Murder in Hindsight by Anne Cleeland Page 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