by Eva Hudson
“Natasha, it’s your favorite FBI agent. I’m sorry about earlier, but I have new information. Madison Faber is leaving the country. Right now.” Ingrid worked out what to say next. “I’m at her apartment. She’s been burning things, evidence, I believe. You need to speak to her downstairs neighbor. Ground floor. I can’t be sure, but I think she’s destroyed Lauren Shelbourne’s missing laptop.” Ingrid turned the key in the ignition. “Also, you know that tissue with the paint on it? Well, I had it analyzed. There’s a tin of the exact same paint in Faber’s garden shed.” She knocked back the stand and kicked the bike into life. “I’m going to Heathrow. I’m going to try to stop her getting on a plane, but, Natasha, that’s all I can do. I’ve got no powers of arrest here. If you want to stop her leaving the country, you’re going to have to send someone to the airport.”
Ingrid tapped Heathrow into her satnav app, pulled down her visor and roared out into the road.
Faber’s taxi had no more than a twenty-minute head start on her, probably more like fifteen minutes. The sort of lead an 800 cc motorcycle could eat up. She was in central London within ten minutes, back on familiar roads. So long as she avoided roadworks and accidents, and she didn’t get stopped for speeding, Ingrid was confident of beating the taxi.
Ingrid ran through all the ways to detain Faber without the authority to arrest her. Without a request from the Met, she couldn’t get the Border Agency to detain her. As an FBI agent, she could make sure she was stopped at immigration in the US, but without an extradition request from the UK, they would have no reason to prevent her from entering her own country. Of course, Ingrid reminded herself, Faber might not be going home. She could be flying anywhere.
Ingrid kept an eye out for any taxi with a Heathrow Transfers logo. It was likely the driver was taking the same route, and it was just possible she would intercept Faber on the road. She didn’t know what she would do if that happened.
She desperately wanted to check her phone, she wanted to call Natasha or Ralph and find out what the hell they were going to do, but it was tucked in her pocket, and she needed to keep both hands on the handlebars. She hadn’t heard a bleep to tell her Jen had messaged her back either.
The traffic in Earl’s Court was glacial. A bus had blocked a box junction, and cars were having to wait for the lights to change several times to get through the intersection. Even on the bike Ingrid had to pick her way through, weaving between stationary cars and irate van drivers, who all thought they had right of way. With any luck, Faber’s car was somewhere in the snarl-up.
Ingrid cleared the traffic jam and swerved up onto the Hammersmith Flyover, a raised freeway that carved an elevated path over roundabouts and junctions, easing her way west toward the airport.
It wouldn’t be enough to find Faber, she had to somehow stop her from boarding her plane. Persuading the police at the airport was a possibility, but a faint one. By the time she had explained who she was and what she suspected Faber of doing, the girl would be through security. Ingrid had a credit card on her: she had the means to buy a ticket if necessary and follow her through the gates, but her passport was in her hotel safe: there was only so far she could go. What she really needed was for McKittrick to pick up the phone and authorize the airport cops to arrest Faber. But for that to happen, Natasha had to leave her meeting, listen to her messages and take Ingrid seriously. The last of those things, given her tone earlier, seemed the least likely.
There were other options, but almost all of them involved breaking the law whether that was calling in a bomb scare or flying a remote control drone. There was no way Ingrid was going to shut down the entire airport and inconvenience thousands of passengers. If she’d had more warning, there were plenty of things she could have tried. She could have slipped something into Faber’s bag, drugs or a weapon; she could have submitted her passport number and requested an intercept. The way she saw things, the only advantage she had was that Faber didn’t know she was coming. The girl thought she was free and clear. Younger had been charged, and while the Met congratulated themselves for getting him held on remand, Faber was making her escape. The girl was as smart as Younger claimed.
Ingrid reached the outskirts of the city where the freeway began. From there it was just fifteen minutes to the airport. Her phone rang and she tapped her Bluetooth headset to answer.
“Hi.” She accelerated into the fast lane.
“It’s me.”
“Hi, Jen.”
“Sorry it’s taken me so long, but there was no record of a Madison Faber booked on a Heathrow departure.”
Maybe she planned to buy a ticket at the airport? Ingrid overtook a succession of cars, her speed well over the limit.
“So I thought she might use another name.”
“And?” Ingrid was in danger of losing concentration.
“And then I checked the other airports. Ingrid, she’s flying from Gatwick.”
“Fuck.”
“She’s booked on a Virgin flight at fourteen forty to Las Vegas.”
Booking a Heathrow taxi to take you to Gatwick? That was smart. That was devious. It also told Ingrid Faber was deliberately leaving a false trail. She wouldn’t put anything beyond Faber, including murdering her roommate. Ingrid peeled off the freeway and took the exit for the M25, an orbital motorway that encircled London, famous for its jams and tailbacks. But on two wheels it was also a very quick route to Gatwick, London’s second airport, about thirty miles south of the city. Ingrid estimated the journey would take her twenty-five minutes, and when she got there, she was taking Madison Faber down.
52
Ingrid ran into the terminal building clutching her helmet. She checked the display boards and headed for the check-in area for Virgin.
She hung back, not wanting Faber to see her. The line of passengers waiting to dump their luggage was at least a hundred people long. Several flights were using the same check-in desks. She scanned the faces. Faber was not there.
Ingrid checked her phone. No messages. It was twelve twenty. An hour since she’d left Gail Mooney’s apartment. The chances she had beaten Faber’s taxi were extremely low, and in all likelihood the student had already gone through security. Ingrid turned and ran, darting between jet-lagged passengers and precariously stacked luggage carts. A tannoy announcement informed everyone that, due to unforeseen circumstances, several gates had been closed, and they needed to check the departure boards for accurate information. Ingrid kept running till she saw what she was looking for.
A sales desk. There were three people ahead of her. She didn’t need to panic. Faber’s flight wouldn’t board for another hour. All she had to do was buy a ticket to somewhere in the UK that didn’t require a passport, go through security and wait for Faber to arrive at the gate. Easy. She checked the electronic display boards and saw there was a flight to Edinburgh in two hours. That was good enough. She called Ralph while she waited. She couldn’t remember how much she’d already told him.
Damn. Voicemail. Again. It was like they saw it was her calling and refused to answer.
“Ralph, hi, it’s Ingrid. I’m at Gatwick airport. Madison Faber is getting on a plane to Las Vegas in two hours, and I am going to stop her. I know you all think Stuart Younger killed Lauren Shelbourne, but I’m damn sure Faber is framing him. I think he can prove it, which is why she’s leaving the country before you realize what she’s done.”
The people in front of her turned their heads, making it obvious they were listening in.
“Ralph, I have no powers of arrest. I don’t have time to work the diplomatic channels. I need McKittrick to authorize her for detainment. I need you to call the Gatwick police.”
She hung up, then texted him. PLEASE LISTEN TO YOUR MESSAGES.
Maybe she should have sent a different kind of text. One offering to meet for a drink. He’d probably reply to that.
“Can I help you?”
Ingrid put her helmet on the counter and asked for a seat on the Edinburgh flight.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw two armed police officers carrying MP5 semiautomatic carbines. Airports and government buildings were the only places in the UK where the police were routinely armed.
“Let me see if there’s any availability for you.” The man behind the desk had long, pointed sideburns, dyed black hair and a spray tan. His bored demeanor betrayed how much he hated his job. His words were polite, but his tone was acidic. “That will be two hundred and thirty-five pounds, please.”
Ingrid pulled a bank card out of her jacket pocket and placed it next to the helmet. A few minutes later, the salesclerk placed her card, a receipt and a boarding pass in front of her. She grabbed them and ran straight to the security gates. While other passengers emptied bottles of water or sorted their liquids into plastic bags, she dashed past them. She presented the boarding pass at the electronic barrier and was allowed into the security hall, where a uniformed guard ushered her toward one of ten conveyor belts.
The hall was rammed with vacationers and travelers. Ingrid checked her bag to make sure she didn’t have anything that would get picked up by the scanners. The helmet was bound to attract attention, as would the fact she was wearing a leather jacket over her tired business suit. She looked a mess. If they stopped her, she needed an explanation. A friend in need, she would say. A mercy dash. Her embassy ID should cover all eventualities.
The line moved slowly as inept travelers took off their belts and shoes and forgot to take laptops and iPads out of their bags. Hurry up! Ingrid had to remind herself it didn’t matter: all she had to do was get to the departure gate before Faber. Don’t panic. You’ve got time.
One of the other lines appeared to be moving much more quickly, adding to her frustration. She looked at them enviously, and that was when she saw her. Faber. Ingrid turned away, keen the girl didn’t recognize her. Ingrid stooped, hiding her five-foot-ten frame behind a family of Dutch tourists. She didn’t want to draw attention to herself, but judiciously peered over their heads. Faber placed her bag in a shallow plastic tray, then took off her jacket and folded it before placing it another tray along with her watch. She then lined up to go through the metal detector.
Ingrid’s line shuffled forward and she lost sight of Faber, but when she spotted her again, she saw the student was putting her coat back on and slipping her passport into the right-hand pocket. That’s what I have to do, Ingrid told herself, I need to steal her passport. Without it, she wasn’t flying anywhere.
Ten minutes later, Ingrid left the security hall and snaked her way through the endless duty-free area, searching for Faber. She wasn’t browsing the perfumes or the whisky; she wasn’t looking at discounted electronics. A tannoy announcement issued a reminder about the late change to departure gate numbers. Once through into the lounge, Ingrid scoured the seating area. If she was really, really lucky, she would find a seat behind Faber and somehow distract her enough to get access to her jacket pocket. But Faber wasn’t in the seats. Ingrid did a three-sixty. There were so many shops, countless food outlets, prayer rooms, restrooms: Faber could be anywhere.
People stared at Ingrid’s helmet. It was an unusual thing to see in a departure lounge. She thought about dumping it, about making herself less conspicuous. And then she wondered if she could use it to her advantage. Could she leave it somewhere that would create an incident? Hope someone reported a suspicious item? It still wouldn’t be enough to get Faber’s flight delayed. She carried on through the departures lounge, hoping to spot her.
Ingrid checked the aisles in WHSmith. She scrutinized passengers at the checkouts in Boots. She studied the diners in Café Rouge, but she couldn’t see Faber. OK, she told herself. Back to plan A. Intercept her at the gate. She scanned the departure board to see if the Las Vegas flight was boarding. It still said ‘wait in lounge.’ Ingrid searched for a place to wait, somewhere out of the way where she wouldn’t be noticed. Her ears tuned in to yet another announcement over the PA system.
“Would passenger Skyberg, that’s passenger Ingrid Skyberg, please proceed to gate thirty-nine, where your friend is waiting for you. That’s passenger Skyberg…”
Ingrid stopped listening. She hadn’t spotted Faber, but evidently the girl had seen her.
53
Ingrid followed the signs to Gate 39 down corridors, travelators, escalators and stairs. It was warm under her leather jacket and she unzipped it as she ran. The crowds thinned. The tannoy announcements faded away. Faber was leading her to the closed departure gates. A ‘caution: men at work’ A-frame sign kept guard, but there was no sign of maintenance workers.
Ingrid slowed down. She came to a lounge with a central rectangle of seating surrounded by four departure gates. The place was deserted. The LED signs behind the desks were blank. There was no lighting. The Coca-Cola vending machine wasn’t humming. A power failure must have caused the airport to close the annex. It suddenly felt like an ambush. Sweat trickled between her shoulder blades, sending a shiver across her skin as it snaked down into her waistband. Ingrid reached into her pants pocket for her phone.
Something moved behind her and she spun round.
There was no one there.
If the power was out, that meant the CCTV cameras weren’t recording. There was no surveillance. Ingrid checked the lounge again. It was almost a perfect square with a gate on each side. In front of each set of doors leading to the jet bridges were desks where airline staff would normally check passports. The only exits were the alarmed gate doors out to the empty plane stands, or the corridor she had just run down. Apart from the vending machine and trash cans, the only furniture was several rows of rigid plastic seats forming a neat square. Faber had to be hiding behind one of the desks.
Ingrid gripped the chin guard of her helmet, ready to swing it at Faber’s head. “I spoke to Kevin Timms yesterday,” she said, her voice surprisingly clear. “You remember Mr Timms, don’t you, Madison? Your old chemistry teacher?”
There was no reply.
“He remembers you. Wanted me to thank you on his behalf. Losing his job was the best thing that ever happened to him. That’s what he said. He’s very successful now. Rich, happy.” Ingrid’s voice echoed through the empty chamber. If Faber was watching her, she might see her leg was trembling.
“It’s remarkable how similar what happened seven years ago is to what’s gone on with Stuart Younger. The stalking, the obsession. It’s like history repeating itself. I’m sure your friends in the Met will be very interested to hear all about it.”
There was a loud whacking sound behind her as a door was yanked open. Ingrid turned in time to see it close. Ingrid ran over, pulled it back open and found herself in a stairwell that led down to the airport apron. The staircase formed a series of descending U-shapes around a central void. The cinder block walls were painted white. The steps were concrete edged with steel protectors. The drop in temperature suggested the door at ground level was open.
It took Ingrid a moment to notice she couldn’t hear Faber’s footsteps. She turned just as Faber was revealed by the closing door. She smiled before lunging at Ingrid, pushing her against the metal railing. Ingrid yelped as her bruised ribs erupted with pain. She brought up her hand, aiming the helmet at Faber’s head, but she wasn’t quick enough and Faber ducked.
Madison pushed Ingrid again, sending spikes of agony through her body. Faber, sensing Ingrid’s weakness, grabbed the helmet from Ingrid’s grasp, lifted her arm and took a swing at Ingrid’s head. Ingrid curled out of the way, and the helmet flew out of Faber’s hand and clattered down the stairs. Ingrid reared up, leading with her elbow, and pushed Faber back against the wall.
“Is that your plan, Madison? You think if you silence me, you’ll get away with it?” Their faces were inches away from each other. Ingrid kept her forearm against Faber’s neck, pinning her against the cold wall. “You think you’ve been so clever, don’t you?”
Faber maintained eye contact as she stamped down hard on Ingrid’s toes, making her recoil before lea
ning in harder and pressing Faber against the wall. Faber spat in her face, but Ingrid barely blinked.
“You’re not going to beat me, Madison.” Ingrid stared into the girl’s livid eyes. “This is going to end one of two ways.” Faber relaxed and attempted to slide down, out of Ingrid’s grasp, but she wasn’t fast enough. “The thing you don’t realize is the Metropolitan Police have found Lauren Shelbourne’s laptop.”
Faber’s eyes widened.
“You shouldn’t have left that fire unattended, Madison.”
Faber’s lip snarled.
“And really, if you were as smart as everyone thinks you are, you’d have added that can of yellow paint to the bonfire.”
Was there a slight tensing of Faber’s upper body? Was Ingrid starting to get to her?
“I’ll take it one stage at a time.” Ingrid paused, quickly checking Faber’s impassive expression. “After all, I wouldn’t want to misrepresent what happened.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“So you are talking to me, then?”
Faber bared her teeth, and Ingrid jabbed her forearm a little harder against the girl’s throat.
“Because I wouldn’t want you to think I’m not impressed, Madison. Before you spend the rest of your life in prison, it’s important I acknowledge how special you are.”
Faber scowled.
“I mean, really, you’ve been so clever it’s a shame you haven’t gotten away with it. First, when you call the cops and tell them you’ve found your roommate in a pool of blood, you make damn sure you get into a fight with one of them so you get arrested. And that means the police scrutinize your story even harder than they might otherwise. But that’s just what you wanted, wasn’t it? That way, when they release you, you’re completely exonerated. They’ll never suspect you again. Why would they? Lauren was your friend. They could see for themselves how devastated you were by her death.”