Murder in Retribution by Anne Cleeland Read Free Book Online Page B

pin, Doyle reminded herself stoutly, and tried not to think about it. It was very wearing to have a new attitude.
    Back at her desk, Doyle felt guilty enough about her lack of productivity that she decided to call Williams to ask for instruction on her assignment, thinking it was a little strange he had not yet contacted her—he was usually very much on top of things. He didn’t answer his mobile, and a call to his desk resulted in the relayed information that he was out sick. Doyle hung up and frowned at the phone. He hadn’t looked to be sickening yesterday, and he was definitely not a dosser, looking to miss work. Must have caught something, she decided, and hoped he was not feeling too down-pin; she had a lot more sympathy lately for people who weren’t feeling well. She called again to leave a message on his mobile, and then picked up the threads of her aqueduct report, hoping forensics would send the missing information soon.
    After working steadily for a time, she paused to tilt the coffee cup so as to retrieve the last, cold dregs, and wondered if she would go to Brighton tonight or if Acton would come home late, instead. Truth to tell, she was a little tired and would rather not make the journey, but if he needed her, she would certainly go—she could always sleep in the limousine like a Pharisee. She would wait and see; perhaps she would do some shopping after work, and get it behind her—she’d be needing some new clothes soon. New clothes, new attitude, no coffee, she thought a bit grimly; in all things give thanks.

CHAPTER 7
    D OYLE INSERTED HER SECURITY CARD IN THE SLOT AT THEIR flat, tired but nevertheless feeling that she’d completed a putoff chore. Acton had phoned to say he would drive back that evening, and so in the meantime she’d girded her loins and made good on her intention to purchase some new clothing. Never one to care much about her appearance, she now had the burden of trying to convince the general public that Acton had not committed matrimonial suicide. To this end, she would try to appear a bit more polished than in the past without, she hoped, making the transformation too noticeable—no need to appear to be putting on airs.
    She had stopped by the local shops on the way home and made some purchases with the aid of the shop girls who were remarkably helpful, once they saw Acton’s title on her credit card. She bought two sweaters which would serve her well in the next few months, and trousers in the next size larger. Although it was too early to be thickening, she had discovered that she did better in the mornings if she wasn’t wearing anything too constrictive around her middle.
    She had also passed by the jewelry shop where they had purchased Acton’s wedding ring, and on impulse, she’d gone inside and chosen a new tie clip for him. He’d lost his old one—she’d noticed that he had to hold his tie back with his hand when they were examining the corpse yesterday. He would be delighted with it, which was one of the advantages of his condition; she could do no wrong.
    She pushed opened the door to her flat with her shoulder since her hands were full, and realized as soon as she entered that she had visitors. An older woman sat on the leather sofa, ramrod straight and regal. Doyle recognized her in an instant, and paused in surprise. “Why, you are very like him.”
    The dowager Lady Acton was indeed very like Acton. She was tall and lean, with dark eyes and brows. Her hair was colored silver, but Doyle imagined it was once dark like his. Poor Acton’s father, she thought; he made little contribution, here.
    Marta stood in the kitchen, making tea even though she was not supposed to be here in the first place, emanating a mixture of defiance and uneasiness. I’m to be outnumbered, then, thought Doyle grimly; we shall see.
    Acton’s mother did not rise or offer her hand, but scrutinized Doyle coldly and made no response to her comment. Doyle realized that she appeared to