Look Twice (Ingrid Skyberg Book 8)

by Eva Hudson

  The projector screen behind the lecturer was a bulleted list of how to submit a Freedom of Information request, the UK’s equivalent of the FOIA, and Ingrid wondered if she might actually learn something. Ingrid speculated on how many of the students knew how formidable their new journalism instructor was. Angela Tate, the Fleet Street terrier, famed for not letting go of a story until the judiciary pried it out of her jaw with an injunction. Ingrid couldn’t begin to imagine how much Tate must hate being a tutor instead of pounding the streets in pursuit of rival-beating scoops. She was almost sure Tate had once told her teaching was for failures, losers and never-weres. This was not where Ingrid expected to find her.

  The downsizing of media budgets had meant no newspaper was prepared to pay for a reporter of Tate’s caliber, and in the past two years her byline had disappeared from the front pages. The last time their paths had crossed, Tate had been writing a book about Russian oligarchs living in London. She’d had something of a makeover since their previous encounter. The long frizzy hair was now collar length and expertly curled, and Ingrid couldn’t see any of her trademark leopard print anywhere on her person. She wore knee-high boots, culottes and a white shirt under a black sweater. She actually looked smart.

  At the end of the lecture, the theater emptied out and Ingrid walked slowly down the steps, catching Tate’s eye.

  “Well, well, well,” Tate said. “As I live and breathe.”

  “Hello, Angela.”

  A few of the remaining students turned to look.

  “Special Agent Ingrid Skyberg, everybody,” Tate said. “From the actual FBI.”

  “What have you done?” one of the students asked on her way out.

  Tate managed a half smile. “Knowing Agent Skyberg, I imagine it’s a case of what can I do for her.” She turned to Ingrid. “Am I right?”

  “Nice to see you again. Can you spare ten minutes?”

  Angela raised a finger, ducked her head outside the lower door, looked at something, then swung back inside the theater. “Take a seat. Nothing’s on the noticeboard until this evening. Bloody poetry slam, if you can believe it.” She rolled her eyes. “I’ll be right with you.”

  Angela dealt with queries from her students, and when the last of them had left, she came and sat in the front row with Ingrid. “Some of these kids are really good,” she said, almost as if she was anticipating Ingrid’s pity for her fall from grace. “They’re really going to cause the government some trouble when they get out of here. None of them will ever work in a newspaper office, of course, but they’ll raise hell working for Greenpeace or Bellingcat or the ICIJ.”

  “They couldn’t have a better teacher,” Ingrid said.

  Tate crossed her arms and her legs simultaneously. “We both know you’re not here to flatter me, so come on then, what do you need?”

  Ingrid leaned back against the seat. “Does the name David Steiner mean anything to you?”

  Tate’s forehead crinkled. “You mean the guy who ‘killed himself’?” she said, using air quotes.

  “So, you think he was murdered, then?”

  “God, if I could have proved that I would have run it.”

  “So, you looked into it?”

  “Yes indeedy. He’d interviewed me for his book, can’t remember what it was called now, so I’d spent a bit of time with him about a year, maybe two, before he died.” She waited for an interruption that didn’t come. “I liked the guy, and I felt he deserved to have his death properly investigated.” She inhaled slowly, narrowing her nostrils. “What the hell has this got to do with the FBI? He wasn’t an informer, was he?”

  Ingrid leaned forward, her elbows resting on her knees, her hands propping up her chin. “No. Or at least, not as far as I know.”

  Tate wrinkled her nose. “Why is an American law enforcement agency interested in a British far right specialist?”

  Ingrid couldn’t stop herself from smiling. “That’s kind of what I was hoping you could tell me.”

  Tate checked her watch. “I suppose you think it’s too early for a drink?”

  Ingrid glanced at the clock on the wall. A little after five p.m. “I am on duty.”

  “Come on.” Tate got to her feet. “You and I both know I work a little better when my brain is appropriately oiled.”

  Tate took her to a small, dark, empty pub with engraved glass windows and original oak paneling. Ingrid bought her a large gin and tonic and took it out into the small, shaded beer garden where Tate was still sitting in her sweater. It was ninety-odd degrees. Maybe she was part lizard.

  “What’s that?” Tate asked when Ingrid put down her own drink.

  “Passion fruit and guava,” Ingrid said, reading the label.

  “Rather you than me. I have a policy to never drink anything pink.” Tate raised her glass. “Cheers.”

  “Cheers.”

  Ingrid had never been sure if Tate was an ally or not. Her first responsibility was always to the story, and Ingrid knew that if she let anything slip, Tate would find a way of getting it into the papers.

  “In National Affront, Steiner talks about your reporting on a group called England for the English, and this was instrumental in bringing down the William King government because he was a clandestine supporter,” Ingrid said.

  “Something like that.”

  “Did you write a lot about neo-Nazis?”

  Tate drummed her fingers on the slatted wooden table. “Not as much as I should. It’s shocking how few of those sorts of stories got published. The readers didn’t care, so neither did the editors. If I’d been a young bloke, I could have shaved my head and embedded. Got a nice publishing deal for a memoir.” She took a long sip of her drink through a straw, her lips pursing into a tight spider’s web of lines.

  “What did you think of Steiner’s theory? That Russia was funding groups like EFE?”

  Tate leaned back. A smile stretched her lips. “Ah. That’s the connection. The good ole Russkies!”

  There was no fooling Tate.

  “And that’s something else you know about.”

  Tate’s eyebrows knitted together.

  “The last time I saw you, you were working on a book about Russians in London.”

  Tate looked surprised. “No I wasn’t. I haven’t seen you in two or three years.”

  Now it was Ingrid’s turn to smile. “Our paths crossed last year.”

  Tate wasn’t buying it. “I might be on the scrap heap of education, but I’m not bloody senile. I’m damn sure I’d remember that.”

  Ingrid hesitated before filling her in. “I was undercover. There would have been a big problem if you had recognized me.”

  Tate’s jaw dropped. “Where?”

  “A recital at the Albert Hall.”

  She rested her elbows on the table. “You are kidding me?”

  “Nope. But you had me very nervous. If you’d said anything it could have been serious. I mean, really serious. It could have gotten me killed.”

  Tate exhaled wearily. “Well bugger me. You know I hate missing out on a story.” She looked up at Ingrid. “I mean, obviously it’s great you’re still alive and everything, but I bloody wish you hadn’t told me that. I also wish you hadn’t reminded me about my book.”

  “I noticed it’s not in the stores.”

  “It’s been stuck in legal department limbo for four months. Publishers keep threatening not to publish.” She took another sip, then let out a not-so-delicate belch without making any attempt to disguise it. “In fairness to the legal beagles, if you are going to libel someone it’s probably better if they’re not a billionaire.”

  Ingrid checked the time.

  “You have somewhere to be?”

  “I do.”

  “Thought you were dressed a bit smart. Date?”

  Ingrid knew she was blushing. “No, it’s not like that. He’s married.”

  Tate swirled the melting ice in her glass. “Aw, sweet. You still trying to get away with the goody two shoes ac
t?” She tilted her glass. “I do believe I’m out of gin.”

  Ingrid bought her another, then returned the conversation to Steiner’s book. “So, the Russians and the far right? Was he on to something?”

  Ingrid’s phone rang. It was Zeke.

  “Be my guest,” Tate said.

  Ingrid answered and got to her feet. “What have you got for me?” She started pacing round the small courtyard beer garden.

  “Straight to the point,” Zeke said. “Very efficient.”

  “Sorry,” Ingrid said. “Do you want to do the how-are-you-I’m-fine routine every time we speak?”

  “Hey, not if you don’t. Is now a good time?”

  Ingrid glanced over at Tate. She hoped Angela couldn’t hear what Zeke was saying. “Sure. Shoot.”

  “Okay then, because I found something that is so exciting I think I might explode if I don’t tell someone. And the only person I can possibly tell is you.”

  Ingrid waited for him to continue. He sounded almost breathless.

  “I went through Hawking Review,” he said. “Well, the index. At first, I thought you were in it.”

  “Huh?”

  “I know, right? But, it was just the first three letters. Guess who is in the index?”

  Chills effervesced over her skin. “Skylark?” Her voice was tentative.

  “Boom. It’s a codename. For, get this, a Russian agent.” Zeke’s voice pitched between alarm and enthusiasm. “I’ve highlighted a passage in the report for you. It says that Skylark was a British spy, most likely inside the Met or MI5, who deliberately sabotaged the investigation into Andropov’s death. It was because of his interference that Andropov’s killer was able to flee the country.”

  That chimed with what Daisy had said on the platform at Liverpool Street. “Anything else?”

  “Yep, I think so. This links back to the book, National Affront. The report says that the Russians recruited Skylark by blackmailing him because he was a member of an organization called England—”

  “—For the English,” Ingrid finished his sentence and looked at Tate.

  “That means something to you?” Zeke asked.

  Ingrid chewed the inside of her cheek. “It’s starting to. You’ll leave the report on my desk?”

  “Will do.”

  Ingrid hung up and returned slowly to the table. Maybe Skylark wasn’t in the Met or MI5 Perhaps he was an FBI agent who worked closely with the Met. It made sense, didn’t it? Mulroony was Skylark.

  18

  Ingrid had expected to feel nervous. But not this nervous. She deliberately kept her arms away from her sides to reduce the amount she was sweating. Still, she reasoned, she’d probably perspire just as much even if she was meeting him in the dead of winter. She checked her watch. Nick Angelis was late.

  “Can I get you anything?” the waiter asked.

  She really wanted a drink. She knew Nick would either want to order cocktails or champagne, so starting the evening off with a lone glass of Sauvignon Blanc seemed a bit too unambitious. She looked again at the wine menu. “A bottle of Veuve Clicquot, please.” The waiter nodded, collected the menu and threaded his way through the tables toward the open-air bar. Ingrid couldn’t remember eating outside in short-sleeves at night in London before. The terrace of the Pantechnicon restaurant was the sort of place that would be swamped with reservation requests on a warm summer evening if more people knew about it. Restaurant critics had never been invited to review its Scandinavian-inspired food. It wasn’t listed on Google Maps, or in any travel guides. Its chef wasn’t a guest judge on a TV cookery program. And it most certainly did not allow its patrons to Instagram their food. It was a vast improvement on a Russian restaurant Nick had once taken her to in north London so he could keep an eye on a suspect. She looked around. On second thoughts, it was entirely possible Nick had one of the restaurant’s elegantly dressed patrons on a surveillance list.

  Ingrid had assumed the last time she saw Nick would be the last time she ever saw him. Not because she had been mad with him, though she had been—absolutely fuming—but because he had been so obviously ill. The firm, tanned, tattooed body she still occasionally pictured in moments of weakness had been made thin and pale either through disease, or its treatment. The swoop of his Elvis haircut had been felled by a buzz cut and his swagger had been replaced with a delicate shuffle. He had looked so ill she had assumed he was dying. However, acknowledging his illness would have indicated to him that she cared about him—she did, but she couldn’t possibly let him know—or that she wasn’t angry with him when she really, really was. So, to her lingering shame, she never asked what was wrong with him. That was only part of the reason she was so nervous.

  As she sat, nervously fiddling with her napkin, Ingrid wished it hadn’t been her need for a favor that had made her finally contact Nick. But when she had asked him about Mulroony, he had sounded more than happy to help. “Let me ask around,” he had said, trying to sound nonchalant, as if she had merely asked for a recommendation for a plumber. Ingrid knew Nick’s ego would mean his efforts to locate Mulroony inside Russia would have been anything other than casual. He did not like to be defeated. Which was a big part of the reason why things had always been so antagonistic with him. The attributes that repelled her––cocky, brash, egotistical, opinionated, reckless––she also found electric, a fact she wished was not the case. Her memories of the few nights they spent together still had the ability to make her catch her breath.

  “Your timing really couldn’t have been better.” The sound of his voice raised a shiver on her bare arms.

  She turned and stood. They kissed on the cheek, his new beard scratching her skin. She smiled at him. “Why is that?”

  “I’ll tell you in a moment, but for now I just want to look at you.” He held both her hands in his as if he was about to lead her in a dance. “A sight for very sore eyes, might I say.”

  Nick wore a pair of dress pants and a pale blue shirt open at the collar. His hair was still cropped close to his scalp, and his beard—so black it might have been dyed—was of the statement variety: long, sculpted, deliberate.

  “The beard is new,” she said, taking her seat.

  “It was one of the first things to grow back,” he said as he shuffled his chair under the table. “After the chemo.”

  Ah. So it was cancer. That much she had suspected. “And treatment is over?” What she wanted to ask, but was too much of a coward to, was if the treatment had been successful. Before Nick could answer, the waiter arrived with the champagne.

  “Didn’t I order the Veuve Clicquot?” she said.

  He was holding a bottle of Laurent-Perrier. “Mr. Angelis,” he said, “prefers the Laurent.”

  Ingrid felt heat lick her face. This was one of Nick’s ploys. An attempt to undermine her. To establish dominance. She wasn’t having it. “I prefer the Clicquot.”

  “Shall we have both?” Nick said, a twinkle dotted in his eye.

  “Bring the Clicquot, please.” Ingrid spoke firmly.

  The waiter checked with Nick, who gave him permission. She couldn’t believe they had barely sat down and they were already fighting—about champagne, of all things—but she needed Nick to know he wasn’t going to get away with his tricks any more.

  “To be honest, I can’t tell the difference.” Nick leaned in, his phony upper-class accent slipping for a moment to reveal his real background as the son of a kebab-shop owner somewhere in the London suburbs. “With you, I’d be happy with a warm beer and a packet of pork scratchings.”

  Ingrid had no idea what they were, but she was fairly sure she didn’t want to find out. “So,” she said, unsure what the next word out of her mouth would be. “You said my call was well timed?”

  He spread the white linen napkin across his lap. Before he could reply, the waiter returned with the champagne. He made a point of showing the bottle to Ingrid and not to Nick. He pulled off the gold foil, untwisted the wire cage, and eased the cork out of the n
eck with an efficient thwop. Nick and Ingrid watched as he poured their drinks into angular V-shaped flutes and then placed the bottle in a bucket of ice.

  “Shall we?” Nick asked, raising his glass.

  Ingrid picked up hers. “To long overdue reunions,” she said.

  “To fresh starts,” he added, before they clinked their glasses.

  “Fresh start?” Ingrid said. “You’re leaving Fortnum Security?” Fortnum’s was one of the best private security agencies in the world. Hired by corporations and governments to compile intelligence on rivals, and protect their strategic interests, it had a reputation for discretion and ruthlessness in equal measure.

  “No,” he said, squeezing an extra syllable out of the word. “I don’t think they’ll ever let me leave.”

  “Then what?” Ingrid put her glass on the table.

  “About three hours before you messaged, I took receipt of an envelope.” He took a long drink. “Divorce papers.”

  It took several seconds for Ingrid to properly register what he had said. “Nick, I’m so sorry.”

  He looked at his hands. “Thank you. I don’t suppose it was a surprise to anyone.”

  “Well, it’s a shock to me. You’ve only been married two years, two and a half.” Ingrid detected a moistening of his eyes. “The shock was that you got married in the first place, but I honestly figured that if you were taking the plunge, you were deeply, deeply serious about the commitment.”

  “Thank you,” he said again. “I was. It is not my decision.”

  “And to be going through this while dealing with…” her words stumbled. “With cancer. You’ve had a helluva time.”

  He looked uncharacteristically sheepish. “You can say that again.”

  Ingrid knew she had to say something. “And your treatment? It’s over?”

  “For the time being, yes. Testing every few months, checking the little buggers have been scared off.”