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evenings very few words were exchanged. Doyle found that she was perfectly happy not to feel the need to make conversation; Acton needed to be with her but he was very reserved by nature. This might change over time or it may not; it didn’t matter; she loved her husband and was very content. And after all, the sex more than made up for the silence—she had no idea that marriage involved so much sex. You live and you learn.
    With a guilty start, Doyle realized belatedly that perhaps she should disclose as little as possible about her marriage to Munoz—or anyone else, for that matter; quite the tangle patch, that. Munoz’s next remark only strengthened this resolve.
    “Do you have sex with him?” There was a faint hint of incredulity in the question.
    That the question was even asked of a newlywed was an indication of Acton’s reputation. The others had nicknamed him “Holmes” due to the obvious comparison, only they didn’t know that the addiction in his case was to Doyle and not to cocaine, and anyone who wished to wait around a few more months would see proof positive. “That is none of your business, Munoz.”
    Munoz accepted the rebuff, and they sat in silence for a few minutes, each lost in thought. Others who passed by their table would glance sidelong at Doyle and exchange whispered remarks as they walked away. I’m world-famous, thought Doyle, trying not to look self-conscious; the DC who snatched up Acton—no one would ever credit that it was the other way ’round.
    The whispered attention did not help Munoz’s mood, which had returned to sullen. “It’s so unfair; you won the husband sweepstakes, and then Williams is promoted before me.”
    “Your turn will come, Munoz. A little patience is all that is needed.” Doyle reflected that their supervisor, Inspector Habib, would probably rival Acton in rushing his bride to the altar if Munoz gave him the go-ahead. “You’re a heartbreaker, is what you are; be off, or I will think you are fishin’ for compliments.”
    Munoz had to agree with the truth of this remark, and her mood improved as they made their way back down to the basement. Doyle reseated herself before her laptop screen and wished she could finish up her report; she was still waiting for the ERU photos, which seemed to be taking longer than usual. She decided she would complete it tomorrow; her conversation with Munoz had touched off a different train of thought. She sent a text to Acton that said, “Cereal?”
    She waited for a response, which came with flattering promptness. “Done.”
    Smiling, she sheathed her mobile and, taking a quick look around, gathered up her rucksack. Time to make it up to her poor husband, who’d demonstrated remarkable patience with his balky wife.

CHAPTER 4
    D OYLE HAD MOVED INTO A CTON’S FLAT AFTER THEY MARRIED , and the fact that it was also the scene of her attempted murder did not in any way dim the delight she took in their home. The flat was located in an upscale building overlooking the park and with a remarkable view of the city. Acton might be an acetic, but he had very good taste and spared no expense on the simple modern furnishings he enjoyed. Without a twinge of regret, Doyle had consigned her own rubbish to the bin, bringing with her only a framed photograph of her mother, who had died more than a year ago. She loved living with Acton in this tranquil space, and tried not to feel a stab of regret when she thought of how this idyllic existence was set to change in the coming months.
    She arrived home first, and remembered with an inward sigh that this was one of the days their housekeeper came in. Marta had been a retainer at Acton’s estate in the country where his mother, the dowager Lady Acton, still resided, and the housekeeper had moved to London to see to Acton, which she did very efficiently three days a week. Thankfully, she did not live in, but resided with her cousin a short tube ride away. Marta was German by ancestry, and