Flight Risk (An Ingrid Skyberg Mystery Book 7)

by Eva Hudson

  “I see,” Hayes said, though there was no way she could. “So, you returned to London on Friday and first thing on Monday morning you’re flying out again?”

  Ingrid saw no need to answer.

  “And I understand your daypack is your only luggage?”

  Ingrid sighed. “I just wanted to leave everything behind. You ever felt like that? Like you want to start over?”

  “Can’t say I have. Now,” Hayes said, “our colleagues visited your flat in Sutherland Avenue on Saturday, and again yesterday. Where have you been since you arrived in the UK, Miss Skyberg?”

  Ingrid stiffened. “Is that really relevant, sergeant?”

  Hayes’s eyes narrowed. “Answer the question, Ingrid.”

  Why did she keep refusing to call her ‘agent’? Ingrid inhaled hard. “I’ve been staying with a friend.”

  “And what’s her name?”

  “Tim.”

  “Tim what?”

  Ingrid closed her eyes. “McConnell. Or maybe McConnahey?”

  “You’ve stayed with a friend for three nights and you don’t know his surname?” Hayes jaw hung loose like a bulldog’s.

  “Correct.”

  The solicitor coughed.

  “What? I’m the only one that’s gone home with a date?”

  Berryman gave her a half smile.

  “Thank you. See, it’s not that unusual.”

  Hayes shifted in her seat. “So, this is what you want us to believe… You come home from America having been away, according to these records, for three weeks and you do not go back to your flat. You pick up a guy in a bar, you stay with him all weekend, and then decide to leave the country.” She paused. “What did he say to you?”

  Ingrid scratched a forearm. “It wasn’t like that. I did go to my apartment, actually. For about three minutes. Then I stayed with Tim. He’s a nice guy but not nice enough to hang around for. So, I bought a ticket and… here I am.”

  Berryman steepled her fingers under her chin, her red hair bouncing around her symmetrical features. “Hmm. See, it seems to me, Agent, there’s another way of interpreting these facts. The way I see it, you left the country three weeks ago because you anticipated being arrested for the hit and run. Then, after three weeks, your contacts, or your access to police databases, whichever, reveal you’re not on any list, so you figure it’s safe to return to London.” Berryman chewed her lip before continuing. “Then you get to your flat, speak to your contacts at the Metropolitan Police and realize you’re in trouble. There is a warrant out for you after all, so you find a bloke to shack up with—classic cop move, by the way, utterly untraceable—and arrange a hasty flight back to the States before the Border Agency process our All Ports Message.”

  Weren’t you meant to be the good cop?

  “It’s not looking very good for you, is it?” Hayes said.

  Ingrid’s solicitor leaned forward. “I’m not a barrister Izzy Hayes, but even I could convince a jury that you’ve got nothing. A partial plate from a witness several miles away from the crash, a paint flake that may or may not have anything to do with the accident, and ANPR hits from a motorway journey the night before. So long as my client can account for her whereabouts at the time of the accident, you really should be letting her go.” He cleared his throat for emphasis. He wasn’t as useless as he looked.

  Hayes sat up a little straighter. “Yes, but your client hasn’t accounted for her location, has she? What she has done is say she has never been to the area when we know, thanks to the ANPR, she has. So, all we can be sure of at this point is she’s not particularly acquainted with truth.” She smiled wide enough to show her teeth. “Now, Ingrid, why don’t you tell us what you did with the bike?”

  Ingrid looked from Hayes to Berryman. She was a little surprised they were asking that question.

  “Well, where is it?” Hayes said.

  “I damn well hope it’s where I left it.”

  “And where is that?” Hayes asked.

  Ingrid paused before answering. Now she thought about it, she wasn’t actually sure when she had last seen her bike. She hadn’t ridden it for at least a week before she left for the funerals in the States. That meant she hadn’t set eyes on her ride in well over a month. “In the underground parking lot at the embassy.” A speck of doubt modulated her voice.

  Berryman and Hayes looked at each other.

  “Well, that would explain why we couldn’t find it,” Berryman said.

  Ingrid’s head fell into her hands. She wasn’t going to be getting on the next flight. She’d spent the past 24-hours in mental anguish. She’d pounded the streets of London for hours and hours as she weighed up the wisdom of walking out on her own life. And having made the choice to step off a cliff without knowing what was at the bottom, Hayes was yanking her back. Ingrid had had one foot over the edge, she had prepared for the freefall, and now Detective Sergeant Isobel Hayes had wrestled control of her destiny away from her.

  “Everything all right Ingrid?” Hayes asked.

  Ingrid didn’t even want to look at her. Ingrid knew her only route out of London, and her path to the future, was going to have to take an unwelcome detour via the embassy and her old life. She blinked back her frustration then propped up her chin, her elbows resting on the table. “I guess we better go to the embassy.”

  The two cops exchanged looks.

  “Let’s get this over and done with. You can check my office diary. Inspect the bike. Examine my leathers, because I’m telling you if I had hit someone and skidded across the road as you’re suggesting, they’ll be shredded. This is such a massive pile of BS and I can prove it.”

  3

  Lexi Traynor from the embassy’s legal unit was waiting for them in the parking lot, four levels beneath the US Embassy in Grosvenor Square. Ingrid knew Lexi a little from the embassy gym and was glad to have representation she could trust. Lexi was tall and slender and accessorized her expensive skirt suit with a stylish natural afro and outsize retro glasses. She trained for ultra-marathons and it showed. She made Sergeant Hayes appear less rugby and more sumo.

  Lexi opened the door, sucking the stench of gasoline inside the Thames Valley Police squad car. “You’re not in handcuffs. That’s a good sign,” she said with a smile. Rain dripped off the bottom of the door as Ingrid stepped out. The weather on the drive from Heathrow had been end-of-the-world storm clouds. It was just as well they were now below ground.

  Hayes introduced herself and Berryman, her voice echoing off the concrete walls. The strip lights flickered overhead.

  “If you would wait here for a moment, ladies,” Lexi said, “I would like a word with my client.” She pulled her belted cashmere jacket a little tighter and maneuvered Ingrid away from the cops. “They do this to you?”

  “Do what?” Ingrid asked.

  “I’ve seen you after HIIT sessions in the gym and you never look like…” she waggled a perfectly manicured hand in front of Ingrid. “… this.”

  Ingrid blew out hard. “I look that bad?”

  Lexi tilted her head. “Uh-huh.”

  “Sadly, this is all my own doing. I left it so late to leave for the airport I didn’t have time to shower.”

  Lexi tutted. “You wanna fill me in on what’s going down here?”

  “What do you already know?”

  “Honey, I just got a message from my secretary saying one of our FBI agents was with the Metropolitan Police, but I see from the police car you’re with some out-of-town cops, so assume I know precisely zero.”

  Lexi made ‘uh-huh’ noises as Ingrid explained. When she’d finished, Lexi put a reassuring hand on Ingrid’s shoulder. “I don’t think we got a damn thing to worry about here.”

  Ingrid liked the use of ‘we’.

  “Okay,” Lexi said, turning to the cops. “Let’s take a look at this motorcycle then, shall we?”

  Ingrid led them down a level and along an almost empty lot to the designated motorcycle bay. It was hard to see why the emba
ssy needed so much parking space, but Ingrid guessed when the US first took over the building many more employees drove to work. Now half the payroll seemed to cycle or run.

  The motorcycle bay was busier than usual. In winter, the fair-weather riders left their Vespa Scooters and Japanese road bikes at the embassy to protect them from the elements.

  Ingrid’s skin iced over. She couldn’t see her bike.

  The garage walls pressed in and the scent of gasoline stung her nostrils. She picked up speed. Her breathing deepened. Ingrid raced toward the regiment of bikes, propped up on their stands like wounded soldiers.

  She spotted the Triumph and her shoulders slumped with relief. Her pace slowed. It had been parked behind a bike shrouded in a heavy canvas cover.

  “That beauty really yours?” Lexi asked when she caught up with Ingrid. “You are getting paid way too much if that’s your ride.”

  “It was a gift,” Ingrid said, her voice still a little panicked.

  “Wish I had friends who gave me presents like that.”

  The cops said nothing as Ingrid patted the gas tank, cold under a thin layer of grime. The Triumph Thunderbird was an icon of motorcycle design that combined the curves of a pin-up with the grit and swagger of a cowboy. And this particular bike was loaded with extras from the custom paint job on the gas tank to the chrome roll bars and calfskin seat. Ingrid inspected her steed: no dents, no scratches. Her bike had definitely not been in an accident.

  “Here it is,” Ingrid said to the cops. Her hand lingered on the tank. Something about it was different. “You’re going to have to get yourselves a new suspect.”

  Hayes curled her lip. “As you say, it’s been a month. You could have easily had it repaired. Place like this probably has a team of mechanics who could do the work for you.”

  Ingrid tipped her head back. “Really? That’s your reaction?”

  Hayes couldn’t hide a flash of envy from her features. She crouched down and inspected the tires while Berryman stared at the Triumph the way Ingrid looked at the make-up counter in department stores: blankly.

  “You got the key?” Hayes asked.

  Ingrid checked in with Lexi before answering. “I don’t think so.”

  Hayes’ eyebrows knitted together. “How come?”

  “Remember I said my apartment burned down?”

  Lexi’s eyes widened.

  “Yep, well, the key was in my apartment. Which got cleared by a removals firm. Which got redecorated by a team of contractors hired by the insurer.” Ingrid rested a hand on her hip. “I’ve got no idea where the goddamn key is.”

  “We still need to impound it for forensics,” Hayes said.

  “Listen,” Ingrid said, exasperation infusing her voice. “This bike did not kill anyone. I did not kill anyone—”

  Lexi outstretched a hand to stop Ingrid digging an even deeper hole. She smiled at the cops. “Officers, please. My client is an FBI agent. She’s a very experienced motorcycle rider. She says she isn’t involved, and I think you are failing to consider that she might be telling the truth.” When they didn’t respond, she continued. “Between the decorators and the house clearers and the loss adjusters, any number of people could have gotten their hands on Agent Skyberg’s motorcycle key.”

  Ingrid hadn’t considered someone else might have been riding her bike.

  “All you’ve got, detective, is a partial plate, a flake of paint which obviously hasn’t come from this pristine motorcycle and a timeframe with more flexibility than Simone Biles. Time to let my client get on with her day, wouldn’t you say?”

  Hayes crossed her arms. “This place must be covered by cameras,” she said. “It is one of the most secure buildings in the country. Why don’t we examine the CCTV? Maybe Miss Traynor is right––”

  “Ms. Traynor.”

  Ingrid loved that Lexi was so badass.

  “Maybe someone else did gain access to your bike. I’d like to see who was riding on the night of the eighteenth.”

  Ingrid had thought she’d be half way over the Atlantic by now, and she was finding it hard to process that she back in the embassy. At least the security footage would put an end to the farce and let her get on with the rest of her life. “Sure,” she said. “Let’s speak to Steve.”

  “Who’s Steve?” Berryman asked.

  “The garage manager.”

  On the next floor up, Ingrid tapped on the open window of the mechanics’ kiosk. A man she didn’t recognize sat behind a computer monitor. Even mechanics did paperwork these days. “Is Steve around?”

  He swung his seat around. “Steve? No.”

  “Know when he’ll be back?” Ingrid asked.

  “Try never.” He waited for the shock to materialize on Ingrid’s face. “He quit. About three weeks ago.”

  “Oh.” Ingrid would have liked to have said goodbye. She’d gotten on well with Steve. He liked to talk about bikes and was always super helpful whenever she needed an embassy car. “That’s a pity.”

  “Not for me.” The guy beamed. “I’m the new Steve. Eddie.”

  Ingrid leaned against the window frame. “You know how to work the CCTV yet, Eddie?”

  He shrugged. Eddie hadn’t received that training module, so Ingrid reluctantly walked everyone over to the elevator and punched the call button. She stared at the descending numbers above the doors, disbelieving that she was about to return to her office. It was a journey she thought she’d never make again.

  The doors opened on the fifth floor and Ingrid took a deep breath before stepping out into the corridor. The closer she got to the Legal Attaché’s suite of offices, the heavier her heart felt. She’d not been in the office since she left London to accompany Marshall’s coffin back to Charleston, and she knew colleagues would want to talk to her about his funeral. Ingrid kept her eyes on the floor as she led the way through the bullpen where the FBI’s administrative staff labored at ancient-looking computers.

  Ingrid lingered for a fraction of a second outside the door to the criminal division and the office she shared with her assistant. She felt less prepared to deal with Jen’s questions than she did with another inquisition from Hayes.

  Jennifer Rocharde spun around the moment Ingrid stepped into the room and beamed at her. Her smile contracted a second later when Hayes followed.

  “What’s going on?” Jen got to her feet and nervously pushed her long strawberry blond hair behind her ear. Her eyes widened when Berryman and Lexi entered.

  “I see you put Christmas decorations up in my absence,” Ingrid said in an attempt to make her return seem as casual as possible.

  “You know how I like a celebration.” Jen was the sunniest, most optimistic woman Ingrid had ever known.

  “That I do.” Jen stared at the three women behind Ingrid. “What’s going on?”

  Ingrid gave her the lowdown and asked her to pull up her diary for the eighteenth and nineteenth of November. On her own computer, Ingrid dialed into the security database and searched for the CCTV images from the garage.

  Ingrid’s desk was tidier than it had ever been. Jen had obviously taken her absence as an excuse to turn ordered chaos into neatly labeled piles. Her stack of correspondence was crowned with an embossed invitation to the Christmas ball at Winfield House, the ambassador’s official London residence. When the new administration entered the White House in January, the ambassador would be leaving her post. She was using the ball to thank everyone who had helped her during her tenure, and Ingrid was touched, although more than a little surprised, to have been included on the guest list.

  Once Ingrid had logged into the system, it was surprisingly easy to find the right footage. She only needed to key in the date and her license plate and the computer did the rest. Only the image on her screen wasn’t the one she expected.

  “There must be a mistake,” Ingrid said.

  She looked over her shoulder at Lexi whose cat-like expression was unreadable. Hayes’s face was more straightforward.

  �
�Do you want to zoom in?” Hayes asked.

  The four of them stared at Ingrid’s monitor that showed a black-and-white image of Ingrid sitting astride her Triumph waiting for the barrier to let her out of the parking lot. The time stamp was 17:12. Ingrid’s palms were so sweaty the mouse slipped under her grip.

  “I take it that’s you?” Hayes said.

  Berryman pointed to the Belstaff motorcycle jacket on the coat rack. It was quite obviously the same as the jacket on the screen. Ingrid’s pulse pounded in her neck. She said nothing, then nervously typed in her license plate for the following day. When the footage showed her riding back into the embassy at 11:42, her stomach constricted. Her nostrils buzzed as if a nosebleed was imminent. She blinked at the image several times. This was not looking good.

  “Ingrid.” Something in the way Jen said her name meant it wasn’t the first time she’d called her.

  “Good. I’ve got your attention.”

  Ingrid saw the diary application open on Jen’s monitor.

  “Okay, so, looking at those dates you wanted…” Jen paused. Her face crumpled in apology. “They’re totally blank.”

  “Because that was when I was undercover, right?”

  “Yep.”

  “What about Natalya’s diary?”

  Jen’s expression darkened. “It’s been locked.”

  “Really?” Ingrid closed her eyes slowly and kept them shut.

  “Who is Natalya?” Hayes asked.

  Ingrid opened her eyes and looked at the ceiling with its familiar pattern of missing tiles and yellow stains from when people still smoked at their desks. “Natalya was my undercover alias.” The image from the parking lot still filled her screen.