Murder in Retribution (7 page)

“A
CTON MUST THINK IT’S
C
HRISTMAS,
”
SAID
D
OYLE, STILL
exultant although it was nearly an hour later. “Who would have believed it?”

Williams smiled absently as he typed into his tablet. “Yes—up to that point I thought it was a wild-goose chase.”

“Not a credible witness,” agreed Doyle. “And unfairly prejudiced against my fair self, but the picture is worth a thousand ramblin’ words.” Forensics would enhance every detail in the photo and it was very likely they could identify the weapon, down to the serial number. That meant, if nothing else, they could pull the Russian in on an illegal weapons charge as a means to hold him while they investigated for other criminal conduct. His presence on the scene certainly seemed a strong indication that he was involved in the turf war murders; apparently the elusive Solonik had decided to get his hands dirty, and would now pay the price.

They were now finishing up their report in the unmarked—time was of the essence, in this situation, and they were sending e-mails and preliminary reports at a fast pace. Williams had confiscated Thackeray’s mobile and then contacted Acton with the good news. The witness had to be coaxed into giving them a signed statement; he seemed disinclined to stay on topic, and especially disinclined to allow Doyle to remain unwatched around the goods. She had willingly retreated outside to sit on the stoop and left Williams to it—in truth, she was happy to have the opportunity to sit her aching bones down. She could hear Williams trying to convince the man that he should speak of this to no one until his testimony was needed; the men they were dealing with were quite dangerous. Thackeray was loudly contemptuous of any potential danger, feeling he could handle himself against any paltry spy and give as good as he got. Williams finally hit upon the happy tack of telling him that his testimony in court was necessary to secure the kingdom. His patriotism thus invoked, the witness seemed more inclined to follow instructions. Presumably it would now be a simple matter to search Solonik’s effects once he was in custody—something would turn up, and if nothing else, he was carrying an illegal weapon, which was a serious crime in England.

Williams finished up by making a note in his tablet, and rubbed his forehead, as though his head hurt. “I’ll let Organized Crime know about the race-fixing.”

Doyle had been thinking this over, and was skeptical. “D’you think that’s truly the reason for the war? The Russians want to be takin’ over the dopin’ or fixin’ operations? It seems unlikely—that’s not what they do.” Her research had shown no previous incursions into racecourse gambling by the Russians; they were usually involved in money laundering based on contraband and black market. Obviously, race fixing required a substantial expertise—no average blackleg right off the street would be able to pull it off with enough subtlety to slip unnoticed past the Racing Board.

“Something started it,” Williams pointed out. “But whether there’s a connection or not, Vice should nevertheless be taking a long look.”

Doyle agreed with this and dropped the subject. Instead, she offered with some constraint, “I appreciate your not tellin’ Acton about my troubles this morning, sir.” When Williams had called in to report, she could tell there had been a question about her, and a neutral reassurance from Williams.

Her appreciation, however, seemed to irritate him, and he didn’t look up from his task. “It’s not my business—I’m not your keeper.”

Doyle diplomatically did not respond, as she didn’t want to give the impression she kept things from her husband. Williams, usually so even-keeled, seemed out of sorts today despite this exhilarating case-breaker that had made her even forget her own misery for an hour. He’d been ill, she remembered, and resolved not to cause him any more trouble. After dispatching the report, they drove over to the main stables with the object of showing around photos of the various Irish and Russian suspects—as well as the victims—to see if anyone could offer a lead. Solonik was only one-half of the war, after all; there should be another kingpin on the Irish side, literally calling the shots. Unfortunately, this was slated to be a long slog as there were many hands here at Newmarket, and many different stables.

Williams showed his warrant card at the gate, and as the guard waved them through, Doyle wondered aloud, “Why on earth would someone like Solonik be lookin’ over souvenirs at a place like that?”

“Meeting someone? Or maybe he’s just another foreigner, having a flutter.”

She smiled at his ironic tone, but persisted, “It all seems so unexpected. Wouldn’t Interpol be keepin’ an eye on him?”

“Solonik didn’t get to be where he is by making it easy for the good guys.”

This seemed evident, and Doyle knit her brow. “And yet, here he is; I wonder why he came here.” It was probably something she would soon know; Acton would no doubt want her to sit in on the interview, to listen to what the Russian had to say and sort out the true from the false.

As they walked into the graveled paddock area, Doyle warned Williams of how their questioning might go. “We tried askin’ some questions at Kempton Park when the trainer was murdered; no one wanted to give any information and everyone seemed frightened.”

His gaze scanned the buildings, thinking about this. “Do you think these murders are connected to that case?”

“Perhaps—best to keep an open mind.” Although the Kempton Park case was by all appearances closed because the erstwhile killer had been killed himself, she and Acton knew that Owens, Doyle’s attacker, was the true murderer—but it was unclear why he had infiltrated the Kempton Park racecourse in the first place. Officially, no one knew why TDC Owens, a detective trainee, had not shown up for work one day and had not been heard from since; Acton knew how to dispose of a body with the best of them, which was a commendable trait in a husband.

As they began speaking to the various personnel, she hoped they weren’t to be on their feet the whole afternoon—she continued unwell; her bones positively ached and she had a raging headache. The propagation of the species, she thought crossly, should not be anywhere near this hard on the propagator. Williams had made no further mention of her pregnancy, for which Doyle was grateful. On the other hand, she had little stamina; if he asked how she did, she decided she would request a short sit-down. He didn’t, however, and so she stoically soldiered on. As they walked through the stable, she distracted herself by observing the horses they passed; the delicate animals were tall and slender, alertly watching their progress, ears pricked forward. “They seem so intelligent.”

“The finest of the finest. It’s in the breeding.”

Doyle thought of Thackeray’s dark comments. “Except when someone manipulates them; tryin’ to take an unfair advantage.”

Williams shrugged. “Money corrupts people. Newsflash.”

“I still don’t think that’s the reason for all the killin’ goin’ on,” Doyle mused. “Too chancy; too specialized.”

“Perhaps we’ll never know.”

“Perhaps,” she agreed. “At least we have Solonik; I suppose we shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.” She glanced up at him, hoping he’d appreciate this very clever witticism. He smiled in acknowledgment, but she could tell he had to reach for it; for two detectives who had just broken a big case, they were a sorry pair.

Their inquiries proved unfruitful, but Doyle knew they were on to something because most of the people to whom they showed the photos were lying, at least with respect to the Sinn-split suspects. She would tell Acton when she saw him; she longed to go home and crawl into bed. For the first time, she considered the unthinkable possibility that she was too sick to keep on working. It was disappointing, but she must face facts; this kind of work demanded a sharp mind and long hours, and she honestly didn’t think she could weather many more days like this. Acton would be that relieved; he had suggested she come in out of the field after her harrowing experience with Owens, and she knew he was hiding his concern even now. She sighed inwardly, reminded that she had a spanking new attitude. It was no longer possible to simply do whatever she wished anymore; she had a husband’s wishes to consider—and soon a child’s. But it was such a crackin’ shame; she was good at this detecting business, and it just wouldn’t be the same, sorting out who was telling the truth at the local PTA. This thought was so depressing that she turned her mind to other things.

It was after lunch time when they were finished with all the personnel on hand, and so before they headed back, they decided to eat at a local pub that was popular with the visitors to the racecourse. Doyle gratefully collapsed at a table and ordered ginger ale, taking a long and regretful look at the cappuccino machine behind the counter. No wonder you have a headache, she thought; it’s a coffee addict, you are. She looked over the menu, but nothing sounded appealing and she didn’t want to repeat the morning’s experience with Williams; the poor man would swear off women.

Williams was apparently not very hungry himself, as he ordered only a pint of Guinness. It was theoretically against protocol to order alcohol while on duty, although some of the higher-ups skirted this taboo with the occasional beer. Williams, one would think, would be a stickler. He didn’t seem to be doing well himself; he was a bit pale around the mouth and rather quiet. They drank, and Doyle tried to rally him by speaking of how exhilarating it was to stumble across a case-breaker, as they did today. His heart wasn’t in it, though, and Doyle let the conversation lapse into silence.

Her companion ordered another pint, having disposed of the first one. Doyle hid her alarm; it would not do at all if she had to drive all the way back to the Met—perhaps Williams had forgotten she wasn’t an experienced driver. She debated whether she should say something, but he seemed increasingly moody and she didn’t want to point out to him, a DC to a newly promoted DS, that he shouldn’t be drinking—he’d think she was being resentful. Instead, she’d be as subtle as a serpent.

“Are you feeling all right, sir?” she asked gently. He hadn’t said anything to her in a considerable space of time, and he seemed lost in his own thoughts, beads of perspiration gathering across his brow.

“I wish you wouldn’t call me ‘sir,’ ” he said abruptly. “That’s what you call Holmes.”

Not anymore, thought Doyle, a bit taken aback. It appeared that her superior officer was drunk—and on two pints, no less.

“When we are alone, shall I call you Williams then, as I used to?” She pushed the pretzel mix that was on the table toward him, hoping he’d eat.

“I don’t care.” He rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes.
“Christ.”

Unsure how best to handle the strange situation, she offered softly, “You mustn’t blaspheme, Williams.”

This triggered a hostile reaction, as he raised his head from his hands and stared at her in disbelief, his face flushed. “That’s rich—coming from you. You’re the one who got herself knocked up.”

That this would be the obvious assumption of all and sundry when they heard of her pregnancy did not help to temper Doyle’s reaction, which was immediate and heated. “That is
way
out of line, Williams.”

But he had warmed to his theme and met her gaze, glare for glare, even though his eyes were unfocused. “How could you let him get you pregnant? Are you really that naïve?”

D
OYLE WAS SHOCKED, AND STRUGGLED WITH HER TEMPER,
torn between refusing to discuss this subject with him and setting the record straight. The record won. “Don’t you
dare
be sayin’ such a thing; I did not get pregnant until after we were married, and I resent the implication.” The battle had been joined, though, and Doyle was reminded by his next words that Williams was a very good detective.

“You were not dating him—don’t even pretend you were. You married on short notice, and now you are pregnant enough to be sick—it’s obvious; you let him sleep with you and now look what’s happened—you had to get married to someone you hardly knew.”

Faith, here’s a crackin’ minefield, she thought, trying to control her temper so that she didn’t say anything she oughtn’t. “We’d been workin’ together for months, Williams—Acton and me. I’m a good RC; I promise you we didn’t have sex until after we were married.” She realized suddenly that she was giving away state secrets, so to speak, and wished she didn’t gabble when she was angry. With a mighty effort, she tried to calm down; he could think what he liked and it didn’t matter to her. Although she did value his good opinion, and wished he thought better of her.

He seemed to have regretted his outburst also, and drew a breath, looking down at his hands. His next words were a bit slurred, “I went by your building to see if you needed a ride one morning—I—I saw him coming out.”

She could see that the memory was one that still stung. “Oh—oh; I see how it looked. But we were already married, Williams, believe me.” And apparently Williams had seen himself in the role of a suitor; this was a revelation, and was excruciatingly embarrassing. For the love o’ Mike, couldn’t he have kept this to himself? It was water so far under the bridge it was out to the far isles, already.

“I apologize if I—if I offended . . . ,” he started, then slumped over and fell to the floor, knocking his chair over with a clatter in the process.

Doyle leapt up, horrified, and went to him as others nearby offered to help. Amused glances were exchanged among the bystanders.

She felt for a pulse, and lifted an eyelid; he was out cold. “Williams!” she called imperatively, but there was no response.

Turning her head to address the other patrons, she announced, “I don’t believe he’s drunk—somethin’ is wrong. We are police; please call for an ambulance.” Doyle had seen Acton drink a half a bottle of scotch at a sitting; impossible that another big man like Williams could pass out on two pints. While a bystander began to dial for an ambulance, Doyle patted down his torso and then pulled Williams’s wallet from his suit coat pocket. Yes—there was a medical alert card next to his identification, and she saw that he was a diabetic. This must be insulin shock; she closed her eyes briefly, trying to remember the first aid. “Orange juice with sugar,” she demanded of the waiter. “Quickly.”

She struggled to prop Williams up on her lap, which was no easy task as he was broad-shouldered and heavy. The waiter brought the orange juice, and she tried to get him to swallow, even though the smell of it made her own stomach heave. “Drink,” she commanded sternly, and forced some between his teeth. Murmuring in protest, he swallowed and almost immediately his color was a bit better.

“I didn’t want to press you.” He opened his eyes briefly, then closed them again. “You seemed so shy.”

“Whist, Williams,” she said gently. “You mustn’t say such things.”

By the time the ambulance came, she had bullied him into drinking a goodly portion and he seemed to be recovering. The medical personnel had him swallow some sort of paste from a tube, and then loaded him into the ambulance. She sat with him on the way to the hospital, clasping his hand in hers while he lay quietly with his eyes closed. She took the opportunity to ring up Acton, and since she wasn’t certain whether Williams was listening, she edited her comments accordingly.

“Kathleen.”

“Acton, Williams had a little medical problem and we are on our way to the hospital.” She didn’t know if Acton knew he was a diabetic, and so didn’t give particulars.

“Which hospital?”

Doyle realized she didn’t know, so she asked the medical technician and relayed the information. “Can you notify his family, or whoever is supposed to know? I want to stay with him until they come.” She thought about logistics. “Should I drive the unmarked back?”

“By no means,” he said. “I will be there in about an hour.”

At the hospital, the medical staff was efficient and reassuring. The doctor examined him, and then came out to speak with her, shaking his head. “Happens all the time—especially the younger ones; they think they needn’t abide by the rules.”

In a very short time, Williams was sitting up and seemed perfectly normal again, and the doctor told Doyle they would release him after an observation period. Thanks be to God, she thought; and now to try to smooth out this tangle patch. After entering his room, she pulled up a chair by the bed. “Hey.”

He greeted her with his usual calm demeanor, even though she could feel waves of chagrin and embarrassment emanating from him. “Hey yourself. I am so sorry, Doyle—I know better. I shouldn’t have given you such a scare.”

“Well, my boyo, you did give me quite a turn,” Doyle teased him. “You were clear out of your senses, and began professin’ undyin’ love for my fair self.” She smiled, inviting him to share in the absurdity. “Best watch yourself, or you’ll wind up married to some bystander who holds you to it, else.”

He laughed ruefully. “Acton will kill me.”

“Or bust you back down to DC.” There; hopefully that was just the right touch and did the trick; he would think she hadn’t believed him even though every word had been true. Mother a’ mercy, she thought—more seething undercurrents. She remembered Munoz had once said that everything was usually about sex; Doyle was beginning to believe—rather to her dismay—that Munoz was right.

She sat and spoke with him about the case and what was needed, working very hard to restore their former tone even though she wanted nothing more than to find an empty hospital bed and pull the sterilized covers over her head. By the time his parents arrived, she believed she’d succeeded, and so retreated to the back of the room to lean against the wall whilst they reassured themselves that he was stable, scolded him, and then thanked Doyle for her actions. Williams’s mother was a very refined and gracious woman—just the type to own horses, thought Doyle, who felt as though she was observing the Williams family from a different planet. The woman came over to speak to her after she was done with her son, and eyed her in a speculative and friendly way. “So—
you
are Kathleen.”

Faith, what a mess, thought Doyle; mother clearly had not been brought up to date. With a smile, she replied, “Yes, I am Kathleen Sinclair, Chief Inspector Acton’s wife.”

“Oh,” mother answered with a blank look.

Doyle smoothly steered the conversation back to Williams’s remarkable skills, which were instrumental in breaking a difficult case, and mother played along, still trying to sort it out.