She walked out to the sidewalk and paused, thinking. She could call Acton again, on the private line if necessary, and start a conversation with him so as to assess what was going on. Her instinct, however, was making her very uneasy. She remembered the intensity of the lovemaking last night; remembered that Acton had left a note rather than tell her in person that he’d be unavailable at meetings today—apparently so that she wouldn’t know he was lying. Wretched man; the game’s afoot, she thought, and abruptly decided she was going home for lunch. As she made her way to the St. James’s Park tube station, she knew with complete certainty that whatever it was, he was doing it to serve her—everything always did. But he had no compunction about compiling a body count in the process and she couldn’t seem to convince him to rethink this strategy.
She arrived at the flat to see Reynolds, cleaning the kitchen wearing yellow rubber gloves and an apron. Unlikely Acton was still there, then.
“Hallo, Reynolds,” she said easily. “Is Acton still about?”
The servant paused, and looked at her impassively. Ah, she thought; he’s uneasy. Now what?
“No, madam,” was all he replied, and Doyle admired his ability to say as little as possible to avoid possible repercussions ; she wished she had the same talent.
“He was about, earlier, though,” she prompted, taking off her jacket.
Reynolds looked at her consideringly, and Doyle took pity. “I hate to be puttin’ you in the middle, Reynolds, but I need a truthful answer, if you please.”
Surprisingly, Reynolds mused, “I cannot imagine that he would do wrong by you.”
“No,” she agreed, trying to hide her dismay. “He would not, no matter how it looks.” They regarded each other, and she chose her words carefully. “Sometimes, Acton needs to be saved from himself.” Reynolds nodded, and seemed to understand exactly what she meant. He’s very sharp, she thought; I wonder how much he knows or has guessed, and I wonder if that’s a good thing.
The servant was still weighing his options, so Doyle played her trump. “You owe me, Reynolds.”
The man peeled off his gloves. “Lord Acton was here, and asked that he not be disturbed and that I not mention he was in to anyone, whom I took to mean you, madam.”
Doyle considered this, furrowing her brow. “What was he about? Did he make any calls?”
“A young policeman delivered some paperwork and left. Lord Acton then removed something from the safe, and made a call.”
“And,” prompted Doyle, waiting to hear whatever Reynolds was omitting with a sinking feeling in her midsection. Samuel’s report was not delivered by e-mail, but by hard copy which was easier to keep confidential. The guns were in the safe, and Reynolds was reluctant to tell her the rest. Saints and angels, she thought, tamping down panic; another flippin’ crisis.
“He did not wish me to overhear, but it is hard to avoid,” the servant explained apologetically. “I could not make out words, only the tone. It sounded as though he was speaking to a woman—very friendly, if I may say so. There were many assurances.” He regarded her impassively, his expression wooden.
But Doyle was not thinking about infidelity, she was furiously trying to figure out who Acton was attempting to beguile. Solonik’s woman? Rourke’s? She had no idea; she did not know enough. The tipster had been a woman, and that must be who it was. Doyle racked her brain, but the only woman she could think of in connection with the turf war cases had already been murdered.
Reynolds cleared his throat. “Then there is the matter of the photograph.”
This caught her full attention. “What photograph, Reynolds?”
“Yesterday Lord Acton asked me to review a photograph. He asked that I not mention it to you.”
Honestly, she thought; I have to take up drinking, I can see the merit.
“It was of a woman,” said Reynolds, who then hastened to assure her, “Not a very attractive woman.”
Ah, here was a clue. “What did she look like?” Then, without waiting for an answer, she realized there was a more pertinent question, “And why would he show it to you?”
“He asked if it was the woman who was at the door that day—Marta.”
Doyle stared at him, completely astonished. “He showed you a photo of Marta?” This made little sense; was Marta involved in the turf war? Had one side or the other set her up as a spy in their household? Perhaps she was still alive—Doyle had only Acton’s word for it that she had killed herself. Why would he lie? No—on second thought, he wasn’t lying when he’d called to say that Marta was dead. Doyle closed her eyes to concentrate. Think, Doyle. Acton would advise you to try to make sense of it without any preconceptions. If Marta were not, in fact, dead, Acton would not be calling her and being friendly, he would be murderous—they had no doubt that the poison was by Marta’s hand. He’d not be trying to beguile her, he’d be throttling her. So why did Acton need Reynolds to confirm that indeed it had been Marta at the door? Marta was dead; it was moot.
Unless it wasn’t.
Her eyes flew open. As calmly as she was able, she asked Reynolds, “What did the woman in the photo look like?”
“She had dark hair, tall—and was a bit embonpoint, madam.”
“Reynolds, please speak in understandable terms.”
“A bit heavyset,” he amended.
This described Marta. “How old?”
“Not yet forty, I would guess.”
Not Marta.
“And,” he continued, “She was being given some sort of award, at a ceremony.”
Doyle reached out involuntarily and grasped his arm. “Holy Mother of God,” she breathed, and just caught herself just before adding, “Caroline.”
CHAPTER 44
DOYLE SAT DOWN AND TRIED TO STEADY HER BREATHING FOR A few minutes before she phoned Acton. He didn’t pick up his business line. She called his personal line. It rang twice, and then he answered.
“Yes.” Terse again, he was. Caroline was there, then.
“I’m sorry to bother you, Michael, but I had an interview with a reporter from the London World News and I think I said the wrong thing. I wonder if you could use your influence with the editor again.”
“Let me try. I will phone you back later.”
“Grand,” she replied, and rang off. Staring at her mobile, she tried to think it through. It must have been Caroline who was working with Marta—and perhaps Acton’s mother—to poison the fair Doyle. It made sense, once you got past the shock of it; Caroline was unhappy Doyle had married Acton, she knew her way around poisons, and knew Marta—she was the perfect suspect. And she’d been trying to get Doyle to meet with her alone—even come to her flat, without telling Acton. Perhaps the object hadn’t been murder, but only to induce an abortion; either way, Acton’s fury would have no bounds.
Doyle wondered how he was made aware. He had warned Doyle that Caroline did not mean well by her, but surely he hadn’t known at that time she was the poisoner—had he? She gave herself a mental shake; best lose no time in useless speculation, but act to stop the next retribution murder on what was Acton’s apparently inexhaustible list; she had no doubt Caroline was slated to die. He must have convinced the woman that he knew what she had attempted and had forgiven her. Perhaps he also assured her that he would set Doyle aside; that would explain the friendly tone and assurances Reynolds had spoken of—it would also explain how he knew Doyle was no longer in danger.
She wondered where they were; Caroline was to speak at a conference—was it today? She couldn’t remember; she truly needed to start paying more attention to things. She couldn’t track Acton’s GPS device as he did hers; he had disconnected it. Fingering the mobile, she debated ringing up Caroline on a pretext, but immediately discarded the idea; Acton would know what she was doing in a second, and would simply reschedule.
Although she’d been there once before, she pulled up the McGonigal address on Acton’s laptop and jotted it down to figure out how to get there on the tube—it was her
best chance. As Reynolds helped her back into her jacket, she said, “I’ll try to keep you out of it.”
“I would appreciate it, madam,” he replied, and saw her out.
Doyle arrived at the building, and dug around in her wallet for the passkey Caroline had given her, inserting it into the security slot at the elevator. Caroline was a brilliant woman, but she was apparently dumb enough to believe Acton would be interested in her, which was a bit incestuous as her friend Fiona had been Acton’s mistress, if you could call it that. Munoz is right, Doyle thought, thoroughly confused; everything is always about sex, and I am completely oblivious to it. And murder is not always murder—only it truly is, even if I’m the last person left who thinks so.
She walked quietly to the flat’s entry door and pressed an ear against it, but couldn’t hear anything. Debating, she tried to decide whether she should go in or knock first—she would hate to burst in and surprise Timothy at lunch. She knocked. “Caroline, are you there? It’s Kathleen Sinclair.”
No answer, but Doyle knew, in the way that frightened Habib, that they were both within, and she could feel her heartbeat accelerate—Acton didn’t know she had a key. She waited a few minutes, so that they would think she had left, and then she quickly inserted the passkey and entered the room, closing the door behind her. Her attention was immediately drawn to the tableau at the table, where Caroline was seated next to Acton, leaning on her elbows—they were drinking some sort of alcoholic beverage in glasses with ice. Acton’s gaze was fixed on Doyle, betraying no surprise. Caroline, however, was frowning in disbelief, as though she was seeing an apparition. No one spoke.
Doyle found her voice. “May I come in?”
Acton said in a tone that brooked no argument, “No. You must go home and wait there. We will talk later.”
“Stupid, skinny bitch,” said Caroline in accents of such loathing that it made Doyle involuntarily flinch; it was apparent she was quite drunk.
Doyle met Acton’s eyes, but they were hard and impenetrable, and the black mood hovered, ominous and threatening. “Can we have a non-discussion about this?” she asked softly.
“There is nothing to not discuss.”
“He doesn’t want you, you stupid, stupid bitch.” Caroline was enjoying herself immensely, and swayed slightly. She was more than drunk, and Doyle concluded he had put a drug of some sort in her drink.
“Michael,” asked Doyle with complete sincerity, “how many more people are goin’ to come crawlin’ out o’ the woodwork, tryin’ to kill me to get to you? In round numbers, if you please.”
“Don’t you dare call him ‘Michael,’ ” Caroline chided, slurring her words. “You don’t even know him. Fiona knew him. I know him. You are only a stupid Irish bitch.”
“Caroline,” Doyle cautioned, “you are not doin’ yourself any favors, here.”
“Cheers, Caro,” said Acton, lifting his glass so that she responded. They took another drink. He then said to Doyle, “You must go home, Kathleen; Caroline and I are having a drink together.”
It occurred to Doyle that she was the only rational person present, and this being the case, she should at least make a push. “Michael, you cannot,” she said firmly. “It’s a Commandment.”
“Skinny bitch. What the—what the hell are you talking about? Go ’way, he doesn’t want you.”
Acton’s eyes met Doyle’s. “She killed your baby.”
“As if she was worthy to have your baby, Acton—can you imagine? With her dirty African cab driver, thinking he could tell me what to do. Me.”
Doyle stared, completely shocked.
“You were to die a slow and agonizing death,” Acton continued as though Caroline had not spoken.
“Stupid, skinny bitch.”
“I was to watch you die.”
“Yes,” Doyle acknowledged; all valid points—it truly didn’t look very good for Caroline when you toted them up like this.
“I would not have wanted to outlive you.”
Doyle could feel the prickling of tears. Caroline would have completely destroyed them; there would have been nothing left of their little family-to-be. Nonetheless, murder was murder. “Michael, please don’t do this.”
“Acton, tell the skinny bitch what you told me—make her go away and never, never come back.”
“Don’t cry,” he commanded Doyle.
“I’ll try.” Doyle wiped her cheeks with the palm of her hand—he didn’t do well when she cried and she was afraid it could prompt him to finish it. “We are called to forgive, Michael.”
“Whore. Stupid whore.”
“You can forgive this?” He sounded genuinely curious.
“I am supposed to try,” she said honestly. “It’s not an easy thing, seekin’ redemption instead of retribution. But it’s a better thing.”
“Not in this case.” He withdrew a small caliber gun from his jacket pocket, held it to Caroline’s right temple, and fired.
Doyle jumped, and then put her hand over her mouth as Caroline slumped over, the blood spray pattern showing bright red on the wall. Acton looked up at Doyle. “Be careful going home; I will be there as soon as I can.”
CHAPTER 45
DOYLE DIDN’T TAKE THE TUBE, BUT WALKED ALL THE WAY home. It had started to rain again, and she forgot to bring an umbrella, but in her current mood it didn’t matter much. She rang up Reynolds, standing under an awning so her mobile didn’t get wet, and told him he should make himself scarce. “Might be a donnybrook,” she explained. “If there’s to be mayhem, best have no witnesses.”
Reynolds expressed his willingness to stay if he could be of any support, but Doyle assured him she did not need reinforcements. Continuing on her way, she found the long walk in the rain very therapeutic, and was feeling better as she entered their building wet, cold, and bedraggled. It could be worse, she rationalized—I think he shot her because I was getting to him. Not much of a victory, but we’ll take what we can. She knew he would clean up the scene so it would appear Caroline committed suicide after drinking and taking pills—how fortunate she had publicly spoken of suicide at lunch the other day. Not that there would be an investigation, of course; it was an open-and-shut case of suicide in a locked apartment—only she and Acton would know that the destroyer had in turn been destroyed.
The concierge showed commendable restraint in not making a disparaging comment about her appearance, but instead asked her very kindly if the police had made any progress in Aiki’s murder. She was tempted to say that yes—as a matter of fact, justice had been very swift and very sure. Instead, she said only that it seemed unlikely they were ever to know.
Piecing it all together, she made her way to the private lift, dripping water on the fine marble floor. Caroline was poisoning her, and careful to poison only what Acton wouldn’t eat. But then she must have heard from her brother that they were aware of the poisoning attempt, and had panicked a bit, trying to kill any witnesses who could place her at the flat for no apparent reason; Reynolds, who had seen her at the door, and Aiki, who must have challenged her in some way—although how Aiki would have known that Caroline meant to do her harm was unclear. We saved one of them, Doyle thought as she made her way to the flat’s front door; I wish we’d managed to save both.
Doyle stepped into the flat and was immediately aware that Acton had not yet returned. She peeled off her wet clothes, showered in blessedly hot water once again, and then pulled on a robe, feeling a bit numb and wondering what she would say to her husband when he returned. Another retribution murder, she thought, gazing out at the rain with her chin in her hand; and this one much closer to home. I wonder if he found out whether his mother was involved, and I wonder what he will do if she was—it is becoming distressingly clear that I don’t have as much influence as I thought; at least in matters vengeful. With a mental shake, she called Habib to report in and was relieved to discover that he seemed not to have noticed she’d been absent most of the day.
“Munoz is going home from t
he hospital tomorrow,” he reported happily.
“That’s grand, sir.” A dedicated man, she thought; I wonder if Habib would lay waste to most of greater London for Munoz.
She realized she hadn’t given Munoz a thought all day, and immediately phoned her. “Munoz, how goes the recovery?”
“Well. They tell me the thickness of the coat probably saved my life.”
“Aren’t you the clever one, then—and light-fingered, to boot.”
“I’ll get you another.”
“Don’t—I never liked it much, anyway.”
There was a pause. “You know what I want to say.”
“Then spare us both, Munoz.”
“Right. They can’t find anything wrong with me—although the doctor is trying, so as to keep me here.”
“He’ll have to arm wrestle with Habib.”
“Wonderful. I do need to find myself a decent man.”
“Is there to be a scar? You may have to settle, if that is the case.”
“A scar will only add to my mystique. You’ll see.”
“I don’t doubt it for a moment, Izzy; they’ll be linin’ up, hopin’ to get a glimpse of it.”
Munoz laughed, well-pleased, and Doyle rang off. Acton was still not home, which made her a bit uneasy. To pass the time, she opened up her tablet to review her messages and saw an e-mail from Maguire, the reporter, along with an attachment. Mother a’ mercy; Acton had not had a chance to try to intervene on the article, being as he was too busy running amok. With some trepidation, she opened the message to see that Maguire relayed his thanks for her participation, and referenced the attached article. After closing her eyes to invoke the aid of any available saints, she opened it, and began reading. The article gave a factual and slightly sensationalized account of Munoz’s rescue and asked the public’s help in coming forward with any useful information concerning the attack. Another paragraph explained that Doyle was to be recognized by the CID for her bravery. The article concluded with the summation that she had been a PC for two years, a DC for two, and that she had recently married Chief Inspector Acton, as though it were a footnote. Directly below the article was another one, showing Aiki’s photo and asking the public for information concerning his attack.
Murder in Retribution (A New Scotland Yard Mystery) Page 24