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

by Eva Hudson

  After a long pause, the door opened and Angela Tate stuck her head through the gap. “How’d you know it was me?”

  “I took a wild guess.” Ingrid should have known Tate wouldn’t just accept being fobbed off without putting up more of a fight. “What exactly did you hope to achieve, following me here like this?”

  “I thought there was a chance you’d change your mind.”

  “Trust me—I haven’t forgotten our… arrangement. I’ll do what I can. Please, just leave it with me.”

  Tate sniffed in a long breath, obviously unconvinced.

  “I’ll call you just as soon as I can with an alternate date. I promise.”

  Tate peered over Ingrid’s shoulder, to the street beyond. “Square Mile? What is it? Cyber fraud? Anti-terror? Give me a clue at least.”

  Ingrid was surprised the sleuthing reporter hadn’t already heard about the mysterious death of an American trader. “Nothing so interesting. Please, Angela. Cut me a break here.”

  Tate pursed her lips and screwed up her face. “I’ve got a lunch meeting anyway. So I can’t stop. But I warn you—I won’t let you off the hook.”

  “Believe me, of that I have no doubt.” Ingrid stepped back and watched as Tate slammed the door. A moment later the cab pulled into the busy stream of traffic. A few seconds after that, the embassy car did the same. The driver flashed his rear warning lights at her to say goodbye.

  Already later than she had wanted, Ingrid jogged toward the entrance of the bank, glancing around the street as she approached, just to make sure the journalist wasn’t still spying on her. After checking in with the main reception desk and collecting a visitor badge, she made her way straight to the trading floor in search of Mbeke, hoping she wouldn’t run into DCI Simmons first.

  She stepped out of the elevator on the third floor and checked up and down the corridor. The place where Matthew Fuller had died was still cordoned off, as was the men’s restroom. Ingrid peered through the glass wall of the corridor into the open plan trading floor area. She spotted Mbeke addressing a group of five detectives in a small conference room immediately opposite her position. She waited for him to finish up before approaching. The grave-faced detectives—three men and two women—filed past her in silence.

  “Hey,” Ingrid said, “are things going that badly?”

  Mbeke blinked at her.

  “Your team look a little low. Has something happened? Is the maintenance guy OK?”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “My job. How’s the maintenance guy?”

  “His doctors have decided to put him into an induced coma, until they find out what’s wrong with him.”

  “Poor guy. When is Matthew Fuller’s autopsy happening?”

  Mbeke paused before answering, as if weighing up whether he should even answer her at all. “This afternoon. The mortuary’s a little backed up because of the bank holiday.”

  Ingrid scanned the trading floor. “No DCI Simmons today?”

  “She’s coordinating back at the station. I’m managing things here.”

  Ingrid nodded slowly, relieved she didn’t have to get into a messy, time-wasting battle with the senior detective. “And you’re OK about my being here?”

  Mbeke folded his arms. He scrutinized her face. “You promise you won’t interfere with my investigation?”

  “Interfere? How about assist and consult?”

  The merest hint of a smile flickered across Mbeke’s face.

  “How many staff members are yet to be interviewed?” Ingrid asked him, pleased he might be a little more amenable than his boss.

  “We’ve already interviewed all of the traders on this floor. We’re spreading out to the rest of the building today, concentrating on anyone who was in the building yesterday. More staff are in today. The process will take a while.”

  “What about the maintenance and cleaning staff who had access to the restroom?”

  “There’s just one man we haven’t been able to talk to. He didn’t show up for work today.”

  “And he is?”

  Mbeke consulted his notebook. “Miguel Hernandez, thirty-five, originally from… actually, nobody is completely clear about his country of origin. The cleaning agency say Columbia, but a couple of the cleaners here think he’s from Spain.”

  “He was here until when yesterday?”

  “Still trying to pinpoint the exact time.”

  “And he would have had access to the men’s restrooms?”

  “Just like everyone else in the building.”

  “You’ve tried his home address?”

  “A couple of uniforms visited his flat about an hour ago. There was no answer.”

  “Do you have any more intel on him?”

  “Surprisingly little. He doesn’t have much of a profile on any level.”

  Ingrid felt a knot tighten in her stomach. “Are you treating him as a potential witness or suspect?”

  “Witness at this stage.”

  She tried to disguise her surprise. “Are the uniformed cops staking out his place?”

  “I’d need to put in a special request for a surveillance team. Jump through a lot of hoops. I thought I’d just send them back out there later.” He shoved his hands in his pants pockets and stuck out his chin, as if he were challenging her to question his decision.

  Ingrid chose not to rise to the bait. “So what’s next?”

  “According to the cleaning agency, one of the cleaners is quite close to Hernandez. I was just about to speak to her.”

  “Mind if I tag along?”

  “In an observational capacity?”

  “Whatever works for you.”

  A few minutes later, the elevator doors opened onto the eighth floor, bright sunshine flooded the corridor, coming from a floor to ceiling window at one end. Halfway toward the other end, Ingrid spotted a cleaning cart. The cleaner couldn’t be too far away. Mbeke picked up pace a little so that he was a couple of steps ahead of Ingrid.

  “Hello!” he called. “Patience Toure?”

  A heavy, middle-aged woman appeared from a doorway next to the cart. She was dressed in dark pants that were too tight for her and an unflattering sage green tee shirt. “Who is looking for her?”

  Mbeke introduced himself and showed her his badge.

  Immediately the woman narrowed her eyes and drew in a sharp breath. “Is this about the man who died?”

  “I’d like to ask you a few questions,” Mbeke said, his voice softening noticeably.

  “I wasn’t here yesterday—I don’t know anything about what happened.” She glanced toward Ingrid.

  Ingrid stepped forward. “Agent Skyberg, American embassy,” she said. “The man who died was a US citizen.” Ingrid sensed Mbeke wasn’t happy about the interruption. She smiled at Toure and shuffled sideways, leaving the floor to the detective. She glanced into the room Toure had just come out of. It was some sort of closet for storing cleaning materials and equipment.

  “We’re interested in speaking to one of your colleagues,” Mbeke continued, “Miguel Hernandez?”

  “So?”

  “I understand you know Mr Hernandez quite well.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Do you have any idea where he might be today?”

  Toure shrugged. “How would I know?”

  “Is he your friend?”

  “I hardly know the man. Why are you asking me about him?”

  Mbeke blew out a frustrated sigh. “He’s not in any trouble, we just need to ask him a few questions.”

  “He is in the country legally. You have no right to harass him.”

  “Like I said, he’s not in trouble. I just need to know what he saw when he was here yesterday. I’m not interested in his immigration status.”

  Toure snorted a laugh. “I need to get back to work. I don’t have time for this. I don’t know him and I can’t help you.” She turned away and ducked back into the cleaning closet.

  “Mind if I try?” In
grid asked Mbeke under her breath.

  “Be my guest.” Mbeke turned and headed back toward the elevator.

  Ingrid stepped into the cramped space of the cleaning closet and lightly touched Toure on the arm. “Patience… may I call you Patience?”

  Toure shrugged back at her.

  “I really don’t care about Miguel’s immigration status. That has nothing to do with the embassy. The only thing I’m interested in is Matthew Fuller—the young man who died yesterday. Miguel may have some information about what happened.”

  “Miguel is a good man. He wouldn’t have anything to do with the man’s death.”

  “I’m not saying he does, but he might know something that helps us. I promise you, if you can tell us where we might be able to find him, I’ll make sure the police don’t pursue any immigration issues.”

  “You expect me to believe you? He speaks to the police and the next thing he knows he’s at Heathrow airport waiting for the next flight home.”

  “I promise you that won’t happen.”

  Toure shook her head. “I don’t know where he is. I can’t help you.” She bent down and picked up a large plastic container from a low shelf and heaved it onto the cleaning cart. It landed with a thud. “I have to work now.” She started to push the cart toward the ladies’ restroom.

  Ingrid looked at the large container Toure had just dumped onto the cart. According to the label it was a ten liter box of liquid soap. “Do you refill the soap dispensers in the restrooms every day?” she asked.

  Toure stopped. “Why?”

  “Is fresh soap added every day?”

  “In the ladies’ toilets I refresh the dispensers twice a day. Men don’t wash their hands so much. Maybe once every other day.”

  “It’s possible new soap would have been added yesterday to the restrooms on the third floor?”

  Toure nodded and looked at Ingrid as if she were crazy.

  “Thank you for your help.” Ingrid raced toward Mbeke, who was still waiting for her at the elevators. “Call your forensics lab,” she said when she reached him.

  “What?”

  “Get them to test the soap dispensers as a priority. We may have found the source of the toxin.”

  9

  Mbeke turned away from Ingrid as he put in the call to the forensics laboratory. She clearly heard him make the request that the soap dispensers should be tested first. She felt as if maybe they were actually starting to make some progress.

  “What do you mean?” Mbeke raised his voice. “Are you telling me they’ve been lost?” He turned back toward Ingrid and momentarily made eye contact with her, raising his eyebrows. “Then what are you saying?” He started to shake his head. “Dear God, what a balls-up. Who’s responsible for this?” As he listened to the reply the muscles in his jaw flexed. After a few more seconds he hung up.

  “What’s happened?”

  “There were no soap dispensers,” he said and shoved his phone into a pocket.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The lab can’t test them because they were never recovered from the scene.”

  “They had to be.”

  “All the evidence from the gents’ toilets was carefully bagged up and labeled by the CSIs. According to the forensics manager, there were no dispensers to bag up.”

  Ingrid tried to remember what she’d seen in the restroom when she’d gone in there herself. She would have noticed if the dispensers had been missing, wouldn’t she? If they were there when she was in the restroom, what the hell had happened to them? “They must have been removed by the perpetrator, some time between Wennstein visiting the restroom and your uniformed officers sealing it off.”

  “That wouldn’t have been much of a window—ten, maybe fifteen minutes?”

  Ingrid pulled a face. She wasn’t one for telling tales, but she couldn’t just let it go.

  “What is it?” Mbeke pressed the down button with a knuckle.

  “I’d say closer to twenty minutes, maybe a half hour. I had to do a lot of persuading to get the restroom sealed.”

  “Do you remember seeing anyone going in or out?”

  “I didn’t have my eye on the door all the time. I was a little busy fighting with the police constable.”

  “Which one?”

  “I don’t want to get anyone in trouble.”

  “It’s OK, I can find out without you telling me.”

  The elevator arrived. Ingrid glanced up and down the corridor, looking for CCTV cameras. “Is there footage some place of the corridor on the trading floor?”

  “I’ve got a DC with security right now running through all the footage for yesterday morning. There’s nothing for the exterior or interior of the toilets.” He stepped into the elevator and Ingrid followed him. “But there are cameras in all the lifts.” He pointed toward the shiny black hemisphere attached to the center of the ceiling of the elevator. “And the reception area and all the exits have good coverage.” He punched the button labeled ‘LG’. “Let’s go and see what they’ve uncovered so far, shall we?”

  The elevator doors seemed to take an age to close.

  “If the toxic agent that killed Fuller and put the hand drier engineer in the hospital was in the soap,” Mbeke said, “that blows your theory about Fuller being targeted specifically. Unless you’ve heard something from Witness Protection?”

  “Still waiting for them to get back to me.” Ingrid hated having to admit she didn’t have the necessary intel. As soon as she got back to the embassy she’d insist Sol Franklin contact the US Marshals Service.

  “So there’s just as much chance that the hand drier man was the intended target. But still more likely that Fisher Krupps has been targeted in general.”

  “The maintenance engineer is still alive. Fuller’s dead.”

  “That makes him unlucky, not a target.”

  The elevator doors opened and two smart suited young men stepped in. Ingrid made sure to drop her voice. “If it was the soap, then we have to assume the toxin was absorbed through the skin. Maybe that might speed up the process of identifying it.”

  “We’ll hopefully find out more after the autopsy.” Mbeke looked at the two men, obviously uncomfortable about discussing the case. He remained silent until the elevator doors opened again and they exited. “If it was in the soap, anyone could have been affected. Surely there would have been more casualties.”

  “Maybe not.” Ingrid braced herself to ask an awkward question. “Tell me—and I really need you to answer honestly—do you wash your hands, with soap and all, every time you use the bathroom?”

  Mbeke shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Maybe not every time.”

  “Wennstein complained about tingling in his fingers after he went for a crap. I’m supposing he washed his hands. The maintenance guy would have gotten pretty dirty hands pulling apart a hand drier and reassembling it, so he must have used plenty of soap to clean up afterward.”

  “And Fuller? What possible reason would he have for being so meticulous about his hand hygiene?”

  “That I haven’t worked out yet.”

  “So either the hand drier engineer was the intended victim, or Fisher Krupps was targeted.”

  “Why remove the soap if someone wanted to do as much damage as possible?” Ingrid felt as if they were chasing around in circles, getting nowhere. “I guess you should look into the background of the maintenance guy. I feel bad calling him that all the time, what’s his name?”

  “Colin Stewart.”

  “So—a full profile of Stewart might help.”

  “I’ll get one of the DCs onto it.”

  The elevator finally reached the lower ground floor. Ingrid followed Mbeke down a maze of corridors to a dimly lit room full of TV monitors, a different image of part of the building on each one. A uniformed guard was showing a plain clothes detective some footage.

  “How’s it going, Craig?” Mbeke asked the cop.

  “Not sure we’ve got anythi
ng worthwhile yet.”

  “Can we take a look at the elevator footage between 10.20 and 10.50 a.m.?” Ingrid asked.

  Rather than answering her, both the security guard and the detective looked at Mbeke for approval.

  “In your own time,” Mbeke said.

  Within five minutes the appropriate footage was lined up on the monitor. The image was split in two—the left side showing footage for ‘elevator north’ and the right side displaying what was captured in ‘elevator south’. All four of them crowded around the screen as the guard ran the recordings at eight times normal speed.

  “Stop it there!” Ingrid said, after she saw a figure appear dressed in dark pants and the same color long-sleeved green tee shirt Patience Toure had been wearing, a baseball cap pulled low over his face. The still image on the left hand side of the screen clearly showed a bag shoved under the man’s arm.

  “Ten thirty-seven,” the young constable read from the screen.

  “Dammit—I might have been able to stop him.” Ingrid shook her head. “You think it’s Hernandez?”

  Mbeke peered at the screen and shrugged.

  “Outside agency staff are issued with temporary security passes,” the guard told them. “So that means we don’t have a photograph of him on the system.”

  “You can’t see his face, anyway,” Craig said.

  “But it’s enough to keep his place under surveillance?” Ingrid turned to Mbeke. He had already pulled out his cell phone.

  “Just about to get that organized,” he told her.

  It seemed Miguel Hernandez had just switched from being a potential witness to a possible suspect.

  10

  Ingrid ducked out of the way, narrowly avoiding a group of three tottering women who had burst through the door of the tequila bar. She checked her watch. It was already a quarter after nine. Her friend was late, as usual. If Detective Inspector Natasha McKittrick didn’t turn up in the next ten minutes, Ingrid would head for the Tube at Old Street. She’d already worked out her route: Northern Line to King’s Cross then Circle or Metropolitan to Baker Street. Her hotel was five minutes away from Baker Street Tube. She moved a little further away from the door and, to keep her mind occupied, replayed the events of her day.