Murder in Hindsight by Anne Cleeland

caught his hand and lifted it to kiss it. “Thank you for comin’ to get me today.”
    “I wish I had met her.”
    “She would have liked you,” Doyle lied. Her mother would have been twice as intimidated as Doyle had been on meeting Acton, and that bar was set pretty high. No need to say it aloud, though, it was sweet of him to pretend that he and her mother would have anything in common other than her fair self—although perhaps that would have been enough. Her mother would have very much approved of how much Acton loved her and wanted to take care of her, and all tiaras and hereditary estates would have been of secondary importance. Thinking of it, she asked, “Will you be buried at Trestles when you die?”
    There was a slight pause. “Yes, along with everyone else who has ever held the title.”
    “Then I will be buried there, too.” She hadn’t really thought about it before—about how his history was now her history.
    “I know it’s been that kind of day, but do you think we can speak of something else?”
    “Sorry. I was just thinkin’ about it.”
    Once home, Acton managed the soup, and then asked if she would mind if he worked on his case for an hour—he was working on some high-profile investigation, and was very tight-lipped about it; she thought it might be a corruption scandal because she knew he’d met with the Home Secretary and the detective chief superintendent, which would seem to indicate there was a delicate political component. She’d assured him that she was in no need of tending, and so he’d retreated to the bedroom whilst she addressed her thankless spreadsheet yet again.
    I need a good idea, she thought, and was frustrated because she knew there was something here; she needed only to make one of her intuitive leaps. Unfortunately, she had no control over her perceptive ability, and so was left to entering data into the database and waiting for whatever it was to jump out at her. She thought of the case-worker angle, and how Habib had said that when the obvious was not working, it must be something less obvious. A solicitor, perhaps? But she hadn’t focused on the defense attorneys for the same reason she hadn’t focused on the case-workers; a criminal defense attorney would be the last person who would decide he was tired of seeing the villains go free, one would think. On the other hand, that would explain the rather timid killings; it was someone who had to steel himself—or herself—to do it.
    Her thoughts were interrupted when Nellie rang to see how she did, and also to enlist her help at the Christmas masses. Doyle agreed to read at midnight, then paused. “I’m not sure if we have plans, so put me down in pencil until I check in with Acton.” It would be their first Christmas together, and she did not know what he usually did—perhaps he went to Trestles and drank wassail, or roasted a boar in the fireplace, or something.
    Nellie indicated her approval of such a wifely consideration, then she and Doyle spoke of Nellie’s family, which took some time as Nellie had quite an extensive family. They rang off, and Doyle felt better; she had been neglecting her old friend in favor of her new husband, which was to be expected, but was regrettable.
    She opened up the daily homicide report as she did every day to see if any of the fresh set of victims was on record as a suspect in a previous murder, but nothing stood out. Acton continued busy, on his mobile and speaking to someone in low tones, so she texted Williams, who in Doyle’s opinion was almost as smart as Acton. “RU working?”
    “Yes. ’Sup?”
    “Busy? Need ideas.”
    “On the cold cases?”
    “Yes. Need commonality ideas, other than personnel.”
    “Race? Gang affiliation?”
    “Already done.”
    “Kind of crime? Child predator?”
    “Already done.” It made her feel better that he had the same ideas that she had. There was a pause. “Come on, DSW.”
    “Thinking. Where R U?”
    “Home. Don’t ask