Final Offer

by Eva Hudson

  This is a little unexpected.

  Why? Did you not have a good time?

  Well I did… until your husband came home.

  Um, wrong date. I’m not married.

  This is Ingrid. From two nights ago.

  Boyfriend, then.

  Don’t have one of those either.

  Well, someone punched me in the face.

  Ice formed over her skin. The contents of her stomach threatened to make their way up her throat. She started to text back ‘I don’t understand’ but stopped herself. She was beginning to understand all too well.

  Tim, can I have your number?

  I think I can explain.

  Not interested. All that FBI garbage plus

  a thug for a husband. Not really my thing.

  Ingrid’s throat tightened. She dropped her phone into her lap and balled her hands into fists. Damn, damn, damn. She needed to make him talk to her. He had to understand she hadn’t lied about who she worked for. She remembered the profile Angela Tate had written about her.

  Please google me. Type in my name, Ingrid Skyberg, and read the first return. Then please call me on 07537 189789. There was a fire at my apartment two nights ago, and I think the man who punched you started it. Please, PLEASE google me and call me. I can explain.

  With any luck, he’d be reassured by the Evening News article and realize she wasn’t a liar. She desperately needed to speak to him, but she also knew she’d be put off by any guy who was arrogant enough to say ‘google me.’

  She waited for her phone to ring. And waited. Eventually her lasagna arrived, and the sumptuous smell of it softened something inside her, momentarily making her forget about Tim. “That looks amazing,” she said to her waiter.

  “Buon appetito!”

  She unfurled a knife and fork from their paper napkin. The unshaven man still hadn’t removed his overcoat. It was cold, she told herself. Lots of people sat in cafés in their coats in winter: they weren’t all concealing a weapon. He looked over at her, his lips curving into a leer.

  Ingrid put down her cutlery. Her appetite had been torpedoed by the notion her food had been tampered with. If an assassin can get a job as a pedicurist and put two poisonous spiders in a pair of stilettos, slipping something into a meal as it made its way to her table was hardly preposterous.

  But, she reminded herself, it was unlikely. No one had prior knowledge she would be taking lunch in this restaurant. The waiter would have said something if the man in the coat had touched her plate. No one had tampered with the salt and pepper shakers. She was being paranoid. The lasagna was safe. She stuck in a fork while maintaining eye contact with Mr Overcoat, daring him to make a move on her in such a public place. She took a bite.

  Damn, it tasted good. She savored the rich, soft sauce and told herself she needed to eat regular meals more often. Natalya’s phone illuminated with an incoming call. A New York number. Leo Marx. She needed to speak to him, but she couldn’t take the call with Mr Overcoat in close proximity, so she let the call go to voicemail. A taxi had proven a good soundproofed mobile office the day before. She tapped on the Ryde app on her phone and was about to summon a taxi when she had an idea.

  She scrolled through her history and found the journey she had taken with Tim from the bar to her apartment. She rubbed her mouth. Could the Ryde driver have seen something? If he had, she needed to talk to him. If she was really lucky, he might have noticed them being followed. She clicked on her ride history, found the driver’s profile and requested a pickup from Tariq with a 4.7 star rating.

  42

  Ingrid saw the Toyota Prius slow to a halt outside the restaurant. She didn’t ask for the check, she simply left a twenty-pound note on the table and walked out, hoping to take the man in the coat by surprise. He didn’t even look up from his gnocchi. He hadn’t been sent to kill her.

  She climbed into the rear of the taxi and greeted the driver. She didn’t recognize him, but the cardboard Egyptian flag swaying beneath the rearview mirror tore through the fog of her memories of the night of the fire: she was in the same car. The driver punched the destination she gave him into his satnav and pulled out in the glutinous London traffic. Ingrid peered out the window and made a note of the vehicle behind them—a dark gray VW Transporter van.

  Ingrid loosened the collar on her coat. The heat of embarrassment was already reddening her skin in anticipation of the humiliation to come. Better to get it over and done with. “Do you recognize me?” she asked, clicking the safety belt into place.

  He eyed her in the rearview mirror, then glanced at his satnav.

  “You don’t recognize me, do you?”

  He looked at her again in the mirror, checked the traffic wasn’t moving, then twisted round to face her. “Maybe,” he said, in heavily accented English. “I drive you before, yeah?”

  Ingrid flexed her fingers then gripped her knees. “Yes, the night before last.”

  He inched the car forward, then studied her again in the rearview mirror. There was no look of recognition.

  “It was late. I was… drunk.” She checked his stare for a glint of disapproval, but didn’t detect one. If you drive a taxi, you must see a lot of drunk people behaving badly in the back of your car. “You picked me up in Mayfair. Took me to Maida Vale. Sutherland Avenue. You remember now?”

  He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Maybe.”

  “I was with a man.” God, this was excruciating. “I’m pretty sure we asked you to stop to pick up some food?”

  He moved the car into a gap, eliciting a blast of someone else’s horn.

  “I’m not in a rush,” Ingrid said. Then she remembered he got paid by the mile not the minute. When he had barged his way into the neighboring lane, she tried again.

  “Do you recall that journey?” she asked. “You must have hundreds of fares a week, but it was only two days ago.”

  He dipped his head. “I remember.”

  He was embarrassed. Not a good sign. If he was bashful, then she should be mortified. She leaned forward, tugging against the safety belt. “Do you remember where we stopped to pick up food?”

  He looked surprised. It wasn’t the question he’d been expecting. “Edgware Road.”

  “McDonald’s?”

  The lights changed, and he thrust the car into gear and raced toward the fender of the SUV in front. “Next time,” he said when they were thwarted by a red light.

  “Was it a McDonald’s we stopped at?”

  “You don’t remember?”

  “I know, it’s terrible, no one should ever get that drunk. I hope we didn’t make a mess of your car.”

  A Honda Shadow zoomed between the two lanes of stationary traffic. She needed to get back on two wheels, but her bike key was probably somewhere in her apartment.

  “No mess. No McDonald’s. Kebab shop.”

  “Can you remember which one?”

  “Not the name, but I can take you there.”

  “That would be great. I can pay you cash if it’s too complicated to do it via the app.”

  He checked his mirror and indicated to change back into the original lane. “Why you want to go?”

  “I need to remember what happened that night.” Eye contact was unbearable, so she stared out at the drab, damp dullness of Buckingham Palace Road. “Do you remember who I was with?”

  “Sure.” He was reticent and reluctant to reveal too much.

  “Don’t be embarrassed. I’d rather you told me.”

  “He talked about Mohamed Salah.”

  Ingrid wrenched her attention from the street to her driver. “What? Who’s that?”

  He beamed. “Mohamed Salah. You do not know him?”

  She was reassured by his smile but still confused. “Should I have heard of him?”

  The lights changed again and he accelerated, getting them through the junction. “He is the world’s greatest football player. The greatest.”

  “Ah.” She had no idea.

  “And t
he greatest living Egyptian.”

  “I see.” She didn’t.

  He pointed at a sticker for Roma football club on his dashboard. “Genius. And, and this is more important, a wonderful human being. Believe me, one day he will be president of Egypt.”

  If Tim had indulged in the standard man-cabbie soccer banter, presumably he was a reasonable person who understood how to interact with the rest of the species. Which made it harder to understand why he hadn’t been in her bed when the fire brigade turned up, or why he hadn’t made contact since.

  “This may sound funny,” she said as the car made swift progress up toward Hyde Park Corner, “but were we followed that night? Did you notice a car behind us?”

  He thought for a moment, then answered, “No, nobody follow.”

  “And the man I was with…” She wasn’t sure how to phrase it. “Did he seem… nice?”

  “Don’t remember nothing bad.”

  Ingrid sat back. “Okay, thank you. And you’re taking me to this kebab place?”

  He glanced at his satnav then gave her a smile. “Seven minutes.”

  Ingrid checked over her shoulder. The gray VW Transporter was nowhere to be seen. As far as she could tell, she wasn’t being followed. She fished Natalya’s phone out and tapped to recall the most recent number. She didn’t like making calls in public, not without the eyelashes and the nails, but she couldn’t leave it any longer before returning Leo Marx’s call. She tapped his number.

  “Who’s this?” Marx said after several rings.

  “This is Natalya speaking.” She talked quietly to disguise the Russian accent from Tariq. “In London.”

  “Hang on.”

  The line went quiet. So quiet she thought they’d been cut off. Thirty seconds passed.

  “You still there?” he said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m coming to England to collect.”

  Ingrid felt dizzy. The car made it round Hyde Park Corner, but instead of turning east toward the embassy—her usual route—it sped north up Park Lane.

  “Well, um.” He had taken her by surprise. “That is good news. You have the money?”

  “If you have the Picasso.”

  “Yes, certainly. I can arrange for you to see it. I mean, it will take a couple of days—”

  “I’m flying into Blackbushe Airport the day after tomorrow, and if it’s legit, I will be taking it away with me.” He hung up.

  Stunned, she slumped back against the upholstery. What airport had he said? She needed to write it down before she forgot. She rummaged around in Rennie’s bag for a pen. She leaned forward. “Have you got a pen?” she said to the driver, who handed her one. “Thank you.”

  She googled Blackbushe. It was a private airfield about fifty miles west of London. The sort of place where the rich and famous could quietly slip in and out of the country, where the border officials boarded the plane rather than forcing you to shuffle through immigration with the plebs.

  Tariq killed the engine and turned to look at her. They were outside the kebab shop.

  “You sure that’s it?” she asked.

  “One hundred percent.”

  Ingrid unbuckled her safety belt. “Will you wait here for me? I won’t be long.”

  A sharp chill whipped into the car when she opened the door. It had started sleeting, and the wet sidewalk refracted a mosaic of illuminated shop signs. The traffic noise reverberated through her.

  She dodged a woman in a niqab pushing her twins in a stroller, and tried to avoid the cigarette smoke emanating from two men talking angrily in Arabic. The aroma of grilled meat curled through the air, encasing her in a welcoming lasso that drew her toward Efes Kebabs.

  She didn’t recognize the place. She had no recollection of having been there before. Yet the moment she stepped inside, a memory reared up from the void.

  “Yes, love,” the man behind the counter said.

  “I need a minute,” Ingrid said, making an effort to look at the plastic menu board above his head. She made way for someone else to order. She couldn’t think straight. She’d just eaten. She wasn’t hungry. She had no intention of ordering food, but she couldn’t leave. Somewhere deep in her brain, a memory was stirring.

  Next to the counter laden with opaque plastic bottles of ketchup and vinegar was the place where she knew—she just knew—despite the alcohol and the blackouts, she had first laid eyes on the man who was in the hospital. This was where she recognized him from.

  43

  The following morning, Ingrid arrived back at Belgravia police station at eight o’clock.

  “I’m here to see DS Cath Murray,” she said to the receptionist, “but before you tell her I’m here, could you point me toward the ladies’?” She had stopped saying ‘restroom’ at some time in the past year, but she couldn’t pinpoint when.

  She was directed down a corridor. Once inside the cubicle, she pulled out newly bought underwear from a Marks and Spencer bag. Wearing the same pair three days in a row was not sanctionable.

  Her phone buzzed. It was Jen.

  “Hi.”

  “Where are you?” Jen asked.

  “Belgravia police station. They’re questioning the hit-and-run driver again.”

  “You coming in today?”

  “Yes, absolutely.” Ingrid lowered the toilet lid and sat down. She unlaced her boots and pulled off her socks. She should have bought another pair of those too.

  “What are you doing, Ingrid?”

  Ingrid stepped out of her underwear and bit into the plastic tag on the new pair of panties. “Um…”

  “Never mind. Just thought you’d want to know you owe Abel some doughnuts.”

  Ingrid’s face warmed with a smile. “Really? He cracked the code?”

  “Yes, he did. And before you ask, I’ve charged it up and locked it in a drawer so Marshall can’t find it.” She paused. “I don’t think he realizes we have it.”

  “Let’s keep it that way.”

  Ingrid pulled on the new underwear, carefully avoiding brushing her damp feet against the material. “I’ve got this meeting with the Met; then I’ll be in. So an hour or two.”

  A flushing sound erupted from one of the other cubicles.

  “Where are you?”

  “Executive suite.”

  “Sounds like it. Laters.”

  They ended the call and Ingrid squeezed back into her jeans. She hoped no one would notice she was wearing the same clothes for a third day in a row. Sorting out her belongings had to be a priority. As did finding somewhere to live. She’d spent another night at Rennie’s hotel, figuring that, as it was under his name, so long as she hadn’t been followed to the hotel, it was a safe place to rest.

  Cath Murray was waiting for her in reception.

  “You look like shit.”

  “Thanks. Nice to see you too,” Ingrid said.

  Cath swiped her security card to open a set of double doors.

  “Tell me to mind my own business, but is everything all right?”

  Ingrid wasn’t sure how to answer.

  “You seem really edgy and, well…”

  “Has Natasha said something?”

  “McKittrick? No, I’ve not spoken to her since she left. I didn’t realize you were still in touch with her.”

  Ingrid stopped herself from saying Natasha was her best mate, but it was probably true. “Yeah, we still see each other.”

  “So there is something, then?” Cath said. “Also, your flies are undone.”

  “Oh.” They walked quickly down a sequence of corridors towards the interview suites. “It’s a long story, but the highlights include my apartment being set on fire and me being homeless. But other than that, I’m good.” She left out the fact that there was a man in hospital who had been sent to kill her.

  Cath stopped at the final door. “Mate. For real?”

  “Afraid so.”

  Cath’s thick eyebrows knitted into one. “You need a place to stay? Or does the FBI
deal with that?”

  Ingrid pushed against the door. “I’m in a hotel. It’s fine.”

  Cath swiped them into a different interview suite from the one they’d used the day before. The heating hadn’t been switched on and it was cold. There weren’t any urns with hot drinks. “See what happens when the DI isn’t around,” Cath said, playing with a panel of switches. “Hopefully that’s the right one and things will warm up pronto.”

  She turned on the screens, and images of the interview room appeared. She checked her watch. “Del Boy and Waring should bring him in any minute.”

  “No spooks today?”

  “Faulkner’s in a meeting with them right now.”

  Ingrid blew on her hands to warm them. “Faulkner tell you our buyer has been in touch?”

  “For the Picasso? Yeah.”

  “Flying into a private airport tomorrow.”

  “Almost sounds glamorous.”

  “I’d like to speak to Constable Dell about the preparations while I’m here.”

  “Sure, of course. Boss has probably set up a meeting anyway. What’s the plan? He lands a plane, gives you a suitcase of cash and flies off with one of the most expensive paintings in the world?”

  Ingrid shrugged. “Yup. I guess that’s about the size of it.”

  On the screen, a door opened into the interview room, and Del Boy ushered in Ratko Babić and his solicitor, a wiry woman with a close-cropped afro hairstyle and oversized glasses. Her skirt suit probably looked good on a mannequin in a store, but it was dowdy in real life. Babić hadn’t shaved and was in the same clothes he’d worn the day before. He gave the impression of a man who hadn’t slept.

  DC Dell went through the preliminary preamble for the recording then looked Babić in the eye. “So, Mr Babić. Since my colleagues interviewed you yesterday, we’ve followed up on a few things.” He took a piece of paper from his file and placed it in front of the suspect. “Do you recognize this?”