Murder in Hindsight by Anne Cleeland Page A

Doyle went back to her spreadsheet as Munoz walked away.
    In the late afternoon, Samuels came by and asked if anyone was interested in going to a local pub after work. Samuels worked with DCI Drake’s team, and was nice enough. Plain vanilla, Doyle’s mother would have described him.
    “Can’t,” Munoz called out from across the aisle way. “I have a date.”
    “I was goin’ to look in at Acton’s lecture,” Doyle demurred. “Is Williams done with his trial? Perhaps he’s available.”
    “He’s working late; got to stay atop the ladder, after all.”
    There was a rumor afoot that Williams was soon to be promoted to detective inspector, and Doyle hastily intervened before Munoz could reiterate her extreme vexation over such a potential turn of events. “What does Drake have you workin’ on, Samuels?”
    “If you’d like, I’ll walk with you over to the Academy and tell you about it.”
    Doyle had spent little time with Samuels and so was a bit surprised by the offer, but agreed with good grace as she began to pack up her rucksack. She was not sociable by nature, but had to make an effort if she was to rise in the ranks, being as it was a time-honored truth that socializing at work stood one in better stead than the most glowing of reviews. And the Academy was but a few blocks away, so there was little fear of being stuck trying to make conversation—she’d had her fill of thorny conversations this fine day.
    They exited the building; the evening-shift desk sergeant was not as big a fan as the day-shift one, but nevertheless he nodded to her respectfully. Samuels began to tell her of a field investigation he was working on; a weapons ring had been unearthed, and a cache had been discovered in a garden shed. “You should have seen it; guns hanging on pegs along the wall like so many gardening tools.”
    Doyle had a twinge of conscience; she was aware that Acton smuggled illegal weapons himself—although he didn’t know that she knew—and she surmised there was a similar cache in the safe at home. She hoped Samuels wasn’t investigating Acton all unknowing, which would be a dodgy little development for the illustrious chief inspector. However, this seemed unlikely, as Acton no doubt kept his finger on the pulse of all such investigations. “Were you in on the arrests?” Her assailant at the projects was the first time Doyle herself had ever tried to arrest anyone, as Acton tended to keep her away from any situation that was remotely dangerous.
    “No—they’d cleared out. But we’re close; we’ve been getting a lot of good tips.” He paused. “Have you ever been in a shoot-out?”
    “No. You?”
    He turned his head to watch her for a moment. “No? I thought you’d been wounded.”
    A bit startled, Doyle kept her voice neutral and said truthfully, “No, no one’s ever shot at me.” She did have a bullet wound in her calf where she had accidentally shot herself whilst shooting the trainee who wanted to kill her, but this was a well-kept secret. How Samuels came across the idea that she’d been wounded was a mystery—although he’d been present when her soggy self had been pulled from the Thames; perhaps he’d seen her scar. In any event, it seemed he’d lost interest.
    “So—Holmes is giving a lecture.”
    “Indeed he is, and a good thing. He knows so much; it’s to the betterment of us all if he gives us a glimpse.”
    With a smile, her companion could only agree. “Of course—he’s a legend. What’s he like? I mean, when he’s not at work; what does he do?”
    She thought, I suppose I could tell him that Acton suffers from an obsessive mental condition that leads him to kill anyone who proves to be a threat to me, makes him insatiable when it comes to sex, and drink too much on occasion, but instead I’d better behave myself. “He’s very private, Samuels.”
    “Sorry,” the other apologized with a small smile. “Nosy by nature, I’m afraid.”
    To show she wasn’t