by Eva Hudson
Jen turned round, her mouth agape, her eyes wide. “What have you done?”
Ingrid scrunched up her face. “I find out at eight thirty.” She looked at the clock: she still had fifteen minutes to put her pieces in play. She called the St Pancras hotel and asked to be put through to the concierge.
“Good morning, I’m hoping you can assist me today.”
“Of course, madam.”
“My boss, Mr. Greg Brewster, is checking in with you this afternoon, and I would like to make some reservations for him.”
“Of course.”
Ingrid was calculating that whoever had stolen Brewster’s laptop had not got what they wanted. Its encryption had almost certainly held up to attempts to access the information they had stolen it for. What they needed was the passwords that would unlock the laptop’s secrets. The other calculation she made was that Brewster always stayed at the St. Pancras hotel because he felt well taken care of by the staff there. It was her guess that the reason they took such good care of him was because someone at the hotel was tipping off the people who were targeting him. If she was right, the appointments she was lining up for him after he checked in would make him the victim of a second crime, and this time she would be there to intercept the criminal. Getting him to play along might prove impossible, but she would cross that bridge when she met his plane at lunchtime.
At exactly eight thirty, Ingrid knocked on Amy Louden’s door. She straightened the collar of her shirt while she waited to be told to come in. When she entered, Louden couldn’t keep the surprise from her face.
“My God. The medical report was comprehensive, but I couldn’t have guessed you’d look so… beaten.”
“Just a few superficial injuries. I heal quickly,” Ingrid said. “A couple of days before I’m back to full strength. Max. I promise I won’t scare any members of the public between now and then.”
“The MD authorized desk duties.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“So where were you yesterday afternoon?” She indicated Ingrid should take a seat opposite her desk.
A flash of fear engulfed Ingrid. Did Louden know about her anonymous call?
“I came looking for you about five o’clock.”
“Oh. Right. I was at Lewisham police station. The investigation into Lauren Shelbourne’s death has been reopened.”
“Ah. Have you told her parents?”
“Not yet, no.” Ingrid chewed her lip. “Why did you want to see me?”
“I received a call from the senior investigating officer in the London Crime Squad yesterday afternoon.”
“You did?”
“He called to thank me for your intervention. Explained how useful you’ve been to his investigation.”
Ingrid blinked. She’d assumed she was going to be rebuked.
“But I thought I should point out that jumping off a roof isn’t very smart. You’re needed here, Ingrid, and you can’t go putting yourself in danger or taking unnecessary risks.”
Louden had called her ‘Ingrid’ and not ‘agent.’ That was a first. “I didn’t have much choice. If I hadn’t jumped, I could well have been pushed.”
“And jumping on the back of a drug dealer’s motorcycle? Was your life in danger then?”
Ingrid fidgeted awkwardly. “I guess that Quantico training just kinda kicked in.”
At least that dragged a smile onto Louden’s lips. “Listen, it’s clear you are a very committed investigator, but this is just a friendly reminder to take better care of yourself. I’m all for awarding bravery medals to my agents, but I’d prefer not to hand them out posthumously, you understand?”
“Got it.”
Louden walked over to her window and looked at the torrential rain. “Now, what about Mr. Brewster’s laptop? Are you getting anywhere?”
Ingrid outlined her plan to set a trap for the thief—or more likely whoever had hired the thief—when they came back to complete the job. Louden listened without interrupting.
“If we had the manpower,” Ingrid said, “we could also set up meetings for Sidney Baxter, an alias used by Brewster—”
Louden turned sharply away from the window. “Where did you find that out?”
Ingrid felt heat rising up her neck. “It was something that came to light during the course of my investigation.”
Louden returned to her desk, positioned herself within inches of Ingrid and leaned against it. “Yes, but someone must have told you that information?”
Sweat formed between Ingrid’s shoulder blades. “I interrogated Met archives. It wasn’t the first time Brewster has been the victim of a crime in London. Ma’am?”
“Yes?”
“What’s really going on? Why are you so personally interested in Greg Brewster?”
Louden pressed her lips together.
“I have been trying to investigate this robbery with one hand tied behind my back. I have a great deal of respect for you, and for your rank, and I know that you know how hard it is in these circumstances to find evidence and unmask the perpetrator.” Ingrid paused to assess from Louden’s expression if she had gone too far. “Yet you keep pushing me for more information. I just want to understand why.”
Louden nodded slowly. She walked round to the other side of her desk, sat down, then steepled her fingers under her chin. “You’re right. We haven’t made this easy for you. Let me reassure you that you are doing excellent work.”
Ingrid waited for her to say more, but that was it. “Thank you. If there’s nothing else, I should go and speak to the Shelbournes, update them on the case.”
Louden nodded.
“Thank you for your time.” Ingrid winced as she got to her feet. By the time she had reached the door, Louden had picked up the phone. She waited until Ingrid had left the room before she dialed.
Ingrid closed the door behind her and leaned against the wall in the corridor outside, trying to work out her next move. Her head was foggy with painkillers and she felt a little nauseous. She needed air. She would walk to the Shelbournes’ hotel.
It wasn’t until she reached reception she remembered it was raining. She was about to go back upstairs to borrow Jen’s umbrella when she saw a familiar face standing on the sidewalk in the pouring rain. She grabbed a magazine from a rack and headed out to join her.
40
Alex Shelbourne was drenched. By the looks of her, she’d been standing in the rain for hours. Ingrid held the magazine over her head and raced toward the girl.
“What did you do to your face?” the teenager asked as she approached.
“Had a fight with a parked car.”
“You’ve got blood on your cheek.”
“It’s just a graze.”
“No, I mean fresh blood. It’s running down your face.”
Ingrid lifted a hand to her cheek and it came away pink, where the blood had mingled with rainwater.
“Here.” Alex Shelbourne handed Ingrid her scarf.
“It’s OK—it’ll stop soon enough.”
“Take it.” She thrust the scarf at her and Ingrid blotted her cheek.
“Why didn’t you get security to call me? How long have you been here?”
“I didn’t want anyone else to know I was here. So I waited.”
“You’ll catch cold. Let’s get you inside.” Ingrid started back toward the embassy, but Alex tugged on her arm.
“Not there.”
They headed down North Audley Street and stopped at the first café they came to. Ingrid threw the sodden magazine into the trash and handed Alex back her scarf, scooping up a handful of paper napkins from a nearby table. She pressed the wad of tissue against her face.
A hot chocolate and double espresso ordered, they took the table furthest from the window.
“How long have you been waiting?” Ingrid asked.
“A couple of hours.”
“You must be soaked.”
“I’m OK.”
She didn’t look it.
“Do
your parents know you’re here?”
Alex stared into her hot chocolate. She scooped the froth backward and forward across its surface with a teaspoon. “I told them I wanted to visit the Apple Store.” There was no attitude now. The goth makeup had gone, to be replaced with a palpable sadness. Alex Shelbourne seemed a completely different girl.
“They were relieved to get me out of the way so they could fight some more without an audience. They’ve never been like this with one another before. Mom blames Dad. And Dad…”
“Blames himself?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. But mostly he just pretends it’s not really happening.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Me too.” Alex Shelbourne shivered as she gazed blankly at her hot chocolate. Ingrid wanted to tell her the case into her sister’s death had been reopened, but she needed to tell the parents first. Alex put down the spoon and looked up suddenly at Ingrid. “Why did you ignore the note I gave you?”
“I didn’t. I would have gotten in touch. But events kind of overtook me.”
The teenager pointed to Ingrid’s face. “You mean your fight with a car?”
“Among other things. Plus I had no way of contacting you without going through your parents first. I’m guessing that’s the last thing you wanted me to do.”
The girl nodded slowly. “I hoped I’d get a chance to speak to you after the meeting on Saturday.”
“I was kept behind by my boss.”
“You make it sound like she’s your teacher or something.”
“More like the principal.” Ingrid gave her a smile. “What was it you wanted to tell me about your sister?”
Alex took a deep breath, her shoulders rising almost to her ears then slumping down again. “I wasn’t one hundred percent sure I should even tell you, but when she came to the hotel, pretending to be so upset, I knew I couldn’t keep it to myself. I wanted to scream at her.”
“Who?”
“Madison. She’s a two-faced bitch.”
“Madison Faber? You saw her when she visited your parents?” Why had Alex Shelbourne taken such a strong dislike to a woman she didn’t even know?
“I saw her—but she didn’t see me. I stayed in the room next door. No way was I going to speak to her. She hated Lauren. And Lauren hated her right back. How could she cry like that in front of Mom and Dad? She’s so fake.”
“Are you sure? Weren’t Madison and Lauren good friends?”
“If they were, why did Lauren move out of the apartment? She should have made that bitch leave instead.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t follow.” Ingrid’s head was foggier than she’d realized.
“The apartment, it was Lauren’s. She should never have let Madison move in.”
“Lauren’s? Are you sure about that?”
“Yeah—why wouldn’t I be?”
“So you’re saying Madison moved into Lauren’s apartment?”
“Yes!” The girl sniffed. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to shout.”
“That’s OK.” Ingrid took a sip of coffee. “Is that what you wanted to tell me about Lauren?”
“No—I thought you should know why she and Madison had such a big fight.”
Ingrid blinked. Where the hell was this going? “I want you to take this slowly. Make allowances for me, I’ve taken a lot of painkillers. I want to be clear exactly what you’re saying.”
“Lauren and Madison had a big fight. Lauren asked her to leave, but Madison refused. She’s such a spoiled bitch. She wouldn’t move out.”
“So Lauren was forced to leave instead?”
“She didn’t want to stay a moment longer with that weirdo.”
“Weirdo?” Ingrid wasn’t going to correct the kid’s language—she was only sixteen—but it was a reminder to arrange proper support for Faber.
A sob erupted from Alex’s throat. Her eyes started to water.
“It’s OK—take your time.”
“She told me they had a fight over some guy she was seeing.”
“A man your sister was seeing?”
Alex nodded. A tear dropped into her cup.
“Did she tell you who that was?”
“Lauren never said who she was dating. Not even when she lived at home. She always kept her boyfriends secret.” She sobbed again. “I mean, I thought for about a year she was gay she was so damn secretive.”
Ingrid laid a hand over the girl’s. “Drink some hot chocolate—you’re chilled right to the bone. I’m going to sit here and watch you drink it.”
“I don’t really want any.”
“Just a little, come on.”
With shaking hands, the girl lifted the wide cup to her lips, took a sip and put the cup straight back down. She dabbed her mouth with a paper napkin. “It was weird Madison knew who the guy was because I don’t think Lauren would have told her. I guess she must have found out some other way.”
Faber had always said she didn’t know who Lauren was dating, but Alex Shelbourne seemed sure of her facts.
“And that’s why they fought?”
Alex nodded. “Madison was jealous as hell. She wanted to go out with the same guy. She accused my sister of stealing him from her. Lauren told me he couldn’t even bear to look at Madison. When I saw her crying at the hotel with Mom and Dad, I just wanted to punch her. I wish I had.”
Ingrid wished there was a pause button she could press. She needed time to think. “Drink some more hot chocolate, Alex. Just a little.”
Faber had told the police she and Lauren never fought. Not once, she’d said. The inconsistencies were mounting up. Why would Alex make any of this up? What could she gain from fabricating something like this? The girl looked up and saw Ingrid staring at her.
“What is it?”
“You are sure about what you’ve told me? You couldn’t have misinterpreted what your sister said?”
“She was clear enough. I think she needed someone to talk to about it all. She didn’t really have many friends here.” Her bottom lip quivered.
Ingrid’s phone buzzed in her pocket. She took it out and glanced at the screen. It was Ralph Mills.
“I’m OK—you should take it,” Alex told her.
“I won’t be long.” Ingrid turned away to answer the call. “Ralph.” She got to her feet and headed toward the exit. “What have you got?”
“We’ve picked up Professor Younger.”
41
Ingrid waited in the embassy limousine. She decided it was better if the driver was the one holding up the sign that said ‘Greg Brewster.’ She saw them approach, Brewster on the phone, and realized her palms were moist. First, the driver opened the trunk and placed Brewster’s bag in the back, and then he opened one of the rear doors. Brewster ducked his head inside.
“You?”
“Good flight?” Ingrid gave him a smile, certain the ten-mile journey into central London was going to feel more like a hundred.
Brewster’s podgy face reddened with fury. “I will have to call you back.” He sat down beside her, carefully placed a laptop case between his feet, and the driver pulled away. “Is this a trap?”
Had he already been in contact with the concierge?
“Well, sort of.”
He looked puzzled. “I don’t understand.”
Ingrid explained her theory that someone would attempt to complete the job by trying to get hold of his passwords on his return trip to London. She then told him of the appointments she had arranged with the concierge.
“But I have appointments of my own,” he blustered.
“I appreciate that, sir, but when I put this plan into action, you were already in the air and uncontactable.” She breathed in deeply, sending pain spiraling round her torso. “I was hoping we could use this journey to work out which of the appointments you would be able to keep. I will then, posing as your assistant, shake the tree a little and see who falls out.”
“Shake the tree?”
“Let it be known where you’ll b
e at what time, and then I’m going to watch you like a goddamn hawk and see who turns up.”
The driver navigated the limousine through the parking lot barriers and, once in the open, the rain hammered down on the roof.
“My bet is at some point on this trip you’re going to be asked to set up a password to use the Wi-Fi, or asked to authorize a card payment, or to access the gym in the hotel—” she glanced at his corpulent belly as he stared out the window: Greg Brewster was not a user of hotel gyms “—and one of the people doing the asking is going to use the information you give them to de-encrypt your laptop.”
Brewster said nothing. Instead he breathed so heavily it sounded like light snoring. “Are you saying that you are actually trying to investigate the theft?”
Ingrid pursed her lips. “Of course I’m investigating it. Why wouldn’t I investigate?”
He turned to her. “Because no other fucker in the past few years has bothered.”
On the remainder of their journey into the center of London, they went through Brewster’s appointments for the rest of the day. A visit to the Iranian embassy. A private meeting at the Reform Club with a representative of the Malawian army. An opening night at an art gallery, where he hoped to meet a member of the Kazakh government. It was a snapshot of how central the UK capital was to the international arms trade. Ingrid got on the phone and, posing as Brewster’s secretary, started to give the tree a shake. When she had finished, Brewster turned to her.
“There is, of course, one major problem with your plan.”
Just the one?
“With those bruises on your face, you’re a little, well…” He struggled to find the right words. “The thing is, no one is going to believe you’re my secretary. There is no way anyone in my industry would let you come to work like that—” He leaned forward and tapped the glass screen separating them from the driver. “This isn’t the right way. I’m staying at the St Pancras.”
The driver nodded.
“Then you can’t leave at this junction. It’s straight ahead.”
The driver turned south.