by Eva Hudson
“I’m not sure that’s the correct way to address a superior officer.” He folded his arms and glared at her. A moment later his face broke into a wide grin, but as he walked toward her, Ingrid got the feeling he was scrutinizing the merest flicker of movement in her expression. He slipped behind his desk and checked his monitor. He glanced up at Ingrid and narrowed his eyes.
“What was it you needed, agent?” He reeked of cigarettes. He always did.
“I don’t think I have sufficient security clearance for this Brewster assignment. I can’t find out who he is, or what he does.”
Sol raised an eyebrow. “You don’t actually need to know, Ingrid. All you have to do is find his laptop.”
“Which would be much easier if I knew what someone’s motivation for stealing it was.”
He scratched his salt-and-pepper beard. “I appreciate that, but it’s national security. Need-to-know. Just put a trace on the serial number and do your best.”
Ingrid felt her fury rising. “Is there something I’ve done, Sol? Some reason I don’t have clearance?”
He pulled off his wire-frame glasses and cleaned them with a cloth. “What makes you say that?”
“Am I still on probation?”
He leaned back in his chair. “You shouldn’t be. We’ve made your appointment permanent, haven’t we?”
“Not as far as I know.”
He replaced his spectacles. “Are you happy here? At the embassy? In London?”
Where the hell had that come from? She thought about the dark looks she got from her colleagues. “Mostly.”
“Good. We should probably do something about finding you an apartment.”
It would be nice to leave the hotel. “I’d rather you did something about my clearance level.”
Sol laid his hands flat against the desk and stared at them for a moment. “I’ll see what I can do. But in the meantime, find the laptop. Impress the people who need to be impressed.”
He might as well have said ‘run along, little girl.’ Ingrid had warmed to Sol. He was usually an avuncular, easygoing presence who was slow to anger and didn’t rush to judgment. But if he didn’t have her back, if she wasn’t sure he was on her side, then she should think about moving home to DC. Ingrid wandered slowly in the direction of the criminal division office. Jennifer, her assistant, had returned from lunch.
“Hey,” she said brightly. “Did David Eustace turn up at the interview this morning?”
Ingrid, still rattled from Sol’s stonewalling, sat down heavily. “Who’s Eustace?”
“He’s, like, the embassy criminal lawyer.” Jen was a total Valley Girl, down to her sunny Californian personality and the inclusion of the word like in every sentence.
Ingrid pictured the smartly dressed woman who had terminated the Met’s questioning of Madison Faber. She definitely didn’t look like a David. “No,” she said. “A woman turned up.”
“Strange. He’s normally very reliable.”
“Can you give me his number?” Ingrid said. “I’d like to give him a call.”
“Sure thing.” Jen swiveled breezily in her chair and flipped through an old-fashioned Rolodex. It matched the rest of the office, which could easily be described as ‘vintage.’ It could also be called ‘dated.’ It looked like the set of an ’80s cop show.
Ingrid nudged her mouse, and her computer flicked into life. The ‘access denied’ alert was still in the middle of her screen. It was clear Sol wasn’t going to give her any more information, but there had to be another way to discover what Brewster’s business trip was really about.
All she had to do was figure out how.
6
The arrival of Faber’s high-powered lawyer, paid for by the girl’s family, had resulted in Madison being released without charge. Now that Faber no longer needed embassy assistance, Ingrid’s job was to ensure Lauren Shelbourne’s death was investigated properly.
Ingrid made an early start, arriving a little after nine at Loriners, the college where Lauren Shelbourne had been studying. The young woman’s grieving parents wanted her body repatriated, and for that to happen, all the paperwork—including Ingrid’s report—had to be completed.
Loriners was a mix of impressive twentieth-century brick buildings and ultramodern concrete, glass and steel structures, haphazardly stacked cubes, their doors and windows painted in bright primary colors. A network of walkways at various levels connected the muddle of architectural styles together. It was a glorious spring day, and the students were in short-sleeve tees, with a handful braving shorts and cutoffs. The weather was in contrast to the mood on campus: everyone seemed quiet and subdued, speaking in hushed tones and moving slowly.
Ingrid claimed her visitor’s badge from the administration block and memorized the map of the campus. She surveyed the piazza in front of her and spotted the building she was interested in. Just to the left of it was Detective Constable Ralph Mills chatting to a uniformed colleague. She ducked behind a tree: she was there to report on the thoroughness of the Met’s investigation, and she’d rather they weren’t aware she was on site.
There was a quality about Mills Ingrid had warmed to. He was tall, slim, with collar-length hair and substantial sideburns. He looked like he could have been the bass player in one of the Britpop bands that had dominated the charts in the 1990s. Maybe that was who he reminded her of—there was definitely something unnervingly familiar about him. Unlike most homicide cops she’d known, Ralph Mills gave the impression he was caring and compassionate. She imagined he was very good at dealing with bereaved families. His height gave him presence, but his slight stature and easygoing nature meant he wasn’t intimidating. He would probably be a good person to ask for the preliminary autopsy report.
When Ingrid had called Natasha McKittrick the previous evening to request it, the person who’d answered the call transferred her not to the detective inspector, but to a press officer, who told her precisely nothing and treated her like a journalist rather than a fellow law enforcement officer. When she’d complained, she was told to go through ‘proper channels.’ Which was what she’d thought she’d done calling McKittrick in the first place. She could understand why McKittrick was keeping her at arm’s length—no one likes another investigator scrutinizing how you run a case—but it was as if their friendship counted for nothing.
With Mills safely occupied on another part of campus, Ingrid made her way to the large cafeteria housed in one of the traditional Edwardian redbrick buildings. Inside, it was furnished with long wooden refectory tables and benches, coats of arms decorating the walls below the high ceiling. Despite the dark wood and stone floors, the cafeteria was actually quite a welcoming space. The students were more relaxed than they had been outside, most of them chattering noisily to one another, raising their voices to be heard above the general din. She grabbed a plastic tray and joined the line waiting for a cooked breakfast, hoping to tune in to any conversations where Lauren Shelbourne’s name was mentioned. She didn’t have to wait long. Two excited teenagers lined up behind her. They were already in full flow, speculating about the death.
“Martina said they found her naked. Raped, Martina said. The police think it might be a serial killer.”
“Who else has he killed?”
“Well, no one yet—no one we’ve heard about. But all serial killers have to start somewhere, don’t they?” She shuddered.
“Makes me glad I’m still living at home. I bitch about the commute, but being two bus rides away actually makes me feel safer.”
“I wonder who’s going to be next.” There was a mawkish thrill in her tone.
Ingrid took a good look at them. They were ordinary students, even a little bookish. One sported Harry Potter–style spectacles, the other had a wild head of red hair stuck up in a ragged bun held together by an HB pencil. Nice girls. Why were they talking about the suspicious death of a fellow student as if it were an episode of their favorite soap opera?
Ingrid reached the bake
ry display and helped herself to a rubbery-looking raisin pastry. It didn’t really matter if it tasted as bad as it looked, she had no intention of eating it. She paid and found a place at the center of one of the long wooden tables, where she could listen to as many conversations as possible while she played with her food.
As soon as she sat down, the surrounding chairs were vacated. Just as she was wondering whether she’d forgotten to apply deodorant after her run that morning, a gawky, geeky teen shoved his food tray onto the table and sat heavily on the hard wooden bench directly opposite her. His plate was stacked high with fries, eggs, and a pie buried beneath a landslide of baked beans. He definitely wouldn’t be starting class on an empty stomach. She watched as he smothered the whole lot in tomato ketchup and dove and attacked the fries as if they were an enemy army. She looked away as soon as he shoved the first forkful into his baby-bird gaping mouth, and considered switching tables. She picked a flake off her pastry and popped it into her mouth. She chewed slowly and glanced up at her uninvited companion.
“What’s in the pie?” she asked.
When he’d recovered from the shock of her dialog opener, he answered with a full mouth, “Steak.” He swallowed. “And mushrooms. Thankfully though, not many. Mushrooms make me gag.”
“Then why did you choose the pie?”
“Halal, innit? Only meaty thing on the menu that is.”
“But it’s OK?”
He shrugged back at her. “S’all right.”
She smiled at him, taking a proper look at his face. His greasy complexion mirrored the fatty mess on his plate.
“Is the campus usually this… subdued?” she asked.
“Is it? Hadn’t noticed.” He carried on shoveling his food, barely chewing it before each noisy gulp. “Might be something to do with that girl who died.”
Ingrid sat up straight. “You knew her?”
“Do you?”
“Me? How would I know her?”
“You’re American, aren’t you? She was American.”
“Hey, it’s a big place.” She smiled again. “I’ve just heard a few people talking about her this morning.”
“You’re new here. I would definitely have noticed you before otherwise. Are you a lecturer?”
She shook her head.
“Admin staff?”
“I’m just checking the place out. Prospective PhD student.”
“Mo,” he said and nodded at her. “Short for Mohammed.”
“I figured it wasn’t short for Maureen.”
“Nice—an American with a sense of humor.” He narrowed his eyes. “What’s your name?”
Ingrid paused a beat before answering. “Sarah.” She glanced down at her visitor’s badge and quickly shoved it inside her jacket.
“OK, Sarah… so what can I say to persuade you to come here?”
“I’m not sure you can say anything. I’ve heard people talking about a serial killer on the loose.”
“You shouldn’t listen to rumors. Most of the students here are complete morons.”
“That’s not exactly a glowing recommendation.”
“Not all of us!” He put down his knife and fork. “The postgrad stuff is all right. But I wouldn’t be here if I’d got the grades for Imperial.”
Ingrid tore off a corner of pastry and rolled it between her fingers like a ball of modeling clay. “So far you’re not convincing me.”
He shrugged and grabbed his cutlery from the table. “Shame. You’d improve the scenery round here a bit.” He stared unashamedly into her face.
Ingrid eyeballed him until he dropped his gaze to his plate. “Just saying,” he mumbled.
“I’ll take it as a compliment.”
“How many other colleges are you visiting?”
Ingrid paused before answering, she hadn’t gotten that far working out her cover story. How many would sound right? “Oh, um, a few.”
“Which ones have you rejected?”
“None so far.”
“I suppose… if you’re gonna make an… informed decision…” He stared at his plate. “I should tell you about the girl who died last week.”
“Another girl?” Ingrid remembered the question Angela Tate had fired at McKittrick when the reporter had barged into Lauren Shelbourne’s apartment. “So there is a serial killer?”
“Nah, nothing like that.” He shoveled another quivering pile of meat, gravy and pastry into his mouth. “It was suicide. I saw it happen. She jumped from the top of the admin block.”
“You saw her jump?”
“I saw her fly. Until she stopped. Splat! Guts and brains all over the shop. They still haven’t managed to clean it all up.” He shook more ketchup onto the remains of his pie.
“Must have shaken you up.”
“Not really. I don’t mind the sight of blood. I’d be a useless doctor if I did, wouldn’t I?”
“You’re studying medicine?”
“I like cutting stuff up.”
Ingrid glanced at the knife he was wielding over his plate.
“Did you know her? The girl who jumped?”
“No.”
“But as far as you’re aware, her death isn’t connected to the one that happened yesterday?”
“There isn’t a serial killer—you don’t need to worry.”
“I don’t suppose you knew… what was her name… Lauren?”
“Depends on your definition of ‘knew.’ I’d seen her face around. The psychology grads like to put themselves about a bit. But they’re a stuck-up bunch. Especially the Americans. No offense.”
“None taken.”
“They’re all too important to speak to lowly undergrads. Until they need another recruit for one of their Mickey Mouse experiments. Always looking for volunteers for them. Then it’s all ‘Hi, Mohammed, how are you? Come and have your testicles wired up to an electrical current and we’ll measure how loud you scream.’”
“Wait a minute—you’re not telling me they’re torturing students?” Ingrid leaned forward.
“No, I was exaggerating.” He chewed another mouthful of fries. “But not by much.”
“What kind of experiments, then?”
The young medic inched toward her, clearly excited to have anyone listen to what he had to say. “I know for a fact that they—” He pulled away suddenly, distracted by something or someone across the room.
“What is it?” Ingrid turned to follow his gaze and saw two male students deep in conversation. They were wearing matching green and purple polo shirts.
Mohammed slumped in his seat, making himself smaller. “Nothing.”
“You were telling me about the experiments.”
He pulled a face. “I don’t really know anything about them. Don’t listen to me. Loriners is a good college. You should definitely do your PhD here.” He shoveled the last of his fries in his mouth and stood up. “Are you planning on finishing that?” He nodded at the pastry.
“Be my guest.”
He produced a used square of aluminum foil from his bag, smoothed out the wrinkles on the table and carefully transferred her uneaten breakfast onto it. He wrapped it up in a neat cylinder and slipped it into his backpack. “I’m not a big fan of the sugary stuff, but there’s no point in wasting it.”
“Those two guys…” Ingrid gestured to where the students wearing the purple and green shirts had been standing. “What are they, in a sports team or something?”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t see anyone.” He nodded a goodbye, weaved quickly around the table and disappeared through the main door.
Ingrid shoved her dirty tray onto a nearby stack and followed him out. But by the time she’d reached the exit, Mohammed had melted into the crowd. There was no sign of the purple and green shirts either. Ingrid wondered what they might have done to have gotten Mohammed so spooked.
She crossed the piazza in search of the psychology department where Lauren Shelbourne had studied. Her attention was snagged by a ma
n in overalls up a ladder, scrubbing at a scrawl of graffiti on one of the gray concrete walls. As she approached, she saw the first two words painted in bright yellow paint, previously obscured by the workman’s ladder.
She froze.
lauren shelbourne = whore
7
Ingrid asked the janitor to stop: he was destroying evidence in a potential murder. He refused, and without UK powers of arrest, she had settled for him wiping some of the paint onto a tissue so she could get it forensically analyzed. She carefully folded the tissue, stored it inside a candy wrapper and went in search of the office of Lauren Shelbourne’s psychology professor. She knocked on the door and opened it quickly without waiting for a reply.
“Can I help you?” A forty-something white man, with close-cut silver hair over his head and most of his face, stared up at her from his perch on the edge of a desk. He was lean, long-limbed and held himself with an athlete’s poise and the confidence of a man used to students hanging on his every word. His eyes were red, as if he’d been up all night.
“I’m so sorry to interrupt.” Ingrid nodded to the four young students, three men and a woman, sitting in a tight semicircle of chairs. One chair was vacant. “Professor Younger?”
“That much you must have gleaned from the brass plate on my door.” He sounded irritated.
Ingrid flashed her ID at him. “Special Agent Skyberg. From the US Embassy.”
Professor Younger tensed at the mention of her title, then again at the word embassy. She sensed a general stiffening in the students’ postures.
“We were just finishing up, anyway.” He glared at the students, who scraped back their chairs and got to their feet.
“Actually, if it’s not too inconvenient, I’d like to speak to all of you.” Ingrid smiled at the four suspicious faces, all of them scrutinizing her just as closely as she was studying them. The woman folded her arms across her chest and looked at the floor in embarrassment. Two of the young men wore Chinese-style collarless gray shirts and plain black corduroy pants, almost like a uniform. The third was more interesting to Ingrid. He was the only student to return her gaze, making eye contact for much longer than was polite. He was also wearing a purple and green polo shirt. She smiled and stared back at him, determined he should look away first. When he did, she said, “I want to talk to you about Lauren Shelbourne.”