Murder in Retribution by Anne Cleeland

know; Acton would no doubt want her to sit in on the interview, to listen to what the Russian had to say and sort out the true from the false.
    As they walked into the graveled paddock area, Doyle warned Williams of how their questioning might go. “We tried askin’ some questions at Kempton Park when the trainer was murdered; no one wanted to give any information and everyone seemed frightened.”
    His gaze scanned the buildings, thinking about this. “Do you think these murders are connected to that case?”
    “Perhaps—best to keep an open mind.” Although the Kempton Park case was by all appearances closed because the erstwhile killer had been killed himself, she and Acton knew that Owens, Doyle’s attacker, was the true murderer—but it was unclear why he had infiltrated the Kempton Park racecourse in the first place. Officially, no one knew why TDC Owens, a detective trainee, had not shown up for work one day and had not been heard from since; Acton knew how to dispose of a body with the best of them, which was a commendable trait in a husband.
    As they began speaking to the various personnel, she hoped they weren’t to be on their feet the whole afternoon—she continued unwell; her bones positively ached and she had a raging headache. The propagation of the species, she thought crossly, should not be anywhere near this hard on the propagator. Williams had made no further mention of her pregnancy, for which Doyle was grateful. On the other hand, she had little stamina; if he asked how she did, she decided she would request a short sit-down. He didn’t, however, and so she stoically soldiered on. As they walked through the stable, she distracted herself by observing the horses they passed; the delicate animals were tall and slender, alertly watching their progress, ears pricked forward. “They seem so intelligent.”
    “The finest of the finest. It’s in the breeding.”
    Doyle thought of Thackeray’s dark comments. “Except when someone manipulates them; tryin’ to take an unfair advantage.”
    Williams shrugged. “Money corrupts people. Newsflash.”
    “I still don’t think that’s the reason for all the killin’ goin’ on,” Doyle mused. “Too chancy; too specialized.”
    “Perhaps we’ll never know.”
    “Perhaps,” she agreed. “At least we have Solonik; I suppose we shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.” She glanced up at him, hoping he’d appreciate this very clever witticism. He smiled in acknowledgment, but she could tell he had to reach for it; for two detectives who had just broken a big case, they were a sorry pair.
    Their inquiries proved unfruitful, but Doyle knew they were on to something because most of the people to whom they showed the photos were lying, at least with respect to the Sinn-split suspects. She would tell Acton when she saw him; she longed to go home and crawl into bed. For the first time, she considered the unthinkable possibility that she was too sick to keep on working. It was disappointing, but she must face facts; this kind of work demanded a sharp mind and long hours, and she honestly didn’t think she could weather many more days like this. Acton would be that relieved; he had suggested she come in out of the field after her harrowing experience with Owens, and she knew he was hiding his concern even now. She sighed inwardly, reminded that she had a spanking new attitude. It was no longer possible to simply do whatever she wished anymore; she had a husband’s wishes to consider—and soon a child’s. But it was such a crackin’ shame; she was good at this detecting business, and it just wouldn’t be the same, sorting out who was telling the truth at the local PTA. This thought was so depressing that she turned her mind to other things.
    It was after lunch time when they were finished with all the personnel on hand, and so before they headed back, they decided to eat at a local pub that was popular with the visitors to the racecourse. Doyle