C
HAPTER
13
O
NCE IN THE BOOKSTORE,
D
OYLE MADE HER WAY TO THE RELIGION
section, which was as deserted as the last time. Her rescuer held a Bible, thumbing through it as he waited for her. “Anythin’ in there about the wages o’ sin?” she asked.
He looked up, and replaced the book. “Who is in the cemetery?”
There seemed no harm in saying. “My mother.”
He tilted his head in sympathy. “My mother, also. And now my brother.”
“Gerry?” she asked in surprise.
He regarded her with his unreadable pale eyes. “I did not say that Gerry was my brother.”
“I think he is. Or a cousin, or somethin’.”
His eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Why do you think this?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know; I met him, you know, and you rather remind me of him.” And her perceptive ability told her this—although it was true that sometimes it led her astray.
Apparently, he was willing to concede the issue. “A different brother is dead. You knew him—he was a policeman here, in London.”
With dawning realization, she struggled to control her reaction. Holy Mother of God; the chickens were coming home to roost with a vengeance, and suddenly all the coincidences were no longer coincidences. Her mouth dry, she managed to offer, “I am that sorry for it; who was he?”
“He used the name Owens.”
She feigned surprise, no small feat, as she wasn’t very good at subterfuge. “TDC Owens is dead? Are you sure? No one knows whatever happened to him.”
Her companion fixed his pale, cold gaze upon hers. “Solonik, he says he knows.”
Thinking to throw a wrench, she ventured, “Maybe Solonik had him killed, and that’s how he knows. Solonik is not a good man.” This last said with some emphasis.
“Perhaps. I will find out.” He watched her for a moment. “You think Solonik is taking Acton’s goat.”
“Yes, I do.” She met his eyes candidly. “What do you think—has he told you what he plans?” Perhaps her rescuer would turn coat on Solonik; she had the very strong impression he was a bit beguiled by her fair self, despite his hard-as-nails appearance.
He shook his head. “No, he has not told me what he plans.”
This was not true, and they stood together for a moment, at an apparent impasse. She wasn’t quite clear on the purpose of this meeting—although it may just have been that he wanted to speak with her again. She should be nice; hopefully he’d never find out what happened to his wretched brother, but if he did, any measure of goodwill she could establish would be needful—she had no doubt that this man was a very tough customer. To this end, she said lightly, “Did you inform Mr. Solonik that I’m wise to his wily ways?”
He paused, and replied, “He says it would be best if you come to see him; he must warn you.”
Suddenly wary, Doyle was silent. This sounded more like the Solonik she knew, and her rescuer was now a bit grim—or grimmer than his usual. “Warn me of what?”
Her rescuer lowered his gaze for a moment. Oh-oh, she thought in alarm; this is serious.
“There is information about Acton that is being gathered up by Solonik. Weapons, killings.”
Doyle stared at him, trying to hide her horror.
“He wishes you to meet him to speak of it—of what is to be done.”
Blackmail. Controlling her first flare of panic, Doyle brought herself under control and thought about it carefully. So—this was a fine incentive to bring her before him; Solonik was bound and determined, he was. It could be a ruse—Solonik was already aware of Acton’s unlawful propensities; falsified evidence had put the man in prison, after all. He was trying to manipulate her so as to wreak some kind of revenge on her husband, and she should play along, perhaps—at least until she knew what-was-what. On the other hand, perhaps the only goal was to get her to visit the prison for some reason, and it would be best to stoutly refuse, no matter the incentive.
Whilst she tried to decide the best strategy, her mobile vibrated. “Excuse me,” she said, and texted “OK” to Williams.
“You must come to see him, to discuss this problem. But you must not tell Acton.”
She mustered up a confident expression. “He’s bluffin’, my friend; he doesn’t know anythin’ that could hurt Acton.” She’d see if her rescuer was willing to give her any proof, so as to gauge the seriousness of this ploy.
Her companion shrugged. “Your husband does not act wisely, sometimes. He drinks too much, and tells secrets.”
This seemed a little ominous—that they would know about the drinking—but she raised a skeptical eyebrow. “It’s clear you’ve never met him; no one would call Acton a gabbler.”
With a measured movement, he pulled two photographs from his inner jacket pocket, and handed them to her.
Doyle stared at the photographs; almost unable to process what they portrayed. They were of Acton and the woman reporter from the
London World News
who had spoken to him at the crime scene. Both were seated at a small round table—as though at a nightclub—and the light was dim. They were leaning with their heads together, speaking intimately. In one photo Acton’s head was bent and his mouth was next to her ear while she listened, smiling knowingly. Both were smoking, and Acton held a tendril of hair from her temple between his fingers.
Doyle wasn’t aware that she swayed until her rescuer put his hands at her elbows to steady her. “Ah-ah; do you need to sit?”
Lifting her gaze, she met his a little blankly. “This makes no sense.”
He lifted a shoulder, in a gesture that seemed very French. “The men—sometimes they cannot resist; it is the way of it.”
“No.” She reviewed the photos again, trying to find two thoughts to put together. “That is not the way of it.”
“It is painful—like the teeth in the licorice,” he observed with a trace of sympathy. “You are upset, but we will talk of what is to be done, and you will feel better.”
She raised her head again, and with a mighty effort, pulled herself together. “I’ll not be makin’ any decisions, just now.”
He put a finger under her chin so as to hold it steady and looked into her eyes, speaking seriously. “I think you should speak to Solonik—you must be very careful.”
She had the strong impression he was trying to decide whether to kiss her—which was symmetrical in a strange way, but nevertheless not appreciated—and so she pulled her head back.
“Kath?” It was Williams, standing in the aisle beside them and looking like murder.
The rescuer released her immediately and faced Williams, assessing him. Williams’s hands curled into fists at his sides.
“Williams, please wait outside, I’ll be out in a moment,” Doyle said as calmly as she was able.
“Go outside, Doyle,” he replied, never taking his eyes off the other man.
Williams was a head taller and at least a stone heavier, but Doyle had absolutely no doubt as to who would prevail in a donnybrook, although she wasn’t sure why she was so certain. “Thomas,” she pleaded, “I am
beggin
’ you.”
He hesitated and met her eyes. “Who is he?”
“Believe it or not, he is a friend. Please wait outside, I will be right there, I promise.”
“Call if you need me.” Giving the other man a last, long look, Williams turned and walked away.
Doyle’s rescuer turned to her in surprise. “He is your lover?”
“No,” she said crossly. “Of course not.”
He eyed her. “He wants to be.”
But Doyle was in no mood, and snapped, “You’re to mind your tongue; you’ve caused enough trouble already.”
But he only shook his head. “It is not me, with the trouble-causing.”
She took a breath, trying to quell the sick panic that threatened to overwhelm her, and remembering that she should try to stay on his good side. “No; I suppose you’re right. I’m just wantin’ to shoot the messenger.”
“So; what should I tell Solonik?”
“I don’t know.” She was trying to suppress the images in the photographs so that she could think clearly, and held her palms against her eyes for a moment. “I have to think. Can I ring you?”
“Yes.” He reached for the mobile at her belt, then programmed a number into it. “Soon; I will need an answer.”
“Aye, then.” She took her mobile from his hand, turned, and blindly walked out.
C
HAPTER
14
W
ILLIAMS WAS WAITING BY THE DOOR, ON EDGE. SHE DIDN’T
look up at him, and walked past as though he wasn’t there, but she wasn’t the only one who was angry. “What the hell was that?” he demanded furiously, keeping pace with her.
“Why didn’t you follow the protocol?”
“I did—you didn’t answer the second time.”
She unbent enough to glance up at him. “Oh. I’m sorry—I didn’t realize you’d checked in a second time.” She was having trouble controlling her voice, so she lowered her head and stopped talking. The female reporter had been all dressed up at the crime scene, and Acton had been drinking; they’d been together when he got the call, and the brasser couldn’t resist coming to the cordon, probably to take a gloating assessment of his stupid little wife. It was beyond all bearing, and although she’d never been able to fathom the unholy urge to murder before, it didn’t seem so completely unfathomable at present.
It was raining, and as they strode past a pharmacy, Williams took her elbow and pulled her into the doorway. “Wait; let’s talk about this for a minute—I think you owe it to me.”
“I want to go home,” she replied through stiff lips, and then wondered if that was a good plan; she may walk in on them—on Acton and the reporter. Bowing her head, she fought an almost overwhelming urge to cry.
“All right,” he soothed, his tone less angry as he assessed her. “Let’s put your things away—do you have an umbrella?” He gently pulled her mobile from her nerveless hand. “Let me help you.”
Instinctively, she resisted, and as a result her mobile fell to the floor, along with the two photographs. She watched in frozen horror as they floated down, the images revealed. In a rush of fury, she scrambled to gather up the mobile and the photographs. “No,” she hissed through her teeth, “I dinna’ need your help.” She sprang up, clutching the items with her right hand so that she could pound his chest with her left fist, emphasizing each word: “I—don’t—need—your—
help.
” Behind her, she could hear the shopkeeper’s chair scrape back in alarm. She was past caring.
“All right—all right, Kath.” Williams pulled her to him and she did not resist, but stood still in the circle of his arms for a moment. Pressing her forehead against the same chest she had just been abusing, she took a ragged breath and then offered in a small voice, “I am so sorry, Thomas. Please,
please
forgive me.”
“Let’s wait a minute,” he suggested. “Until you feel more the thing.”
She took some breaths and didn’t move. He said nothing, but moved his hands gently on her upper arms in a soothing motion. There is something inherently comforting, she thought, about a broad-shouldered man—women must be genetically programmed to appreciate it.
Doyle’s mobile vibrated and she ignored it. “How is your health, Thomas?”
He didn’t miss a beat. “Better; I am trying to be more careful with my diet.” Williams was a diabetic, and had a recent brush with insulin shock.
“That’s grand.” She lifted her head and stepped back, smoothing down her hair self-consciously. She turned to the shopkeeper, who was staring at her in alarm. “I’m so sorry.” Her mobile vibrated again, and she carefully tucked the photographs into her rucksack and then reviewed the text message. “Acton thinks there’s another park murder. I should go.”
“Want me to come?”
“Best not.” It was clear he was not offering his aid just to process the scene; he had her back, did DS Williams, and suddenly she was reminded of what the anonymous instructor at the Crime Academy had said—that it was important for them to have each other’s backs, no matter what. Acton is in trouble, she thought, briefly closing her eyes; and I do have his back—no matter what. There must be a method to his madness, but oh—how I’d like to brain him with a joint stool for putting me through this.
“At least let me drop you off.” With a decisive movement, Williams lifted her rucksack. “Here’s a fiver—buy an umbrella while I get a cab.”
“All right,” she agreed, and purchased an umbrella from the shopkeeper—who continued to eye her askance—before going out to meet him and the waiting cab at the curb. “It’s at the Heath—I’m not sure exactly where, though.”
“I imagine it will be obvious.” He instructed the driver, and they drove off.
After a few minutes, she said in a stiff voice, “Please do not mention any of this to anyone.” She was certain he’d seen the photographs, although he hadn’t betrayed any reaction.
Williams glanced over at her, but made no reply, so she said to him with careful emphasis, “If you say anythin’ to Acton, Thomas, I swear by all the saints I will
never
speak to you again.”
“That wouldn’t matter—if I thought you were in trouble.”
She was angry again, and tried to rein in her temper. “So when you gave me your fine speech about unconditional help, you really meant you will help by runnin’ my life for me.”
Williams said nothing for a moment. “How did you meet your bookstore friend?”
With a sigh, she answered dryly, “Not at church.”
“No, that’s pretty obvious.”
She debated for a moment what to tell him, then decided that the truth was most expedient. “He saved my life.”
He glanced at her in surprise. “How was this?”
She shook her head. “I’d rather not say. It’s complicated.”
“I’ll bet,” he agreed, and Doyle knew they were both thinking about the photographs. “If you need me you will ring me?”
“Yes. I’m sorry I hit you—I don’t think I’ve ever hit anyone in my life.”
“Makes me feel special, then.” The cab pulled up to the curb where various police vehicles were parked, lights flashing, and a cordon had been marked off, with PCs stationed along the perimeter. Without another word, she left the cab and walked toward the yellow tape, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other.
The crime scene was up the hill, and she pulled her coat close around her as she trudged in the soft, wet turf. The rain had paused, but it was threatening again, which meant the SOCOs would have to hurry if they were to recover anything of interest. This time, the body was left in a forested area of the heath, perhaps another attempt to mix up the m.o., as the others had been left in city parks within a two-mile radius.
Coming to the top of the rise, she walked toward the small canopy that had been erected to shelter the victim from the incipient rain. The body was not very far from the road, she noted, and thought it was in keeping with the vigilante’s methods; forensics had concluded the other victims had been killed where they were found. The vigilante must have lured them somehow, as it seemed unlikely these particular victims would be the park-visiting types. The wives or girlfriends had not been helpful; the victims had received no strange visitors or unknown calls in the days before the attacks. It was unclear how they were contacted, and unclear how they were lured to their deaths in peaceful surroundings.
Acton’s tall figure could be seen, studying the scene, and he walked to meet her once he spotted her. “Here you are; I couldn’t reach you.” Although the words were mild, he was emanating waves of concern.
She’d wondered how she would react upon seeing him again, but she found that her main reaction was to be honestly perplexed; he was genuinely fretting because he couldn’t get hold of her for an hour, but was willing to run a risk that might make her leave him forever. Her initial reaction still held true; it all didn’t make any sense.
“Sorry; I was in the bookstore, and I had the ringer off.”
His gaze sharp upon hers, he leaned in to ask, “What’s happened?” His antennae were very fine-tuned when it came to her, and the fact that she was in a bookstore probably gave him pause, too, as it was not her natural habitat.
“I’ve had a crackin’ foul day, my friend.” He waited, but she offered nothing further, instead indicating the scene with a nod of her head. “What’s the report?”
They turned and walked together toward the canopy. “A woman, this time. Bludgeoned a live-in boyfriend years ago, but got off with a battered woman syndrome defense.”
Doyle crouched beside him and reviewed the body, facedown with an entry wound in the base of the skull, her limbs close to her torso. “She didn’t know it was comin’—no attempt to struggle or flee.”
“No; shot from behind while walking. Unlikely we’ll find trace evidence, and with the cold it will be difficult to establish exact time of death.”
“Sir; it’s looking to rain again.” The SOCO photographer lingered near Acton, and Doyle, in her current mood, suppressed an urge to pick up a shovel and deck her with it.
“Right, then; let’s have a look.” They stood, and he accompanied the photographer as they walked through the scene, scrutinizing the ground and occasionally asking for a photo, although it didn’t appear he was very enthused about what he saw. He gave permission to bag the body, and the crew leapt to comply, as it was cold and miserable.
Doyle watched them and thought about this odd sort of vigilante, carefully trying to hide his purpose, even though there were many who’d think him a hero—no one would mourn these victims, and he was no doubt banking on the fact that no one would be fervently pursuing justice for them. It must be as Acton surmised; he was only doing it because he could no longer live with himself, and was trying to atone on some personal level.
Drawing a ragged breath, Doyle decided it was past time that her wayward husband did some atoning himself; there was nothin’ for it. Therefore, when he returned to stand by her side, she observed in a quiet tone, “I didn’t know you smoked, Michael.”
He paused, and kept his eyes on the ground for a long moment before he raised them to hers. She returned his gaze calmly, and said nothing. He was wary. Good.
“I smoked at university,” he admitted.
There was a long pause. “Is there anythin’ else I should know?”
A member of the SOCO team approached, but Acton held him off, signaling to wait as he bent his head to Doyle. “What have you learned?”
“Now, that’s not a proper answer, is it?”
Acton allowed the SOCO to speak to him, and gave instructions for the clean-up phase and a thorough search of the area between the street and the kill site. He then took Doyle’s arm and led her a small distance away, where they could stand under her umbrella and not be overheard. Meeting her eyes, he repeated something she had once said to him. “You know that I love you, and I will love you until the day I die.”
“That day may be fast approachin’, my friend. Are you goin’ to be tiresome about this?” It drove her mad when he was up to something and refused to tell her.
He thought about it carefully. “For the time being, yes.”
She made a sound of extreme impatience and refused to look at him.
“Remember your promise.” He’d made her promise that if there was a chance she would leave him, he would be given a warning.
“We’re not there yet,” she conceded, “but we’re circlin’ the airport.” She didn’t want him to think he had carte blanche to drive her mad, which, unfortunately, he did.
“Let’s go home,” he said quietly.
“Can’t. I haven’t accomplished a thimbleful of work as yet.”
“Bring it home; I will help you.”
She glanced at him, scornful. “Are you sure that you don’t have other plans?”
“Don’t.” He drew her to him, and kissed her forehead, much to the embarrassment of the PC who was posted at the hilltop.
“All right; I suppose if I’m with you, Habib won’t sack me.”
They descended the hill to his car, and Doyle stayed quiet as he checked in with his assistant on his mobile, informing her that he could be reached at home, but only if it was important. She looked out the window and reflected how interesting it was that—once she was beside him—she was reassured; whatever was going on, his single-minded focus on her fair self was unshaken. This did not change the fact that she had multiple crises piling up, but at least her husband’s fidelity was not one of them.
Acton said quietly into the silence, “I had to get into her flat.”
She continued to gaze out the window, and shook her head. “That won’t wash, my friend—as if you ever needed anyone’s permission.” Acton was a first-class picklock.
He corrected himself. “I had to get into her flat, and watch her once she was there.”
“Why?”
He paused. “I’m afraid I’d rather not say.”
She thought about this, and drew the obvious conclusion; whatever scheme Solonik had cooked up, Acton already knew and was working to counter it. She felt immeasurably better—she’d bet on Acton over Solonik any day of the week. She needed to know, however, what sort of sacrifices his counter-plot called for. “Did you—” She was having trouble saying it.
“No,” he replied immediately.
She wanted to make sure he wasn’t being wily, so she made herself say it. “Did you have sex with her?”
“No.” It was the pure truth. She was surprised at her relief; she’d already assumed the worst.
“I pretended that I had drunk too much.”
“Good one.” Acton could always perform, drunk or not, and usually more than once. “But I’ll have your promise—on your honor, Michael—that there’ll not be a second attempt made.”
“No,” he agreed immediately, then hesitated. “I may have to see her again, and lead her to think otherwise.”
She turned to stare at him in disbelief. “You’re a step above a prostitute, then?”
He replied a bit grimly, “It is important, or I wouldn’t spend another moment with her.”
This was the truth, and she decided she wouldn’t press him; he didn’t want to tell her, but it was clearly all wound up in the Solonik plot, somehow. Her rescuer had implied that Acton was telling this brasser his dark secrets, which was ludicrous—Acton didn’t even tell Doyle his dark secrets. So the logical conclusion was Acton was turning the tables, somehow. She would hold out hope he wasn’t to be arrested at any moment, and meanwhile do what she could to put a spanner in Solonik’s wheel at her end—there were certain things that only she could do; certain truths that only she could hear, and if she disclosed what she knew to Acton, there was little doubt he’d lock her up somewhere and never let her see the light of day again.