Look Twice (Ingrid Skyberg Book 8)

by Eva Hudson

  Before Ingrid could answer, Deputy Director Tariq Aziz from the National Crime Agency walked in. He smiled at Ingrid. “Right, apart from the fact we need aerial support next week, double the amount of ammunition, and a fleet of ambulances on standby, what else did we learn from that clusterfuck?”

  The debrief was lengthy and painful as unit after unit explained their decision-making. If that had been the actual raid, three smugglers and one bystander would be dead, one officer would have been shot in the chest and there would be a manhunt for the lone smuggler at large.

  “The Laussat docks in six days,” Aziz said as he summed up. “We have our work cut out for us, don’t we?”

  The sun was low in the sky by the time Ingrid sat astride her Ducati in the parking lot. She didn’t much feel like putting her head inside an insulated brain bucket, but she pulled the helmet over her ears anyway. If ever there was a day when she wished for a law that made wearing a motorcycle helmet optional, this was it.

  “Ingrid!” It was Ralph. He waved at her, then cantered across the parking lot, his long, spindly legs more awkward than Bambi’s “Sorry. Don’t want to hold you up. Just, well, you know that thing you were asking about?” He stood beside her. “New bike?”

  “Yes, it is. What do you think?”

  “It’s very… red.”

  “Well spotted.”

  “What happened to the curvy one? The blue one?”

  “It was in an accident.”

  His eyebrows raised. “You never said.”

  “I wasn’t riding.”

  “Oh.” He looked confused. “So. You know that thing you asked me about? About your predecessor and his handler?”

  Ingrid flipped up the visor so Ralph could see her eyes. “You found something out?” Her voice pitched up with intrigue.

  “More a case of remembering, cos I saw him on the news yesterday.”

  Now Ingrid was confused.

  “So,” Ralph said, sinking a hand into his jeans back pocket. “His handler was SO15, that much came back to me pretty quickly.”

  “Counter-terrorism?” She kept her voice low, unsure who was in earshot.

  “Yep. Well, the reason I was so cloak and dagger when you asked me all those years ago was because of who his handler was.” Ralph looked pretty pleased with himself. “I mean, no one actually told me this, but I’m almost certain I’ve worked out why they couldn’t say his name back then.”

  Ingrid had forgotten just how much Ralph liked to string out his stories. “Which was?”

  “Well, because it was Andy Scott.” He was beaming.

  “Should that name mean something to me?”

  Ralph looked disappointed. “Action Man? The Secretary of State for Justice?”

  It was too hot to be having a conversation in an insulated helmet. “Help me out here.”

  “He left the force in 2012 and won a by-election. He’s now a Tory MP. Ran on the ‘strong on law and order’ bollocks. Famously had an election leaflet with him in a boxing ring with his chest on display. Since then he’s had a meteoric rise and now he’s got a seat in the cabinet? Ringing any bells? Tipped to be a future Prime Minister.”

  “Ah.” The man on the BBC breakfast sofa. “He was Mulroony’s handler?”

  Ralph stood a little straighter, like a kindergarten kid about to receive a teacher’s gold star.

  “You sure?”

  “Ninety-nine percent.”

  If she hadn’t been wearing a helmet, she could have kissed him.

  14

  The man up ahead had to be a copper. Short-sleeved shirt, a belly that had consumed a few too many after-work beers, wide-legged stance. He surveyed the horizon like he was scanning a crowd for trouble.

  “DS Fitzpatrick?” Ingrid asked.

  He turned, and a smile stretched over his meaty face. “Agent Skyberg, I presume.”

  “I see why you suggested meeting here.” Ingrid gestured to the view.

  “As soon as you mentioned David Steiner, I thought it made sense to meet at the scene of the crime, just in case it was pertinent to your inquiries.” His smile contracted. “Not that there was a crime of, course.” He produced a handkerchief and dabbed the sweat off his forehead.

  “On a day like today, I’ll take any excuse to get outside.” Ingrid breathed in the sweet-smelling air and took in the view. The sun-bleached grass of Richmond Park stretched over the slope before them, bounded by a rim of broad-leafed trees punctuated at regular intervals by the triangular red roofs of the surrounding houses. Ingrid could just make out the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral, ten miles away in the center of London, through the milky haze. Maybe I could live out here?

  “Is this where you found him?” Ingrid sniffed. She didn’t suffer from hay fever, but the high pollen count was aggravating her eyes.

  “No, but it was easier to give you directions to the summit.” He nodded toward a wooded area. “He killed himself in there. Shall we?”

  The coroner’s report into David Steiner’s death had concluded he died by suicide. A single gunshot to the head. As Ingrid now knew that one of the last people to have spoken to Steiner was a Russian double agent, she had been through the report with a critical eye. She’d noted some inconsistencies, so had asked to meet an officer who had conducted the initial inquiry. DS Fitzpatrick had been a constable back in 2012 and had responded to the 999 call from a jogger who had discovered Steiner’s body.

  They entered the patch of woodland, and the temperature dropped from scorching to just about bearable. The wind ruffled the dense canopy of leaves, and the air smelled fresh. Ingrid inhaled deeply and sneezed.

  “Bless you. Everyone’s sneezing today. Not a day for a stakeout.”

  Ingrid gave him a smile.

  “Can you imagine?” he said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Months of careful planning ruined because a copper didn’t take their hay fever pills.”

  “I’d never thought of that. I’ll keep it in mind the next time I plan a sting operation.” Her thoughts honed in on the error-strewn training session the day before. What else hadn’t Operation Pinball anticipated?

  A path of dry, compacted mud curved between a carpet of crisp brown leaves and ground ivy on either side. The exuberant sounds of children climbing over fallen tree trunks, and the exasperation of their mother, rolled through the air. Fitzpatrick’s breathing was heavy: his days of running after perps were definitely behind him. Maybe he was older than he looked, the extra pounds filling out lines that would otherwise be present. He stepped off the track.

  “He was found just back here.”

  Fitzpatrick led Ingrid thirty or so yards from the path to a crater lined with a soft covering of rotting leaves. A massive tree must have fallen over in a storm, taking its entire root ball with it, to create a large, curved hollow.

  “He was there.” Fitzpatrick pointed to a fallen tree trunk wrapped in several years’ growth of moss. “Looked like he’d sat down for a kip. Apart from the fact half his head was missing.”

  Ingrid took in the scene. “And it was a jogger who found him? This far off the path?”

  “She was looking for somewhere to pee. That’s what she said.”

  Ingrid pressed her lips together as she mentally transferred what she’d read in the report to the space in front of her.

  “It’s always joggers, isn’t it,” Fitzpatrick said, filling the silence. “Or dog walkers. Though mostly it’s joggers that get killed and dog walkers that find the body.” He waited for her to say something. “Well, obviously, it’s the dogs that do the finding. Did you know their sense of smell is a hundred times more sensitive than a human’s?”

  Ingrid gave him a smile. “What time of day was he found?”

  “A little after five, I think. In the evening.”

  “Would it be light at five in March?”

  “Hmm.” He put both hands in his pockets and arched his back. “Depends if the clocks have gone forward or not. Though it’d be a bit gloomy in
the woods by then.”

  Ingrid positioned herself in the spot where Steiner’s body was found. “And he hadn’t been dead long, had he?”

  “Pathologist said two to three hours.”

  Ingrid scrunched up her face as she thought. “You’ve worked out of Richmond for at least five years, I’m guessing.”

  “Fifteen.”

  “And in your experience, how busy would this place be in the middle of the afternoon in early March?”

  Fitzpatrick scratched his chin. “Half decent weather? I’d say you’d have someone walking down that path a few times an hour. How many of them would venture this far from the path? Dunno. A few a day.” He paused. “Has this got something to do with Mulroony, then?”

  Ingrid had wondered how long it would take him to ask. She smiled at him. “What do you know about Mulroony?”

  He shrugged. “Not a lot. His business card was in Steiner’s pocket. It was the only card, by the way, it’s not like he had a pocket full of them.” His eyes narrowed. “Is it related?”

  Ingrid rubbed her nose. She wished she’d brought a Kleenex.

  “Did you speak to Mulroony?”

  He sucked his teeth. “Eventually, yeah. Seem to remember it was a right palaver to even get him on the phone. No chance of a face-to-face.” He paused. “He’d gone home to America. Redeployed. Steiner must have been one of his last meetings before getting on a plane.”

  Ingrid tilted her head. The FBI had obviously had an impostor take the call. “Did he say why they had a meeting?”

  Fitzpatrick shrugged. “Something bland about helping him with his inquiries. In the end it didn’t really matter because the coroner ruled Steiner had killed himself. Not that the verdict stopped the rumors.”

  “Rumors?”

  He studied her face. “Come on, you must have heard them?”

  “I didn’t move to London till later in the year, so I didn’t hear a thing.”

  A look of suspicion veiled his features. “Well, there was speculation, wasn’t there, that he’d been killed—”

  “Steiner or Mulroony?”

  Fitzpatrick looked surprised. “Steiner of course, on account of he had been about to give evidence to that inquiry.”

  Ingrid stood very still. “What inquiry?”

  “You really don’t know?”

  “No, but I’m getting the feeling I should.” Ingrid looked at him. “You found Steiner facing this way?”

  “Yes.”

  “Legs outstretched, torso leaning against the fallen tree?”

  “Correct.”

  “And you never found the bullet?”

  “Not for want of trying.”

  “Cartridge casing?”

  “No, not that either.” He moved toward her. “Which is probably why the conspiracy theorists moved in with their metal detectors after the SOCOs had finished up. Of course, if they had found anything they wouldn’t have told us. That would have proved he died here, rather than transporting the body here from somewhere else.”

  Ingrid inhaled sharply. “Who do they think killed him?”

  Fitzpatrick made air quotes. “The establishment.”

  “Ah. Well. Open and shut case.” Ingrid looked in the direction Steiner must have looked before he pulled the trigger. It wasn’t a bad final view. “Why would anyone want to silence a middle-ranking academic?”

  He dabbed the sweat from his forehead again. “I feel like a bloody canary.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Americans don’t use that phrase? ‘Singing like a canary?’”

  She smiled at him. “Not since the 1950s!”

  “Well, anyways, I feel like I’m doing a lot of talking.”

  “If it helps, you’re being really helpful. You mentioned an inquiry?”

  “The Hawking Inquiry.” His forehead furrowed. “No, the Hawking Review. One step down from an official inquiry.”

  Ingrid remembered the photo of Stephen Hawking in the Snappy Snaps wallet. “Stephen Hawking?”

  “Yep, the guy in the wheelchair.”

  Wow. Did he really just call one of the world’s greatest scientists ‘the guy in the wheelchair’? Her estimation of Fitzpatrick started to wobble on its axis. She didn’t know what to say. Yet again, Fitzpatrick chucked words into the conversational vacuum. “Judge Hawking,” he said. “A review of the Andropov case.”

  “Ah. Now that’s something I do know about.”

  “You do?”

  Dmitri Andropov was a former KGB spy who had been poisoned—almost certainly at the behest of the Kremlin—in a sauna at his local club. Someone had thrown something other than water on the coals.

  “Why would David Steiner be giving evidence to the Hawking Inquiry, sorry, Review? He was a far-right expert, wasn’t he?”

  “Yep.” Fitzpatrick looked at his shoes. “I’m not sure I have the answer to that. Are you going to tell me why we’re here?”

  Ingrid couldn’t keep stringing him along. “Sorry. I thought I’d said. One of Steiner’s books was found at a crime scene.” It was an approximation of the truth. “Looked like it had been deliberately planted. I’m just digging around, seeing if it’s significant.”

  Fitzpatrick looked confused. “What’s the crime?”

  Ingrid hadn’t anticipated that question. “Corruption,” she bluffed. “In Pittsburgh. Following up on behalf of the field office there.”

  He jutted out his jaw but said nothing.

  “You were saying something earlier,” Ingrid said, keen to change the subject, “about a conspiracy theory. That Steiner was murdered. Was that one of your lines of inquiry?”

  He sucked on his teeth and rocked back on his heels. “Obviously we had to rule it out, especially as he used a gun. And because it was tied to Hawking, we had a lot of… how shall I put this… oversight.”

  “Ah, yes. Makes sense.” He had made her remember that the Hawking Review wasn’t a review of Andropov’s activities in the UK, it had been a review into the Met’s handling of the murder inquiry and how his killers had been able to leave the country undetected. “I imagine you would have had to dot every i.”

  “You’re not wrong. Plus, we don’t get many people shooting themselves in the leafy suburbs. Rest assured, we turned over every pebble, not just the stones.”

  “Was the gun his?” Ingrid asked. The coroner’s report said the weapon had been made by Nagant, a manufacturer she had never heard of.

  He linked his hands behind his back and stretched. “It could have been. Old guns aren’t that uncommon, surprisingly enough. Lots left over from the war. Polish, mostly. Though I think this particular one was Belgian. Grandad comes home from the front with a souvenir and nobody knows about it till they clear the attic, that sort of thing.” He looked at her. “It wasn’t illegal then, so there was no register. With Steiner being a historian, it seemed entirely plausible he would have interviewed veterans from World War II. If it wasn’t his dad’s, it could easily have been a gift. Either way, untraceable. It had never been used in another crime.”

  “What about the ammunition?”

  He smiled broadly. “Yeah, that one foxed us right enough. No other bullets left in the chamber, and as we didn’t find the one that killed him, we never found out.”

  “Chamber?”

  “The bit that spins round. Like in the cowboy movies.”

  Ingrid wrinkled her brow. “It was a revolver?”

  “I guess.”

  “The report said it was a pistol.”

  Fitzpatrick was confused. “I realize you Yanks know more about guns than we do, but isn’t a revolver a type of pistol?”

  Ingrid nodded. “Yep, technically it is, but it’s quite a specific sort of pistol. Most people wouldn’t confuse the two.”

  “Most Americans,” he corrected.

  One of the children fell over and started screaming. Its sibling joined in. Ingrid glanced in the direction of their mother, wanting her to do or say something to make her kids shut up. Ing
rid liked the idea of having children, she just wasn’t so keen on the parenthood that went with it.

  “And no reports of gunshots?” Ingrid asked.

  “Nope. Or gas explosions,” he said. “You hear a loud bang round here, you assume it’s a car backfiring.”

  “Any CCTV show him on his way into the park?”

  “No. He only lived a few streets away. These days you might get lucky with dashcams and doorbells, but there was none of that in 2012.” He stared at his shoes. “Is this something to do with Mulroony, then?”

  Ingrid folded her arms. “Why are you asking?”

  Fitzpatrick kicked a stone with his shoe. “Copper’s hunch. Just thought it was weird that one day he’s interviewing Steiner and the next day he’s on a plane.”

  Her features softened. “Well, that’s the nature of this job. Liaison agents like me, like Mulroony, make inquiries on behalf of colleagues back home. So today I’m here with you. Tomorrow a Silicon Valley founder goes missing at St. Andrews and I’m shadowing the investigation in Scotland. The day after that I’m trawling through library archives in Portsmouth.” Ingrid needed to steer the conversation in a different direction. “Did Steiner leave a note?”

  “Not that we found. But according to his daughter he was worried he had… what’s it called? The shaking disease?”

  “Parkinson’s?”

  “That’s it. Apparently, he’d developed a tremor.”

  “Did he have a history of suicide attempts? Or mental illness?”

  Fitzpatrick pursed his lips. “Mental illness I’m not so sure about. Maybe not diagnosed, and definitely not treated, but a few of his colleagues thought he was depressed. His last book got slated.”

  “Colleagues?”

  “From the university. Birkbeck. In Bloomsbury.” He gave her a half smile. “I suppose you’d like me to give you their names?”

  She returned his half smile with one of her own. “You read my mind.” Her phone rang. A London number. “Do you mind?”

  “Be my guest.”

  Ingrid answered the call and stepped away from Fitzpatrick. “Special Agent Skyberg.”

  “Hold the line, please,” a woman’s voice said. “I have the minister for you.” There was a click on the line.