a fine show of reluctance, and she teased him the entire time, threatening to tell the clerk that she was buying the pies for him, and debating what flavors to choose at length. He smiled and touched her, the expression in his eyes promising intimate attention later. She was not fooled, however. I wish I knew what it was, she thought, but I haven’t a clue; at least he’s not in one of his black moods, and I’m determined not to allow him to start in.

  When they returned home, Reynolds informed them that a reporter had asked for Doyle at the concierge desk. “I told him you had already retired, so that he wouldn’t be waiting for you at the garage.”

  “Thank you, Reynolds,” she replied, and wondered if it was the same one who had tried to speak to her that day when Aiki came to her rescue. He’d get no story from her, leastways.

  They ate in companionable silence, and when they did speak, Doyle noted well that there was no mention of the turf war murders, and no mention of Brighton.

  After Reynolds had cleared away the dishes and left for the night, she sat with Acton on the sofa, gazing at the fire and letting her fingers play on his chest. Usually this activity drew an immediate reaction from him—the man was on a hair trigger, he was—but tonight he seemed lost in thought. Doyle rested her head on his shoulder and hoped he would be done thinking soon, she was tired. Small wonder, she thought; another crackin’ foul day.

  She didn’t realize she had fallen asleep until she was awakened by his hand moving on her breast. Sleepily assessing, she realized that she was lying with her head in his lap, and he was drinking, his hand beginning to wander. She picked it up and brought it to her mouth to kiss it. “I might actually be too tired, Michael,” she murmured. “Can you proceed without wakin’ me up?”

  She could feel him smile, and his hand moved to caress her cheek. “You are something.”

  She knew he referred to the bridge-jumping. “I truly didn’t have a choice. All’s well that ends well, I suppose.”

  He made a sound to indicate this was a gross understatement, and she could feel his chest rise and fall as he took a deep breath. Thinking it an opportune time to do a little probing, she asked, “Where were you this afternoon—when you were so short with me on the phone?”

  “I thought we had established I was visiting my neglected girlfriend.”

  “She should find another callin’, poor thing.”

  His hand found her jaw and turned her head so he could meet her eyes. “You know I don’t even look at other women.”

  “Oh, I know,” she said with emphasis. It was a little daring; they rarely spoke directly of his neurosis.

  He leaned back into the sofa, satisfied, and took another drink. Unimaginable that he should have an affair; he was focused on her like a laser beam. She duly noted, however, that he had avoided answering the question. He would not tell her unless he wanted to, and he clearly didn’t want to; hopefully he wasn’t plotting more retribution murders.

  “Rourke is dead,” she announced.

  His hand stilled. “Is he indeed?”

  “Bank on it,” she teased. They rarely spoke directly of her abilities, either. “Is Solonik under lock and key?”

  “Solonik is under lock and key.” He said it with great satisfaction.

  “Cheers, then.” She tapped the bottom of his glass with a finger, wishing she knew what he was thinking about; he had feared the attack on Munoz may have been meant for her, but then assured her she was in no danger. It was a puzzle, and her husband’s puzzles always seemed to end up being cataclysmic.

  “I would say that you are wide-awake, wouldn’t you?” The hand moved back to her breast and she giggled.

  CHA
PTER 42

  UPON ARRIVING AT WORK THE NEXT DAY, DOYLE WAS MET BY Habib, who was agog but hiding it well. “DC Doyle,” he said. “The detective chief superintendent wishes to see you at your earliest convenience.”

  The commendation, she thought with resignation; this is going to be a tryin’ day. Just when my last bout of celebrity had elapsed, along comes another. “I will see him straightaway, sir.”

  “How does Munoz?”

  She paused, feeling a little sorry for him. He’s like Williams, she thought; it’s hopeless and they know it, but they can’t help themselves. “I saw her last evenin’ and she was in fine form, sir; they think there will be no lastin’ damage. She will be back and we will be shoutin’ at each other in no time.”

  He was delighted to hear it. “I sent some flowers from our team—I did not presume to visit.”

  Just as well, thought Doyle, dreading to think what the Spanish royal family would make of Habib. She made her way to the rarefied atmosphere of the DCS’s office, and his assistant phoned to inform him of her arrival. The DCS’s assistant was very businesslike and friendly, unlike Acton’s assistant, who was probably auditioning to take Doyle’s place at this very moment. Not that Acton would notice, she thought, and felt better. They had a lengthy and wordless lovemaking session in front of the fire last night, which had the added benefit of making Acton forget that he wanted to drink some more. He had fallen asleep on the rug with her lying atop him; definitely no energy left over for a girlfriend, she thought in satisfaction.

  The DCS ushered her into his office and offered her coffee, which she refused for fear she’d disgrace herself by spilling it on his fine desk. He was very pleased and congratulatory, and she was asked to recite the story again for his benefit. She began to wonder if she would retell it so much that she would forget the actual memory, and just remember the story. No, she decided; I will never forget how it felt when Munoz started slipping away as long as I live.

  “Any leads on a suspect as yet?” he asked.

  “I don’t believe so, sir, which is amazin’, considerin’ it was afternoon, and one would think someone would have seen somethin’.”

  He told her she would receive a commendation at next month’s awards ceremony, and he had contacted the newspaper to run a story.

  “Oh,” said Doyle, trying to hide her dismay. “There’s truly no need, sir.”

  “It’s great PR,” her superior explained firmly. “The public loves it when female PCs defy death. And there’s the Acton angle, also.”

  She nodded miserably. As a clincher, he added, “And you are photogenic, besides—a good face to show the public.”

  “Thank you, sir,” she replied, not sure what one said to such a thing. Acton had once given her a compliment about the bone structure in her face, but she hadn’t really been paying attention.

  “The reporter will be in contact; give him whatever he needs—it will be nice to have some positive coverage for a change.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As she returned to her cubicle, Doyle rang up Acton to ask his advice. He couldn’t countermand the DCS—could he?—but they could at least get their story straight. God forbid she relayed the truth; that she and Acton had no courtship at all, but had eloped from a crime scene where her estranged father was one of the victims. Mother a’ mercy but it was a recipe for disaster; she tended to talk too much when she was nervous. Snabble it, my girl; less is more.

  Acton did not pick up the call; that morning he had tucked a note under the sole remaining fruit pie that said he would be in meetings all day. She was disappointed, but she didn’t try to call his private line, she had to stop being such a baby and face the music.

  An hour later, the reporter phoned her desk and she reluctantly agreed to meet him for coffee at the deli. There was also a text from Williams, asking how she did. She responded immediately, keeping up her end of their bargain. One good thing about the whole ordeal, she thought; I’m no longer quarreling with Munoz and Williams. She mentally girded her loins and went out to meet the reporter.

  It was the same one that had tried to speak to her before, and he identified himself again as Kevin Maguire. As he needed a haircut and wore a worn corduroy jacket, anyone would have immediately guessed he was either a reporter or a teaching assistant. Doyle sat down warily; Maguire had a reputation for being hard on the police and sympathetic to criminals.

  “We meet again,” he began with a rueful smile.

  She couldn’t help smiling in response. “I’m sorry; I just hate this.”

  “You have no protectors, today.”

  “I’ve been ordered to cooperate, so here I am.” She suddenly had an idea—perhaps some good could come out of this misery. “My protector—the cab driver from last time, remember? —was murdered a few days ago.”

  He was immediately sympathetic. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Perhaps you could run a photo and a small story, askin’ if anyone saw anythin’.”

  “Tell me what you know.” He jotted down notes while Doyle recited the story of Aiki’s death, and the widow and child he left behind. She concluded, “The cab company will have his photo.”

  “You were friends?”

  “Yes,” she said simply, and suppressed the pang of grief.

  He turned the page in his notebook. “Now tell me about yesterday.”

  Doyle recited the story once again, omitting the detail about the borrowed coat.

  At its conclusion, the reporter leaned back in his chair—he was very pleased, she could see. “You jumped off Greyfriars Bridge into the Thames, even though you don’t know how to swim. Extraordinary.”

  “It wasn’t such a risk, truly,” said Doyle reasonably, “what with the rucksack, an’ all.”

  But the man continued to enthuse, “With this kind of story, every reader will pause and wonder if they could have done the same thing. It’s a compelling connection—a great human interest story.”

  “Oh,” said Doyle.

  “And you saved your colleague,” he checked his notes, “Detective Constable Isabel Munoz.”

  “Yes; Munoz is a very fine detective,” said Doyle. “We are great friends.” She hid a smile and had the immediate impression he knew she was saying it tongue in cheek.

  He glanced at her with a glint of humor, but dutifully wrote the quote down, and then asked in an offhand manner, “What was it, were you rivals for Acton?”

  “Everyone is a rival for Acton,” she replied in a dry tone, then stopped, horrified. “Please,” she begged, “don’t write that I said that.”

  He looked up at her, still smiling, “Come now—that’s a hell of a human interest story, too. The public loves him; he’s got a title, he’s single, and as far I can tell, wasn’t seeing anyone at all until he married you out of the clear blue.”

  Fiona, thought Doyle. Thank all available saints and holy angels he doesn’t know about her.

  “So—there were plenty of girls putting it to the touch, so to speak?”

  “Mr. Maguire,” she asked, “—are you married?”

  “No,” he admitted, smiling. He knows where I am going with this, she thought.

  “Acton and I are very private people. Any story about my winnin’ a make-believe competition for him will not speed me toward my next anniversary.”

  He eyed her thoughtfully. “Then give me something else. How did you meet?”

  “At work,” she said carefully; she was not going to make another mistake.

  There was a pause. “Most people tell me more than I want to know when I ask how they met.”

  Doyle found she could not even construct a plausible story. “I’m afraid I’d like to be keepin’ the details private.”

  He leaned forward on his elbows, suddenly all business. “You know, I will ask around and I may hear some stories that are not true. It would be better just to set the record straight.”

  Blackmail, she thought. “I won’t,” she replied firmly. “Do your worst.”
>
  He chuckled and closed his notepad. “I serve the public, ma’am.”

  CHAPTER 43

  AFTER MAGUIRE LEFT, DOYLE REMAINED AT THE DELI, DRINK ing coffee and dejected. Why couldn’t she guard her tongue? Her tendency to be flip often earned Acton’s silent disapproval—just wait until he heard this one. I have to warn him, she thought, and nearly groaned aloud; he’d be repenting of his foolish marriage, he would. She remembered last night, his eyes intent on hers as he moved against her in the firelight, and decided perhaps there was a chance he wouldn’t.

  Nothin’ for it, she thought, but finished off the last of her coffee to gather her courage before she attempted the call. Samuels wandered by and saw her at her table near the window. “Doyle,” he greeted her cheerfully. “Are you recovered?”

  “As you see,” she answered easily. “Have you found any leads?”

  “Not much,” he admitted. “Dispatch says the caller was a woman, but we can’t conclude the attacker was the tipster, with this Solonik bunch. We’re trying to check female known associates, but it is possible the attacker thought Munoz was the tipster, and wanted to silence her.”

  This indeed seemed plausible, and gave Doyle pause as this meant the tipster would be reluctant to come forward again, which may have been the intended result. “What sort of weapon?”

  “Small blade, only five inches or so which was lucky—any longer and the damage would have been fatal. Not serrated. Holmes seemed to have a good idea of the type of knife, when he saw the report.”

  “He’s seen the report already?” Doyle thought of Acton’s crowded schedule. “That’s quick work, Samuels.”

  The other man smiled in appreciation. “Thanks—it was a chance to shine and I grabbed it. He was anxious to see the report, and had me bring it by your flat, just now.” He paused and said appreciatively, “Nice view.”

  “Yes, it is that,” agreed Doyle. She was distracted, trying to assimilate the surprising information that Acton was at home. Were his meetings cancelled? And yet, he hadn’t answered her call. After thanking Samuels for the information, she excused herself, claiming work obligations.