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

by Eva Hudson

  “She reckoned she owed you a favor, not letting go of the whole Shelbourne thing.”

  The lights changed and they crossed the road.

  “Where are you headed?” he asked.

  “Loriners.”

  “I know a shortcut.”

  He led her down a side street where once grand houses looked ashamed of the mattresses and broken appliances littering their front yards. Even in broad daylight it was menacing.

  “So. What was it you wanted to tell me?”

  “I’m an idiot,” he said. “I haven’t asked you how you are.”

  “I’m healing. Ralph, what is it you need to say?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Right. Yes. Remember the Canadian student who died at Loriners week before last?”

  “Of course.”

  “It’s taken a while, because suicides aren’t high priority, but we got her blood tests back.”

  Ingrid stopped herself from taking a sip of coffee. “And?”

  “High levels of methamphetamine and LSD.”

  “Really?” Somehow it wasn’t much of a surprise. “What does that mean for Younger?”

  He guided her through a back alley running behind several neglected backyards. It was the kind of shortcut only a cop or a drug dealer would know about.

  “He’s still in custody. We get seventy-two hours before we have to charge or release him.”

  “And what are you going to charge him with?”

  Ralph chucked his empty coffee cup onto an aluminum trash can overflowing with food waste. “Assisting an offender.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “For assisting Timo Klaason’s attempt to leave the country.”

  “Come on! You’ve got to be able to pin more on him than that?”

  “We can, and we will. I’m sure. The DI’s going gently with him. We still have another forty-eight hours for him to panic and incriminate himself.”

  They came to the end of the alley and Ingrid recognized where they were. A high brick wall ahead of them marked the perimeter of the college grounds.

  “And what has he said about Lauren Shelbourne?” An image of the wound taking a chunk out of the girl’s skull flashed through Ingrid’s thoughts. “Are you questioning him about her?”

  “Ah, yes, there’s quite a lot I need to bring you up to speed on. We actually recovered Lauren Shelbourne’s phone from Younger’s house.”

  “When the hell were you going to tell me that?” She slapped him on the arm.

  “Sorry. It’s all been moving pretty quickly.” He nodded at a narrow gate in the wall. “See, told you it was quicker.” They entered the campus grounds and followed a signed path that led to the main piazza.

  “Tell me about the goddamn phone, Ralph.”

  “Ah, yes, right.” He really needed to get out of the habit of stringing out a story like a comedian building up to a punch line. “The phone was discovered by none other than Mrs Younger herself. She found it in Professor Younger’s underwear drawer.”

  Ingrid held fire on the questions that were racking up in her mind; otherwise it would take Mills hours to get through his story. She took a sip and let him continue.

  “So here she is, dutiful and faithful wife, putting away the laundry, and voilà, she discovers a strange mobile phone nestling amongst his underpants and woolly socks. Odd, she thinks, what’s this? She then proceeds to turn the phone on and read all the text messages stored in the memory.” They came to a bench that was neither covered in bird mess nor chewing gum. “Shall we?”

  “Sure.”

  They sat down and Ralph handed her a sandwich out of the paper bag. A steady stream of students poured through a gap in the buildings and disappeared into their accommodation blocks. No doubt the poor kids who couldn’t afford lunch in the canteen.

  “So,” he continued, “she’s shocked to discover over ninety percent of the texts are from her husband. She’s even more shocked by the nature of their contents. Once she’s got through all of those, she takes a look at the ‘sent’ folder. In here we have such X-rated missives that they make her husband’s texts look positively tame. Understandably, she’s getting a tad angry over all of this. Angrier with each new description of what the phone’s owner—whose identity, remember, is still unknown to her—has planned for the good professor next time she gets her hands on him. By now Mrs Younger wants to get her hands on him herself, but we’re talking X-rated horror movie, not soft porn.”

  He paused for breath, but Ingrid thought it wise not to interrupt and ate her sandwich. BLT. Good choice.

  “Then things get even worse. Mrs Y reads texts that mention her in a less than flattering light. How fantastic her husband’s and his mystery lover’s lives will be when he dumps his nagging wife and runs away into the sunset—I’m paraphrasing—with said lover.” He stopped again and picked a slice of tomato out of his sandwich and threw it onto the patch lawn. Pigeons descended on it within seconds. “That’s the final straw. Next thing, she’s marching out to the two uniformed officers sitting in the squad car parked outside—I wish I’d been there—telling them she’s ready to answer any questions they might have concerning her husband, and offering to provide an exhaustive list of the places the professor might be. And this was all playing out just about the same time we’d pinned down the location of the phone.”

  He paused again and Ingrid took her chance to interject. “Yet it still took a couple of hours for you to pick Younger up.”

  He lifted his eyebrows.

  “I’m yanking your chain.”

  “Right.” His face gradually broke into a smile.

  “So there’s no doubt Younger was having an affair with Shelbourne. You’ve got so much proof now, he can’t deny it.” Madison Faber’s lurid allegations had been proved right. Just because she was excitable, it didn’t mean the girl was wrong. She really didn’t know what to make of Faber’s reliability as a witness.

  Ralph nodded.

  “So are you talking to him about Lauren’s death? Do those texts give him motive to get her… out of the way? What’s he got to say for himself?”

  Ralph rapidly swallowed a mouthful. “Nothing at all. Not a murmur.”

  “Even his connection to Timo Klaason?”

  “His prints are all over the money we found in Klaason’s possession. Klaason has confirmed Younger gave him the cash. But still Younger won’t say anything. His lawyer’s a hot shot from a firm in the city, and he’s advising the professor to keep quiet.”

  “And you haven’t charged Younger with anything yet?”

  “Like I say, we’ve still got plenty of hours on the clock before we have to do that.”

  “And what might you be able to charge him with?”

  “Assisting an offender. Definitely perversion of the course of justice. It’d be hard for him to get off that one.”

  “But nothing to do with Lauren’s death? Or the drugs used in his experiments?”

  “We’ve got him on the line and we’re reeling him in. Be patient with us. We’re using his phone data and diary to piece together his movements the night Lauren died. DNA samples from her flat will almost certainly confirm his presence there, but that won’t be a surprise—he must have visited her there loads of times—so wouldn’t necessarily be helpful with implicating him in killing her.”

  “But you think he might have?”

  “He’s an arrogant twat, so I’d put nothing past him, but…”

  “Yes?” Ingrid was electrified at the prospect of nailing the bastard.

  “There’s nothing in the texts he exchanged with Lauren that suggested their relationship was on the rocks.”

  That was true. The phone could just as easily exonerate him. Ingrid thought about things for a second. “He explained how come he had Lauren’s phone?”

  “Nope.”

  Ingrid wanted desperately to be in on the interrogation. “Is DI McKittrick doing the interviews herself?”

  “Yep—I’m her number two.
” He looked at his watch. “I should get back over there. Our next crack at him starts in fifteen minutes.” He drummed his fingers on his knees.

  “Well, thanks for the update. And lunch.”

  He stood up. “I almost forgot. Your predecessor’s main liaison in the Met?”

  Ingrid looked up at him. Now wasn’t the time to tell him it didn’t really matter anymore. “You have a name for me?”

  “Not exactly.” He screwed up his face. “McKittrick told me to tell you your predecessor’s primary contact was a high-ranking officer in SO15—Counter Terrorism Command. She couldn’t get his name. For reasons of national security, apparently. You want a hand up?”

  She didn’t, but accepted his offer, wincing as she got to her feet. “Thanks so much. Hope it didn’t get you into any trouble.”

  He gave her a Clark Swanson special. “I hope so too.”

  “Say thank you to Natasha for me,” she called after him.

  “Will do.”

  She turned toward a gap between buildings that she hoped would lead her to the administration block. Out of the sunshine, the spring air was cool. The atmosphere on campus was febrile, with students and staff hurrying between buildings as they gossiped. Ingrid found the administration block and was given a map marking out where she would find the buildings used by the medical faculty. A few minutes after that, she was outside the lecture theater she was looking for. She was about to let herself in when her phone buzzed in her pocket. It was Ralph again.

  “Hi.” She spoke quietly, keen not to disturb the students on the other side of the door.

  “Hi.” He was a little out of breath. “You’ll never guess who was in reception when I got back to the station.”

  She could.

  “Madison.”

  No surprise there.

  “She wants to give us a statement. She’s claiming Stuart Younger confessed to killing Lauren Shelbourne.”

  44

  “When?” Ingrid asked, her voice rising several decibels.

  “She says he came to her two days ago.”

  “Why the hell did she wait two days?”

  “Listen, I don’t know. I have to go. I thought you’d want the heads-up.”

  Mills hung up, leaving Ingrid stunned. She leaned against the wall; the lecturer’s drone permeated through the door. She was more than willing to believe the sly Professor Younger was involved in Lauren’s death, but somehow Faber’s allegation undermined that belief. The revelation that she had withdrawn the accusation of assault against her teacher made Ingrid doubt every word that came out of Faber’s mouth. She could no longer put her erratic behavior down to recent trauma.

  The doors to the lecture theater swung open and students filed out, chatting excitedly, talking over one another, as if they’d just been released from a silent order of monks. Or more accurately, nuns. Almost all of the people emerging from the hall were women. A few moments later she saw the person she’d been waiting for and hurried toward him before he was lost in the stream of bodies.

  “Mohammed!”

  The medical student pulled up sharply and quickly turned his head left then right.

  “Mo,” she said again when she was just a few feet away.

  “Hello. Man!” He reared away from her. “What did you do to your face?”

  “It’s OK—it’s not as bad as it looks.”

  “I never expected to see you again. I thought you wouldn’t want to get anywhere near this place after what’s happened. You’d be better off getting your PhD somewhere else.”

  “Ah… yes. About that.” She explained who she was and apologized for the earlier deception.

  “You’re kidding me. FBI? No way, man.”

  She pulled out her badge. He snatched it from her and inspected it closely, front and reverse, only reluctantly handing it back to her when she wrapped her fingers around it.

  “Are you here because of Younger? Did you suspect him all that time?”

  “I can’t discuss the details of the police investigation.”

  “I won’t say a word. Honest.”

  Ingrid told Mohammed the bare minimum to get the result she needed. Ten minutes later she was climbing the stairs of a small accommodation block just around the corner from campus.

  “Jamil probably won’t want to talk—you’ll have to use your best interrogation techniques to get him to open up. He hardly even told me what happened to him. And we’ve been mates since, like… infants. We go way back.” He stopped at a door halfway along a corridor on the third floor and thumped his fist against it. “Jamil! It’s me, man. I know you’re in there.”

  They listened for noises inside the room. There weren’t any.

  “Jay! Come on! I got a hot lady out here desperate to speak to you.” He glanced sideways at Ingrid and smiled at her with one corner of his mouth. “No offense—any means necessary—you get me?”

  “Piss off,” a muffled voice called from the other side of the door. “I’m busy.”

  “Seriously, man. She ain’t gonna take no for an answer.”

  “Jamil?” Ingrid raised her voice. “I’m Special Agent Ingrid Skyberg. I work out of the US Embassy here in London.”

  The noisy metal rattle of a lock unfastening was followed by the creak of the door. A sliver of face appeared and a single eyeball inspected first Ingrid, then Mohammed. “Ouch! Who mashed your face?” Jamil said, opening the door wide.

  Ingrid followed him into a dark study-cum-bedroom, a podlike bathroom right next to the door, a narrow single bed along one long wall, a desk against the other, drapes drawn shut at the window. The room stank of toasted cheese and adolescent sweat. Two laptops sat on the desk, glowing in the dark.

  “Jamil here is a regular Mark Zuckerberg. He makes apps in his spare time. He’s an entrepreneur, innit.” Mohammed pulled out the chair so that it stood in the narrow space between the bed and the desk. “How about some light in this dungeon, yeah?” He opened the drapes and bright sunshine came streaming in. Jamil held up a hand to shield his eyes.

  “And maybe some fresh air too?” Ingrid suggested.

  Mohammed pushed open the window a crack while Jamil threw a cover over his unmade bed. He and Mohammed sat down. Ingrid smiled at them both. “Mo tells me you took part in the psychology department research program last semester.”

  Jamil glared at his friend.

  “It’s all right, bro. Nothing can happen to you now, can it?”

  Ingrid showed him her badge. “Anything you tell me will be treated in the strictest confidence.”

  Jamil stared at the badge with wide eyes. “Why are the FBI interested in what I’ve got to say?”

  “It’s in connection with an ongoing investigation. I can’t share the details, I’m afraid.”

  “But I signed a nondisclosure agreement—I don’t want to get sued.”

  “Jamil’s loaded,” Mohammed said. “He’s been stashing away millions, innit. He thinks I don’t know.”

  “A nondisclosure agreement signed under duress wouldn’t stand up in court.” Ingrid kept her voice as gentle as she could. “Trust me.”

  “Yanks know everything about all that legal stuff, suing and that—they practically invented it,” Mohammed offered. Ingrid wished he’d shut up.

  “I’m curious—why did you sign up for the experiment in the first place?”

  Mohammed started to answer for his friend, but quickly stopped when Ingrid held up an admonishing finger.

  “The researcher was really nice to me. Girls normally just ignore me. Or take the piss. She was different.” He sighed. “And gorgeous. She said she’d selected me specially. Because I wasn’t like the other students. She told me I would be part of something really important. It was an exclusive group, she said.” His head dropped into his hands. “I can’t believe I fell for it.”

  “Who was this?” Ingrid pictured one of Younger’s acolytes dressed in her green and purple shirt, ingratiating herself. Preying on a vulnerable student.
<
br />   “Her name’s Madison Faber. She’s American.”

  Faber? Ingrid took a deep breath, her mouth suddenly dry. She moistened her lips with her tongue.

  “You know her, don’t you?” Jamil said, reading Ingrid’s face. He was trembling, a faint tremor making his upper body vibrate.

  “You’re sure it was Madison Faber who enrolled you in the program?” Ingrid asked.

  Jamil nodded. “She told me she was running a side project of her own. She made me…” He stopped himself.

  “It’s OK—take as long as you need.”

  “There was this one experiment where I had to… hurt somebody.” He blinked rapidly, as if he were reliving the event in his head. “There was this machine. It electrocuted people. I actually heard them scream in the next room. But Madison said it was OK—the pain only lasted a fraction of a second. She said it was important for me to carry on. To put the person in the other room out of my mind.” His breath caught in his throat.

  “I’m not in a hurry, Jamil.”

  The experiment he was describing wasn’t new to Ingrid. Anyone studying psychology 101 would have heard of the Milgram Experiment. And most of them would know it was no longer carried out due to ethical concerns. Faber would have known it too.

  “How could I put them out of my mind when I actually had to speak to them? I had to ask them questions. If they got the answer wrong… that’s when I flipped a switch on this big machine. They were wired up to it. They got a shock if they didn’t know the answer.” He shuddered. “I had to stop. I told Madison I couldn’t go on. She got really angry. She told me I was putting her project in jeopardy. Then she said if I was so concerned about the person in the next room, maybe I’d like to take their place. I’d be connected to the machine, and she’d ask the questions.” He swallowed another wet gulp.

  “You’re certain it was Madison who was running the experiment? Not Professor Younger?”

  “She told me Younger was in overall charge. She carried out other experiments for Younger. I’m not sure exactly what they were. I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to know.”

  “Can you tell me what happened next?”

  He started gnawing at one of his fingernails.