CHAPTER 22
HER BODY WAS BECOMING USED TO HIM, WHICH WAS EXHILARATING. He took some photographs of her while she slept.
Doyle woke the next morning to find that Acton was seated at the parquetry table, already dressed and watching her. “Good morning.”
He was very content, she could tell. I believe I am rather good at this, for a novice, she thought as she stretched. “A fine mornin’.” She pronounced it “foine” to tease him, then sat up and drew the covers around her, as she had nothing on. By his arrested expression, she realized she’d better distract him or they’d be abed again and that may not be such a good idea. “I’ll need to go home to get a change of clothes before I’m back to my wretched desk detail.”
“I brought some clothes from your flat,” he explained in a mild tone, nodding toward the closet.
“Did you? Then I suppose I needn’t.” They regarded each other. “Am I never goin’ home again, Michael?”
“Tomorrow evening, but not before. I want to stir up your routine, just to be safe.”
She nodded. “We’re here again tonight, then?”
“Yes, if that is acceptable.”
Smiling, she ducked her head. “Oh, it’s very acceptable.” There was no question that it was nice to have a bigger bed. Tracing a design on the bedspread with her fingertip, she thought, there is nothin’ for it; time for another discussion. Here goes.
“We probably shouldn’t have sex for a few days.” She could feel herself color up.
“You are ovulating.” It was a statement, not a question. Trust him not to spare her blushes; he probably knew more about it than she did.
“Yes, I think so.” She had slipped the literature from the church vestibule into her bag and had read it carefully at home, thermometer in hand.
He said nothing for a moment and she had no idea what he was thinking. “All right.”
Mother a’ mercy, could it be possible he would not have minded a pregnancy at this juncture? It was the last thing they should be thinking of, for heaven’s sake. Dropping her gaze, she fought the panic that threatened to rear up again.
His matter-of-fact voice cut into her thoughts. “I have some estate business I’ve been neglecting and I must drop by Layton’s; I may go this evening, if I can get away.”
Righting herself with an effort, she nodded. Layton was his man of affairs who had offices in the center of the business district. Acton had stopped by a few weeks ago when they were out in the field and asked if she wanted to come and wait inside while he conducted some business. She had declined, privately thinking that it looked like the sort of place where alarms would go off if the likes of her darkened its doorway. “That’s all right, it’s the monthly reconciliation service at church tonight and I’ll go with Nellie. I’ll wait to have dinner here with you, if you’d like.”
He watched her for a moment, his expression unreadable. “Is that like confession?”
She made a wry mouth. “They call it reconciliation now, hopin’ we won’t realize it’s the same grim thing. They’re very wily that way.”
“May I accompany you?”
Curled in the cocoon of expensive sheets, she hid her surprise. “If you’d like.” Listening to her own equivocal tone, she amended, “Of course you may. It’s at seven.”
“I will meet you there.” Kissing her, he then left for work and she watched him go, wishing she knew what was afoot and subject to a vague uneasiness—the kind that never seemed to bode well. It was clear to her that he was no longer anxious about these cases, even though ostensibly the true killer was still at large and trying to get away with it. Interesting, she thought. And doubly interesting that it’s such a shrouded subject.
Doyle decided she should order breakfast, as she had not had any dinner the night before—instead they had raided the honor bar when they had come up to breathe—and took a look in the closet whilst she awaited its delivery. Acton was a wonder; several outfits she had worn to work on previous occasions were contained therein, complete to the details. She dressed with no real enthusiasm, wishing she were looking forward to fieldwork and bitterly resenting the DCs who were taking her place on this case just when things were getting interesting—stupid Munoz and stupid Williams. She took a last look in the gilt mirror and sighed. Get on with it, Doyle—you’ll survive. And no question everything is ten million times better than it was at this time last week—quit being such a crackin’ baby and trust the man.
This resolution, however, did not last long because once at work Doyle watched for Munoz to arrive and then shamelessly flattered her for half an hour to glean information about the Leadenhall murders. Munoz, preening with importance, revealed that Forensics had determined that the murders had indeed occurred in the alley and the bodies had not been merely dumped there. The weapons this time were a 9 mm and a .22, respectively—both illegal.
So, the large-caliber gun from the earlier murders was not used, thought Doyle. The killer is indeed spooked and is covering his tracks.
“Holmes’s working theory is the two men drew and fired several times upon each other almost simultaneously,” Munoz continued with a superior air. “The bullets and casings found at the scene are all from the same weapons and indicate erratic targeting.”
“And?” prompted Doyle.
“Then Smythe was hit, but not fatally; when Capper came closer to assess the injury Smythe raised his weapon and fired close-range.”
That may be the killer’s fatal error, thought Doyle; too hard to contain the DNA evidence when the shot was at close range—unless the killer was wearing a bunny suit like the SOCOs did; anything was possible in this strange case. “And Smythe died of his wound?”
“Yes, bled out.”
“Were there silencers on the weapons?”
Munoz’s expression was pitying and she spoke as if to an imbecile. “No, Doyle; there were no silencers on the weapons.”
Doyle bit back a retort because Munoz did not know of the cleaning crew—apparently no one did, except her and Acton. By all accounts, the true working theory should be easy to piece together; the killer lured them there, one at a time, and killed them—he knew that time of death can never be precise within an hour or so. The staging was not perfect, however, because he did not know of the cleaning crew nearby who had heard nothing—no arguments, none of the multiple shots—which put a huge dent in the theory Acton was putting forward. And another thing; the ballistics report should confirm there were silencers used—which in turn wouldn’t make sense given the wild shoot-out theory. Surely the ballistics report was available by now—perhaps the information was being withheld for some reason; she remembered Williams was working ballistics for Acton. And another angle came to mind; she asked Munoz, “Any prints or DNA?”
Munoz tossed her hair. “They’re going over it with a fine-toothed comb, although it seems pretty straightforward. I think they are looking to match one or both of the victims with the earlier murders at the racecourse.”
One murder at the course, corrected Doyle silently. The other was at Giselle’s flat. And I imagine they will find something—fibers maybe, which links one of the dead men to at least one of the earlier scenes. The killer wants to put this to bed and will have planted the evidence. But for reasons that were unclear, Acton was promoting the false theory and—here she paused, much struck—and had taken the fair Doyle and her conclusions-leaping abilities off this case.
She listened to Munoz with only half an ear while she thought over this rather startling conviction. Acton was up to something, then—something under the radar. Perhaps it was some sort of sting operation, hoping to catch the now-complacent killer by pretending the case was closed. Perhaps it was being kept so quiet that he couldn’t even tell her for fear she’d queer the pitch by blurting out the wrong thing to the wrong person—not an unfounded fear, after all, given her track record.
But she doubted it. She knew that man—on one hand she hardly knew him but on a more elemental level she knew him very well indeed—and there was something he was keeping from her, which in itself was alarming, given his condition. She thought of the crime scene in Teddington, when Acton had offered to loan her money even though it was against protocol. He had not been able to resist the urge to come to her rescue, even though she might be embarrassed by the offer, which indeed she had been. When it came to her, he could not help himself. Frowning, she was struck by a tantalizing thought that hovered just out of reach; this was important for some reason.
“Snap out of it, Doyle. What is the word on the tech?”
Doyle blinked. “Oh. I’ll check.”
Munoz jerked her head in frustration. “Sooner rather than later; Holmes wants a report and I’m all over him. I mean it.” She slid Doyle a smug, sloe-eyed look.
Instead of making a suitable retort, Doyle tried to regain her thread of thought—the one that seemed important. She drew a blank and so instead wondered if Acton had consciously chosen her as an object of obsession or if he had been powerless. Imagine, for example, if he had become fixated on Munoz (who was going on and on about something self-important; Doyle had lost interest) and Munoz had turned him down flat or had threatened to go to HR. What would he have done? But such a thing wouldn’t have happened—someone like him would never allow himself to be at the mercy of a girl like Munoz. He’d never allow it, she thought slowly. Now, what is it I’m trying to understand, here?
Her phone pinged, and she texted her symbol—she’d forgotten and was a few minutes late. She considered the mobile’s screen, debating whether to ring Nellie to warn her that his lordship was going to join them at church tonight, but decided she’d spare her the foreknowledge. Nellie was a Filipino immigrant and fascinated by the peerage.
Realizing that Munoz had asked her something, she lifted her gaze. “Sorry, Munoz, I was woolgatherin’. What was it?”
“Who is that you were texting?”
Doyle smiled. “My secret lover.”
Munoz laughed aloud and Doyle held on to her temper. It is possible that I will very much enjoy it when Munoz discovers that Acton is mine, she thought, and was surprised by her own spite.
But Munoz apparently was willing to render some aid to the enemy, and arched a graceful brow. “Speaking of such, Williams was asking me things about you.”
“What sort of things?” Doyle wondered if Williams could hack his way around a personal file. He didn’t seem the murdering type.
“Just general asking. We’re going to lunch at the deli. Maybe you should come.”
The deli was just that—a deli located down the street from their building. In the warmer months it was a popular place for lunch. “Done,” said Doyle, thinking to scope out Williams the questions-asker. “Come get me when you go.”
Two hours later, Owens came by to visit, hanging on her cubicle partition as though he owned the place and looking over her shoulder at her screen. Saints, thought Doyle, looking up at him. How I miss being in the field.
“Anything new?”
Doyle reflected that Owens was in the same boat as she was, dyin’ to be out in the thick of it but left to glean information from others more fortunate. Taking pity, she told him what she knew, editing out anything she had heard from Acton and repeating more or less what Munoz had told her. She didn’t mention the cleaning crew or her suspicions about the silencer; she still wasn’t sure about Owens—or any of them, for that matter. With this in mind, she thought she’d do a little listening. “I’m meeting Munoz and Williams for lunch at the deli. Why don’t you come by and you can quiz them to your heart’s content.”
“Thanks, I owe you.” He winked as he left.
Creepy, she thought, turning back to her screen. But it may be he’s creepy because he is an ambitious weasel with a crush on my man and not because he’s a killer. She paused and regarded her hands thoughtfully; as part of her campaign to improve her general grooming habits, she was trying to grow her nails. I am remarkably unkind today, she realized. And I hope it is not because I look forward to being in church with Acton instead of abed with him, because that, my girl, is unacceptable.