CHAPTER 33
HE READ THE NEXT EMAIL AND WAS SOMEWHAT REASSURED; HE should not forget how clever she was. He would set out surveillance at the train station and then return to track her down.
The afternoon dragged on while Doyle nursed her pathetic little coffee and pretended an acute interest in the outcome of whatever sporting event was being televised. Finally at a quarter to four, Doyle took a careful look about and walked in the direction of Munoz’s flat, five or six blocks away in Knightsbridge. She kept her head down and her hands in her pockets, occasionally glancing behind her. When she arrived at the Edwardian building, she didn’t see Munoz and so she leaned into an alcove across the street, waiting for the other girl to appear and keeping her face averted.
“Where’s my windbreaker?”
Doyle nearly jumped out of her skin. Munoz was standing beside her, smirking.
“Don’t be scarin’ me like that.” Doyle was annoyed that Munoz could approach her unseen, but on the other hand, Munoz was an excellent detective.
“Enough with the cloak-and-dagger stuff, Doyle—you are overreacting to whatever it is and I’m ashamed of you.”
“Can we just go in?” Doyle was in no mood.
The two girls crossed the street to the building, and Munoz gave Doyle a sharp glance as she ran her security card through the building’s front door slot. “I thought you said you didn’t have a boyfriend.”
“I don’t and I never will again.”
Munoz shook her head in disgust. “Well, that’s a good attitude—you finally convinced someone to have sex with you and now you’ve ruined it.”
Doyle recalled with an effort that Munoz was taking her in and she shouldn’t commit mayhem; at least not in a public place.
They rode up in the lift and neither girl spoke. Doyle had been concocting a story in the event Munoz demanded an explanation, but no questions were asked. She thinks I am in trouble with a man, thought Doyle, which is just as well—it explains my odd behavior and at the same time boosts me in her estimation.
Munoz unlocked her door and walked in before her as Doyle hid her surprise; it was a very nice flat, spacious and with expensive furnishings. As Munoz made the same money she did, Doyle surmised that she must either have some financial help from another source or she made some money on the side. It would be surprising, taking into account the long hours of her primary job—as for herself, Doyle never seemed to have a spare minute.
“A very nice place, Munoz,” she said with good grace.
“Don’t think you’ll be staying here long,” Munoz cautioned with an admonitory glance. “I like to live alone.”
So did I, thought Doyle. But not anymore—getting married throws a rare wrench into it; you start to think you wouldn’t mind following him around all day. I miss you, Acton—it’s a sad case I am.
“Make yourself at home.” Munoz went into the kitchen, took an apple from the basket on the counter, and disappeared into the bedroom. Doyle set down her rucksack and realized that she was very tired—comes from having a rare case o’ the willies all day, she thought. Wandering over to look out the kitchen window, she noticed that over the sink hung a small charcoal sketch of the Madonna’s head. It was lovely; profound and delicate—Doyle thought it might have been an excerpt from a larger drawing by a master. She was scrutinizing it as Munoz returned to the kitchen, munching the apple.
“She’s my hero.” Munoz indicated the drawing.
When Doyle found her voice again, she said, “Me too,” and resolved that in the future she should do a little less judging and a little more judging not. To this end, she tempered her comments. “Thank you so much for doin’ this—I’m afraid I don’t have a toothbrush or anythin’.”
“As long as you have my windbreaker, I don’t care.”
Pulling the windbreaker from her rucksack, Doyle handed it over. “Thanks,” she said again, and wished she could think of something else to say.
“When Habib asked me where you were, I told him you were holed up with Prickett. I think he swallowed his tongue.”
Doyle stared at her in horror, her color rising. “Tell me you are jokin’.”
Munoz chuckled. “No worries—I just wanted to make sure you were still in there.”
“You can be as unpleasant as you like,” retorted Doyle with some fire, “as long as you give me somethin’ to eat—I’m starvin’.”
“Help yourself.” Munoz tilted her head toward the refrigerator.
Doyle dove in and pulled out makings for a sandwich, which she carried over to the counter under Munoz’s amused eye. “Prickett’s been fired, I hear.”
“Of course; they can’t be too careful, what with sexual harassment claims looming. I wonder what he was thinking, being so reckless.”
Doyle recalled a certain chief inspector’s behavior at a certain crime scene and prudently held her tongue while she bit into her sandwich. She thought about it between gulps of orange juice. “Forensics will be depleted, with Fiona’s death still unsolved—they’ll need more personnel.”
Munoz shrugged, her long hair sliding over her shoulders. “They’re hard to come by; Forensics people are odd. Which reminds me, Owens came by to look for you—if he’s the best you can do, it’s no wonder you are hiding out.”
“For heaven’s sake, Munoz; give over. What did he want?”
“I wasn’t about to ask him, thank you very much. I told him you were gone and had left your mobile behind. He was followed by Drake and then Williams, who were told the same story. Between the visitors and your buzzing mobile, I felt like your receptionist.”
“I’m sorry. I hope I’m not in Habib’s black book.”
“Just tell him you have female troubles; men never want to hear of it.”
This was inarguably true, and sound advice. “Have you heard anything about Fiona’s murder?”
“There’s precious little evidence. I think the theory is she was a chance victim, or at least that’s what Williams is saying.” Munoz indicated a blanket and a pillow she had left on a chair. “You can sleep on the sofa. There’s an extra toothbrush in the bathroom drawer, and you can sleep in one of my T-shirts.” She checked her watch. “I’m going to meet up with some friends for dinner—you are welcome to come along.”
This was true and Doyle was touched. “I appreciate it, but I am that tired and cross. I wouldn’t be good company.”
Munoz regarded her with an unreadable expression. “Should I stay and hand you tissues or something?”
“Please don’t—I am goin’ to lie on your fine sofa and watch the telly.”
“Right, then, I may be late. Eat whatever you can find and don’t take any clothes—they wouldn’t fit anyway.”
Doyle said dryly, “I truly appreciate it.”
“Tell me the details someday,” said Munoz, and she was gone.
The details, thought Doyle as she locked the door, will definitely be worth the price of admission.
She lay on the sofa and tried to watch the telly as the light faded and evening set in. She emailed Fiona to say she was safe and sound, and wished she was clever enough to figure out how to read a response. I should work on educating myself, she thought—he is miles smarter than me. With an inward smile, she remembered that he had said she was not to change anything on his account, as it would be a waste of time. I miss that man—I hope one or more of us is not going to be murdered before our one-week anniversary.
Made restless by the reminder, she stood and paced, wishing she knew what was happening and hoping Acton had a plan, as she was fresh out. She paused in her pacing and considered whether it would be safe to check in with Habib for news of Acton’s return; Habib was likely to still be at work. Acton was surely back by now and would be bent—as only Acton could be bent—on finding her. It would be a shame to make him worry, and surely no one could trace her here to Munoz’s if she called Habib’s landline on Munoz’s landline. She debated, biting her nails and worrying she would make a stupid decision like the heroine always seemed to do in mystery novels. Picking up the phone, she finally decided it would do no harm to ring Habib; he may have left already anyway.
She dialed his extension and Habib answered and identified himself. Doyle realized belatedly that she was probably persona non grata (a good phrase, and apt) with her supervisor at present. She swallowed. “Hallo, sir, this is Doyle.”
“Constable Doyle, we have been worried about you.” It was said in a scolding tone and, thankfully, not in what one would call a sacking tone.
“I am so sorry, sir; I had to leave work and was unable to return.” Remembering Munoz’s advice, she implied female troubles.
“Many people are wondering what has happened to you. Indeed, I have a note from Chief Inspector Acton.”
Doyle’s heart skipped a beat. “What does it say, sir?”
“It says that if you call, I am to tell you that everything is clear and he will meet you at his flat.” Habib sounded disapproving. “He said you would know the address.”
“Yes.” Relief washed over her, almost overwhelming in its intensity. Let Habib think whatever he chose—they would all know soon enough; Acton was on a campaign. “Thank you,” she responded happily, unable to contain her reaction. “I will be in tomorrow, I promise.”
She rang off. Thank the saints, the coast was clear. Acton must have gotten to the killer, or neutralized him in some other manner. She was in a fever to know the details—perhaps her false trail about the train station had borne fruit; Acton would be that proud of her. This long and miserable day was finally, finally over.
Opening drawers, Doyle looked about her for materials so as to write a quick note to Munoz and found paper and a pencil. She then paused; the paper was sketching paper, the pencil was an artist’s charcoal pencil. Doyle slowly lifted her gaze to the sketch of the Madonna, transfixed. Mother a’ mercy—and I mean that literally, she thought. That’s how she can afford this place.
Controlling her bemusement, she wrote a short note explaining she needed to leave and once again conveying her thanks. She then paused long enough to brush her hair before she pulled Acton’s address from the zipper compartment of her rucksack where she kept her wedding ring. After puzzling out the best way to get there, she left the flat, her spirits high—no need for the sweatshirt and sunglasses; she was no longer incognito. As she rode on the tube to her destination she remembered with regret that it was not the right time for sex. Vixen, she thought; take hold of your lustful self.