by Eva Hudson
Inspector Faulkner spread her fingers around her coffee cup. “There we have it. A perfectly healthy woman drops dead, and the postmortem shows no signs of foul play. Yet…”
Ingrid lifted her eyebrows. “Yet you’re treating it like a murder?”
“Correct.”
2
Detective Inspector Faulkner looked straight at Ingrid. “Do you think we’re looney tunes?”
Ingrid took a beat before shaking her head. “No, no, I don’t. As you say, after Litvinenko and Perepilichnyy—and we should add Berezovksy to the list. And Badri Patarkatsishvili, and Yuri Golubev—”
“We’re aware of the list,” Faulkner said. Her defensive tone meant she was sensitive to the criticism leveled at the Met for not investigating those deaths rigorously enough.
“You’re right, the untimely demise of a rich, high-profile Russian in London in unusual circumstances can’t be easily dismissed. But Yelena Rybkina doesn’t fit the pattern.”
Dr Pearson checked her watch. “Do you need me for anything else?”
“Could you stay for another ten just in case something comes up?” Faulkner asked.
The pathologist’s phone kept lighting up with incoming notifications.
“Go on, Ingrid.”
“Well, in the other cases, the men who died had grudges against the FSB or the SVR or the Kremlin.”
“SVR?” Cath asked.
“Their equivalent of the CIA. Or MI6. International stuff. FSB’s domestic,” Ingrid said.
DI Faulkner took the plastic lid off her coffee. “And it’s because of those cases we’re not taking the PM at face value. What I’d like your advice on, Agent Skyberg, is where I should direct our investigatory efforts. After Perepilichnyy, I need to be one hundred percent sure Yelena Rybkina died of an undetectable aneurism before I hand it over to the coroner.”
Ingrid shoved a hand into her pocket. “I don’t want to seem like a patronizing dick, I’m sure you know how to conduct an investigation, and I don’t want to step on Leopold’s toes.”
DI Faulkner leant forward. “Stamp on them.”
Ingrid was visibly taken aback, so the inspector elucidated.
“Supersmart guy… except when it comes to policing. Not an effing clue. Symbolism in Dostoyevsky, no problem. The impact of the 1917 revolution on agriculture, illuminating. Guiding our enquiries, forget it.”
Ingrid knew Leopold Novotny by reputation. As part of her research into oligarchs in London, she’d read several of his papers and watched his YouTube lectures. He was an academic at Loriners College, who, judging by his appearance of slicked-back hair and pin-striped suits, had probably been at school with members of the Cabinet and had a very high likelihood of being a Freemason. They had met once while she was undercover, which was why their paths could not cross while she was in civilian clothes.
“The commander won’t let me run this without a Russian expert, and sadly he’s the only one we have. Which is why I was so interested when Cath mentioned she knew you. So please, Agent Skyberg, we need your help. Whatever you know about Yelena Rybkina, tell us now.”
“Well, obviously you know about her husband?”
“Assume I’m an idiot.”
Ingrid nodded. “Igor Rybkin, a billionaire who made his fortune in open-cast mining. Said to be worth six billion.” Ingrid swallowed a mouthful of coffee. “They married eight or nine years ago, a second marriage for both of them, I believe, had homes all over the place, but mostly lived in a town house in Knightsbridge.”
“You think he’s alive?” Faulkner asked.
Dr Pearson checked her phone again. Someone really wanted to talk to her.
Ingrid’s forefinger circled the rim of her cup. “Honestly, if Igor Rybkin is still alive, I’d be surprised. No one disappears that successfully.” She made a point of looking directly at DI Faulkner. “None of my contacts believe he’s been murdered. Personally, I think he killed himself. Jumped overboard from his yacht shortly after he disappeared. But that’s just my theory.”
“It’s more plausible than some I’ve heard.”
A gaggle of schoolgirls in gray uniforms and charcoal blazers swarmed noisily past them, heading for the Saatchi, accompanied by their teachers. Rich kids acquiring cultural capital to be combined with daddy’s fortune for future global dominance.
“What about her will?” Ingrid asked. “Didn’t she have a niece? Maybe it’s a financial motive?”
Cath and Faulkner both inhaled deeply.
“What?” Ingrid asked, intrigued.
“Her will hadn’t been updated since her husband’s disappearance: everything was left to him,” Faulkner said. “Though, of course, most of it was his anyway.”
“Which means the man no one has seen for two years is our prime suspect,” Cath added.
Ingrid racked her brains for other potential leads. “What about contacts from her hostess days?”
“Or nights,” Cath added.
Dr Pearson held up her phone. “So. Look, I really have to take this. Can you email me? If you have questions?”
Cath raised a hand in farewell.
“You’ll let me know about the second PM?” Faulkner shouted after her as the pathologist marched toward Sloane Square.
“Of course.” Dr Pearson turned back. Her expression suggested the meeting really hadn’t been a good use of her time.
Faulkner turned her attention back to Ingrid. “You were saying?”
“You know Yelena Rybkina worked as a hostess?”
“Yes, at Tequila Sunrise.”
“I could probably answer this myself,” Ingrid said, “but any luck tracking down the people she worked with?”
Cath frowned. “Unsurprisingly no one remembers working there themselves, let alone her working there.”
“It was nine years ago,” DI Faulkner said. “I spent two years in Clubs and Vice, and gangland feuds are over and done with quickly. Besides, they’d have just shot her. Whoever killed her—if someone did—has used a method so sophisticated we can rule out local gangs, drug dealers or jealous boyfriends. If this really is a murder we’re investigating, we’re looking for someone conniving, calculating, and possibly even brilliant. What I’m hoping, Agent Skyberg, is you can provide us with a possible motive. Who are her associates? Who would take Yelena’s death as a warning? Who had she crossed?”
Ingrid ran her fingers through her hair. “Obviously you’ve already been through her bank statements and financial history—”
“For the accounts we can access,” Cath said. “And we’ve been through her phone records.”
“They didn’t flag anything up?”
“Nope,” Faulkner said, “as far as we can tell, she received half a million dollars a month from one of her husband’s accounts in the Cayman Islands—”
“A month?” Ingrid was surprised it was that much. She was also a little stunned that, two years after his disappearance, Rybkin’s funds were still paying out.
The three women stood in silence for a second as shoppers and tourists milled around them.
“And obviously—sorry, I really don’t want to tell you how to do your job—you’ve reconstructed her final day?”
They both nodded.
“Of course you have. So she didn’t stiff on her oyster bill at lunch or sit at some patriarch’s table at the Oriental?”
“Nope,” Cath said. “Last thing she did was get a pedicure a couple of streets down there on the right. The woman who served her got a fifty-pound tip.”
“You can’t fault her generosity.” Ingrid inhaled sharply. “Neither of you have mentioned the intelligence services. I’m guessing they’re all over this?”
The two detectives exchanged glances. “We’ve actually had surprisingly little interference,” Faulkner said.
“That’s not entirely true,” Cath corrected. “We have been assigned a liaison officer from SO15.”
“Counterterrorism command,” Faulkner added unnecessarily.
> “What about the spooks?”
Faulkner scrunched her lips. “Oh, I imagine they’re watching us, but they haven’t officially made contact.”
“Well,” Ingrid said, checking her watch, “that’s probably another sign Yelena Rybkina died of natural causes. If they suspected Kremlin involvement, you can bet you’d be getting some… oversight.”
“Have we taken up too much of your time, Agent?”
“Not at all, but I do have an appointment to get to.”
“Of course,” Faulkner said. “And we both have a case to investigate.” She produced a business card. “Obviously, if you do overhear any rumors about Rybkina…”
“Absolutely.” Ingrid took the card and noticed how alike Cath and her boss were. Both were short, wiry and angular, and if the age gap were wider, they could be mistaken for mother and daughter.
“Super. Thanks so much for swinging by.”
“Actually,” Ingrid said as the inspector walked away, “there is one person you might want to look into.”
“Oh yeah?” She turned back.
“We all know guilt can make people behave in strange ways. You know Serena Ivanova?”
“The wife of the guy who owns the Evening News?” Cath asked.
“Yes. I heard she’s planning a memorial for Rybkina. Thing is, I wasn’t aware of them being close. Might be nothing, but it did hit me as… odd.”
“We’ll look into it.”
The inspector said her goodbyes and left the two friends alone. “See you at soccer,” Ingrid said, turning to leave.
“Actually, there’s, um, something I’ve been meaning to tell you. Can I walk you to your bike?”
“Sounds ominous.”
Cath threw her empty Starbucks cup in a trash can.
“Cath?”
The detective sergeant shoved a hand in her pants pocket as if the words she was looking for were loose change. She scrunched her eyes up as she tried to form a sentence.
“Come on! What is it?”
They walked past a uniformed officer talking to a shop assistant on the threshold of a clothing boutique.
“For chrissakes! Tell me!”
Ingrid looked down at Cath, who actually seemed terrified. Ingrid feared what her friend was going to say. Did she need to borrow money? Was she ill?
“It’s Ralph,” Cath said without making eye contact.
“Ralph?” Ingrid could feel herself blushing. Still, after all this time. “What about him?”
Cath glanced up nervously. “You don’t need to look so scared.”
“Well, don’t sound so serious, then!” Ingrid’s voice was loud enough for passersby to stare.
“It’s just that—”
“Yes?”
“Well, I thought you might already know, but it seems you don’t.”
“Cath!”
Her friend started to walk ahead, so Ingrid grabbed her arm and made her face her. She stared at her.
“Christ, is that how you interrogate people? You just stare at them?”
“Don’t change the subject!”
Cath swallowed hard, then made eye contact. “He’s… Oh God, there’s no easy way to say this, but Ralph is getting married.”
It was like a small hard projectile had thumped straight into Ingrid’s sternum. “Oh.”
“Oh?”
Ingrid started walking. “That’s really nice.”
“You sound weird.”
Ingrid knew she did. “Yeah, well, I thought you were going to tell me he was ill or something.”
Cath followed a step behind. “You don’t mind?”
“Of course I don’t mind. A little surprised, perhaps.” She knew there was no reason for Ralph to have told her. They hadn’t spoken in over a year. Closer to two years. “But that’s nice. Really nice.” Nice? Why did she keep saying nice? It was not what someone who didn’t care whether or not Ralph Mills was engaged would say. Nice?
Cath tried to pull her most supportive face. “I figured you’d want to know.”
Ingrid pushed her shoulders back. “Thank you. This is my street.”
“Ride safe.” Cath patted Ingrid’s arm.
“See you tonight.”
Ingrid approached the bike, a Triumph Thunderbird with cobalt blue details, and fumbled her keys, dropping them as she opened the top box. Her hands were probably cold. A chilly October wind scurried dry leaves across the sidewalk. When she put the key in the ignition, she sat on the bike for a few moments before hitting the start button. Ingrid flipped down the visor but didn’t kick the bike into gear.
Why was she feeling like this? Because she still had feelings for Ralph? Or was it because Ralph getting married was another reminder that she wasn’t? She didn’t much like either explanation.
3
Ingrid was just putting her soccer kit on the front step so she could knock when the dark oak door opened.
“You’re late.”
Ingrid stood up straight. “Hi. Can I come in?”
Her therapist nodded. “Our appointment was at six.”
The smell of fried onions and garlic filled the hallway. Ingrid guessed the Ives household would be sitting down to spaghetti Bolognese later. She kicked the door shut behind her and followed Dr Ives into her front room. She checked the clock on the wall: it wasn’t yet five past.
“Took me a while to find somewhere to leave the bike.” Ingrid had been coming to Dr Ives’s house in Haringey for over a year, and she always worried about her Triumph getting stolen. As a precaution she had emptied the top box and left it unlocked. She dumped her soccer kit next to the helmet and took off her jacket and bag. “Shall I?”
“Please.” Dr Ives gestured toward the brown leather armchair her patients always sat in. She remained at her oak desk, illuminated by an art deco lamp. Ingrid sometimes wondered if her therapist had instructed an interior designer to recreate Freud’s library. It all seemed a little pretentious for a 1930s row house in a grubby district of north London. She wished the Bureau had sent her to a counsellor in a gleaming white Harley Street clinic without varnished prints of Stubbs’s horse paintings on the wall. She smiled to herself: two years ago she wouldn’t have had a clue who George Stubbs was.
Dr Ives looked at the clock, 6:06, then at Ingrid. “How have you been?”
Ingrid rubbed her cold hands together. She needed to start wearing silk liners inside her gloves. “Good, thanks.” Every session of theirs started the same way. I just found out my ex is getting married, but apart from that.
“And how has Natalya been?”
“Business is booming, thanks for asking.” Ingrid didn’t mean to be so petulant, but she resented being forced into therapy when she didn’t need or want it. However, it was protocol. All undercover agents had to have a confidential outlet, a repository of concerns and anxieties.
Dr Ives sighed and put her pen down. A fountain pen. Who uses a fountain pen anymore? “Perhaps you could tell me what you’ve been up to today? Shall we start there?”
Ingrid blew onto her hands and embarked on a reluctant monologue. A five-mile run. Breakfast in Starbucks. A few hours in the office.
“Whose office?” Dr Ives interrupted. “Yours or Natalya’s?”
“Oh, Natalya’s.”
“Interesting.” She made a note.
“Why?”
Dr Ives continued scribbling.
“Why?” Ingrid repeated.
“Hmm, well.” She pushed her horn-rimmed spectacles up onto the bridge of her nose. Ingrid wouldn’t be surprised if the lenses were plate glass. “A year ago, you would have told me you’d spent time in Natalya’s office. Now you simply say ‘the office.’”
Ingrid waited for her to continue, but she didn’t. “And you mention this because… because you think I’m becoming careless? That I can’t see where my life ends and Natalya’s work begins? Is that it?”
Dr Ives steepled her fingers and narrowed her eyes.
“What’s that look for?”<
br />
Dr Ives said nothing, leaving Ingrid to listen to the sound of footsteps and chair scrapes from upstairs. The doctor’s teenage children were confined to the upper floors while their mother had a client in the house.
“I see. You think I’m being hostile, don’t you? And, let me guess, I’m being hostile because deep in my inner recesses I know I’m being careless? Am I right?”
Dr Ives nodded. “You’ve clearly read Psychiatry for Dummies.”
And now she patronizes me? Ingrid was going to have to talk to her boss about how necessary these sessions really were, though she didn’t imagine the pompous ass would care what she thought. Ingrid decided to retaliate with silence.
“Let’s take a step back, shall we?” Dr Ives’s voice sounded deliberately soft. “Let’s go through the safeguards we established, the procedures, that ensure there is no blurring between your life and Natalya’s life. I think that would be helpful, don’t you?”
Ingrid hated the ‘don’t you,’ that verbal tool that coerced her into compliance. She nodded and began a fairly well-rehearsed spiel. The Bureau, she explained, had rented Natalya Vesnina—art broker to the oligarchs—an apartment in Mayfair, and whenever Ingrid arrived at the building, she did so on her motorcycle, parked in the undercroft parking lot, and rode in the service elevator to the ninth floor. She did not take off her helmet until she was inside the apartment. She then locked the door from the inside and slid the bolts across. She always showered. She then chose from her limited wardrobe of tailored designer dresses and applied makeup just as she had been taught to do.
Ingrid pictured herself in the small, opulently decorated apartment to which gala invites and catalogues for auctions were sent and where she had to sleep every now and then so the maid service would have something to clean. She saw herself sitting at the dressing table, fixing on false eyelashes and squeezing gold rings over her knuckles. It was always the gluing on of the crimson gel talons that finally made her feel like Natalya. The last move in this tightly choreographed routine was using the hair straighteners to transform her normally scruffy style into something sculpted and sleek. Ingrid thought of all the training she’d had over the years—firearms, fitness, negotiation, interrogation—and wondered how many other agents had needed hair and makeup lessons.