Murder in Retribution (2 page)

R
ELIEVED THAT
A
CTON WOULDN’T BE A WITNESS IF SHE WERE
indeed to be sick, Doyle crouched down again to study the conduit where the body had been found while the SOCO examiners began to systematically scrutinize the area in ever-widening circles. She could guess what they would find; absolutely nothing. For a turf war, there was remarkably little evidence.

The scent of decomposition still lingered on the ground because the body had been there for a time, and she took deep breaths to steady her midsection, annoyed with herself because decomp had never bothered her before. Acton had already known she was pregnant, of course. She should have said something before this, but she was hoping her symptoms were built upon nerves and not upon the presence of the Honorable whomever who had been conceived the night his or her mother had killed a man and then accidentally shot herself for good measure. Nothin’ for it, she thought in resignation ; this is exactly why the nuns warned you about sex.

Struggling to hide her irritation, she called to the SOCO photographer so as to double-check that the woman had taken some close-ups of the maggot activity on the corpse. Doyle was irritated because the photographer had been emanating equal parts amazement and derision when introduced to Doyle earlier, even though her outward manner had been all that was correct. The general consensus—which Doyle could sense in resounding waves—was that Acton had lost his mind. Nothin’ for that, either, and this was exactly what she deserved for stepping into the center ring at the circus—not that she would change a thing; best get on with it, the circus was soon to have another act.

After hearing the photographer’s falsely-respectful assurances, Doyle crouched again, unable to shake the feeling that she was missing something, here. Acton was right; it was cooler in the conduit and time-of-death could more exactly be established by the insect experts, who could opine to a remarkable degree of certainty how long the body had been dead by gauging the life cycles of the various insects feasting on their grisly windfall. The body had no identification on it, but she had little doubt the victim had a record, and they would know who it was very shortly. It was odd that the man had been shot in the face; ordinarily, a professional did not face his victim and there seemed little doubt this was a professional hit—unless, as Acton had suggested, someone was using the excuse to conduct a little murder on the side. She wondered if he suspected as much—that might explain the shot to the face; it was the work of a nonprofessional trying to look like a professional.

Leaning back on her heels, she decided she was relieved to have the subject of her pregnancy out in the open, despite the fact that everyone at the Met would be counting to nine on their fingers. Acton said it was wonderful news, and it was, of course. It was just that she’d spent a rather solitary life—it came with the territory, knowing the things that she knew. Acton had been famously reclusive in his own right, and now the both of them were to make a go at family life when it wasn’t in their respective natures. She looked up at the trees, shifting in the breeze. He loves me, she thought; so much that he is willing to put his hand to this particular plow and I am balking like a donkey at the hitch. Shame on me.

In this repentant frame of mind, she managed to greet Williams with good grace when he arrived on the scene. Doyle was conferring with the SOCO team about the dearth of evidence when she spotted him and mustered up a more-or-less genuine smile. “Williams.”

“Doyle,” he acknowledged, returning her smile. Williams was several years older than she; tall, blond, and athletically handsome; he was what her late mother would have deemed “proper English,” which was not necessarily a compliment. Intelligent and reserved, he was favored by the powers-that-be at the CID, which led some lesser beings to criticize him as arrogant. Doyle was not one of them; Williams had been unfailingly kind to her and although he was a rival for advancement, she considered him a friend. It was true that her faith in him had been shaken a bit because during the last investigation, she’d entertained a shrewd suspicion that he had manipulated some evidence at Acton’s request. Manipulation of evidence was the closest thing to a mortal sin in this business, but she had no sure knowledge and besides, she couldn’t really send her better half off to the nick.

“Congratulations on your promotion,” she said to Williams with a fine show of sincerity. “You deserve it.” Williams had recently been promoted to detective sergeant, and he now outranked Doyle, who remained a lowly detective constable. He had done some good work on the recent Leadenhall murders when Acton had pulled Doyle off the case because he feared—correctly, as it turned out—that she was in danger. Unfortunately, no one could ever know this was the reason, and so she had been stuck doing very dull research work at headquarters whilst Williams had snatched the palm from her, and had been covered in glory as a result. Nothin’ for it, my girl, she thought, trying not to grind her teeth; it appears you are in need of a fine lesson in humility.

Williams contemplated the ground for a moment. “I didn’t deserve it more than you did,” he acknowledged frankly. “There were other forces at work.”

Doyle could see that he was telling the truth and not merely being kind, which was interesting—perhaps they were reluctant to promote her due to her new status as Acton’s wife.

“Oh?” She gave him a glance that invited confidences, but he did not elaborate, which was very like him—Williams was very much by-the-book, and not a gossip. “Ah well; rather you than Munoz,” she teased, and was rewarded by a small smile. Munoz was another DC in their unit, and oftentimes a thorn in Doyle’s flesh. Williams was not the type to say something unkind, however, and instead he turned the conversation to the recently deceased.

“Let me guess.” His hands on his hips, he took a survey of the area. “No evidence.”

Doyle conceded this unfortunate fact with a nod. “We’ll be seein’ if trace can give us hair or fibers—his hands have been bagged—but no, it appears another blank wall.”

“I’ll search with you, if you’d like.”

She accepted the offer, although he was now her flippin’ superior officer and therefore had no need to ask her flippin’ permission. “Fine—I’ll take right if you’ll take left.” Acton would be very pleased to witness her willingness to cooperate; she could be less donkey-like if she put her mind to it.

They began carefully combing the floor of the cement aqueduct to see if the SOCOs had missed anything and then, coming up empty, proceeded to the vegetation on either side, which was dusty and fruitless work. It occurred to Doyle that Williams hadn’t asked about cause of death, which would help him in his search. She called out across to him, “He was shot in the face—large caliber.”

“Good to know,” he called back. “Time of death?”

“Days, but it is unclear—we’ll have to wait for the insect report.”

After they were finished, they came together again on the floor of the aqueduct and Doyle paused to contemplate the conduit again, her brow knit as she brushed back wayward tendrils of hair.

“What is it?” Williams was regarding her steadily, and Doyle remembered that she could never read him very well; people who were reserved or held their emotions in check, like Acton, were not as transparent to her.

She couldn’t very well tell him that her instinct was acting up, telling her she was missing something important, and so she explained a bit lamely, “Presumably a professional hit, but it should have been two shots to the back of the head, execution-style, and it was not.”

Williams surveyed the scene alongside her. “Perhaps there’s a connection to the Kempton Park murders.”

“Perhaps,” Doyle agreed, carefully noncommittal. It was true this murder could easily match the recent spate of murders connected to the Kempton Park racecourse near London—although in those, the only face-shot victims were women. That case was officially closed, as the supposed killer had in turn been supposedly killed by his supposed henchman. Doyle knew, however, that she had shot the true killer and Acton had disposed of his body with no one the wiser. The killer had been a trainee—a temporary detective constable named Owens, and the revelation of his murder by Doyle’s hand would have come at too great a price.

Glossing over that subject, she continued, “It just seems odd; Acton suggested that perhaps it was an attempt to commit a shadow murder; an act of rage like this doesn’t fit with the lack of forensics.”

“It is certainly a paradox.”

Doyle was not strong on vocabulary, and since she wasn’t certain what the word meant, did not respond. “What’s next, then?” As Williams now outranked her, he had the lead in the investigation, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to call him “sir” just yet.

“We return to headquarters and research our victim; look for motive.”

They turned and began the climb back up to the roadway, the soles of Doyle’s boots slipping a bit on the loose gravel. Williams took her arm to steady her. “Are you feeling all right?”

Doyle blushed. “I’m a bit under the weather,” she admitted. “Is it that noticeable, then?”

It was his turn to be embarrassed. “No, not at all; I just wondered.”

Grand, she thought as they clambered up to the cusp; I must look like something the cat dragged in.

Williams gave her a lift back to headquarters, and as he drove through the traffic they spoke of possible leads to pursue. Doyle was still trying to decide what she was thinking about, and so made a summation aloud. “By all appearances, this one—and no doubt the Newmarket one, too—are connected to the turf war; although Acton thinks the jury is still out on this one.”

“Oh? Did this victim look Irish or Russian?”

Doyle bristled. “People don’t
look
Irish, Williams.”

He gave her a glance, and she amended, “Well, most times.” She had auburn hair, fair skin and was a caricature, herself.

“We’ll find out,” he continued diplomatically. “If he’s connected to the turf war, he’ll definitely be in the database; the victims have all been Watch List types.”

Doyle frowned and looked out the window—she truly wasn’t feeling well and it helped to look out the window at the horizon. “Why do you suppose the villains are goin’ at it? What set off this particular turf war, d’you think?”

“Unclear—although it always comes down to money; or the power that leads to money.”

“You don’t think it’s personal, then?” She was thinking of the shot to the face—it took a rare breed to face another person and shoot them, large caliber, in the face.

“No,” he replied. “Not for these characters. Usually a turf war is exactly that; rivals fighting to control a lucrative rig. We should take a look to determine if something has changed so that there’s suddenly a lot of money to be had.”

She nodded, as this did make sense; Williams had a superior intellect to hers and she respected his opinion—she was more a leaper-to-conclusions than an analyst, and was always acutely aware that she did not have the book-learning that the others did. Luckily, detective work centered on people and their interactions—not just the forensics—and this allowed her to solve cases by using her perceptive ability. Detectives like Williams and Acton took an opposite tack, and carefully analyzed the evidence as though it was all a mathematical equation. She glanced sidelong at her companion, and then wished she hadn’t, turning quickly to look out the window again. In his own way, Williams was almost as smart as Acton; by the time he was Acton’s age he could well make DCI. He will go far in the CID, thought Doyle with a sting of jealousy. I, on the other hand, will be raising red-headed children. She chastised herself yet again for her poor attitude; red was a recessive gene, after all.

There was a small silence. “I haven’t had a chance to congratulate you,” said Williams in a level voice.

Thinking of her pregnancy, Doyle forgot about looking out the window and stared at him in dismayed surprise.

He glanced over at her. “On your marriage,” he elaborated.

“Oh,” she said. “Thank you.”

“I hope you will be very happy,” he said firmly.

This, interestingly enough, was not true.

D
OYLE SAT IN HER BASEMENT CUBICLE AT THE
M
ET, PREPARING
a report on the aqueduct murder. The victim’s fingerprints had identified him as Yuri Barayev, a Russian businessman who was surprisingly not featured on the Home Office’s Watch List. Acton’s theory that this was a shadow murder—someone taking advantage of the cover that the other murders would provide—may indeed have merit. The current turf war had claimed as victims several unsavory characters who could be loosely characterized as Russian mafia, for want of a better term. Some of them were former KGB—and former KGB personnel always made the Home Secretary’s people wring their hands—but the problem with pursuing the Russians was that they tended to be clothed in respectable corporate guise, courtesy of the pervasive corruption back home. Usually they were bankers, laundering money or running a protection racket and—because it was sometimes a fine line between robust free enterprise and sharp dealings—the police were often frustrated.

The Russians were warring with an equally unsavory group of troublemakers known as the Sinn-split; an Irish terrorist group that had refused to comply with the Sinn Féin cease-fire but instead continued to cause trouble—not necessarily with bombs and violence, but with black market dealings and other economic sabotage.

The Sinn-split people were notoriously attracted to racecourses, and two months ago a horse trainer had been murdered by Owens, Doyle’s attacker. The murdered horse trainer was Irish and himself on the Watch List, so it would behoove the fair Doyle to check for a connection, as Williams had suggested. Owens had admitted that he worked for a syndicate just before he tried to kill her, and in his more impassioned moments, a trace of an accent had appeared—but it was difficult for her to identify accents, as everyone who wasn’t Irish had a very strange one to begin with. Closing her eyes, she tried to remember what he’d said—the raving lunatic; she didn’t like to think of that night, but now she’d have a permanent souvenir. Not your fault, baby, she noted fairly; but nonetheless, you’re a mixed blessing.

At the time, she hadn’t thought Owens was Russian, but he definitely wasn’t Irish, either. He’d said the murder of the trainer was business, and intimated that he had inveigled his way into becoming the man’s lover as part of an assignment. Perhaps he wasn’t Russian-Russian, but one of those other nationalities in the former soviet empire; it seemed evident he was somehow involved in all this, since now the Irish and the Russians were going at it, hammer and tongs. She opened her eyes and gazed thoughtfully at her reflection in the laptop screen, wondering why she couldn’t seem to convince herself of this. With a sigh, she moved on; she’d learned long ago that she had no control over her perceptive ability; the intuitive leap would come when it wished—if it came at all—and she had to possess her morning-sickened soul in patience. Only now it was afternoon, so her soul was afternoon-sickened, which did not bode well. I should try to eat something, she thought, and then made no effort to do so.

The two bodies found today were the Russian in the aqueduct—Barayev—and a Sinn-split associate named Rourke who was found lying in the heath near the Newmarket racecourse. By all appearances, they were tit-for-tat murders, and it certainly seemed as though the two groups were at war, vying for something having to do with the racecourses—faith, it was a turf war in the truest sense of the word. The only flaw in this working theory was that Barayev had no obvious connection to the Russian group. Therefore, as Acton had hinted, she should be open to the possibility that he’d been killed by an unrelated third party who was taking advantage of the carnage to commit a shadow murder.

DC Munoz, in the cubicle next door to Doyle, popped her head over the partition, shaking back her hair and glowering—although to be fair, she had an attractive glower. “When are you going to take a break, Acton?”

Doyle had decided to maintain her maiden name at work, as it was too confusing to be another Acton. Besides, she was sensitive about the whole title issue; she had married far out of her element and didn’t want anyone to think she was putting on airs. Munoz, naturally, did not comply with her request, but Doyle was consumed with guilt; Munoz had also been passed over for promotion and Doyle had the sneaking suspicion that this was Acton’s doing, just so Doyle wouldn’t feel as badly. Munoz, giving the devil her due, was a very good detective; she was also to be avoided because she’d fancied Acton for herself and, as the reigning beauty of their unit, had no idea that Doyle was even in the running. Therefore, Munoz was now a crackin’ blowtorch of bitterness and disappointment, which made it difficult for Doyle to be anywhere near her and she half-wished Munoz would be promoted just so she would be transferred out of Doyle’s orbit.

“It’s still Doyle, Munoz, and I’m at a stoppin’ point. Want to get coffee?” Coffee actually sounded semi-edible.

“I don’t think you can go to the lowly canteen anymore; there’s no peeress section.”

“Munoz,” warned Doyle. “Be civil, or I’ll be tellin’ everyone you draw religious artwork.”

This turned the trick; Munoz looked rebellious but made no further attempts to needle her companion as they walked together to the canteen on the third floor. Instead, she offered in a constricted tone, “I sell it for extra income, and I would appreciate it if you didn’t mention this to anyone.”

“Done. Such a tale would sound the knell to your fine reputation as an unprincipled brasser.”

Stung, Munoz retorted, “It’s easy to have principles when you are rich and married.”

“And not necessarily in that order,” Doyle agreed in a mild tone as they approached the coffee machine. “Have done, Munoz; I couldn’t be tellin’ anyone I was datin’ Acton, surely you can see that.” Best not to mention that her first date with Acton had been after they were married; it would only confuse the issue.

Munoz struggled with holding her tongue, and Doyle practically winced at the wave of rage and frustration that she could sense; Munoz was not accustomed to being relegated to an also-ran. Apparently everybody and his uncle fancied Acton; the reason Owens had wanted to kill Doyle was to make a run at Acton himself, the
raving
lunatic. Hopefully, Acton’s marriage to her would now discourage all crazed pursuers—the man should thank God fasting.

“I don’t want to talk about you and Acton.” Munoz chose a table near the perimeter, so that the weak sunlight shone warm through the windows. “I want to talk about Williams’s promotion.”

Another potential minefield. Doyle said carefully, “I saw him this mornin’ at the aqueduct scene and he was very gracious—no lordin’ it over my lowly constable self.” As you would have done, Doyle added silently. Munoz had once helped her out, but Doyle had no illusions about Munoz’s character, religious drawings or no.

“Have you heard,” Munoz asked neutrally, fingering her cardboard cup, “if any other promotions are in line?”

Ah, thought Doyle; that’s what this is all about. “Acton doesn’t talk to me about that kind of thing, Munoz. It wouldn’t be right.”

“You don’t talk about it
at all
?” Munoz’s fine dark eyes scrutinized her with open skepticism.

“We talk about the cases, but not about the politics.” Doyle thought it over. “Acton is not very interested in the politics, I think.” Munoz would probably be surprised to hear that she and Acton really didn’t converse much at all. Before the marriage, neither of them had been very social, and on some evenings very few words were exchanged. Doyle found that she was perfectly happy not to feel the need to make conversation; Acton needed to be with her but he was very reserved by nature. This might change over time or it may not; it didn’t matter; she loved her husband and was very content. And after all, the sex more than made up for the silence—she had no idea that marriage involved so much sex. You live and you learn.

With a guilty start, Doyle realized belatedly that perhaps she should disclose as little as possible about her marriage to Munoz—or anyone else, for that matter; quite the tangle patch, that. Munoz’s next remark only strengthened this resolve.

“Do you have sex with him?” There was a faint hint of incredulity in the question.

That the question was even asked of a newlywed was an indication of Acton’s reputation. The others had nicknamed him “Holmes” due to the obvious comparison, only they didn’t know that the addiction in his case was to Doyle and not to cocaine, and anyone who wished to wait around a few more months would see proof positive. “That is none of your business, Munoz.”

Munoz accepted the rebuff, and they sat in silence for a few minutes, each lost in thought. Others who passed by their table would glance sidelong at Doyle and exchange whispered remarks as they walked away. I’m world-famous, thought Doyle, trying not to look self-conscious; the DC who snatched up Acton—no one would ever credit that it was the other way ’round.

The whispered attention did not help Munoz’s mood, which had returned to sullen. “It’s so unfair; you won the husband sweepstakes, and then Williams is promoted before me.”

“Your turn will come, Munoz. A little patience is all that is needed.” Doyle reflected that their supervisor, Inspector Habib, would probably rival Acton in rushing his bride to the altar if Munoz gave him the go-ahead. “You’re a heartbreaker, is what you are; be off, or I will think you are fishin’ for compliments.”

Munoz had to agree with the truth of this remark, and her mood improved as they made their way back down to the basement. Doyle reseated herself before her laptop screen and wished she could finish up her report; she was still waiting for the ERU photos, which seemed to be taking longer than usual. She decided she would complete it tomorrow; her conversation with Munoz had touched off a different train of thought. She sent a text to Acton that said, “Cereal?”

She waited for a response, which came with flattering promptness. “Done.”

Smiling, she sheathed her mobile and, taking a quick look around, gathered up her rucksack. Time to make it up to her poor husband, who’d demonstrated remarkable patience with his balky wife.