Murder in Retribution (A New Scotland Yard Mystery)

by Anne Cleeland

  Doyle lowered her head and pressed her forehead against the tablet in profound relief. Thank You, she offered up; and thank Maguire for having mercy. Lifting her head, she immediately wrote back to him, expressing her admiration for the well-drafted article. She could be tongue-in-cheek, too.

  Rising, she wandered over to the window to contemplate the view as the lights faded, and debated whether she should text Acton. It was likely he had gone somewhere to drink, perhaps his office, and she may be needed to gather him up—she didn’t want him to get into a state. She typed, “Shall I give you a lift?” and sent the text.

  The reply came almost immediately: “With Tim. It may be a while.”

  Of course, she thought; poor Timothy would be shocked and bereft. And naturally he would call Acton, to support him in his loss. They would wonder together how Caroline could have done such a thing, and suffer remorse that they were unaware of her deep unhappiness. I am not cut out for this, she thought; I was never any good at deception.

  She began biting her thumbnail, and wondered uneasily if the scene had been processed by the police yet. There may be questions about how Caroline had come to have an illegal weapon; suspicions raised. Another message came in on her mobile.

  “Are you all right?”

  Now, there was an innocuous question that was nevertheless loaded with meaning. “Yes,” she replied. “Am I needed?”

  “Yes. But not here.”

  Despite everything, she smiled at the message. Acton, Acton, she thought; what am I going to do with you?

  She decided to make an exception to her policy; if anyone deserved a drink it was she, after the last two weeks. Or months. Taking an inventory of the liquor cabinet, she noted there was scotch, vodka, and brandy. After having tasted Acton’s, she didn’t much care for scotch and she thought vodka a bit extreme, so brandy it was. She poured out a small amount in a glass and diluted it with water, then sat at the table and watched the lights, sipping tentatively. Horrid, she thought, and desisted—how anyone could drink this stuff was beyond her. She thought of Williams, keeling over after his two pints of Guinness, and on a whim she texted him.

  “Hey.”

  He answered immediately. “Where did U go?”

  “Home. A crackin’ foul day.”

  “Sorry. Can I help?”

  She looked at the screen for a moment. “No, but thanks.” Another dedicated man; best not encourage him.

  “Note that I M behaving myself.”

  She smiled. “Note that I am not coming to cuffs w/U.”

  “Good 4 us.”

  The reference to an “us” gave her pause; she must be tipsy to be engaging with him again; she should keep him at arm’s length for a bit. To conclude the session, she texted, “C U tomorrow.”

  He was reluctant to sign off. “No leads yet on Munoz or cab driver.”

  And there wouldn’t be; Acton would see to that. “A shame. Must go.”

  “Cheers.”

  She rang off, wondering if they could ever get back to normal, whatever normal was for them.

  CHAPTER 46

  DOYLE SAT AT THE TABLE WITH HER FEET CURLED BENEATH HER and waited; thinking of nothing in particular, until Acton finally appeared, looking weary as he came through the door. The ultimate in a dedicated man, she thought as she turned her head to watch him approach. I have a surfeit of champions, whether I wish them or no.

  His sharp eyes were upon her, assessing, then he ran a hand over her head and picked up the brandy bottle. “What’s this?”

  “You’ve driven me to drink, my friend. It was only a matter of time.”

  He said mildly, “I’ll join you,” and went to the liquor cabinet to address the scotch bottle; she noted that he took the brandy bottle with him.

  “How is Timothy?”

  “Bad,” he replied shortly, and poured himself a tall glass of scotch. He didn’t want to talk about it, which was no surprise, and so instead she asked the question she had been wondering all evening.

  “How did you know?”

  He glanced over at her as he took a seat at the table. “Caroline knew our new domestic was a ‘he’ and not a ‘she’; so she must have been the one at the door when Reynolds answered.”

  Doyle stared in surprise at the simple explanation. “You are somethin’, Michael.”

  Acton took a healthy swallow from his glass and leaned back in his chair, his gaze resting on its contents. He was alert and wary, despite his relaxed pose, and she decided that it served him right; she truly should be railing and throwing things if she had any self-respect at all. On the other hand, this certainly felt like a discussion, which was a promising sign. He must be remorseful—or, she amended, at least remorseful about putting her though it. She doubted he harbored a flicker of remorse for all the various and sundry murders.

  He continued, “Aiki tried to tell you.”

  “Aiki did?” She was at sea.

  “Yes; you described what he said, but you misunderstood. He was saying ‘votre amie.’ It means ‘your friend’ in French.”

  “Oh—I see. That would clinch it; I suppose, after Reynolds verified the photo.”

  He lifted his gaze to hers, and immediately she realized her error—the wretched brandy was goofing her up. “I browbeat him into the admission, Michael; I knew somethin’ was up, and I came home for lunch to discover what it was. Please don’t be angry or fire him; he so loves saying ‘Lord Acton.’ ”

  Acton considered. “Do you think we can trust him?”

  She nodded. “I do. Believe me, you will be the first to know if he puts a foot wrong; we can’t have another snake livin’ in the chicken coop.”

  “There is no one,” he pronounced slowly, “who can turn a phrase quite like you.”

  “I’m a corker,” she agreed.

  Cradling his glass, he bowed his head. “Reynolds should not have disobeyed me.” He paused. “And now he may piece together what has occurred.”

  Doyle hadn’t thought of this, but remained unalarmed. “Unlikely,” she insisted. “I’m the only one who pieces things together.” She paused. “Aside from you, of course—you take the palm.”

  “You are extraordinary.”

  She had the feeling that he was referring to her current state of restraint as much as her intuitive ability, but what else could she do? She loved the man, and at least it all made some sense, finally. Cautiously, she tried to keep this fragile discussion going. “And I suppose Marta didn’t truly kill herself.”

  He nodded. “Timothy must have told Caroline about the poisoning, and she killed Marta so as to silence her and give us a likely suspect at the same time—the case would be closed.” He paused, contemplating what was left of the scotch in his glass. “Caroline was unhappy we married.”

  “Yes—already aware of that, Michael.”

  “Are you unhappy we married?”

  Ah, she thought; here we go. “No, I am not unhappy we married—I think it is the best and greatest thing I have ever done.” She took a sip of the brandy because she’d forgotten how foul it was, and then added fairly, “thus far.” Dropping her head, she traced her finger in a water drop on the table. “Although I will admit that some days are better than others.”

  He leaned forward and covered her hand with his. “Do you remember when you told me that you had no choice but to jump off the bridge?”

  “Yes.” She lifted her face and understood what he was trying to tell her. “I see.”

  “I am sorry.” The truth rang like a clear bell, and his relief was palpable. “I will do whatever is necessary so that—so that this is not so difficult for you.”

  But this was the wrong tack, and she made a sound of frustration. “You are not to be careful around me, Michael—I hate it, remember? Just—let’s just try to make certain there aren’t any more days like today.” She met his eyes. “Although nothin’ will make me change my mind, Michael—truly.” Fingers crossed, she thought; living with this man was not for the faint of h
eart.

  He made no response, but she was heartened—he was allowing her glimpses within, and even though he hated to speak of it, they were making progress; they were sorting out how they were to deal with each other. In the end, this was surely not much different than what every other new married couple had to do. Except for the forensics, of course. “Will there be an investigation, do you think?”

  “No.”

  “How can you be so certain, Michael?” She allowed her voice to reveal her uneasiness.

  “I am very good at what I do.”

  This was inarguably true. And it would never cross anyone’s mind to suspect him in the first place; it would take some very serious digging to come up with evidence of Acton’s dark doings, and no one would even think of trying. “Then we should be havin’ no more problems like this one.”

  “I hope not,” he agreed.

  It was the truth, and she was relieved; in the back of her mind was the unspoken concern that he enjoyed this—that it was a symptom of his condition. Things could get very dicey if he was going to start wreaking revenge on anyone who bumped into her on the sidewalk. “I suppose our trip to Brighton is postponed, then?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry, Kathleen; I’m to help Timothy with the funeral.”

  She sighed philosophically. “I’ll help you do it; you don’t speak RC very well, after all.” She wondered if he would ever make a real confession—Father John would fall out of his chair.

  They sat in silence for a few minutes, and then she asked, “Have they found Rourke’s body, yet?”

  “Not as yet.” He lifted his gaze to hers, curious. “Any ideas?”

  “No,” she confessed. “I’m afraid it doesn’t work like that.” Since he’d given her a glimpse, she’d return the favor. “Any leads on motive?”

  Acton leaned back and crossed his long legs at the ankles; he was able to relax, now that he knew she wasn’t going to brain him with a joint stool. “I think so—we discovered some encrypted e-mails that indicate the Rourkes and Solonik were in league together, agreeing to cut each other in on a new contraband operation.”

  Doyle blinked in surprise. “Holy Mother—truly? That seems unlikely, they are sworn enemies.” Then she remembered his theory. “A mutual secret, just as you thought—neither the Rourkes nor Solonik could allow their people to learn they’d been conspiring against them with the enemy.” She remembered Habib had said something to this effect—speculating that Solonik’s refusal to identify his attacker stemmed from a business decision, and not necessarily a tribal allegiance. “What was the rig they wanted to run, do you know?”

  “Solonik runs a contraband operation, and the Rourkes were going to siphon money off their track earnings to fund a mutual operation on the side—it is unclear exactly what it was.”

  “Skimmin’,” quoted Doyle, her brow clearing. “Our Mr. Thackeray was right.” She paused because her scalp was tingling, and she wasn’t sure whether it was just the brandy. “Thackeray also said there were an unusual amount of horse trailers, going in and out.”

  Acton slowly pulled his legs in and sat up. “Did he indeed?”

  With some excitement, Doyle played her trump. “Remember the wary walk-in—the one with the fancy French watch—he said he was a driver; they must be smugglin’ contraband in the horse trailers. It would be a simple way to regularly transport somethin’ almost anywhere in the country without raisin’ suspicion.”

  “Savoie,” Acton mused.

  Doyle blinked, as this seemed a non sequitur, and just when she was solving the case like a house afire. “What?”

  Acton tilted his head, contemplating the view out the window. “No wonder Solonik wanted assurances; they were both trying to cut in on Savoie.”

  But Doyle was having some trouble keeping up. “Remind me who Savoie is, Michael—another kingpin?”

  He glanced at her, debating what to say, and she was reminded that he had his own little black market enterprise on the side, which she was not to know about. “Savoie is a major international player, and very dangerous. I imagine he caught wind of the Solonik-Rourke plan, and to warn them off, deposited Rourke’s body at Newmarket.” He paused, and added almost unnecessarily, “Savoie is not someone you cross.”

  “Neither are you,” Doyle pointed out, thinking of Barayev’s grisly corpse. “And here I thought it was you that had Rourke killed.”

  But this was a discussion too far, apparently, and instead of responding, he pulled his mobile and called Williams to let him know that the body of the missing Rourke would no doubt also be found on Newmarket heath near where his brother’s body had been found, and that a search team should be sent in the morning.

  “Another retribution murder,” she observed as he rang off. “Faith, you need a spreadsheet to keep track.”

  Acton leaned back again, well-satisfied. “I will look into this in the morning—the horse-trailer theory seems very sound; if we play our cards right, we may be able to bring in even more players, once we see how the operation works.”

  Yes, she thought; whether or not you approved of Acton’s methods, there was no arguing that all the evildoers had been thoroughly thwarted—or killed, one or the other. “The DCS should give Thackeray a commendation—or at least deputize him; he twigged the whole case, he just didn’t know it. I wonder why Solonik was there in the first place.”

  “He no doubt felt that such an out-of-the-way place was a safe venue to meet with Rourke.”

  Doyle had to smile at the irony. “Far from it, as it turned out.” She thought about it for a moment, and then wondered aloud, “If Solonik thought the Rourkes had killed his brother-in-law, why would he even agree to meet with them?”

  Acton set his glass down. “Solonik never thought the Rourkes were responsible for killing his brother-in-law.”

  Yes, of course; she’d forgotten that Barayev was killed in retribution for Owens shooting her; Acton would have made certain to let Solonik know this—no point in going to all the trouble of a retribution murder, one would think, unless the target was aware it was a retribution murder. You almost felt sorry for Solonik, who—as it turned out—had nothing to do with Owens shooting her, and must have been bewildered by Acton’s wholesale vengeance-seeking.

  But any stab of sympathy quickly dissipated; after all, the Solonik-Rourke allegiance may well have been hatched as a way to team up against Acton as much as against this Savoie character, and there was no question Solonik deserved to be in prison. A good riddance, she decided; but Acton could not go on as he was—perhaps therapy was not necessarily a bad idea.

  “Is it time for bed?” Her husband’s gaze rested on the dé-colletage of her robe, as apparently this night’s crime-solving was fast coming to an end.

  “It is,” she agreed. “This day cannot be over fast enough.”

  His arm around her waist, Acton led her to the bedroom. “Tell me of your interview with the reporter; what was your concern?”

  “It turned out to be nothin’, Michael; I just panicked a bit. I talk too much when I’m nervous.”

  “Is that so?” he teased.

  “The reporter is a wily one, though; best to avoid him. He’s determined to make us a page-seven story.” She glanced up at him sidelong. “Not that anyone would believe it.”

  “Nonsense,” he said, pausing to kiss her. “Nothing to see, here.”

  Keep reading for a sneak peek At Acton and Doyle’s next adventure MURDER IN HINDSIGHT

  CHAPTER 1

  DETECTIVE SERGEANT KATHLEEN DOYLE WAS FRETTING; FRETting and stalling until Detective Chief Inspector Acton could make an appearance whilst she tried to appear calm and composed in front of the Scene of the Crime Officers. As a newly-promoted DS, she should maintain a certain dignity and display her leadership abilities, even though she was longing to bite her nails and peer over the hedgerow toward the park entrance. The various Scotland Yard forensics personnel were impatiently waiting because Acton was delayed, and Doyle had a good guess as t
o why he was delayed. One of these fine days, someone else may make the same guess and then the wretched cat would be among the wretched pigeons—although the mind boggled, trying to imagine Acton being called on the carpet by Professional Standards. Pulling out her mobile, she pretended to make a call just to appear busy.

  “I’ll lose the light soon, ma’am.” The SOCO photographer approached, cold and unhappy, and small blame to her; Doyle was equally cold and unhappy, but with better reason.

  “Ten more minutes,” Doyle assured her, holding a hand over her mobile so as to interrupt her pretend-conversation. “Then we’ll move forward—whether DCI Acton makes it or no.” She wanted Acton to have a look before the corpse was processed and removed, but she could always show him the photos.

  The woman immediately plucked up. “No hurry; we can wait, if the DCI is on his way.”

  Has a crush on him, the brasser, thought Doyle. Join the club, my friend; the woman probably had some private photographs she’d be all too happy to show Acton in her spare time. The SOCO photographer used to treat Doyle with barely-concealed contempt, but her attitude had improved remarkably after the bridge-jumping incident. A few months ago, Doyle had jumped off Greyfriars Bridge into the Thames to save a colleague, and was now a celebrated hero. All in all, it was a mixed blessing, because Doyle was not one who craved the spotlight and now she was perceived as sort of a female version of St. George—except that she’d rescued the dragon instead of the maiden, when you thought about it.

  Irish by birth and fey by nature, Doyle had an uncanny ability to read people, and in particular she could recognize a lie when she heard it. This perceptive ability had launched her career as a detective, but it also made her reclusive by nature—it was no easy thing, to be able to pick up on the currents and crosscurrents of emotion swirling around her. The SOCO photographer, for example, was lusting after the vaunted chief inspector but bore Doyle no particular ill-will for being married to him, since she was the heroic bridge-jumper and thus above reproach.