by Eva Hudson
“This is Andy Scott.” His voice was unusually gravelly. “From the Department of Justice.”
“Thank you so much for returning my call, Sir. Much appreciated. I was hoping I could come and see you.” She ran a hand through her hair.
“What’s it about?”
“I’d like to talk to you about your work as the FBI liaison officer, when you worked for the Met.”
Scott didn’t reply. Between the static on the line and the wind through the trees, Ingrid wasn’t entirely sure they hadn’t been cut off.
“You know that I’m now in government?”
“Yes, I do. I’d be very grateful if you could spare me ten minutes. At your convenience, of course.”
Fitzpatrick paced around her, crunching the dry leaves as she waited for Scott to answer.
“I’ve got the Commonwealth conference next week. This isn’t a good time.”
Ingrid turned away from Fitzpatrick. “I only need ten minutes.” She took a deep breath. “It’s about Dennis Mulroony.”
After another lengthy silence, Scott spoke. “Yes, I thought it might be.” He sighed. “My office, Wednesday, two p.m. I have ten minutes.” Before Ingrid could say thank you, he added: “Don’t be late.”
15
Ingrid waited patiently and let everyone else go before her. She held a slim mint green book in her hand.
“Who would you like it dedicated to?” Daisy Steiner looked up from the desk and her face instantly broadened with a huge smile. “Oh, it’s you. I didn’t know you were here.” She looked around the bookstore, as if expecting someone else. “Have you been here the whole time?”
“I was hoping I could buy you dinner,” Ingrid said.
“A date?” Daisy asked.
“Sadly not. Strictly business.” Ingrid nodded at the book. “To Kathleen, please. With a K. Do you have plans?”
“Only to make sure I don’t miss the last train back to Suffolk.”
“What time is that?”
“Stupidly early. Ten to eleven. Can you hang around? There’s a café on the top floor.”
Ingrid took her signed copy and headed for the elevator. A few of Steiner’s diehard fans clustered around her, suddenly able to ask questions they had been too embarrassed to put to her during the Q&A session. A young woman from her publisher also needed her attention, as did the store’s events manager. Ingrid didn’t expect Daisy to get away any time soon.
Ingrid flipped idly through the pages as she rode the elevator. She wasn’t sure if sending Kathleen a crime novel to distract her from the trial was a good idea. There had been no point in asking Daisy to write a dedication to Svetlana. Her mother didn’t even read the health warnings on cigarette packs. Ingrid couldn’t remember Svetlana consulting so much as a recipe book. Perhaps it was because Ingrid had grown up in a house without books, that libraries and bookstores intimidated her. An anxiety that everyone else in the building was smarter than she was would always squat defiantly in a dimly lit corner of her psyche.
The elevator doors dinged open and the smell of coffee filled her nostrils. Bookstores had changed a hell of a lot since she was a kid. For starters they were open until nine at night, and this one was more like a department store, or even an entire mall. Floor after floor of books, brightly colored stationery supplies and gifts, sections on everything from atheism to Zionism, topped by the obligatory café. Along one wall of the café were six cubicles with computers. She presumed they were prevented from accessing Amazon.
Ingrid bought a bottle of an overpriced elderflower concoction and took it to one of the computer desks. There was something she’d wanted to look up online, and after the disappearance of the file from the bureau’s database, she wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity to do so with a little anonymity.
First, she checked her phone. Still nothing from Sol. If he didn’t find her the name of someone to confide in soon, then she was just going to ignore his warning and involve DeWalt, or even go straight to Munsden, the Legat and chief of the FBI’s London operation. She still wasn’t quite sure what she should say to Munsden about the photos, but she’d uncovered enough for them to take the possibility of an active plot seriously.
The system required her to open an account, which she did using a Gmail address she had for just such tasks. Then she went into the settings and changed the keyboard preferences to Cyrillic, and finally she launched Yandex, the Russian search engine. Now she knew from Fitzpatrick that Mulroony had left London within days of Steiner’s suicide, she had a timeline to narrow down, and zero in, on his new life in Russia.
“Hi.”
Ingrid turned to see a twenty-something woman nervously clutching several copies of Daisy Steiner’s books.
“I, um, I er, I saw you talking to Daisy. Daisy Steiner, that is,” she held one of the books up to illustrate while simultaneously curtseying. “Is she, like, a friend of yours?” The woman wore a nose ring and shapeless tee shirt bearing the logo of the Harrogate Crime Writing Festival. Her long dark hair was scraped back into a ponytail. White scars crisscrossed the soft flesh of her lower arms.
Ingrid almost answered in the affirmative. It was a bit of a surprise to realize that Daisy felt like a friend. If they had met in different circumstances, perhaps they would have been friends. “No, no I’m not.”
The woman’s hip jutted out. Her head tipped to one side. “Oh.” She couldn’t hide her disappointment. She started edging away. “I thought I heard you making dinner arrangements. My mistake.”
Ingrid returned to the screen and began her search. She started with social media sites, but drew a blank on all of them. She checked public records, archives, residency documentation and blogs—both favorable and critical—about the FSB. She found nothing. Most defectors ended up in one of two places: the outskirts of Moscow in a modest residential neighborhood employed by the State, or the Black Sea where they were encouraged to drink themselves to an early grave. She found no trace of Dennis Mulroony in either location. It was very uncharacteristic of the FSB not to have trumpeted their diplomatic coup of recruiting an FBI agent. Normally there was a photo of the defector shaking hands with someone high up in the Kremlin, usually done in a cryptic way that sent a message to Washington. She checked the ex-pat community forums for resorts like Sochi and Anapa. Again, nothing. If he wasn’t in jail in the US, and he wasn’t in Russia, where the hell was he? Ingrid got out her phone and scrolled through her contacts. She was going to need some outside help. Her finger hovered over the name of Nick Angelis. A name that made her shudder.
She had been meaning to go and visit Nick for a while. The two of them had a complicated history, but when it came to off-the-record Russian intel, she trusted Nick. He worked for a private security agency called Fortnum, which operated at the darker end of the intelligence spectrum.
Her feelings toward him had been awkward for some time—a botched assignment, a romantic misstep—but a new layer of discomfort was added the last time she’d seen him. He’d been visibly ill. A skeleton in clothes. But because she had been angry with him, she hadn’t asked him how he was. Although she hadn’t heard from him since, she felt sure that if he had actually died, she would have heard. Ingrid let out a sigh. She was a useless friend. She couldn’t even tell Natasha when she had lipstick on her teeth. She’d had enough therapy in her life to know why she was a rubbish friend—all roads led back to Megan—but that was no excuse for not overcoming her discomfort.
Just do it, for chrissakes.
Ingrid tapped out a message. You’ve been in my thoughts. Wondered if you’d like to catch up. She didn’t know how to end it. Love, Ingrid? No, that was wrong. Ingrid x.
Ingrid stared back at the computer screen. The only trace of Dennis Mulroony she’d found had been the news report of the man she assumed was his father donating his kidney. Ingrid changed the keyboard settings back to English and started searching for other Mulroonys in Cleveland who lived near the DuBois High School where Dennis Snr worked. A
few minutes later Ingrid found herself staring at a list of winners of Best in Show for the local dog obedience and agility contest. Patty Mulroony had won a rosette every year from 1998, but her streak ended in 2012. It didn’t seem implausible that the disappearance of her son from the face of the earth might have diminished her appetite for fun competitions.
“Shall we?”
Ingrid twisted round and blinked at Daisy Steiner. She had been so absorbed in her search she had forgotten where she was or what was supposed to be happening next. She swiveled back to the screen, then back to Daisy. “Give me two minutes?”
Ingrid carefully logged out of the system, removed her search history and cookies, and then finally deleted her account. Are you sure, the computer asked. Yes, I’m absolutely certain. Out on the street, they looked for a restaurant. “The only place I know round here is The Wolseley,” Ingrid said. The warm temperatures had encouraged drinkers and diners to stay out, and the sidewalk had a festival atmosphere.
“Isn’t that a bit fancy?” Daisy asked. “Wouldn’t we need a reservation?”
“I imagine they might have had a few cancelations with weather like this.”
“What we need,” Daisy said, “is one of those food trucks and a park bench.”
Ingrid imagined for a second how busy the food courts of Shoreditch and Bermondsey would be on a sultry Saturday night and shuddered. Perhaps she was readier for the settled home-owning life than she was prepared to admit. “I don’t think there’s anywhere like that round here. We could head into Soho. Or maybe grab a takeout and go to St. James’s Square?”
“Almost sounds romantic.”
Ingrid was starting to feel a little uncomfortable with how often Daisy brought up dating. The next time anything related to romance came up, Ingrid needed to make it clear she wasn’t interested. And even if she was, it would be deeply unprofessional.
“Gyoza? Noodles?” Ingrid asked.
“That’s quite a step down from The Wolseley, but sure.”
They walked down Piccadilly and chatted amiably about the book signing. Daisy was a little hyper, and Ingrid recalled those stories about rock stars coming off stage and needing to keep the buzz going with pills and liquor. Ingrid turned sharply, sensing someone was approaching them from behind. It was just a drunk who had lost his balance.
“You scared me there,” Daisy said. “You’re obviously trained to be alert.”
They nipped into a branch of Itsu, picked up some food and a couple of bottles of Asahi then took a back street to the square, where they found a bone-dry patch of grass. St. James’s Square was one of Mayfair’s more genteel open spaces, and it was spared the overflowing trash cans and Bluetooth speaker parties of the garden squares in Soho. Its tall trees and well-kept borders were more like the parks of Paris or Rome than London.
“Don’t suppose you’ve got a bottle opener, do you?” Daisy asked.
Ingrid gestured for her to hand over the beers and she popped the caps on the edge of a nearby bench. Something moved in the shrubbery, making her jump. She walked slowly back to Daisy and handed her a bottle. “We’ve got company,” Ingrid said. “Eleven o’clock. Don’t make it too obvious.”
Daisy stretched her arms behind her and arched her neck. “Who am I supposed to be looking at?”
“She’s about twenty-two, twenty-three. Long dark ponytail. She was at the book store. Now she’s in the bushes. A little overweight.”
“Is she wearing a tee shirt from Harrogate?” Daisy asked.
“You know her?”
“Ellen something-or-other. She says she’s my biggest fan.”
Ingrid took a pull on her bottle. “You’ve seen Misery, right? You know how that ends for the crime writer?”
“Oh, come on, she’s harmless.”
“Daisy, she’s hiding in the goddamn bushes.” Ingrid pulled a pair of wooden chopsticks from their paper sleeve. “I think she’s more stalker than fan.”
“Trust me, she’s harmless.”
Ingrid picked up a gyoza and took a bite. “You should take it more seriously.”
“Well, so long as I’ve got an FBI agent with me I feel pretty safe.” She raised her bottle. “Cheers.”
They clinked bottles.
“So, I’m guessing you have more questions about my father?”
Ingrid filled Daisy in on her meeting with Fitzpatrick. “You said when I came to the farm that you thought I was about to tell you your father had been murdered.” Ingrid paused to make sure she wasn’t going too fast. “Until I turned up, were you happy with the verdict of suicide?”
Daisy delved around in a cardboard bucket of noodles with her chopsticks. She was in no hurry to answer. She eventually lifted out a piece of tofu and popped it in her mouth and chewed. “I wasn’t unaware of the speculation he was murdered, if that’s what you’re asking.” She rolled her lips over her teeth. “But if he was going to kill himself, using the pistol made sense.”
Ingrid noted she had also failed to call it a revolver. “And was the gun his?”
“It certainly could have been. It’s the sort of thing he might have had tucked behind the books on his shelves. I think he’d have quite liked possessing something illegal, something potent.” She paused. “He had a flair for the dramatic.” After stirring her noodles, she asked: “Is that why you wanted to talk again? Do you still think he killed himself?”
Ingrid downed another mouthful of beer. “Until I have a motivation for why someone wanted to kill him, then suicide remains the most likely option. But,” she paused, taking a moment to consider the wisdom of revealing more, “the fact that a far-right specialist knew enough about the Russians to be asked to give evidence to the Hawking Review does concern me. Do you know why your father was testifying? Do you know what he knew about the murder of Dmitri Andropov?”
Daisy Steiner took a long sip of her beer, then placed the bottle down carefully on the uneven grass. “I don’t think he knew very much about the murder itself.”
“I sense a ‘but’,” Ingrid said.
“But I think he had a decent idea about why Andropov’s killer was never found.”
“Go on.”
A commotion erupted behind them. They both turned to see a man with his hands raised, walking backwards. “You’re a fucking nutter, aren’t you?” The man’s fly was undone.
“Jesus, it’s her, isn’t it?” Daisy said.
“Stay here. Get your phone out. Don’t hesitate to call 999.”
Ingrid scrambled to her feet and ran over to the man. “She’s got a knife,” he said.
Ingrid looked down at his open fly. “I was only taking a slash. Oh, fuck, it’s not what it looks like.” He zipped himself up and started to run. “It really isn’t how it looks. I swear.”
For the first time in her career, Ingrid didn’t run after the man emerging from the bushes with his pants undone. She walked toward the shrubbery.
“Come out,” she said. “Slowly.”
There was no answer. Ingrid took a step toward the bush. The shadows were inky and dark in the twilight. Going any further was unwise.
“It’s in your best interests to come out now, but come out slowly.”
A rustling noise came from behind the foliage. “I thought he was going to rape me,” Ellen said. “I’m the victim here!”
“Put the knife away and step out where I can see you.”
“Why should I do what you say? Who the hell are you, anyway?”
Ingrid inhaled slowly. She had no powers of arrest in the UK. No authority to detain. Ingrid glanced at Daisy, who was on the phone. “The police have been called.”
“Good! That man could have hurt me.”
Ingrid looked at the wet patch on the dry earth. She was fairly sure the man’s only crime was exercising his God-given right to urinate wherever he damn well pleased. “Then you’ve got nothing to fear from stepping out of those bushes.”
Ingrid heard movement. And then nothing. “Are you still there?�
�� Ingrid stepped forward, her hands parting the foliage. She couldn’t make anything out between the dark branches.
The blade glinted in the orange streetlight as Ellen’s fist burst through leaves. Ingrid flinched, then leaned forward, grabbing the girl’s wrist and twisting her arm upward.
“You’re hurting me.” Ellen’s voice was more of a yelp.
Ingrid gripped hard and dragged her through the bushes. “Drop the knife.” Ingrid kept her eyes on the blade. Ellen’s knuckles were white. “I told you to drop it.” She dragged Ellen’s arm down, turned her around and pressed her foot onto the girl’s calf, forcing her onto her knees. She let go of the blade, and Ingrid kicked it out of reach.
“Nicely done.”
Ingrid turned to see a uniformed police officer. She’d been so focused on the knife she hadn’t heard him approach.
“Shall I take over?” he asked.
“Be my guest.”
A second officer ran up to them. “Don’t go anywhere,” she said. “We’ll need to speak to you.”
Ingrid stepped back as they read Ellen her rights. The picnickers and sweethearts in the square stared at Ingrid as she rejoined an open-mouthed Daisy. “We need to make sure they detain her,” Ingrid said. “At the bookstore, she overheard us make dinner arrangements. That probably means she also knows you’re planning on getting the last train.”
Daisy was too shocked to speak.
“In fact, I think you should stay in London tonight.”
Daisy stared at the police as they talked to Ellen. “I… I can’t,” she said, obviously distracted. “I need to feed the pigs in the morning. I’ve got to go.” She looked at Ingrid. “Did she really have a knife?”
“Uh-huh.”
Daisy had turned sheet-white. “You might have just saved my life.”
“The man taking a piss did that.”
“I honestly thought she was harmless.”
Two hours later, Ingrid waited with Daisy at Liverpool Street station for her train to leave. The concourse was a seething mass of people who’d had a glass more than they intended swaying gently as they checked the departures board for the last train to the boondocks. Ingrid wasn’t letting Daisy board her train until the very last minute, when she could be sure that Ellen Methven wasn’t about to step on at the last moment. Daisy couldn’t believe there was a chance she could be processed so quickly, but all it would take was a big fight in Soho—not all that unlikely on a hot Saturday night—for the cops to let her go with a caution.