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

by Eva Hudson

  “You can open the shades now.”

  Light burst into the room as Ingrid stepped into the en-suite. A wet towel was on the floor. When she returned to the bedroom she saw an unlit neon sign on the wall that said NOT VACANT. She assumed that, when switched on, the NOT would flash. Ingrid didn’t want to make too many assumptions about the kind of woman who chooses to become a surrogate, but she’d be willing to bet a chunk of change this would be one of the nicest rooms Kate-Lynn Bowers had ever slept in: it was the sort of place you’d think twice about running away from.

  “What did she have with her when you picked her up at the airport?” Ingrid asked. “Did she bring a lot of stuff?”

  “Hardly anything. A small backpack, the kind of thing you take on a picnic not a transatlantic flight. I don’t think she even had a jacket.”

  “And yet she planned to stay until the baby was born?”

  “It doesn’t sound good, does it?”

  She didn’t want to agree with him, but it didn’t. “As far as you can tell, she’s taken all her possessions with her?”

  “Yes, it’s just a hanging rail in here, no walk-in closet. We didn’t want to encourage guests to outstay their welcome.”

  Ingrid inspected the sheets. They had definitely been slept in, so that probably put Kate-Lynn’s departure closer to 6am than 11pm. “You said she’d left her phone at the… I don’t know what to call it… the compound? The place she was staying at in Los Angeles.”

  Tom rubbed a hand over his stubble. “That’s why they were so concerned. Her phone, her wallet, they said everything was still in her room.”

  “Which begs the question of how she paid for her plane fare. Or rather who paid for it.” Ingrid crouched down and opened one of the bedside cabinets. It was empty apart from a stack of glossy magazines. “These are yours, I take it?”

  “We figured they were more likely to get read than a copy of the Bible.”

  She examined the newspaper on the floor. By the look of it, every page had been read and reread on Kate-Lynn’s long flight.

  “Should you be touching that?” Kerrison asked, the alarm raising his pitch slightly.

  Ingrid looked up and gave him a smile. “This isn’t a crime scene.”

  “It isn’t?”

  “I realize that’s how it must feel to you right now, but unless you think someone came in and took Kate-Lynn, this is just the room she slept in last night.” Ingrid picked up the newspaper. “Interesting.”

  “What is?”

  “It’s the Chicago Sun Times. Didn’t you say she was from Illinois?”

  “I think so.”

  “Guess she picked up a familiar paper when she boarded the plane.”

  The sound of footsteps thundered up the iron staircase. Moments later, Manuela was standing in the doorway with Truman Cooper’s damaged phone in her hand.

  “Mr Kerrison, it is Mr Duncan. He says he is sending someone. Right now.” There was just the slightest trace of emotion in her voice. She was human after all.

  “Have you told Truman?”

  “He is in the shower.”

  “Still?” Tom Kerrison planted a hand on one hip while the other held his head. “Well, when they get here, just don’t let them in, OK?”

  “OK.” Manuela backed away.

  “Don’t even answer the bell,” he shouted after her. Tom Kerrison turned to Ingrid who was still crouched beside the bed. “The producer,” he explained, “of Truman’s show. They’re filming the Christmas special and he’s kinda central to the big festive storyline.”

  Ingrid folded the newspaper and looked at the front page. It was the Labor Day edition: it was two days old. “He doesn’t seem like he’d be much use to the production today,” she said, a little distracted by the headlines about the White Sox and Mayor Emmanuel.

  “Oh, he’ll be all right in an hour or so. He gets angry quick, but he gets nice quick too.”

  Ingrid raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

  Tom Kerrison shrugged. “You really haven’t seen the best of him. He’s not always like this.” A tiny smile brightened his weathered face. “Come, I want to show you something.”

  He led Ingrid back out into the hallway and pointed at one of the other doors. “Open it.”

  Ingrid twisted the doorknob. The first thing she noticed was birdsong and as the door widened she saw the room was decorated like a jungle. Fake fronds descended from the ceiling, and she had to move huge plastic banana leaves to see further into the room. She could hear running water. “Is there a fountain in here?”

  “It’s a fish tank. You’ll come to it in a moment.”

  The room even smelt of wet foliage. She felt like Dorothy stepping out into a Technicolor Munchkinland. “This is incredible,” she said. Ahead of her was a crib made of lashed-together bamboo.

  “Truman did it all. By himself. He wanted to create an amazing bedroom for the baby.”

  “Well, he’s succeeded,” Ingrid said. She really couldn’t believe the attention to detail. Huge fabric butterflies and cute plastic frogs poked out from between the leaves. “He’s absolutely succeeded. It’s like being in an episode of Tarzan.”

  “Don’t say that. Truman will only want to get a chimpanzee.”

  She looked around the room in awe. There were cartons of diapers and formula stacked against a crate that was stenciled with the name of a fake shipping company. On a shelf was every parenting book written in the past half-century. They were prepared. She was about to say that the baby was very lucky but stopped herself: right now, the boy’s future was wildly uncertain.

  “I just wanted you to see he’s not always like, well, like he’s been today. He’s passionate, he’s creative, he’s actually very patient; he’ll be a wonderful father.”

  That instant, Truman Cooper burst into the room making Ingrid flinch. “It’s gone,” he said. “The fucking money’s gone.”

  11

  “What money?” Kerrison asked.

  “The cash I got out at Heathrow. She would have seen me put it in my jacket pocket.” Truman Cooper held up his jacket. “Five hundred pounds.”

  “Are you sure you didn’t put it somewhere?” Kerrison asked.

  “Damn sure. It went straight in this pocket and I never took it out.”

  Tom Kerrison turned to Ingrid. “Is this now a crime scene? Now is there something for you to investigate?”

  Ingrid shoved her hands in her pockets and bit her bottom lip. “I’m happy to call the local cops for you, but I am an FBI special agent and this isn’t a federal crime.”

  Truman Cooper pushed his wet hair out of his eyes and inhaled so deeply his chest expanded by several inches. He exhaled, and Ingrid prepared herself for a tirade of expletives. “An American citizen has just robbed another American citizen, isn’t that of interest to the embassy?” His emphasis on ‘embassy’ showed what he really meant was ‘ambassador’.

  It took Ingrid a second to realize she hadn’t been drenched in f-words. “Look, Mr Cooper, sir, I’ll do what I can for you, check some databases, but this is something for the Metropolitan Police though I doubt—”

  “I don’t want the cops involved,” Cooper said firmly.

  Ingrid stared at him. “Really? They could help.”

  “They could also leak something to the press. No cops, OK? I’m not having my son born in Holloway prison.”

  Ingrid nodded. “They probably wouldn’t do anything anyway. To be honest, the missing money is a good sign: it means Kate-Lynn can buy herself some food or a couple nights in a hotel.” She looked hard into his pale blue eyes. “It means she’s taking care of herself, and that means she’s taking care of your baby too.”

  Both men relaxed slightly, reassured by Ingrid’s analysis.

  “It’s only been a few hours. It’s entirely possible she’s still on LA time, got up, went for a walk and got lost. I know you’re anxious, but let’s stay positive,” Ingrid said. “I mean, if she has come to London to reassure herself
that you’re going to be good parents, she must have been thrilled when she saw this room.”

  For the first time, Ingrid saw Truman Cooper smile. “You like it?” he asked, boyishly.

  “Not half as much as your son will.” Ingrid walked over to the bamboo crib. “What did Kate-Lynn say about all of this?”

  “I think she was overwhelmed, to be honest,” Truman said, clearly proud of his work. “She absolutely loved the crib.”

  “I’m not surprised. This is really, really wonderful. It must have taken you ages.” She reached out and stroked a vivid orange flower dangling over the crib. “Where did you even get this stuff?”

  Truman Cooper put the emptied jacket over an arm, instantly striking a more relaxed pose. He gets nice quick too. “Most of it came from the set of a film I made earlier this year. Cheaper than shooting in an actual jungle.” He carried on talking but Ingrid didn’t hear what he said. She had peered into the crib and was staring at a bullet.

  What the hell?

  A bullet. A single, solitary bullet, lying on top of the brand-new mattress like a jewel in Tiffany’s window, or a tooth left out for the fairies. Ingrid felt a pressure in her sternum, forcing her heart to beat harder. Aluminum casing, lead nose. Her best guess was a .38 special. She glanced up at the two me: Tom was now holding Truman’s arm as he continued his story. All Ingrid could hear was the sound of blood pulsing through her ears. She could tell from their faces that they had no idea what was in the crib. She looked again at the bullet.

  This is Britain, not even the cops carry guns.

  The rushing sound in her ears became louder. Why would someone put a bullet in a crib? To warn someone. Kate-Lynn? Truman? Did someone mean them harm? Or the baby? Ingrid straightened herself up and found herself nodding to whatever it was Truman Cooper was saying. “Let’s go back downstairs,” she said, managing to keep any trace of alarm from her voice. “I’m assuming you have CCTV in the house?”

  Tom and Truman looked at each other. “Yes,” Tom said, “we have a camera at the front door.”

  “Is there s-some way I can take a look at the footage?” When she started to stutter, she knew she was stressed. She put her hands in her pockets in an attempt to steady herself.

  Tom shook his head. “I have no idea how it works.”

  “Manuela will know how to do it,” Truman said.

  “Let’s find out. If nothing else it should tell us what time she left this morning.”

  Truman puffed out his cheeks. “Why didn’t we think of that?”

  Ingrid followed the men down the stairs, her brain crunching through the gears and into overdrive.

  First question: was the bullet theirs or Kate-Lynn’s? If it was theirs, what kind of trouble was Kate-Lynn really in? No wonder they didn’t want the cops involved. But if it was Kate-Lynn’s, then how the hell did it make it through airport security? And what kind of message was she sending Truman and Tom? Was it a bargaining chip? Was she sliding a pawn across the board, making an opening move in a game of kidnap? Ingrid stopped on the next landing and called down to Tom.

  “You two sleep on this floor?”

  Tom looked up at her. “Yes.”

  “You both do?”

  “I don’t want to scare you honey, but we share the same bed.”

  “Just checking. People have all sorts of sleeping arrangements.”

  Tom climbed the stairs to join her. Below, Truman started shouting for Manuela.

  “Which is your room?” Ingrid asked. Tom looked alarmed. “It’s OK, I don’t have to go in it.”

  “That one.” He pointed to a room on the river side of the house.

  “So not underneath the room Kate-Lynn was staying in. You wouldn’t have heard her move around up there?”

  Tom kicked the wooden floor. “Beneath this is about a yard of brick. It’d take an atom bomb to hear anything.”

  Ingrid hadn’t heard anyone say the phrase ‘atom bomb’ in over a decade. “And no one else stayed here last night?”

  “Like who?”

  “I’m just trying to get all the facts. Does Manuela stay here?”

  “Good God, no! Not a chance. She lives somewhere on the other side of the river,” he said, pointing in the vague direction of south.

  “You have no live-in help?”

  “No.” Tom Kerrison managed to squeeze several syllables into his reply. “We have a housekeeper who comes in most days but no one lives with us. As you may have noticed, we value our privacy too much to want to share it.”

  When they walked down the stairs, their footsteps ricocheted off the cast-iron treads. “I take it you didn’t hear Kate-Lynn come down the stairs?”

  “I think,” Tom said, pausing for a moment outside the kitchen “we might have mentioned that. Do you want your coffee?”

  “Thanks.”

  “Keep going down as far as you can. I just need to find a tray.”

  Ingrid clanked down the iron stairs to the ground floor, then found a stone staircase at the back of the hallway that stretched down into the basement, the smell of chlorine wafting up to meet her.

  The corridor in the basement was narrow, claustrophobic. A doorway opened onto a long, thin, windowless room. At the far end, Manuela sat at a computer with Truman standing behind her. On one wall was an enormous flat-screen television showing Bloomberg on mute. Two couches covered in blankets, which in turn were covered in dog hairs, bordered a coffee table laden with magazines. At a quick glance, every single one of them featured Truman Cooper on the cover. Tom entered the room behind her, placing Truman’s coffee mug on the desk next to a paper cup and flattened bag covered in pastry flakes: evidently Manuela brought her breakfast in with her from home.

  “Come on!” Truman said through gritted teeth. “Come on!”

  “I am doing as fast as possible.” Manuela refused to be irritated by her boss’s impatience.

  “Come on!” he said again, picking up the coffee mug.

  “Here. It is here,” Manuela said and pushed back in the chair.

  The three of them stood behind Manuela looking at the monitor and watched a good-quality image of the inside of the front door.

  “What speed are you playing it at?” Ingrid asked.

  Manuela shrugged.

  “May I?”

  Manuela stood up to let Ingrid sit down. She picked up the mouse and clicked twice on an icon that doubled the playback speed. It didn’t make any difference to the image on screen: the lack of activity meant they were effectively looking at a photograph. Ingrid clicked the icon a third time.

  Just as the image started to lighten, there was movement. A figure flashed across the screen, the door opened for a millisecond and then they were back to watching a still image.

  “Go back!” Truman said.

  Ingrid clicked rewind, pressing play when the figure had reversed out of the shot. The four of them watched in silence as Kate-Lynn re-entered. The camera was facing the door: perfect for seeing who is arriving, not so good to study whoever is leaving.

  “Who made this coffee?” Truman’s voice was so loud it made Ingrid flinch. “Who made this fucking mug of shit?”

  “Honey?”

  “How many fucking times have I told you to use the filtered water?”

  Ingrid swiveled the seat and looked at the actor. He was quaking with rage. “Please, sir, just put the cup down. You don’t want it spilling on the computer.”

  Truman’s gaze was lasered onto Tom. You’d think he’d made the coffee with formaldehyde. Deliberately. “How many fucking times? How many?”

  Tom stared back, daring Truman to throw the mug at him.

  Ingrid stood up, pushed the chair back sharply and took the coffee from Truman’s grasp. She put the mug on the desk, gave the two men her best schoolmarm look of disapproval and then returned to the computer. Manuela’s expression had not changed throughout: an outburst from Truman was no more a significant event in her working life than signing for deliveries or making rest
aurant reservations. Ingrid didn’t know how she put up with it.

  “Shall we?” Ingrid said, pressing play on the footage.

  Kate-Lynn was wearing a floral summer dress and sandals. Her hair was pulled into a ponytail, and a small canvas backpack was slung over one shoulder. It didn’t look like it had much in it. Kate-Lynn stopped momentarily and turned, her face briefly visible, and bent down. She stood up, stretched a hand across her extended belly and reached for the door handle. Her left hand was clenched as if she was holding something. She tugged the handle with her right hand and stepped out into the weak early morning light and didn’t look back. The time code in the bottom right-hand corner of the screen said 05:14.

  “Rewind!” Truman shouted.

  They watched the footage again, this time in slow motion. Ingrid now noticed that Kate-Lynn’s hair was wet and remembered the towel on the en-suite floor. Generally, if someone is fleeing a violent situation—being confronted by a man with a loaded gun, for example—they don’t bother to take a shower before they run. She paused the footage at the moment where Kate-Lynn almost faces the camera.

  Her face was a little puffy-looking, which could either be pregnancy or air travel, or both, but there was something pinched about her features as if she’d spent her whole life scowling. Ingrid looked for a mole or a scar or some other distinguishing mark, but Kate-Lynn Bowers could best be described as plain. If Ingrid hadn’t known Kate-Lynn was twenty, based on looks alone she’d have put her age at fourteen. She reminded Ingrid of a fallow deer, caught in a hunter’s gunsights. Far, far too young to be pregnant.

  Ingrid thought of all the vulnerable girls she had worked with in VCAC. She thought of Megan and knew that the girl on the screen was someone else’s Megan. No matter what the protocol of this particular case, looking after young girls in trouble was why Ingrid had joined the FBI. She thought about the bullet in the crib. There was no way Ingrid could walk away from this, or from Kate-Lynn, now.