Murder in Retribution (17 page)

D
OYLE AND
A
CTON SHOWED THEIR IDENTIFICATION AT THE IN
firmary’s security suite, and went through a rigorous security check; after the episode with the fake solicitor, no chances were being taken. They arrived at the room, and were asked to show identification once again to the guard who was posted outside the door, although the man had immediately risen when he recognized Acton. On occasion, Doyle had been inside a prison to question a witness or a suspect, and she heartily disliked the experience, being one who was so attuned to undercurrents and atmosphere. Unimaginable, to have to reside day after day in so bleak a place—having no hope of being free to wander about for the foreseeable future. It went against her nature completely, and she was well-aware that Acton had arranged just this kind of future for the man he thought had masterminded the attack on her. Glancing at her husband, she wondered if he had any regrets, and then decided it was unlikely; Acton was not one to dwell on past mistakes. Instead, he would think the world well-rid of a criminal, and move on to the next case.

She entered the fortified, windowless room after Acton, and saw that Solonik was lying in the hospital bed, bound with restraints and hooked to an IV from which she averted her eyes. The bandaged corner of a dressing was exposed at the neck of his hospital gown, near his throat. The attacker had meant to slash his throat, then, which was probably the most lethal option when the blade was a small one. Solonik looked like the image in Thackeray’s photograph, and he watched them enter with interest, his dark eyes focused on his visitors. Acton said nothing to him and did not introduce Doyle, so she stood against the wall in her best imitation of a DC poised to take notes. She didn’t lift her gaze, but could feel Solonik’s eyes resting upon her.

“Rizhaya,”
he said. “That is what we call hair that color. Like a beautiful sunset.”

Doyle made no response and Acton ignored him, instead pulling up a photograph on his tablet. He approached Solonik and showed it to him. “Do you recognize this man?”

Solonik looked at it carefully. Doyle had the impression he recognized him immediately, but was wary. “Perhaps,” he equivocated.

“Is he Russian?” asked Acton.

Solonik is surprised by the question, thought Doyle, and is trying to hide his surprise. “I do not know every
rooskiy
in England, Chief Inspector.”

Acton referred to the photograph. “Is this the man who attacked you?”

Solonik pretended to study the photograph, but continued wary. “It is possible. I did not get a close look at him.” This was untrue, and Doyle brushed her hair back.

“Did he say anything to you?”

“No.” This was true.

“Do you think his intent was to kill you?”

Solonik looked amused. “It would seem so, certainly.” True again.

Acton leaned forward. “Who is he?”

Solonik tilted his head to the side and hunched his shoulders, but then winced because it hurt. “I know not.”

Doyle paused to brush her hair off her forehead with the hand that held her pen.

“Shall I call for your solicitor? I would like to know why you are protecting this man.”

Solonik was surprised and dismayed, but he stared at Acton without evidencing this. “Why do you think I am protecting him? I do not know him, and he tried to kill me. You make no sense, Chief Inspector.”

Acton regarded him for a long moment, and then with a resigned gesture, closed the photograph. “If you will not cooperate, I cannot give you assurances.”

The other man was suddenly alert, and seemed to be reassessing. He asked slowly, “What kind of assurances?”

Acton stood before him, implacable. “The evidence shows you murdered Barayev. Your solicitors are putting up a brave front, but you and I both know you are going to prison. You are a dangerous man—who knows, perhaps there are even more murders which would implicate you under the Anti-Terrorism Act. If this is the case, you could wind up in a Category A prison—Maghaberry, perhaps.” Acton paused, to let the man picture his future in a maximum-security Irish prison. “I imagine you would be a marked man.”

Solonik sat very still, never taking his eyes off Acton. Despite his unreadable expression, he was emanating waves of hatred and frustrated rage, the intensity of which made Doyle drop her gaze.

There was a small silence, and then Acton continued, “Or, perhaps you will not be implicated in any others, in which case you would no doubt be placed in a Category B—Wexton is a possibility.” Doyle listened in surprise; the reference was to a moderate-security prison on the outskirts of greater London, currently in the director-general’s black book because the guards had been caught taking bribes.

Solonik’s gaze traveled to Doyle, who had not betrayed by the flicker of an eyelash her realization that the law enforcement officer was threatening a suspect with trumped-up murder charges. “Why should I trust you?”

“Perhaps you shouldn’t, but I will have some answers from you, or all bets are off. Did you arrange for anyone to make a delivery to my flat?”

Doyle almost gaped, and had to resist the urge to look up in surprise. This must be why Acton had brought her in on this unorthodox interview—even though up to now he’d been keeping her well away from it; he needed to know if Solonik was behind the attack against her. It was a valid theory, she supposed; Solonik could have enlisted Marta to take his own vengeance for Acton’s unexplained war on him. And such a turn of events would only illustrate exactly why you stayed out of the vengeance business—it never ends.

The other man said slowly, “I do not understand.”

Acton did not yield. “Answer the question—did you arrange to deliver anything to my flat?”

Doyle glanced up, to see the other man watching Acton, a speculative look in his eye. “No.” It was the truth. “I have heard that you have taken a young wife, Chief Inspector. Perhaps she has taken a lover, and it is he who sends her gifts.”

But this insinuation did not rattle her husband, who returned, “I have heard you have a young son in St. Petersburg. It is a simple thing to replace a wife; it is not so simple, when a man is in prison, to replace a son.”

Saints, thought Doyle, trying to decide where to look; little chance of finding this particular interrogation technique in any police manual.

His unreadable gaze on the other man, Acton continued, “We understand each other?”

Solonik nodded. “Yes. Speak to the solicitor.”

Acton tapped his tablet with an emphatic forefinger. “Who is in the photo?”

“I do not know,” the other reiterated, and Doyle brushed her hair back.

Acton watched the other man thoughtfully for a moment, then indicated to Doyle that they would leave. As she walked out, Solonik called to her, “Wexton prison is not far,
rizhaya.
You must visit me, yes?”

Doyle did not respond, and she and Acton walked out to the car in silence. Once they were out of earshot, Doyle reported in a low tone: “He did not arrange to have anything delivered, and was genuinely surprised by the question. He knew the man in the photo immediately. He was surprised about the Russian question; perhaps the man is not Russian. It was not a staged attack; the other indeed wished to kill him.”

“Then why protect him?” Acton was deep in thought, and Doyle didn’t interrupt him—she was a bit on end, and trying to regain her equilibrium. A very bad actor was to be put away, but Acton’s behind-the-scenes staging had led to his arrest, and Acton had no problem threatening more behind-the-scenes staging to elicit the information he wanted. Solonik would cooperate because Acton made a thinly-veiled threat in response to Solonik’s thinly-veiled threat. It was all like a knife fight with no rules; a bit shocking to a young constable, steeped in protocol and training. Did the ends justify the means? Acton obviously thought so. She thought about how Solonik had flirted with her, and wondered if he would ever discover she was, in fact, Acton’s wife.

Turning her mind to the present investigation, she took an educated guess, based mainly on the fact Acton had been careful not to show her the photograph. “Do you think the attacker was Munoz’s Sergey?”

Acton glanced at her but hesitated in responding. Annoyed because he was still trying to leave her out of it, she persisted, “You might want to talk to Munoz; maybe she can tell you somethin’.”

“I have talked to Munoz.”

“Oh,” said Doyle crossly. “You are bein’
so
tiresome, Michael.”

He was unapologetic. “I don’t want you involved. These are bad characters.”

Without responding, she looked out her window in the car to let him know she was annoyed. It was a continuing problem ; he would rather she spent her time knitting at home, except he would probably put a flippin’ cork on the flippin’ needles so that she wouldn’t flippin’ prick herself. Her job was dangerous, and they had agreed that he could control her assignments to suit his anxiety level, which unfortunately appeared to allow only for a parking ticket detail. She chafed at it, even as she acknowledged he had a valid concern; they had been married less than two months and thus far she had been both shot and poisoned. Still and all, it was a shame he hadn’t fixated on a woman who would love to be pampered and treated like a flippin’ princess in a flippin’ tower.

She took a long breath and withdrew the thought immediately; it’s not a shame, she amended. I want him and I wouldn’t trade him for anyone, nicked or not. She just needed to face facts and quit being such a baby; there was no shame to being an obscure DC, working behind the scenes—it was not as though she craved fame. “Home?” she asked, to show him that she was done sulking.

He took her hand. “Office. Before prosecution can cut a deal with the solicitor, I need to speak to the DCS and see what I have. I will drop you off.”

“I’d rather stay with you.”

He looked at her, amused. “I do need to work.”

She assured him, “I will be as prim as a nun, Michael; and remain fully clothed.”

D
OYLE DIDN’T WANT TO GO FETCH HER OWN LAPTOP, SO SHE
looked through some of the manuals Acton kept on his shelves whilst he participated in a conference call with the prosecutor and Solonik’s solicitor. It sounded as though the solicitor was surprised by Solonik’s sudden capitulation—the poor man was a step behind, it seemed—but they were rapidly coming to terms. There was some discussion about the security measures needed at the prison; apparently Acton would keep his word, and see to it that Solonik was protected from the wrath of other prisoners. Perhaps he’d need a favor someday with his guns-running operation—she was fast coming to the realization that her husband tended to hedge his bets.

Acton rang off and she glanced up, hopeful, but then he rang up someone else, deep in thought. She wondered how much longer he’d be, but did not want to interrupt and so she opened a bloodstains binder and thumbed through it, listening to the negotiations with half an ear. By the tenor of the conversations, she guessed he was speaking to the detective chief superintendent.

“He’ll plead to twenty years and has agreed to tell us what he knows; we may be able to bring in some others.”

He listened for a moment. “I wouldn’t recommend letting the Home Secretary’s people put a finger in; Solonik’s very good at manipulation. Next thing we know he’ll be playing them against us and he’ll have them giving him immunity just to spite us.”

The DCS was apparently in agreement. “Good,” said Acton. “And stay alert for any unexplained reluctance to prosecute over there; Solonik is an expert at digging up blackmail.”

So is Acton, thought Doyle; and Acton apparently held the trump card, because Solonik capitulated immediately. After all—as Acton had pointed out—a mere wife is replaceable.

Acton was disagreeing about something. “No; I would keep it as quiet as possible. We wouldn’t want someone getting to him before he gives us what he knows.”

He listened and was apparently asked to give a prediction as to how helpful Solonik would, in fact, be. “I am skeptical, frankly. He may give us enough to keep us interested, but he may purposefully give misinformation to serve his own ends.”

The DCS must have expressed some dismay over this, because Acton reassured him, “No—to some extent he must play it straight; he will have reason, believe me.”

Whether he gives good information or not, at least he’s off the streets for twenty years, thought Doyle, which is to the good. If he survives in prison, that is; he’d already been attacked in custody. She realized that Sergey must have been poking about the Met for the express purpose of planning the attack on Solonik—no wonder Munoz was out of sorts; if Acton had questioned her about Sergey, she must have felt like a fool. I tried to warn her, thought Doyle, with a twinge of self-righteous satisfaction, but she didn’t want to hear it.

Doyle realized that the manual she was holding was the one that Owens, the raving lunatic, had put together as a project for Acton, before he tried to kill her. Owens had expressed an interest in the science of bloodstains, and Acton had asked him to put together demonstrative photographs. The project had been a ploy, though; Acton suspicioned that Owens was the killer, and wanted to keep the man close to hand.

Doyle looked through the photographs, repulsed and fascinated at the same time. One of the photographs portrayed a victim Owens had killed himself. Sick, she thought; how he must have enjoyed putting this together—proud of his handiwork, he was.

The photograph was of a woman who had been shot in the face. Giselle, thought Doyle, although she was unrecognizable. Doyle and Acton had interviewed the woman at the Laughing Cat pub, and the next day she had been murdered as a result. They’d been gathering information about the Kempton Park racecourse murder, and Owens must have been afraid she would talk. She wasn’t Irish, but she had doings with the Sinn-split people, who were thick on the ground at the Laughing Cat.

Doyle suddenly remembered where she had heard the name Rourke. The victim from Newmarket was named Rourke, and the owner of the Laughing Cat pub was also named Rourke. It was a common enough name, but Acton often said he didn’t believe in coincidences.

Acton was still on the phone with the DCS as Doyle approached and silently indicated she wanted to use his laptop. He nodded, and she shifted it toward her and pulled up the file on the Newmarket murder. A photo of the victim was found; Todd Rourke. She minimized it and pulled up the list of witnesses from the Kempton Park investigation. The Laughing Cat owner, Robert Rourke, was on the list. Doyle pulled up his photo and compared the two Rourkes side by side. Not the same person.

Acton put his hand over his phone and quietly said to her, “Brothers.” She nodded.

She pondered the photos for a moment, and then felt her scalp prickling as it did when her intuition was making a connection. She pulled up Acton’s surveillance photo of the Belarus man—Sergey—taken the day they had lunch at the deli. She displayed it on the screen next to the photo of Robert Rourke, the Irish pub owner. It was the same person.

Acton abruptly told the DCS he needed to call back and rang off. He looked at the screen, then at Doyle. “Well done,” he said.