Murder in Retribution by Anne Cleeland Page A

gratefully collapsed at a table and ordered ginger ale, taking a long and regretful look at the cappuccino machine behind the counter. No wonder you have a headache, she thought; it’s a coffee addict, you are. She looked over the menu, but nothing sounded appealing and she didn’t want to repeat the morning’s experience with Williams; the poor man would swear off women.
    Williams was apparently not very hungry himself, as he ordered only a pint of Guinness. It was theoretically against protocol to order alcohol while on duty, although some of the higher-ups skirted this taboo with the occasional beer. Williams, one would think, would be a stickler. He didn’t seem to be doing well himself; he was a bit pale around the mouth and rather quiet. They drank, and Doyle tried to rally him by speaking of how exhilarating it was to stumble across a case-breaker, as they did today. His heart wasn’t in it, though, and Doyle let the conversation lapse into silence.
    Her companion ordered another pint, having disposed of the first one. Doyle hid her alarm; it would not do at all if she had to drive all the way back to the Met—perhaps Williams had forgotten she wasn’t an experienced driver. She debated whether she should say something, but he seemed increasingly moody and she didn’t want to point out to him, a DC to a newly promoted DS, that he shouldn’t be drinking—he’d think she was being resentful. Instead, she’d be as subtle as a serpent.
    “Are you feeling all right, sir?” she asked gently. He hadn’t said anything to her in a considerable space of time, and he seemed lost in his own thoughts, beads of perspiration gathering across his brow.
    “I wish you wouldn’t call me ‘sir,’ ” he said abruptly. “That’s what you call Holmes.”
    Not anymore, thought Doyle, a bit taken aback. It appeared that her superior officer was drunk—and on two pints, no less.
    “When we are alone, shall I call you Williams then, as I used to?” She pushed the pretzel mix that was on the table toward him, hoping he’d eat.
    “I don’t care.” He rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Christ.”
    Unsure how best to handle the strange situation, she offered softly, “You mustn’t blaspheme, Williams.”
    This triggered a hostile reaction, as he raised his head from his hands and stared at her in disbelief, his face flushed. “That’s rich—coming from you. You’re the one who got herself knocked up.”
    That this would be the obvious assumption of all and sundry when they heard of her pregnancy did not help to temper Doyle’s reaction, which was immediate and heated. “That is way out of line, Williams.”
    But he had warmed to his theme and met her gaze, glare for glare, even though his eyes were unfocused. “How could you let him get you pregnant? Are you really that naïve?”

CHAPTER 13
    D OYLE WAS SHOCKED, AND STRUGGLED WITH HER TEMPER, torn between refusing to discuss this subject with him and setting the record straight. The record won. “Don’t you dare be sayin’ such a thing; I did not get pregnant until after we were married, and I resent the implication.” The battle had been joined, though, and Doyle was reminded by his next words that Williams was a very good detective.
    “You were not dating him—don’t even pretend you were. You married on short notice, and now you are pregnant enough to be sick—it’s obvious; you let him sleep with you and now look what’s happened—you had to get married to someone you hardly knew.”
    Faith, here’s a crackin’ minefield, she thought, trying to control her temper so that she didn’t say anything she oughtn’t. “We’d been workin’ together for months, Williams—Acton and me. I’m a good RC; I promise you we didn’t have sex until after we were married.” She realized suddenly that she was giving away state secrets, so to speak, and wished she didn’t gabble when she was angry. With a mighty effort, she tried to calm down;