Murder in Thrall by Anne Cleeland

rage that was perhaps sexual in nature.”
    He met her eyes dispassionately. “Something along those lines.”
    She nodded, wondering if she had the wherewithal to discuss crimes of sexual rage with Acton. Coward, she thought—it’s strictly business; take hold of your foolish self.
    Apparently she was indeed a coward because she changed the subject. “Perhaps Sid’s idea is a good one, then; it may have been a medico at the track.”
    Acton’s gaze was suddenly sharp upon hers. “Never say you found Sid persuasive.”
    His tone held an edge of derision, which surprised her—although perhaps Acton had noticed it, too. She said carefully, “I think Sid may need some help; some sort of intervention.”
    He nodded and then seemed to be deep in thought, which happened on occasion and which usually resulted in some extraordinarily shrewd insights, so she respected the process by keeping her own mouth shut as they finished their lunch in silence. Doyle noted that Munoz was now seated strategically nearby, lingering over her soda and awaiting her moment with all the strategy of a field marshal. There is nothing for it, thought Doyle with resignation; Munoz was not going to let the opportunity pass, but on the other hand, Acton was not one to tolerate toad-eating and the best that could be hoped for was there would be no blood spilt.
    “Should I interview the medical personnel at the track, then?” Doyle craved a better field assignment than the one she had been relegated to thus far.
    “No,” he said immediately. “I will put a DS on it.”
    She didn’t want to challenge him, but it appeared he was forgetting her one—and rather formidable—talent. “I may be of more use, sir.”
    His gaze met hers, and she could see he debated what to say. “I’d rather not. I don’t like this killer; I don’t understand him.”
    She assimilated this comment in surprised silence. It appeared he thought it too dangerous for her to interview suspects even though she would know if lies were being told. She wasn’t sure how to respond—it was her job and she was good at it.
    He offered, “If we bring someone in, you can watch from the gallery.” The gallery was adjacent to the interrogation room where the suspect could be observed unseen through one-way windows. Acton was throwing her a bone.
    “Grand,” she replied, trying without much success to hide her annoyance.
    “Are you reading Trendelberg?”
    It was a deft change of subject, and forced her to abandon her inclination to sulk. He had seen the book, then, when she was packing up her rucksack in the meeting room—she had forgotten it was there and hoped he hadn’t noticed; a faint hope. Acton noticed everything. “Not exactly,” she admitted in a dry tone. “It’s somethin’ I picked up for your birthday. Since you’ve spoiled your own surprise, you may have it now instead of next week.”
    She pulled it out of the bag to hand it to him, and he said nothing—only held the book as though he had no idea what to do with it. His reaction was such that she feared for one horrifying moment she had overstepped. It was a new book by the physicist Acton had mentioned once whilst trying to explain probabilities to her. At the time, she had no idea what he was talking about and she still didn’t—she was thick as a plank when it came to such things, which was a regrettable handicap in this business. The book had been on display at a bookstore she passed on the street, and she remembered the author’s name.
    The silence stretched out and she fought an almost overwhelming inclination to squirm. “Do you have it already, sir? You can exchange it, you know.”
    “No,” he said. “I don’t.”
    He was lying, which was rather sweet, and she hid a smile. He handed it to her. “Will you inscribe it?”
    Now it was her turn to stare at it. A crackin’ minefield, this was—what should she call him? Sir? Chief? Not Holmes, which is what the young detectives called him