by Eva Hudson
“I’m guessing you had a lot to deal with. The funeral can’t have been easy. Sorry,” he said, “you don’t have to talk about it. I don’t want to intrude.”
Out of nowhere, a man in his twenties shoved past them running at Usain Bolt speeds. His clothes and his pace suggested he was running away from something. They both looked in the direction he had come from: no one was giving chase. “We don’t need to follow him, do we?”
“Hey, it’s not my jurisdiction.”
“Nor, technically, mine. This is Southwark. And they wouldn’t want my big Lewisham boots stepping all over one of their collars.”
“We didn’t see anything anyway.”
“Maybe he’s just late for work.”
They carried on strolling until they stumbled across a Uruguayan restaurant.
“What about this place?” Ralph asked.
“You promised me Brazil.”
“We can always come back if we don’t find anything better. So,” he cleared his throat nervously, “how come you stayed in Minnesota so long?”
Ingrid braced herself for a confession. “It wasn’t the plan, as you know. I thought I’d only be gone a week, but the funeral took longer to arrange than expected. The authorities took a long time to release Megan’s remains for obvious reasons, and then, once it was over, I just felt I needed a little time.”
Ralph didn’t look convinced.
“I called Sol. He cleared it, so I hung around for a bit, trying to figure a few things out and spend some time with Megan’s mom.” Every word Ingrid spoke was true but each one felt like a lie. If she didn’t tell him about Clark, about what she’d done, then omission was the same as deception. “Plus I had to sort things in DC. Signed over my lease… Sold the Harley.”
“So that means you’re staying? In London?” He was unable to keep the excitement from his voice.
She hadn’t meant to give him hope and made sure her answer sounded downbeat, non-committal. “For the time being.”
“And how were things with your own mom?” He emphasized the American pronunciation.
“My mother?” Ingrid was surprised at the question. “Well, let’s just say it’s possible Svetlana isn’t the complete dragon I may have portrayed her as. At times I’d go as far as to say she even displayed emotions the rest of us might recognize as sensitivity.”
“You know I Googled her while you were away. She sounds remarkable.”
“Normally, people say ‘formidable’.”
“She’s certainly got a story to tell. Does she ever talk about it?”
Ingrid stopped walking and stared hard at Ralph for a moment. “You mean the Olympics? No, but her medals are still in the house. I always used to think they were there to chastise me, to tell me that I wasn’t good enough. But I think that’s all she ever heard from her parents too. Took me years to realize that’s why she defected; not to get out of the Soviet Union, but to get away from her father.”
“Thankfully she didn’t win gold. She’d have been impossible.” Ralph pulled a contrite face, just in case making fun of Ingrid’s mother was a step too far.
Ingrid smiled: “You’re not the first person to say that.”
They started walking again. Why was talking to Ralph so damn easy? Seeing him again was meant to be hard.
“If we don’t make a decision soon, we’ll be back at the burger stall. What about this place?” he asked. They were standing outside a pizza restaurant, a long thin establishment inside a railway arch. He started reading the menu. “Seems pretty good. We can share if you like.”
Ingrid shrugged. “Italy’s way too far from Brazil. We’ve got to be able to get closer than that.”
Ralph shoved his hands into his pockets and followed Ingrid. “There’s definitely a Mexican place down here somewhere. Will that do?”
“Let’s give it a go.”
They found the Adobe Hut, sat on stools at the bar and ordered two sodas while they waited for their food.
“So.” Now they were sitting down, eye contact had become harder.
“So.”
“I’m glad you called,” she said.
“Why wouldn’t I have called?”
“You know.” She was not handling this at all well.
“You mean, after…”
They were acting like teenagers.
“Well, I just want you to know this isn’t at all awkward for me.”
“Me either.”
“A little uncomfortable, maybe. If the dial goes up to excruciating, I’d say it’s hovering just below the embarrassing mark.”
“To be honest, I thought it would be more uncomfortable.”
A waiter placed their paper-wrapped burritos and their check on the counter. “Can I get you anything else?” he asked.
Ralph answered for both of them: “We’re good, thanks.”
“Shall we just forget about it?” she said.
“About what happened? Cos I have to say it was pretty memorable.”
“No! The embarrassment.”
Ralph took a bite of his burrito, leaving a drip of sauce on his chin. Ingrid reached out to wipe it away but checked herself.
“You have a little…” she said.
He grabbed a napkin and wiped away the sauce. “Thanks.”
“Listen, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about.” Ingrid hoped her cheeks weren’t flushing too obviously. She should have prepared something. At least the first few words. She couldn’t just blurt it out. Oh, by the way, I slept with someone else… She had to tell him gently.
“OK. Shoot.”
“I was wondering…”
“Yes?”
“If you… If you know anyone working the Russian cases.” She dug her fingers into her thigh, furious at herself for ducking the issue.
“Oh. You want to talk about work?”
She bit into her lunch, grateful to be filling her mouth with something other than stupid words.
“You mean the murders?” In the past couple of years, several prominent Russians in London had mysteriously fallen off balconies, or been sold cars with inadequate brakes or employed housekeepers who couldn’t tell the difference between rat poison and salt.
“So they are homicides?”
“Officially, no.” Ralph looked at his watch.
“When do you need to leave?”
“I’m cycling so… in about twenty minutes.”
Ingrid looked around for a bag of gear, but Ralph didn’t have a helmet or even a jacket.
“Boris bike,” he explained. “Changed my life.”
Ingrid hadn’t yet tried London’s cycle hire scheme: she preferred her Triumph Tiger 800 to pedal power.
“But unofficially?”
“Unofficially the investigations are still open, as far as I know.”
“Anyone you can put me in touch with?”
“I can ask around. Can you tell me what you’re working on?”
She spread her fingers on the countertop. “I’d love to. Maybe in a couple of days. Just waiting for the green light on something.”
“Sounds exciting.”
“Potentially, it is.”
He dropped a crumpled napkin onto the counter. He had finished his burrito in less than four bites. “So maybe if you get this green light you could tell me about it over dinner?” Was he asking her out on a date? Ingrid’s throat tightened: she had to tell him about Minnesota. If they were to stand a chance, she needed to be honest with him.
Ralph pulled out a £20 note and placed it on top of their check. “It’s on me,” he said.
“You’re doing me a massive favor, so it’s definitely my shout.” She reached down for her purse in search of her own £20 note.
“Take it.” She held it in front of him, her eyes daring him not to grasp it.
“Don’t be daft.”
She gave him her best Jedi stare.
He took the note. “Just so long as you know I’m not happy about it.” He smiled and his fa
ce briefly merged with Clark Swanson’s, making Ingrid’s heart miss a beat.
“I—” Her cell started buzzing in her back pocket. She looked at the screen: it was Jennifer. “I really ought to take this.”
“Go ahead,” he said.
Ingrid stood up and walked toward the restaurant door. “Hey, Jen. What have you got for me?”
“That girl you asked me to look up?”
“Kate-Lynn Bowers?”
“She boarded a plane at LAX seven hours ago.”
“Know where she’s headed?”
“London. Due in at Heathrow in about two hours’ time.”
7
Jennifer had left three Post-Its on Ingrid’s screen. The pink one was a reminder about target practice, the yellow one told her to call Ralph Mills and the green one was asking if the money for the shoes should go on the office spreadsheet under ‘sundries’ or ‘entertainment’. Ingrid presumed it was a test of her honesty.
“I’ll get some cash out later and reimburse you.”
“OK, I just thought, you know, seeing as you needed them for work…”
Ingrid stared at the clerk. “Really? You think shoes would be an ‘allowable expense’?”
“Hey,” Jennifer said, “they can always say no, but if you don’t even try…”
Ingrid couldn’t quite tell if Jennifer was joking, or if she was just trying to look cool in front of Don. She was an excitable California girl who often seemed young for her age. Was she lacking in life experience, or morals; or was Ingrid a fool for playing by the rules? She fired up her computer and dialed Ralph’s number.
“Hey.”
“Hi.”
“So, you found something out?”
“Uh-huh.” He sounded more unsure than usual.
“Bad time to talk?” Ralph’s squad room was noisy. She thought she could hear her friend Natasha McKittrick barking orders in the background.
“No, that’s not it.” Sometimes, Ingrid wanted to play her conversations with Ralph at double speed.
“Spill.”
“Well, OK. You can make your own assessment.” She certainly could. “My contact on the organized crime team was very forthcoming. Too forthcoming, if you ask me.”
“What did he say?”
“She said they’re reviewing the deaths of three Russians on the assumption they’re linked.”
“Which ones?”
“Um…” He checked his notes. “Bazarov. Nikolaev. Yuditsky.”
“And the link?” She grabbed a pen and started to make notes.
“Certainly not cause of death. Bazarov choked to death on an olive in the Beaufort Club. Nikolaev had a heart attack. Yuditsky rather carelessly tripped and fell in front of a lorry on Park Lane.”
Ingrid entered her password and logged onto the system. “So why the case review?”
“Sorry. It’s hard to hear you. It’s full-on here.”
“Why the case review?”
“Ah. Seems they’d all been in contact with the same person in the weeks leading up to their deaths.”
Intriguing. “Who?”
“Her name is Irina Markova.”
Ingrid shoved the phone under her chin and typed the name into Google. Too many returns to be useful. “And who is she?”
He paused. “See, this is why you should worry. No one in organized crime ever gives out info this easily. Apparently she used to be married to someone in the KGB or whatever they call it now.”
“The SVR. And where is this mysterious Mrs Markova now?”
There was a commotion in the corridor outside the criminal division’s office. A scurrying of feet, a crescendo of voices.
“Most recent info had her working as a barmaid at a pub in Pimlico.”
A uniformed marine entered the room, scanned their vintage computers and chipped furniture before carefully making eye contact with all three of them. Ingrid instinctively stood up, the phone still clamped to her ear. “What’s the name of the pub?”
“The Queen Mary. But don’t go alone. I think I should come with you.” Was he pushing for a date? “I used to work at the Belgravia station. I know the place a little.”
“It’s clear,” the marine said firmly.
Ingrid stilled her breath. “Ralph, I really have to go.”
“So—”
“Right now.”
The sound of clipped, purposeful footsteps were followed by the arrival of a diminutive figure in the doorway. In a pillar-box red dress and looking more like Jackie Onassis than ever was the ambassador, Frances Byrne-Williams.
“Ma’am,” Ingrid said, putting down her phone.
Don and Jennifer both got to their feet.
“Agent, I just wanted to say thank you.”
“For what?”
“For racing to Truman’s side.”
“Thanks aren’t necessary, ma’am.”
“Truman’s such a good friend, and I know how desperate he can get when he’s stressed—”
Ingrid remembered the actor’s foul temper. “I was happy to help out.”
The ambassador took a step toward Ingrid. “Excellent. He’s a good person to keep on side: always useful in the soft power stakes, especially at the moment. Great at functions. You know that show is popular all over the world? Five hundred million people watch it in China. Unbelievable.”
“So I hear.”
“Were you able to help him?”
Ingrid nodded. “You’ve not spoken to him then?”
“No, I’ve just got in from Tallinn.”
“It was a straightforward missing person. It was Jennifer who tracked her down. I passed all the details on to Manuela.”
Frances Byrne-Williams smiled at Jennifer. “Thank you.”
“Actually,” Jennifer said nervously, “it was Don who ran the searches.”
Don looked at the ambassador, his cheeks blowing in and out like a fish. He was finding standing in such exalted company difficult.
“Looks like you’re running an excellent team here, agent.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“Right,” the ambassador said, “calls to make, wars to end.”
“Thank you for dropping in. It’s appreciated.”
Ingrid was aware that her hands were sweating but she was relieved not to have made a fool of herself in front of Byrne-Williams. When they had met previously, Ingrid had felt like a thirteen-year-old at a New Kids On The Block concert.
“So that’s where you went this morning? Truman Cooper’s place? Like, for real?” Jennifer was sounding every inch the Valley girl. She stood in front of Ingrid’s desk. “Seriously?”
Ingrid was taken aback by just how impressed Jennifer seemed to be by this. “He’s just an actor,” she said, entering her password sequence into the system. “How did you even know which Truman she meant?”
“Like, dah.”
“OK, so it’s an unusual name but there’s got to be more than one of them in London.”
Jennifer was standing with her hands on her hips, mouth slightly open in what appeared to be genuine shock.
“What?” Ingrid said.
“You really don’t know, do you?”
“Don’t know what?”
Jennifer’s freckled face broke into a huge smile. “Oh my God, you really don’t know.”
Ingrid looked up at her. “You’re right, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Oh. My. God.” She skipped back to her desk and pulled up YouTube in her browser. “You are going to love this. Like, totally love it.”
Ingrid got to her feet and stood behind Jennifer as she typed ‘Slow Dance moonlight swim’ into the search field. She scrolled through the results. “This is the one.”
She clicked on it and within seconds a slimmer, younger Truman Cooper was on her screen. Shirtless and sitting on a pontoon dock jutting out into a New England lake, the moonlight catching the well-defined muscles covering his arms and torso. Ingrid remembered the scene: his character,
Brandon, was brooding after his dance partner had dropped him for another guy.
“What’s this got to do with the ambassador?” Ingrid asked.
“You mean you still don’t know? Like, really?”
“Yup, still clueless.”
“I’m going to fast-forward.” Jennifer dragged the slider and the video jumped over the skinny-dipping scene that Truman Cooper would always be remembered for. She released the cursor at the point when Cooper, filmed from the waist up, emerged from the water, tossing his hair so that the droplets became illuminated by the moon.
“Oh, hi,” he says, “how long have you been there?”
The camera then cuts to his point of view and we see who he’s looking at: a short, brunette girl whose brown eyes and full lips made her look like a young Jackie Kennedy.
“Oh my God,” Ingrid said, instantly realizing she was sounding like Jennifer.
“Oh, wow,” Don said. “It’s her, isn’t it?”
“It totally is. She played the big sister. Remember now?”
“Of course it’s her,” Ingrid said. “How did I not know this?”
The three of them carried on watching the scene in which Brandon suggests a casual night of fun under the stars. Even though Frances Byrne-Williams’ Betty has fancied him for the entire length of the movie, she tells him that he only just broke up with her friend and there are rules about that sort of thing.
“You know, when she becomes secretary of state the news channels are going to have this on a loop,” Jennifer said.
“Thank God she didn’t do a sex scene,” Don said, “then she could never run for president.”
Ingrid wondered how many sex scenes Ronald Reagan had filmed and flinched at the thought. She sat back down at her desk as Jennifer explained that Frances Byrne-Williams, or Frankie Byrne as she appeared in the credits, lived next door to the director and had been a last-minute replacement for Andie MacDowell.
Ingrid glanced at the target practice reminder and then at the clock on her computer. It was 3:10pm. She may as well get it over and done with. “When does the shooting range shut?”
Jennifer looked up from her desk. “You don’t know?”
“That’s why I’m asking.”
“I mean, you don’t know it’s closed? They’re deciding whether or not to refit it before they shut this place down.” Jennifer’s phone started to ring.