Murder in Retribution (18 page)

A
CTON IMMEDIATELY MADE A CALL TO
W
ILLIAMS, EXPLAINING
Doyle’s discovery and asking Williams to accompany him to the Laughing Cat to question Robert Rourke.

He then called forensics and asked them to expedite their analysis with the aim of linking any trace evidence at the Detention Center to Rourke; it would alleviate the need to rely on Solonik’s equivocal identification of his attacker.

Doyle had been thinking over this latest surprising development, but if anything, it only added to the general confusion. Solonik was apparently trying to protect Rourke, a member of the rival Sinn-split and the man who had tried to kill him—not to mention Solonik’s people had presumably murdered the man’s brother. Why would Solonik try to protect Rourke, even in the face of Acton’s many threats? The two should be bitter enemies. It made little sense, although Doyle now knew why Sergey had been afraid of her; he wanted to stay well away from someone who could expose his deception.

They were to meet Williams in the premium parking garage, as Acton wanted Williams to accompany him to the pub. Hopefully, Rourke would betray himself during questioning somehow. They could always bring him in for a short hold, but unless they could link him to the attack on Solonik, they had little on which to hold him—it was no crime to impersonate a Russian to impress a girl.

As they waited for Williams, Doyle asked in as neutral a tone as she was able, “Am I to come along with the both of you?”

Acton’s own tone was even, and she knew he’d been anticipating the question. “I’d prefer that you wait in the car. It was a mistake to put you in the same room as Solonik.”

He said nothing further, and Doyle struggled mightily to control her resentful self. It seemed so unfair—it was her catch, after all, and besides, she would know if the man was lying. She tried to remember her new attitude, and her resolution to accept the situation; Acton was as he was and he was not going to place her in danger. The personal was more important than the professional. Grow up, Doyle; don’t be bitter. Her self-scolding didn’t help much, and when Williams arrived at the scene—all bright-eyed and ready to break the case, he was—she had a hard time controlling the sulks.

Acton realized he’d forgotten to bring his tablet with the surveillance photograph, and so he went back to his office to retrieve it, leaving Doyle and Williams standing by the lift to wait for him. After a moment of silence, Williams asked, “Is everything all right?”

“No, it is not,” she replied shortly. She refused to look at him, but could feel him watching her.

In a serious tone he said quietly, “If you ever are in need of help, I will help you, you know. You need only ask.”

This caught her attention, and she stared at him a little blankly. She could see that Williams was genuinely concerned about her, and she was suddenly reminded that she shouldn’t be alone with him. In her present mood, if he was going to think about kissing her again she would belt him one, she would. She could take him—as long as he didn’t fight back.

Williams hesitated, and then added, “He was in a bad way, last night. Not himself.”

“That he was,” she agreed, wondering how Williams knew. Then the light dawned. “Williams,” Doyle said with some heat, “Acton doesn’t beat me.”

He was acutely embarrassed. “I only meant—”

“I don’t need you to be protectin’ me from my own husband.”

“Kath—,” he said, trying to defend himself.

“And don’t call me Kath,” she retorted through her teeth, furious with him for taking her place on the case and for even
thinking
that Acton could mistreat her. “I’ll be takin’ no advice nor help from the likes o’ you; I can very ably handle meself.”

“I didn’t mean to suggest—”

“Oh, yes you did; you are hopin’ for a chance to pick up the pieces and don’t be denyin’ it.”

But this was an accusation too far, and Williams was now angry in turn. “You needn’t be so sharp; I had every reason to be concerned—Acton was not himself last night.”

Enraged, she retorted, “He certainly seemed like himself when we had sex on the desk—”

“Stop,” he demanded, white with fury.

“No—
you
stop,” she hissed. “Enough, Williams.”

The doors for the lift slid open, and Acton stepped out into what was obviously a heated argument between them. He was surprised, and looked from one to the other.

“I lost my temper with Williams,” Doyle confessed immediately. She faced the other man, saying with constraint, “I was unforgivably rude, Williams; I am wretchedly sorry.”

Williams had also brought himself under control and replied stiffly, “No; the fault was entirely mine.”

There was a small silence. Doyle refused to look at either of them.

“Then let’s go,” said Acton.

They got into Acton’s car, Doyle and Williams each insisting that the other take the front seat. As they made their way to the Laughing Cat, Acton and Williams discussed possible strategies in questioning Rourke while Doyle listened and made an occasional subdued suggestion. I am a trial to my poor husband, she thought.

As it turned out, Rourke was not at the pub and when they asked at his residence, he was not there, either. The personnel at each location were a little vague about where he was or when he was expected. Acton concluded they had little choice but to await the lab results; hopefully an arrest warrant could be issued if the missing man could be linked to the attack ; if nothing else, they could say they were investigating the very real possibility that the Irishman was illegally running numbers from the pub.

After concluding this unfruitful exercise, they returned to the Met, and Williams was dropped at his car. He and Doyle had been scrupulously polite to one another, but they hadn’t made eye contact. As she drove away with Acton, Doyle looked out her window and bitterly regretted her flippin’ temper. I never learn my lesson; I never stop to think about the consequences, she chastised herself with shame. Someday it’s going to catch up with me, it is.

After a moment, Acton offered in a conversational tone, “If you don’t tell me, I am afraid I may presume the worst.”

“It was so
stupid
, Michael. He said somethin’ and I took offense.” She felt an absurd desire to cry. “I am too ashamed to tell you.”

“Should I speak to him?”

Doyle was not sure how much he guessed. “No; least said, soonest mended, my mother would say. It will blow over.” She managed a smile. “My flippin’ temper.”

Acton said quietly, “Remember your promise—I am to get a warning.”

“
Michael,
” she said in exasperation, pressing her palms to her eyes. “Don’t be an
idiot.
”

By the time they arrived back at the flat and had ordered some food, Doyle had found her feet again and miserably repented of her outburst with Williams—she had no idea how she was going to face him again, after what she’d said.

Acton was at his desk, working on his laptop, and to take her mind off her misery, Doyle walked over to see what he was researching. She needn’t have bothered; Acton was viewing the garage’s CCTV footage of her argument with Williams. Thankfully, there was no sound recording.

“Oh,” she said. “How humiliatin’.”

“You are very attractive when you are angry,” he said mildly. “Not the best strategy to take, perhaps.”

She said fairly, “He has never crossed the line, Michael.” Best not to mention that he wanted to. “It will sort itself out, I promise; I was spoilin’ for a fight.”

“Speaking of which,” said Acton, “I received a letter from my mother in the post today.”

Saints, she thought in surprise; all it needed was this. “And?”

“Read it.” He gave it to her.

The letter was on heavy vellum, with the Acton coat of arms imprinted at the top in its understated splendor.
My dear son
, it said.
Your wife may have informed you that I had a
visit
with her the other day. While I cannot endorse your choice, I found her not wholly lacking in redeeming qualities. Perhaps you will bring her to Trestles in the near future. There may have been a misunderstanding which offended; please convey my apologies if this is indeed the case
.

Doyle couldn’t help laughing. “I threw her out, Michael, bag and baggage.”

“Good one,” he replied, imitating her.

“What do you suppose she wants?” Doyle asked tentatively. They still hadn’t discussed the very real possibility that his mother wanted to kill her, as it was not an easy topic to bring up in everyday conversation. The fact that the woman was trying to lure her to her lair did not bode well.

“I do not know what she wants, but you will not be subjected to her.”

“Thank you—she’s terrifyin’; I’d rather face Solonik.”

But this was apparently the wrong thing to say. “You will never face Solonik again.”

She ventured to tease him. “I don’t know, Michael—he is fond of redheads and he probably wouldn’t quarrel with me like Williams does. Is he very rich?”

“Not funny.” But she could see he was amused as he looked at the time. “Are you hungry yet?”

“Time for another fruit pie,” she announced, and wandered into the kitchen.

I
N THE MORNING
, A
CTON MADE READY TO LEAVE FOR HIS FINAL
conference with the prosecutor and Solonik’s solicitor; they would go to court to enter the plea deal on the record and formally transfer the Russian into custody. Acton seemed a bit preoccupied, and so she respected his mood and stayed quiet until he departed.

“I have to do some fieldwork,” he informed her as he shrugged into his coat. “But be certain to check in.”

“I will, Michael.”

It was not a day for Reynolds, and so Doyle had the flat to herself as she made ready for work. She enjoyed the solitude—she missed it sometimes, having been on her own for so long before she met Acton. The place was silent; Acton did not use the television unless he was monitoring the news for a case, and he never listened to music, not even in the car. Not very Holmesian, she thought. She remembered that Caroline had said that Acton and Timothy had studied music together, and thought it odd that he would take such a class if he had no interest.

Unable to resist, she took the opportunity to pull out a package she had hidden away in her drawer. It was a black knit dress; she had seen it displayed in a window several weeks before and had made the purchase on impulse. Pulling it over her head, she regarded herself in the mirror; the last time she had worn a dress was her confirmation, many years ago. It was pretty; Acton would like it, she knew, which was why she bought it in the first place. It had simple lines and he told her she looked well in black. She had no idea when she would wear it, but the comment Caroline had made about her wardrobe stung because it was true; Doyle made little effort. Acton didn’t care, but her appearance did reflect on him and she should at least make an attempt to look the part—perhaps their monumental mismatch wouldn’t be as obvious. The shopgirl had been very kind; not letting on that she thought Doyle was the next thing to a barbarian, so perhaps she could enlist the girl’s aid in the future. A little guidance was needful, but it would have to be someone other than Caroline, who would only set her teeth on edge.

She turned around and reviewed herself critically over her shoulder. Yes, it was nice. She would buy shoes with heels, perhaps, just to see if she could manage it. And a purse, to put her gun in—couldn’t accessorize an ankle holster, really. After smiling at her reflection, she pulled the dress off again and carefully folded it away.

The morning was a fine one, crisp and a little cool; the sunlight beginning to slant as it did this time of year. Doyle walked out in front of the building and looked for Aiki, but he was not leaning against his cab waiting for her. Instead, she saw him parked in the taxi queue and seated inside—praying, perhaps; she had the impression he was a spiritual man. She did not want to interrupt him, and so did not approach for a few moments, instead hovering on the sidewalk. He didn’t move, however, and his posture seemed strange—perhaps he was unwell. Tentatively, she walked up the sidewalk to the passenger-side door and leaned down to peer in the window. “Aiki?”

His only response was to moan softly. Alarmed, she opened the door and slid onto the seat, reaching over to touch him. “Aiki,” she repeated, “are you all right?” He fell sideways toward her and she could see a smear of blood on the seat behind him, and blood pooling on the seat itself. Quashing her horror, she went into police mode, pulling out her mobile as she propped him back up against the seat. “I need an ambulance for a wounded cab driver.” After giving the address, she shouted out the window for the doorman to help. He ran over, and together they pulled Aiki out and laid him carefully on the sidewalk while Doyle wadded up her windbreaker and pressed it against the wound in his back. The concierge came running with a first aid kit, and Doyle replaced her bloody jacket with a bundle of gauze—the blood was only oozing, but Doyle knew he had lost a substantial amount already. Hearing a siren in the distance, she felt his pulse; it was thready and weak. Passersby were beginning to stop and gawk.

“Aiki,” she commanded in a loud voice, “listen to me; try to stay awake.” His eyelids fluttered open and he mumbled something in what sounded like French. Doyle said to the assemblage, “Does anyone speak French?”

No one volunteered. Doyle bent over Aiki, holding his hand tightly, her face close to his. “Help is comin’ Aiki—you are goin’ to be all right.”

Aiki mumbled again. The wound was in the back, so he may not have seen his attacker. “Who did this, Aiki? Do you know?”

No response. He did not look well, and his eyes were beginning to appear glazed—Doyle had seen that look before, and shied away from the unbidden memory of her dying mother. A small silver crucifix hung around his neck on a chain, exposed where his shirt had been unbuttoned. Doyle stared at it for a moment, then made the sign of the cross and leaned in so that she was inches from his ear. “May the Lord who saves you from sin, save you and raise you up, Aiki.”

She could see a tiny spark of awareness in his eyes as they opened to meet hers, and she felt a jolt of something—something strange and powerful, that seemed familiar, somehow. She recited what she could remember of the last rites as his eyes closed and, almost imperceptibly, he squeezed her hand. Then he was gone.

The ambulance came a moment later, but Doyle was already calling for a police unit and wiping away angry tears with the back of her hand. “It’s a homicide investigation now,” she explained to the medical personnel. She showed her ID card. “Thanks, anyway.”

Pulling herself together, she asked the concierge and the doorman if they had seen anything, anyone arguing with Aiki. They hadn’t noticed anything unusual or suspicious, and at this time in the morning there were many passersby; if he had brought a fare, the doorman did not remember opening the door for the cab.

Doyle looked up to gauge where the security cameras were, but the cab was not close enough to the entrance to be in the frame. To calm herself, she pulled out her occurrence book and began making notes. The doorman fetched a blanket and respectfully asked if he could cover Aiki; Doyle gave permission but asked that he not touch anything.

The police unit pulled up and two uniformed PCs alighted; Doyle did not recognize either, as they were from the local station. She introduced herself as a DC, and requested that they call for a SOCO team.

One of the constables, a world-weary-looking woman, surveyed the scene and offered very practically, “Do you think that’s a good idea? It’s unlikely we’ll be able to isolate anything of interest.”

Doyle turned on her and said with icy calm, “I am Lady Acton, the chief inspector’s wife, and I would like every possible avenue pursued, if you would not mind.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the woman said immediately, and was on her mobile, enlisting a SOCO team.

Doyle’s mobile vibrated, it was Acton. She took the call; he would be wondering why she had not moved from the front of the building. “Michael, Aiki’s been stabbed.”

“Are you injured?” he asked immediately.

“No, it happened perhaps a half hour ago.” It was so
flippin
’ unfair. Poor Aiki.

“Has he been hospitalized?”

“No,” she replied. “It was too late.”

“Do you need me?”

“No, I’m gettin’ a SOCO team, although it seems hopeless—there’ll be all kinds of prints and trace everywhere.”

“I’m so sorry, Kathleen.”

She paused and took a breath. “I’m afraid I invoked the power of your name.”

“You’re entitled,” he replied gently. “It’s your name, too.”

She rang off, and put her mind to directing the SOCO team.