by Eva Hudson
McKittrick reached over to the nightstand and handed it to Ingrid.
“I put it on silent. And charged it.”
Ingrid looked down at the screen. Fifteen messages. She scrolled through the missed calls and texts. Jennifer, Sol, Ralph, Angelis, several numbers she didn’t recognize. She needed to shake the fog. She needed to think clearly.
“Natasha?” she said, not looking up from the screen. “Will you help me?”
“Sure, that’s why I’m here. Though if the nurses had called any later I might have had one too many. As it is, I think I’ve sobered up nicely. What do you need?”
Ingrid took a moment to consider if she should release the words that were forming in her mouth. “I need you to investigate something for me.”
“You do remember the bit about me being suspended, right? Cos we just mentioned it.”
Ingrid nodded. “Of course,” she said softly, “but this is something that I really, really don’t want the police to know about.” She raised her hand and showed McKittrick her palm. “This isn’t my blood.”
“Ingrid?” McKittrick leaned in, her voice dropped to a whisper. “What happened? What have you done?”
“That’s what I need you to find out. I’ve remembered what happened to me this afternoon, and I have to know if I… if I might have killed someone.” Her jaw started to tremble with the shock.
McKittrick reached out and placed her hand on top of Ingrid’s. “Tell me what I need to know.”
Ingrid relayed as much information as she could remember.
“Ingrid, you and I both know how hard it is to kill someone with a table knife.”
“I have blood on my hand. I broke the skin. I even remember—” She shuddered. “I remember the blade going in. And if he was OK, why didn’t his friend run after me?” Ingrid swallowed hard.
McKittrick took a deep breath. “Look around. Do you see him? This hospital is less than a mile from the Queen Mary. If he’d been stabbed, he’d be in here getting stitched up. You didn’t kill him. Not unless he just slowly oozes to death and keels over when his blood pressure finally drops too low.”
Ingrid stared at her.
“Sorry. No more attempts at humor. Maybe I’m still a bit drunk.”
Ingrid pushed the blanket back: she had to get out of there.
“What are you doing?”
“I have to go. I have to find the girl.”
“Who’s the girl?”
“This missing girl.”
“You’ve not mentioned a missing girl. I thought your current case was A-listers and mansions.”
“Same case,” Ingrid paused, taking a slow, deliberate breath. She grabbed her phone and swung her legs over the side of the gurney.
“What are you doing? You can use your phone in hospitals these days.”
“You can also use them in the back of a cab. Where are my other trousers?”
McKittrick reached down and picked a yellow Selfridges bag up from the floor. “I saw the price tag. One hundred and ninety-five pounds? Two pairs?”
“Thank God I did buy two.”
“Fair point. Just try not to throw up over this pair. I sponged the jacket down. It looks OK and mostly it just smells of new leather, so I think you’ve got away with it. Tiny scratch, no one will notice.”
McKittrick drew the cubicle curtain across and Ingrid got dressed, selecting a black sleeveless silk blouse to go with the trousers.
“Here,” McKittrick said, snapping off the price tag, “don’t want you to look like a shoplifter as well as a murderer.”
Ingrid glowered at her.
“Go easy on me, I probably just lost my job, and my pension, and you bring me to A&E, a place where a person with a habit like mine might get a little distracted with all the deliveries arriving from the pharmacy, so cut me some slack.”
Ingrid raised her blood-stained palm.
“OK, OK, no more jokes. And no more attempts at lame excuses. Guess it’s not a good time to ask again about your scar?”
“Not unless,” Ingrid said as she pulled up a boot, “you want to tell me about Marcus.”
McKittrick’s eyes widened, as did her mouth. “How did you… No, you’re right. We can both keep our secrets.”
Ingrid slowly got to her feet. “How do I look?”
“We’ll leave via the loo. You might want to look in a mirror. You’ve got a bit of…” McKittrick didn’t quite know what to say. She raised a finger to the corner of her mouth. “Just a bit… here and… here.”
“Some friend you are! You’ve let me lie here for four hours and not wiped the vomit off my face! Last night, I should tell you, for the record, I wiped vomit off your face.”
“You did?” McKittrick pulled the curtain back. “Oh, God, Ingrid. I am so sorry about that.”
“In a few days’ time, you and me are going to have a serious conversation about some of the other things you don’t remember about last night.” Ingrid took a few steps forward.
“Are you going to be OK?”
“I think so.”
Ingrid picked up her bag, checked she hadn’t left anything vital behind and stepped out into the corridor as McKittrick strode ahead. The young doctor appeared from another cubicle.
“Ah, you must be feeling better,” he said.
“Just visiting the restroom,” Ingrid said.
“I’ll pop back and see you in five,” he said.
Five minutes later, Ingrid was in the back of a cab scrolling through the messages on her phone. A reminder about the softball match from Jennifer, a slightly pathetic suggestion from Ralph that they don’t leave it too long and a laconic one from Nick Angelis that simply said ‘Beaufort Club’. She came to a number she didn’t recognize and tapped to read the message:
Tariq been thru CCTV footage like you asked. No pregnant lady. Cheers, Abdul (petrol station).
Ingrid’s brain was still a bit foggy. She couldn’t instantly recall who Abdul was. An image of an Asian man in a red quilted vest popped into her head… She smelt donuts… it was coming back to her: the gas station near Truman Cooper’s house.
Ingrid remembered seeing a bank of images from CCTV cameras looking out over the pumps to the street beyond, but as the cab crossed the river she couldn’t work out why this information was so important. Her instincts told her this was significant. She willed herself to work it out, to disperse the last remnants of the Rohypnol from her brain.
And then it came to her: if Kristyn wasn’t on the gas station’s CCTV footage, that meant she hadn’t walked past the premises. And that was the only route from Truman Cooper’s house to the DLR station. Ingrid slumped back against the taxi’s firm upholstery.
If Kristyn hadn’t gone to the station, then she hadn’t got on a train. Ingrid had simply paid the homeless girl £20 to name the first station that had come into her head. Kristyn had never gone to Vauxhall. Her only lead had turned to dust.
29
The cab pulled over to the curb. “This OK for you?” the driver asked.
Ingrid looked out the window. It definitely wasn’t Regent’s Park, but the illuminated displays of two ATM machines jogged her clogged and fuzzy brain.
“Great, yes.”
She grabbed her bag, and walked over to the ATMs, inserting her card into the one that looked slightly less vandalized. She punched in her PIN, and simultaneously called Sol.
“It’s the evening,” he said by way of greeting. “It’s Friday evening. Whatever it is, go home, enjoy your weekend.” In the background she could hear voices. It sounded like his daughters were visiting for the weekend.
“Sol, I need you to send my back-up request higher up the food chain.”
“Ah.” The reluctance in his voice was obvious, even over the road noise. “Even if I do, there’s still no one at the embassy who can assist. You know that.”
“Not even civilian staff?”
“Slow down, Ingrid. Let’s stay in the shallow end here. What’s the rush?”
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Ingrid took her cash from the machine and climbed back into the taxi. She mouthed ‘thank you’ to the driver in the rearview mirror. She hoped she was right about the London black cab drivers’ code of omertà.
“I just lost an entire afternoon. I got sideswiped, passed out, knocked out, woke up in the ER.”
“What the hell happened? Are you OK?” His tone sharpened with genuine concern.
“It’d take too long to explain, and yes, I seem to be OK, but I’m hours behind schedule. I’ve got less than forty-eight hours to find Kristyn and get her on a plane.”
“I thought the girl’s name was Kate-Lynn.”
“It was.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Something else that’d take too long to explain. I’ve only got forty-eight hours and I need help. Have I at least got my own assistant back?”
“Two days? For you, that’s plenty. You can do it.”
His positive reinforcement management spiel wasn’t what she needed. She took a deep breath. “Can I have your permission to go to Louden with this?”
“Really? You’re seriously asking to go over my head?”
“With your permission.”
Sol made a low moaning noise, somewhere between a grunt and a sigh. It was his ‘I’ve had enough of this sound’. “Look, Louden knows all about the Bowers case. She asked me to keep her up to date.”
That was odd. “Why is she taking an interest in it?”
“Didn’t say.”
“But she won’t give me bodies?”
“There aren’t any bodies, agent.”
“What about you?”
There was a long pause. “Give me a call in the morning, but tonight is sacrosanct.”
The Sabbath? Did he mean the Sabbath? He’d worked plenty of Friday nights before. Or had he? Maybe she just hadn’t noticed. The next person on her call list was Agent Dilner in the Chicago field office. He’d left two messages asking for an update.
“This is Agent Skyberg.”
“Finally. How’s it going over there?”
The taxi crawled up Charing Cross Road, navigating its way through the upheaval caused by the construction of a new underground railway.
“I don’t have anything for you, but I’m just gathering my team together now to go through all the leads, make sure we concentrate on the right areas. We’ve got forty-eight hours, give or take. We’ll find her.” She was inflating both the concept of what constituted a team and her confidence in the outcome. “Any progress on who killed Kate-Lynn?”
He sighed. “It was a hit, which means there’s no forensics and no witnesses with working mouths. Plus the decomposition probably means there’s some stuff we’ll never know. But I do have some information for you.”
“Go ahead.”
“One of Sutcliffe’s associates, a guy named Donaho.”
“Yes?”
“He’s on a watch list.”
“Yes?”
“And he boarded a flight at O’Hare last night. Want to have a guess at his destination?”
Ingrid felt the skin on her neck prickle. “London?”
“Full marks, agent.”
“You think it’s a coincidence? Has he been to London before?”
“That I don’t know. I imagine his international travel is usually to Colombia or Venezuela, if you know what I mean.”
The cab broke sharply. “Fucking idiot!”
Ingrid looked up to see a rickshaw driver shake his fist at the cab.
“You unlicensed, unqualified little piece of shit.” The driver opened the glass. “Sorry about my language, but these idiots… One day someone’s going to get killed.”
Ingrid nodded to him. A conversation about the growing menace of rickshaws in London wasn’t something she wanted to be drawn into. Still, at least it meant the driver wasn’t paying attention to what she was saying. “So, tell me what you do know about this Donaho.”
“Avery Donaho. Big guy, Irish, obviously with a name like Donaho. Last photo on file he has a ZZ Top beard, but every time we bring him he looks different—”
“He’s got a long rap sheet?”
Dilner paused. “Let’s see. Give me a second. His file is… right here. OK. Wow, that’s unexpected.”
“Agent?”
“He’s never been inside. Been arrested fourteen times, charged twice, stood trial once, acquitted.”
“What are the arrests for?”
“Assault, assault with a deadly weapon, attempted murder, murder. I can’t believe we’ve never been able to get this guy. Seems his get-out-of-jail card is that he actually has a gun license.”
“And the connection to Sutcliffe?”
“Cousin.”
“Well, at least he wouldn’t have got a gun through airport security. You think he’s after Kristyn?”
“I’d figure it was a distinct possibility.”
Ingrid shivered. No wonder the girl had disappeared. “Is there a faster route?” she asked the driver.
“Won’t be long. Which bit of Regent’s Park are you after?”
“Somewhere near the zoo, I think.” She hoped she’d remembered right.
“You’re going to the zoo?” Dilner asked. “I thought you were going into a meeting.”
“I am. First I just need to haul my team out of a softball match.”
“At the zoo?”
“The zoo is in the park. Like Central Park.”
“Ah, OK.”
Neither of them had time for small talk. “What else do I need to know about Donaho, apart from the beard?”
“You won’t miss him. He’s six feet five, weighs two-fifty, two-sixty, built like a linebacker. His nickname is Shoeless cos he has difficulty finding shoes that fit. He’s got, like, size twenty feet or something unheard of. Plus, you know, he likes his baseball.”
Ingrid’s heart thumped hard against her ribs. “What team does he support?” She didn’t need to hear what was coming next. She already knew who Shoeless Joe Jackson had played for.
“The White Sox.”
30
It was just after 7pm when Ingrid, Jennifer and Don made it back to the embassy. Their corner of the building was unusually quiet: the counter-intelligence and counter-terrorism offices were both empty, with only two assistants manning the bullpen, one of whom was taking a nap at her desk. Normally, the time difference meant there were agents in the office until at least the close of play Pacific Standard Time.
“Where is everyone?” Ingrid asked the solitary conscious assistant, a preppy charmer with family ties to both fortunes and favors.
“It’s Danny’s wedding tomorrow. They’re all taking him out for a drink. Plus, you know, there’s that softball game in the park,” he said, his attention instantly returning to the bank of TV screens streaming the major networks.
Ingrid wouldn’t have expected an invitation to join them, but still felt a little put out that she didn’t even know about the wedding. Could Svetlana really be the reason why she was so isolated in London?
Jennifer and Don were still in their sweatpants. Don managed to look even skinnier in casual clothes. It was possible his waist was so small he had to buy his pants in the boys’ section. When Ingrid had first run up to them in Regent’s Park they had cheered, assuming she’d come to hit a home run and seal victory over the French. Instead, she’d squared up to Simmons, told him to leave her assistant alone and insisted Jennifer and Don abandon the softball match and return to work. She got the impression they were both secretly pleased: not only had the US team been losing, but Ingrid’s insistence had made them seem vital to national interests and had probably elevated their status—and that of the criminal division—among their teammates.
“What’s first?” Jennifer asked, her freckled cheeks still a little flushed from exercise.
“First,” Ingrid said, “I think we send Don out for some food.” She fetched her wallet from her bag and handed him £30. “It’s going to be a long night.
”
He looked a little disappointed at the level of his task. “What do you want?”
“Jennifer? What are you in the mood for?”
“Pizza? McDonald’s?”
“Anything with fewer carbs?” Ingrid asked. She really couldn’t face the starches that made up the majority of Jennifer’s calorie intake.
“There’s a Greek place down toward Shepherd Market,” Don said. “Souvlaki, spinach pie, that kind of thing.”
“Sounds great,” Ingrid said. Jennifer was clearly disappointed. “Pick up a salad as well, will you?”
“Sure. Nice coat, by the way.”
“Thanks.”
When he had left the office, Jennifer turned to Ingrid. “You know, that is a nice coat. You actually went to the personal shopper and you totally bought something.” Ingrid looked at her sternly. “OK, I get it. No time for small talk, but you know, if you’d been here at least once today, we wouldn’t be in such a rush.”
Ingrid filled her in on her unplanned hiatus in the emergency room. It was clear the moment she mentioned getting roofied that it made Jennifer uncomfortable.
“How are you feeling now?” the assistant asked. All the brightness had gone from her voice.
“Not too bad.” Ingrid had a flash of the knife going into her assailant’s abdomen, and instantly felt nauseous. “If I don’t think about it,” she added.
“And you’re sure nothing…” Jennifer searched for the right words, clearly uneasy about broaching the subject with her boss.
“Nothing happened. Nothing like that.”
“Because, you know… at college… it happened a lot.”
Ingrid examined Jennifer’s features: was she expressing concern or confession? She couldn’t be sure. Ingrid laid a hand on the girl’s arm: nothing more needed to be said.
“I’m OK,” she reiterated. “Let’s get to work.”
“Let’s,” Jennifer agreed. “So the first thing you need to know is the email we got back from United about Kate-Lynn, sorry Kristyn’s, ticket.”