Free Murder in Thrall by Anne Cleeland Page A

there was no sign of activity at the house. It was a very quiet neighborhood.
    He said little for nearly an hour and seemed disinclined to talk, and as she had little new to report, she respected his mood and stayed quiet. It was the longest he had ever gone without taking a call, and she wondered if he had turned off his mobile. She finally shifted her position and ventured, “Not a lot to see, so far, and it’s dinner hour. Was it a reliable tip, d’you think?”
    “No more or less reliable than the usual,” was his rather equivocal answer. He tapped his thumbs on the steering wheel. “I hope it isn’t a wild-goose chase.”
    She didn’t want him to feel badly if it was a false alarm and assured him, “It is well worth the possibility of takin’ in the duplicitous Mr. Capper, sir.” Now, there was an excellent vocabulary word, and deftly used. She hoped for an opportunity to use “innocuous” again, now that she had straightened it out.
    “What would you ask him?”
    She smiled. “Before or after I beat him with a nightstick?”
    He considered. “After.”
    So; perhaps there was to be bantering after all. “I’d ask him if he killed Giselle. Then I’d want to know who he is afraid of, and why he didn’t want to ring her up that night but wanted to meet in person, even though he knew the coppers were after him.”
    “Good questions.” He nodded with approval.
    “You, sir?” She glanced over at him. The light from a streetlight slanted across his face so that his eyes were illuminated.
    “I’d ask what was so important that he risked arrest to go speak to a man at the track he didn’t know who could get him in a lot of trouble—and then why he stayed to wait for the police.”
    Doyle hadn’t even thought of this. “Your questions are better,” she conceded.
    “Yours were just as good.”
    “Please don’t humor me,” she pleaded, half joking and half serious. “I hate it.”
    There was a pause. “Fair enough,” he said, and meant it.
    She felt a little foolish, and subsided. He spoke into the silence, “If nothing occurs within the hour, I will call for relief.”
    “I am fine for as long as you need me.” She was trying to make up for her fit of the sulks.
    But Acton was not to be outdone. “No; I have imposed upon you. I hope you didn’t have to scuttle any plans.”
    “Free as a bird, sir.” Although there was an instant meal in her freezer that was calling her name—she hoped her stomach didn’t start growling.
    “My mistake; its tomorrow that you’re booked. A seminar, I believe.”
    She blinked, wondering how on earth he knew of this; she would not have confessed to it under torture. As they were being overly kind to each other, she admitted, “I wouldn’t mind missin’ it, truth to tell—do your best to get hold of another tip for tomorrow, if you will.”
    He leaned an arm on the back of the seat and turned to her, intrigued. “You attend under duress? What is the topic?”
    She made a wry face and glanced again at the dark house, trying to decide whether it was too embarrassing to tell him. He did ask, though, and she didn’t like to lie. “It’s a singles mixer, disguised as a self-help seminar so as to preserve our dignity.”
    “Ah—I see. What is the protocol?”
    She appreciated his making light of it, and unbent. “It’s a shameful process, truly. We are given a profile of all persons attendin’ so that we can discreetly eye the possibilities whilst pretendin’ to listen to a speaker. Then we’re supposed to assess our ‘shape’ and create a ‘rubric of our potential compatibility’ with the other poor souls. As a reward for survivin’ the ordeal, there is punch and cake afterwards. It sounds horrifyin’ and I may lose my nerve—it is a wretched, wretched pity at times like this that I don’t drink.”
    There was a pause while he ducked his chin, considering. “What is wrong with the men of London that you must resort to this?”
    It was a