The Ingrid Skyberg Mystery Series: Books 1-4: The Ingrid Skyberg Series Boxset

by Eva Hudson

  McKittrick examined a bright green teapot.

  “Have you even questioned Younger?” Ingrid asked.

  “Saw one of these at my first crime scene,” she said, and put it down.

  “Natasha! Stay with me here. If this were the States, we’d be questioning Younger.”

  McKittrick’s expression turned icy. “Would you now?” She had found a pair of long earrings made of orange, red and yellow glass. She held them up to her ears. “What do you think?”

  “They match your eyes.” Ingrid managed a smile.

  “Charming. Remind me never to ask for your opinion again.”

  Ingrid stared directly into McKittrick’s face, forcing the detective to make eye contact. “What do I have to get you for you to take this seriously?”

  McKittrick considered the request. “OK, from what I’m piecing together here, you’re suggesting Younger buys drugs from Klaason to give to students as part of his experiments. Have I got that straight?”

  Ingrid nodded.

  “I’d need proper, solid evidence proving Younger has received drugs from Klaason—LSD and methamphetamine specifically—then I’d have no choice but to consider the impact on the Shelbourne case. I’d at least suggest my colleagues in the London Crime Squad invite Younger in for questioning.”

  “You would?”

  “I’m not deliberately setting out to be obstructive, you know. You get me the evidence. I’ll follow it up.”

  “Thank you.” A firework of elation burned and fizzed inside her. She wasn’t an idiot. She did know what she was doing. And if someone was killing kids, there was no way in hell she would let them get away with it.

  McKittrick picked up a black-and-white photograph, the edges ragged with age. She held it up to show Ingrid. “Look at those sad eyes. I bet she had some stories to tell.” She flipped over the picture. “1941. Wow, middle of the Blitz. No wonder she looks sad.”

  Ingrid wasn’t familiar with McKittrick’s sentimental side. Perhaps it was the right time to speak to her about whatever ‘stuff’ was going on at work. She had promised Mills she’d broach the subject. They wandered to the next table, which was selling home-baked pies and cakes. Only a few items remained so late in the afternoon. Ingrid selected a slice of cold pizza, piled high with goat cheese, sun-dried tomatoes and olives. It was gone in two bites. McKittrick raised her eyebrows.

  “Want anything?” Ingrid asked her and bought the last slice of cheesecake before she’d had a chance to answer.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Really? Are you really fine?” Ingrid could have kicked herself for sounding like such a klutz.

  “I had a late lunch.”

  “No… I mean…” This wasn’t going the way Ingrid had hoped. She took a bite and tried to chew the mouthful of sweet, vanilla-flavored cream cheese and dark, caramelized cookie base slowly, but the whole thing melted on her tongue. She swallowed and started the sentence again. “When I spoke to Mills yesterday, he said—”

  “Mills?”

  Ingrid nodded.

  “Oooh.”

  “Not like that!”

  “Ralph and Ingrid sitting in a tree…”

  “Stop it!”

  “K-I-S-S-I-N-G!”

  Ingrid said nothing.

  “You should know you’re blushing.”

  Ingrid gathered herself. “He said he was worried about you. And, well, you were a little off-kilter at the meth bust yesterday.” Ingrid shoved what was left of her cheesecake into a nearby trash can.

  McKittrick was seething.

  “Look, he barely said a thing. He certainly didn’t betray any confidences, but if you need someone to talk to, consider me a pair of ears.”

  McKittrick’s nostrils flared. “Bloody Mills. He’s way too soft to be a copper.”

  She headed for the exit and Ingrid hurried after her.

  “I’m sure his intentions were honorable. He’s just watching your back.”

  “I suppose you might as well know.” McKittrick finally slowed down as they reached the gate. “Professional Standards are investigating my… conduct at the moment. I’ve got to keep a low profile. Keep my head down to prevent it being shot off. I’m this far—” she held up her finger and thumb, leaving a tiny gap in between “—from being sent on gardening leave. I have to play everything by the book.” She ran a hand through her hair.

  “I had no idea—”

  “So apart from chasing CID about that blood test, I really can’t help you.” She stared Ingrid hard in the face. “As far as Lauren Shelbourne is concerned… you’re on your own, kid.”

  “Understood.” Now wasn’t the time to question why Natasha was being investigated, but she could guess. “There is one more favor I have to ask.”

  McKittrick narrowed her eyes. “Before you do, can I just remind you, this is meant to be my day off.”

  “It’s a small thing. A favor for me, nothing to do with the Shelbourne case.” Ingrid paused. “Don’t agree to do this if it’ll cause you any problems. I don’t want you getting into trouble on my account.”

  “I think you know by now I have absolutely no problem saying no.” McKittrick smiled at her.

  “That’s certainly true.”

  “Come on, then. Spit it out.”

  “My predecessor at the embassy, a guy named Dennis Mulroony… I’d really like to speak to his main contact in the Met. I’m not sure who that is. All I need from you is a name.”

  34

  The two women said an awkward goodbye at the high school gates, neither of them quite making the ‘to hug or not to hug’ decision before the moment had passed. Ingrid at least felt she was getting her friendship with the detective back on track. Like McKittrick had said, she wasn’t being obstructive over the Shelbourne case. Just objective. Which only highlighted how much her own objectivity had been tested. She knew she’d let her judgment be influenced by events from the past. And that was unprofessional.

  Ingrid’s cell buzzed as she walked toward the Tube station on Kentish Town Road. When she saw Madison Faber’s number, she considered not answering. But with only two and a half days till the inquest, now wasn’t the moment to shut down on Faber.

  “Hi, Madison, are you OK?” She braced herself for a panicky rant.

  “I have something I need you to see.” Faber sounded calm.

  “What is it?” She wasn’t sure she could face another meeting with Faber right now. Calm or not. She felt like she needed a little distance from the student. Get some of her objectivity back.

  “I have proof,” Faber said, her voice even and quiet. “The proof you said you needed. To take me seriously.”

  Ingrid didn’t remember asking her for anything. “Proof of what?”

  “Come see—it’s much better if I show you.”

  Ingrid approached the Tube station. She was pretty certain the Northern line train would take her straight up to Hampstead, so, wearily, Ingrid agreed to another trip to the house where Madison was staying near Hampstead Heath. She didn’t have the energy to even begin to imagine what Faber might want her to look at. She didn’t suppose it would be anything that useful. But she felt obliged to check it out.

  Down on the platform at Kentish Town Tube station, Ingrid discovered she’d have to travel south to Camden Town, then switch to the Hampstead branch of the Northern line, making this particular endeavor seem like even more of a wild-goose chase. The thought of soaking in a soothing warm bubble bath that would ease her battered ribs and aching back was suddenly overwhelmingly appealing.

  She emerged from the deep station in Hampstead grateful for air and daylight. Ten minutes later she arrived at Faber’s impressive temporary home, and when the front door opened, an excited Madison Faber grabbed her by the arm and guided her to an annex at the rear. She was being put up in considerable style and had been gifted her own suite decorated with mid-century modern furniture. It looked like something from a magazine.

  “You know I was getting some clothes
from home?”

  “Yes.” Ingrid was being slowly engulfed by tiredness.

  “That’s when I noticed it.” She nodded at a short red cocktail dress laid flat on a large rectangle of tissue paper spread carefully over the bed.

  “This belonged to Lauren?”

  “She only wore it on special occasions.”

  Why would Lauren leave it behind, if it were that special? Ingrid’s heart sank. Maybe she should have ignored Faber’s call after all. “I’m sorry, Madison, I really don’t see how this is relevant.”

  “Special occasions—like dates. Don’t you see? Dates with Stuart… with Professor Younger.”

  “We don’t know for sure the poem was about him.”

  “But we will!” There was a trill of excitement in her voice. The calmness Faber had demonstrated on the phone had vanished completely. Ingrid steeled herself for whatever revelation was coming next.

  “Look at that mark, down at the bottom there.” She pointed to a dried white stain, a patch roughly two inches by three.

  Ingrid hoped this wasn’t about to go in the direction she feared it was headed. She said nothing.

  “I couldn’t believe it when I saw it. I’d almost finished getting Lauren’s things collected together—to send them to her parents—when I discovered it.”

  Ingrid remained silent.

  “It’s the evidence we needed. All you have to do now is get it analyzed.”

  “Are you suggesting the stain is semen?”

  “It doesn’t take a genius to work it out.”

  “And you think it’s Stuart Younger’s?”

  “Of course I do! Who else’s would it be?”

  Ingrid took a moment to work out the best way to dampen Faber’s excitement as gently as possible. She needed her to calm down. “Even if I get this analyzed—”

  “What do you mean, ‘even’?”

  “Please—just let me finish. I get this analyzed and prove it’s semen. I prove it’s Stuart Younger’s semen. And from that I assume that Lauren was having an affair with him?”

  Faber was nodding at her vigorously. “You can more than assume it! You’ll know it for an indisputable, incontrovertible fact.”

  She laid a hand gently on Faber’s arm. “But even if it is, how does that prove Younger had anything to do with her death?”

  “Don’t you see? It’s obvious. Lauren kept the dress with the stain on it. This was her best dress, remember. She didn’t take it to be dry cleaned. Yet she wrapped it in tissue paper. Why would she keep a dirty dress carefully wrapped up like that? It’s not like this doesn’t have a precedent.”

  Ingrid waited for Faber to draw the inevitable comparison.

  “Didn’t a certain White House intern do exactly the same thing?”

  “Maybe Lauren just hadn’t gotten around to taking it to the dry cleaner’s.”

  “It was carefully wrapped in tissue paper, laid flat in plastic on top of her closet. She wanted to keep the dress just as it was, with the stain. She even left it at my apartment when she moved out. She wanted to store it someplace safe. Somewhere Younger wouldn’t find it.”

  This wasn’t adding up, but Ingrid was so fatigued she wasn’t able to figure it out. “Why?”

  “Why else? To blackmail him. She wanted to blackmail him into leaving his wife.”

  She sounded delusional. “Don’t you think that all sounds a little… extreme?”

  “I told you Lauren could be off beam sometimes. This was her insurance policy. If the relationship didn’t go the way she wanted… if Younger proved to be reluctant in choosing Lauren over his wife, she had this stored away to persuade him.” Faber had worked herself up so much her cheeks had flushed and her eyes were wet. “Only it didn’t persuade him. Not in the way she’d intended. Lauren blackmailed Younger and he had to silence her.” She pointed at the dress again, quite breathless. “There’s all the proof you need.”

  35

  Ingrid’s exhaustion was such that she fell asleep in her clothes. The pain in her ribs woke her up at five thirty when she undressed and got under the covers, but she didn’t go back to sleep. There was something creepy about Faber’s glee at the stain on the dress, and it bothered Ingrid. The girl couldn’t believe Ingrid wasn’t taking it away for testing. Once she explained that, under UK law, only a British investigator could do that, Faber was equally exasperated Ingrid didn’t call the Met.

  “The thing is, Madison, that dress has your DNA on it. It was found by you in your apartment. Even the greenest, most newly qualified defender in the country could create enough doubt in a jury’s mind for the dress to be worthless to a prosecution.”

  Faber’s features had pinched and her lips pursed like she was sucking on a lemon slice. “Oh.” But her deflation only lasted a second. “But you believe me, don’t you?”

  Wearily, Ingrid had said that she did, and as she lay awake in her hotel bed, she hated herself for lying. She had been so focused on getting justice for Lauren that she had failed to arrange some support for Faber. When the college office opened, she would report her concerns and suggest they urgently get her a counselor. She would also ask Jennifer to research therapeutic options for the girl in case the embassy could help. Given everything Faber had been through since finding Lauren’s body, her odd and erratic behavior was understandable, but Ingrid was fearful the girl was on the cusp of some kind of psychiatric episode.

  She arrived at Loriners just after eight. The place was quiet: it was far too early for most students to be up on a Monday morning, but the cafeteria was open, so she got herself a coffee then sat in the early morning sun in the piazza. When three tall, blond, unusually handsome men entered the science building together, Ingrid’s curiosity meant she followed them. She reached Professor Younger’s office to discover the door half-open. Through the gap she saw the men removing files from cabinets, shifting piles of CDs from shelves into waiting cardboard cartons, and feeding sheets of paper into an industrial-sized shredder. Such was their industry that they didn’t notice her until she tapped lightly on the door.

  “I’m looking for Professor Younger. Is he in yet?”

  The young man hunched over the shredder looked up and eyed her suspiciously. For a long and agonizing moment, she wondered if he recognized her. Although he wasn’t wearing the trademark green and purple uniform, it was possible he’d been one of the men pursuing her across warehouse rooftops on a Deptford industrial estate. She didn’t recognize him.

  “Who’re you?” he said finally.

  Ingrid let go of the breath she’d been holding. “Sarah Charles. Prospective PhD student.” She smiled warmly at him, eager to make the lie more believable.

  “Stuart didn’t mention anything to me about a meeting.”

  “And you are?”

  He didn’t answer.

  The other two men had stopped what they were doing and studied her as closely as the first. Again, she hoped neither of them had been at the meth factory on Saturday.

  “Stuart’s in the lab all morning.”

  “Really? I’m sure our meeting was today.”

  “He’s busy.”

  “That’s a shame. I’ve heard so many exciting things about his research. I was looking forward to meeting him.”

  “I can pass on a message.” The man threw an armful of files into a box at his feet.

  “Never mind. I can rearrange for another time.”

  Ingrid turned on her heels and headed toward the exit, keen to get to the lab while Younger was still there. Assuming, of course, the shredding man was telling her the truth.

  The cleanup operation was puzzling. Angela Tate’s story about Stuart Younger’s research methods wasn’t due to hit the streets for a while yet. Had Younger found out about her plans for publication? She picked up her pace, grateful her sore bones were complaining just a little less than they had the day before.

  She found the research laboratories and followed the signs to the psychology section, peering into rooms as
she went. Each one she passed was empty, the lights off. Younger and his merry gang of industrious students were the only people on campus. She came to the end of a corridor and stepped into a larger space lined on both sides with small booths. She opened the door of one of them. The booths were no more than ten feet square. A single chair was tucked beneath a waist-high workbench. On the bench sat a pair of headphones connected to a socket in the wall. She supposed this was where some of the experiments took place, a willing volunteer isolated in each booth. She closed the door and continued toward a bank of file cabinets that divided the space in two. Professor Younger appeared suddenly from behind one of the cabinets, his head turned away from her.

  Ingrid crept a little closer and watched as he opened a drawer, retrieved a handful of files and dumped them with a thwump on the floor.

  Was this all part of the cleanup operation she’d witnessed in his office?

  “Professor!” she called.

  Younger spun round, saw it was her, then looked past her, over her shoulder. He seemed relieved to discover she was alone. He’d aged ten years since she’d last seen him, his face grayer, the skin around his eyes more lined, the eyes themselves bloodshot. With some obvious effort he managed to smile at her. “Agent Skyberg, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” He looked at his watch. “I’m afraid I don’t have much time for you. I’m very busy at the moment.”

  Ingrid looked at the pile of files by his feet. “A spring clean?”

  “Something like that. I do like to get my house in order as we move further into the summer term. Clear the decks.”

  “Seems like quite a clearing out. At least you got some help.”

  He gave her a puzzled look.

  “I was just over at your office.”

  “You were?” He touched his shirt pocket, running his fingers along the outline of his cell phone, no doubt wondering why no one had warned him to expect a visitor. “Look—I really am up to my eyeballs with all this. What do you want?” He slammed shut a cabinet drawer.