by Eva Hudson
“They’re an eight,” Christopher said.
“What? They can’t be.”
“A US size four.”
“A four, really?” She hadn’t been a size four since high school.
“Well, it suits you,” McKittrick said. “If I could find trousers that fitted me that well I’d buy a pair for every day of the week.”
You haven’t seen the price tag.
“So, a good start?” Christopher asked, knowing full well from Ingrid and McKittrick’s faces that he’d ticked the right boxes. “I have to say, selecting for someone of your proportions does make my job much easier. I imagine you could rock the proverbial potato sack.”
Ingrid pulled a face.
“That’s a compliment,” he reassured. “Now, I’ve brought a selection of tops for you to try on. I’ve avoided shirts—they’re lovely of course, make much more of a statement, but they wouldn’t survive five minutes under a leather jacket. So these are all mixed-fiber pieces that won’t crumple easily.” He handed Ingrid a gray tank.
“I can’t even work out which is the front,” she said, handing it back to him for guidance. He slipped it off the hanger and returned it to her facing the right way. She’d pulled off her tee before she’d considered the tattered state of her bra. For someone who used the showers at the embassy most days, the privacy of the cubicle seemed unnecessary.
“Oh my God,” McKittrick said, a little too loudly. Instantly, Ingrid knew her friend wasn’t alarmed at her less than glamorous underwear. “Is that what it looks like?”
Ingrid hurriedly pulled the tank on to cover up her scar. She adjusted the fabric and looked at her reflection. It was not something she would normally wear. It had a ruffle for Chrissakes.
“It’s the sort of thing,” Christopher explained, “that can go from daytime to night-time with the addition of accessories. I’ve brought some scarves and some—”
“You can stop right there, mister,” McKittrick said. “Asking Ingrid to accessorize is like asking a dolphin to climb a tree. It ain’t going to happen.” McKittrick widened her eyes at her. “Well I’m right, aren’t I? The only accessory I’ve ever seen you wear was your engagement ring, and that didn’t hang around for long.”
She had a point. Ingrid looked in the mirror. She wondered what Marshall would make of her spending $300 on a pair of pants. Just imagining his outrage all but sealed the deal. She was going to have them, and maybe the tank too.
“What else have you got on your rack?” she asked Christopher.
He handed her a black leather jacket. It wasn’t her usual style. It was longer, almost covering her buttocks, and belted, with a high collar that brushed her jaw.
“I look like a spy,” Ingrid said softly. She couldn’t quite believe she was looking at herself. She wanted two of everything.
“Obviously it doesn’t offer the same sort of protection a proper biker jacket would give you, but it’s well-made and, in and around the city, it’ll probably do the job.”
“Sounds like you ride,” Ingrid said.
“I have an absolutely gorgeous Aprilia Habana Custom. Just a 125cc.”
“Oh, but they’re beautiful bikes,” Ingrid said. “A blue one or a black one?”
“One of the blue ones.”
“A classic.” Christopher was growing on Ingrid. She turned to McKittrick: “What do you think?”
“I think Ralph Mills would go a little wobbly if he could see you now. You look amazing. Question is, how much does that ensemble come to?”
Ten minutes later, Ingrid handed over her credit card to purchase two pairs of the pants, the jacket, the boots and three of the tops Christopher had selected. She was more than a little surprised to discover that spending so much money on so few items of clothing didn’t feel reckless after all: it felt fabulous.
Christopher offered to find out if the in-store salon could fit her in for a haircut. It was a not-so-subtle way of saying her hair also needed an overhaul—just about his only indiscretion—but she had promised Natasha a drink and their next stop had to be a bar.
They found a quiet corner in a place just off Duke Street, and Ingrid gave McKittrick strict instructions to keep a close eye on her purchases while she went to the bar. McKittrick was drunk, but not incapable. When Ingrid returned to their table with a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and two glasses, McKittrick didn’t waste any time in getting the first question in.
“So, how did you get that bullet wound?”
20
Ingrid closed McKittrick’s bedroom door and walked through into her friend’s kitchen. It had been a long time since she’d had to take a drunken friend home—not since college—but Natasha had almost passed out in the wine bar, and so Ingrid called them a cab and gave the driver the address of McKittrick’s Kentish Town apartment. She figured she had a change of clothes in the yellow Selfridges bags, so she’d spend the night on McKittrick’s couch, make sure her friend got to her misconduct hearing in the morning and would then head straight to work from Kentish Town.
Ingrid had stayed at McKittrick’s before. A few months previously, Ingrid had been in hospital and the doctors wouldn’t discharge her unless she could be looked after by a responsible adult. Ingrid glanced at McKittrick’s bedroom door and wondered just how responsible the detective inspector really was. They’d been out drinking on several occasions, and many times they’d got drunk enough to be a little shamefaced the next morning, but Natasha had never collapsed like she’d done tonight.
Ingrid let the faucet run until the water was cold and filled a glass. She’d had nearly a bottle of wine herself, but it was only a little after ten, and with enough water she might be able to sober up enough to avert a hangover. She’d tried to get McKittrick to drink something non-alcoholic, but just getting her undressed and into bed was enough of a challenge. Her make-up would be all over her pillow in the morning: Ingrid wasn’t great at taking it off her own face, let alone someone else’s, especially when the someone else was incapable of cooperating.
The cell phone in Natasha’s bag started ringing again. She must have had six missed calls since they’d left the wine bar, so Ingrid delved into her friend’s purse and pulled out her phone. Marcus was calling. Who the heck was Marcus? McKittrick had never mentioned a Marcus. Ingrid swiped at the screen, but she didn’t have the knack of operating Natasha’s Samsung and the call went to voicemail. Before the screen died, it revealed she had five missed calls from Marcus, whoever the hell he was.
Ingrid sat down at the kitchen table and got out her own phone. She had twenty new emails, including one from Jennifer with the subject line: Kate-Lynn Bowers. She tapped to open it.
It contained the log-in details for the fake Facebook account in case she wanted to monitor it herself, as well as confirmation that none of the maternity units in central London had admitted a woman matching Kate-Lynn’s description. There was also a reminder that she had target practice at 8am. Damn. Ingrid had forgotten. Hopefully McKittrick would be capable of getting herself ready in the morning. Ingrid set an alarm to remind her to get to the firing range so she didn’t forget again.
She tapped the Facebook app but as soon as it opened she closed it down again. Megan’s funeral had sparked a lot of new communication between her old school mates, and just seeing some of their faces made her feel uncomfortable. She detested the fact that out of a list of familiar names, the one her eyes lasered in on was Clark Swanson’s. At least she wasn’t as drunk tonight as she had been when she’d gone to the motel with him. She opened Google and typed in Kate-Lynn’s name.
Natasha’s phone rang again. It was the mysterious but persistent Marcus.
“Natasha’s phone.”
“Who’s this?”
“Ingrid.”
“Ah, of course! The accent. Hi, this is Marcus.” He certainly seemed to know who she was. “Where’s Natasha?”
“She’s gone to bed. She wasn’t feeling well.”
“I’ve been a bit worrie
d about her for a while,” he said. Ingrid couldn’t make out his accent. Birmingham? Manchester? “I think she might need to see a doctor, see if she’s deficient in something, you know? Good that you’re there again. Are you there for long?”
“Um, just tonight. Can I give her a message?”
“Oh, the usual. Just tell her I love her and I’ll see her at the weekend.”
Ingrid was too stunned to speak for a second. “Right. Of course. I will.”
“Nice to talk to you, Ingrid. I’ve heard so much about you.”
“Nice to speak to you too.” Ingrid hung up and almost dropped the phone. Tell her that I love her? Is that really what he said? McKittrick had a boyfriend? A secret boyfriend? How come that had never been mentioned? Not even a hint. Ingrid looked down the hallway at the closed bedroom door. You sly old devil. She took a long drink of water and started to feel a little more sober. She put it down to shock.
Ingrid slipped McKittrick’s phone back into her shoulder bag and as she did so she noticed a blister pack of pills. Temazepam. An anxiety drug. As she dropped them back into McKittrick’s bag she saw another blister pack. Oxycodone.
Christ, Natasha, that’s what junkies use.
Ingrid wondered how she’d never noticed her friend had such a serious habit and scoured her memory for evidence. Natasha was moody, that was for sure, and there had been times when they had been working together on a murder investigation when she had even been hostile. Was that the drugs? Something lurched in Ingrid’s stomach: how many investigations might have been compromised?
She tapped her own phone back into life and instantly sobered up: the Google returns on her Kate-Lynn Bowers search included a news report from the Aurora Bugle. The headline read: ‘Boy, 2, Left Alone With Mother’s Body For 3 Days’. She tapped on the link, scanning the article as quickly as she could, looking for the reason why this awful case was linked to her investigation. The facts were as sparse as they were horrific. The victim had been shot in the head. Local police were working on the assumption the killer hadn’t known there was a toddler in the house. Then Ingrid came to relevant sentences. She had to reread them several times.
…Local police have named the victim as 20-year-old Auroran Kate-Lynn Bowers. Her son has been taken into protective custody…
How many twenty-year-old women called Kate-Lynn Bowers could there be from Aurora, Illinois? She zoomed in on the photo of the victim. She knew she wasn’t entirely sober, but she also knew she wasn’t drunk enough for her faculties to be completely unreliable. She was damn sure the woman who had been killed in Illinois three days ago looked just like the woman she’d seen on CCTV footage at Truman Cooper’s house that morning.
21
“Aurora Police Department.”
“Can you please put me through to the detective leading the Kate-Lynn Bowers enquiry?” Ingrid said.
“Please hold.”
Ingrid’s head was spinning, but not through alcohol. If Kate-Lynn Bowers had been dead for three days, who on earth was the woman who had spent last night at Truman Cooper’s house? An impostor with a cushion shoved up her dress? Were Cooper and Kerrison being targeted in an elaborate con?
“Detective Merrison, how can I help you?”
“I’d like to speak to the detective leading the Kate-Lynn Bowers investigation.”
“If you have relevant information, you can speak to me.”
“I’d really like to speak to the detective in charge.”
Detective Merrison inhaled audibly. “May I ask why you’re calling?”
Ingrid got to her feet and started pacing round McKittrick’s kitchen. “I’m Special Agent Ingrid Skyberg, I need to speak to the detective leading the investigation.”
Merrison took a beat before replying. “Ma’am, all due respect, but your call is registering as ‘international’.”
Dumb, obstructive local cop: the bane of a federal investigator’s career. “That’s because I work at the embassy in London. Will you please put me through to your superior, detective?”
The phone line went dead. Had Merrison hung up on her? She tapped her phone back into life and reread the Bugle piece again. There was a quote from a Sergeant Mavis Tillbrook. She was just about to hang up and redial and ask for the sergeant directly, when the phone line whirred back into life.
“Sergeant Tillbrook.” The woman sounded like she had inhaled helium.
“Good evening—”
“Good afternoon,” Tillbrook corrected.
Well, it’s evening here. Ingrid checked her temper, and her tone. “Good afternoon. I’m Special Agent Ingrid Skyberg, I work at the FBI’s Legal Attaché program at the embassy here in London.”
“Good afternoon, agent.”
“I need some more information about your investigation into the murder of Kate-Lynn Bowers.” Ingrid took a sip of water: her mouth was unexpectedly dry.
“May I ask why you’re interested? You’re an awful long way away.”
Ingrid took a deep breath. “I’m working on a misper. A Kate-Lynn Bowers, twenty years old, from Aurora, Illinois was reported missing here in London this morning.”
“Well, that can’t be—”
“I’ve seen the photo of the woman you found in Aurora,” Ingrid interrupted. She was keen for Sergeant Tillbrook to take the connection seriously. “And she looks just like the woman who was seen in London yesterday. Now either I can help your investigation, sergeant, or you can help mine, but I hope by the end of this conversation we’ll be helping each other.”
“Please hold the line.”
What? She put her on hold? How dare she. Ingrid punched the fridge, rattling the contents. Contents which sounded like a lot of bottles knocking into one another. She yanked open the door. Nestled between several bottles of wine were several smaller bottles of beer. She pulled one out. There was also a pot of hummus which suddenly seemed deeply appealing. In the vegetable crisper there was a bag of carrots. She pulled one out but it was bendy like silicone. She put it back and closed the door.
With the phone clamped between her ear and shoulder, Ingrid rummaged through Natasha’s drawers looking for a bottle opener. There was a noise coming from the bedroom: she had disturbed McKittrick. Ingrid slowed down her search, rolling over utensils as quietly as she could looking for an implement to open the beer.
“Agent?” Tillbrook’s squeaky voice came back on the line. “I’m at my desk now, how can I help you?”
So that’s why she’d been put on hold. Ingrid was rushing too quickly to judge people lately; it was something she needed to keep in check. She found a bottle opener and pried the metal cap off the Corona. She started exploring McKittrick’s cupboards, hoping to find some corn chips or pitta bread to dip into the hummus.
“What can you tell me about the victim?”
She heard a sound of a fingers tapping on a keyboard. “OK, let’s see what we have. Victim is Caucasian, five feet three, around one-twenty pounds. Long mid-brown hair, blue eyes, um…” more taps on the keyboard. “Several tattoos, mostly on her lower abdomen. Twenty years old.”
Ingrid took a swig from the bottle of beer. “Family? Lifestyle? What do you know about her?”
“She was a mom. Lived on welfare. Her apartment is in a block that is notorious round here. Dealers, hookers, cockroaches. I’m sure you know the kind of place.”
“Was she a hooker?”
“If she was, she’s never been arrested. None of the johns we spoke to knew her, so I’d say not. Doesn’t mean she wouldn’t give head to score a joint, you know what I mean.”
Ingrid found a stale loaf of bread in a cupboard. If she could toast it she was on her way to a half-decent midnight snack. She returned to the utensil drawer in search of a breadknife. “In the paper it said she’d been shot in the head.”
“Back of the neck, in actual fact.”
“Sounds like an execution.”
“It was. Face down, muzzle against her spine and boom.”
; “Face down? What about the baby?”
“Um,” Sergeant Tillbrook returned to her computer. “He’s been placed with local services—”
“No, not the toddler. The baby. Kate-Lynn Bowers is, or was, eight months pregnant. She couldn’t have been lying face down. And the baby couldn’t have survived inside her for three days.”
“Excuse me?”
Ingrid found a breadknife, inducing a small sensation of achievement. “Well, I wouldn’t be able to lie face down if I was eight months pregnant.”
“The victim wasn’t pregnant. I’m looking at the autopsy report. I mean, she wasn’t even a few weeks pregnant. No fetus.”
Ingrid didn’t know what to say.
“Agent?”
“Um…” Ingrid willed the cogs in her brain to turn. “Any other family?”
“I believe her mother’s dead. Father disappeared decades ago.”
Sergeant Tillbrook was painting a depressingly familiar picture. Pity welled up inside Ingrid: it’s why she’d worked in child protection for so long, to try to help young women to break cycles, to not live and die like Kate-Lynn Bowers. “You have a suspect?”
“Uh-huh. Latin Kings.”
“In Aurora?”
“People round here like to think we’re a city, but really we’re just a suburb of Chicago. Workers commute in, gangs commute out.”
“So the Kings are active in Aurora?”
“Not like they were, but a hit like this, killing a young mom, executing her, it’s got to be someone who’s killed before.”
Ingrid dropped a slice of bread into McKittrick’s toaster. “Who raised the alarm?”
There were more keyboard sounds as Tillbrook located the correct information. “Landlord looking for his rent. And you know why he called? He just wanted the place cleaned up so he could get another tenant.”