Free Murder in Hindsight by Anne Cleeland Page A

for “Is Acton still beating you?”
    “I’m good; how R U?” she answered. She would make it clear there were no problems that DS Williams need worry about; it was actually a very dicey situation for him—he was Acton’s man and, she surmised, more loyal to her husband than to the CID.
    “I have nu coffee.”
    She smiled at her mobile screen. “Can’t, leaving early. Tomorrow, promise.”
    “OK.”
    Gathering up her rucksack, she headed out.
    Doyle attended St. Michael’s church near Chelsea, which is where she’d lived prior to the Acton invasion. She still attended, out of loyalty and friendship, even though it was technically no longer her parish. The small church had been in dire financial straits until Acton had requested instruction in Roman Catholicism; now he was a regular contributor, and the church had a brand-new roof to show for it.
    Doyle entered the nave, which was nearly empty at this time of day, and met her friend Nellie, an older Filipino woman who capably helped Father John manage the parish. The two women walked together to the Mary chapel and lit a candle, then knelt together and recited a rosary. Father John walked by at one point and briefly rested a hand on Doyle’s shoulder; she went silent for a few beads, until she could control her voice again.
    Afterward, Doyle readied to leave. She asked Nellie if she could leave her electronic devices in the office, and come by to pick them up later.
    “Shall I come?” asked Nellie gently.
    “No, thank you. I will be fine.”
    Doyle rode the tube to Holy Redeemer Cemetery, and walked the path until she came to her mother’s grave marker. She hadn’t much money when her mother died two years ago today, and the small stone plaque simply read: “Mary Doyle.” Doyle took a small brush out of her rucksack and carefully brushed off the marker. She then sat cross-legged next to it, and wept for half-an-hour.
    She knew that her mother would not want to see her so upset, and knew that it wouldn’t matter a pin to her if Doyle never came to this sad, sad place. But she did. She and her mother had only each other, and so she felt compelled to come to the last place on earth she’d been, on the last day she’d been here.
    Her grief was not as sharp this time; her loss not as unbearable. Time does heal, she thought, and so much had happened since last year. She spoke aloud to her mother, knowing it was merely therapeutic, and that her mother did not reside in this grim, crowded cemetery. It was cathartic for Doyle to say aloud what she’d accomplished in the past year, and how much she missed her. She spoke of Acton and her extraordinary marriage; she didn’t mention he was a peer, as she wasn’t sure her mother would approve. Each to each, her mother used to say; no point in marrying chalk to cheese.
    She spoke of her miscarriage, and dissolved into a fresh bout of tears at the guilt she felt for not being enthusiastic about the baby. Her mother, abandoned and alone, had managed to raise Doyle whilst scraping together a living for them both, and had never, ever complained. Just when it seemed that Doyle would be able to return the favor, her mother had been gathered up. She bequeathed to Doyle her undaunted determination and her sense of humor, and Doyle missed her every single day. In all things give thanks, thought Doyle; there’s no point in having faith unless you put it to use.
    The light was fading, and so Doyle readied to leave. She placed a hand on the marker in a gesture similar to Father John’s, and then rose to make her way back down the path.
    Outside the gates, Acton was waiting, leaning on the Range Rover with his hands in his coat pockets as he watched her approach. She quickly wiped her cheeks with the palm of her hand—Acton didn’t do well when she cried. He stood upright, and pulled her into his arms, resting his cheek on the top of her head. Trust him to know what day it was, and where she would be; she didn’t know why