Flight Risk (An Ingrid Skyberg Mystery Book 7)

by Eva Hudson

  Ingrid gave her a smile. “And where can I find Sophie?”

  “She’s the blonde. You probably met her when you came in.”

  “So… Front door then?”

  “Best place to find her.”

  Ingrid left the dining hall and followed a corridor that led into a ballroom where a team of people wrangled lights around a twenty-foot spruce. The tree team wore dark green uniforms, unlike everyone else in the room who sported black shirts embroidered with the word Mayfair. Clearly no one was part of the regular household staff. She wasn’t going to find Katja here. Opposite the Christmas tree, an enormous screen showed a live feed of an empty motor racing circuit. A clock counted down to the start of a race. The captions were all in Arabic. A Mayfair employee blew up silver and gold balloons from a bottle of compressed gas. A banner stretched across a balcony announced ‘The Inaugural Jihari Grand Prix’.

  Ingrid had grasped a vague sense of the layout of Uppenham Hall from studying the outside building. She headed through the west wing in the direction of the portico at the front. The corridor was lined with display boards showing photographs of racing drivers and Formula One memorabilia. Her Mighty Morphin’ Power Ranger outfit was fortuitously apt. However, her cover was more likely to be blown: if anyone asked her a question about Formula One, she wouldn’t have a clue how to answer. She needed to find Katja, and that meant disguising herself as a member of the catering staff.

  Ingrid reached the entrance hall at the front of the house. A Christmas tree rose out of the center of a pile of presents, each perfectly wrapped in coordinated colors. The boxes, undoubtedly, were empty. A blonde woman stood in front of two enormous oak doors talking frantically on her cell. Ingrid glimpsed the forecourt through the open doors and saw the two Formula One cars under a lighting rig she’d spotted from the woods.

  Ingrid marched confidently through the cold entrance hall and found herself in a corridor in the east wing lined with dark lacquered doors. She found a cloakroom and slipped inside. In the unlit gloom, she made out the shapes of several empty clothes rails armed with coat hangers. A large leadlight window offered a view over the forecourt and the driveway beyond.

  She peeled off the backpack, unzipped her leathers and changed into black slacks and a white shirt. She attempted to smooth out the creases and ran her fingers through her short hair. Not that there was much that could be done with it after the bike ride. Helmets were the reason bikers kept their hair long, even after they started to go bald. Ingrid transferred the iPhone and credit card to her pants pocket and placed the bike gear neatly in a corner, folding the white jacket inside out so it was less likely to attract attention.

  Two doors further down, she found the ladies’ restroom and set to work with damp fingers and the hand dryer to revive her hair and freshen her appearance. Satisfied she couldn’t improve things further, Ingrid pushed out into the corridor.

  If Katja went to Tesco every week to do the grocery shopping, Ingrid’s guess was she worked in the kitchen. From her limited knowledge of English stately homes—gleaned from watching BBC period dramas with her mother––she assumed the kitchen would be downstairs and at the rear of the property. Ingrid returned to the back of the house through the east wing, completing a circuit of the central courtyard. It was less grand than the west wing, but the wide corridor was nevertheless lined with ancient obsidian carvings on marble plinths. They appeared to be antiquities from Babylonia or Assyria, but Ingrid wasn’t about to stop and check. The woman with the clipboard at the back door marched toward her, furious about something, her red shoes slamming into the stone floor.

  Ingrid avoided eye contact, put her head down and tried to look like she knew where she was going. They passed each other, and Ingrid relaxed. A second later, the footsteps stopped. Ingrid’s shoulders tensed.

  “Who are you?”

  28

  “I’m Anna,” Ingrid lied.

  “Are you busy?” The woman wore a heavy woolen coat over a red pussy bow dress.

  “I can spare five.”

  “Great. There’s been a cock-up with the menu. It’s all hands on deck, I’m afraid.”

  “Lead the way.”

  The woman didn’t introduce herself, but Ingrid recognized her voice from the phone. It was Julie from Mayfair Events.

  “What’s the problem?” Ingrid asked.

  “The fish was supposed to be trout. Apparently, it’s going to be salmon.” Julie’s voice had an insincere twang to it, as if she was constantly doing an impersonation of someone she didn’t like. “Need to reprint the menus.”

  “Who messed up?” Ingrid said, following behind.

  “The caterers.”

  “Oh,” Ingrid’s pace slowed. “The household kitchen isn’t cooking dinner?”

  “They couldn’t handle eighty.” Julie trotted down the corridor past the cloakroom. “I had to get someone in from London.”

  “Well, eighty is a lot.” Ingrid could barely cook for one.

  Julie pushed open a door and flicked on a light. “Where’s your accent from?”

  “The States.”

  “And who are you here with?”

  “Oh.” Ingrid didn’t know how to answer. “The agency.”

  Julie sucked her teeth but didn’t say anything. The room had several desks, maps and calendars on the wall and a massive whiteboard displaying some sort of timetable or schedule. The housekeeper’s office.

  “Okay.” Julie plopped herself down at a desk and turned on a monitor. “Hmm.” She looked for the actual computer. “You any good with these things?”

  Ingrid wasn’t useless. “I can certainly give it a go.”

  “Really?” Her features sharpened. “That’d be great because I simply don’t have time.”

  She handed Ingrid a USB thumb drive, told her to find the file called ‘menu’ and replace ‘trout’ with ‘salmon’ and print off eighty-five copies.

  “Printers are the bane of my life, so very happy to make that your problem.”

  “And where do you want them? Dining room?”

  “It’s a dining hall, darling.” She pulled a face. “Yes, that’d be great. But can you then bring that USB thingy back to me? Rear entrance?”

  “Sure. No problem.”

  Julie had only left the room for a second when she popped her head back through the open door. “What did you say your name was again?”

  “Oh. Um. Anna.”

  “Thanks, Anna.”

  Ingrid got the computer working and plugged in the USB drive. She scanned the file names and clicked on the one labeled ‘guest list’. It was odd she hadn’t seen anyone of Middle Eastern appearance so far. If the Al-Kareems were having eighty people for dinner to celebrate Jihar hosting its first Grand Prix, she would have expected the sheikh, or his wife, or one of his children, to be overseeing the preparations.

  Ingrid scanned the guest list, looking for the Oxford students she had stalked online. She didn’t recognize any of the names, so she Googled a couple of them. A minister from the Department of International Development. An executive from an oil and gas engineering firm. Not Samir’s college buddies.

  She opened the menu file, substituted salmon for trout, then looked around for the printer. It was an old, beige plastic laser printer. She turned it on and a series of lights flashed on and off as it warmed up. She closed the office door and went back to the computer.

  “Jeez.”

  Every single name on the list, she realized, was male. Outside of Freemason gatherings and frat houses, that had to be rare. Even the Vatican had a few nuns running about. Eighty men. She pitied the waitresses. Ingrid hit ‘print’ and picked the first sheet out of the printer tray to check it over. She read the menu as more copies were spewed out. After the dessert there was a course of ‘Fun & Games’.

  If outside caterers were taking care of the food, she wondered how the regular kitchen staff would be deployed Ingrid left the printer rumbling away and slipped out into the corridor to fi
nd out. Down one wall was a mural of a village cricket match that started on an English village green and ended in a dusty park somewhere with a much drier, hotter climate. White-faced players in white linens played against a team of dark-skinned boys in colored T-shirts and shorts. The story of the British Empire in a single painting.

  She was looking for a way of getting down to the kitchen, but the only staircase she found led upward. Modest, by the standards of Uppenham Hall, she presumed it was used by the servants. Surely that meant she was close to finding the kitchen.

  “Yes?” The voice came from behind her. It was high pitched, but definitely male.

  Ingrid bit her lip and turned.

  “Can I help you?” The man was tall and slender with white hair and whiter skin. If all stately homes were haunted, he was Uppenham’s tweed-wearing ghost. The brace of rabbits in his hand suggested he was the groundskeeper.

  “Hi.” She gave him one of her friendliest, cheerleader smiles. “I’m looking for the kitchen.”

  He pursed his lips and flared his elongated nostrils. “Are you now?”

  “I think I took a wrong turn.”

  “I’ll say.” He nodded in the direction over her shoulder. “You were heading the right way. Once you see the suit of armor, you’ll start to smell it. Follow your nose.”

  The parquet floor gave way to limestone slabs. It was either a sign she was moving into the working part of the house, or that sections of the building had been constructed at different times. A decorative recess in the wall was indeed home to a suit of armor, and beyond it a stone staircase spiraled downward. There was a definite aroma, but she wasn’t sure it was cooking.

  The ceilings below ground were much lower. The walls were fully tiled, reminding her of the older Tube stations in London. Shouting bounced off the hard shiny surfaces. There were so many voices she couldn’t even make out if they were speaking English. She inched along the brightly lit corridor and headed for the cacophony.

  A figure crossed the hallway, scurrying from one room to another. The sound of metal hitting metal sluiced right through her ears, making her wince. Footsteps approached quickly from behind; she turned to see a woman in tatty clothes hurry past. She carried an enormous stack of folded table linens. Ingrid followed her, and the closer she got to the kitchen, the more distinct the shouting became.

  “You know what a fucking bain-marie is, you moron.”

  “I can’t fucking find anything in this fucking kitchen.”

  “Well, I fucking told you we should have done all the prep off site.”

  There was a louder crash as another figure, this time taller and broader, stomped past the end of the corridor.

  “I said spotless! You know what that means? Fucking do it again.”

  Ingrid reached the kitchen doors and peered in. She flinched as a cook slammed down a stack of aluminum baking trays. He looked up at her and sneered. She carried on walking, and was soon knocked sideways by a woman carrying a heavy, flat wooden box.

  “Sorry,” she said. It was the Thai girl from the supermarket.

  “Hey,” she shouted after her, but the girl kept walking, staggering occasionally as she struggled with the weight of the box. “Hi.”

  The girl was going to drop it. Her grip was failing. She adjusted her posture, but it was still slipping from her grasp. Ingrid ran to help but was fractionally too late. The box slid out of the girl’s hands and smashed onto the tiled floor. An entire service of silver cutlery clattered over the tiles, sending an avalanche of noise down the corridor.

  “It’s okay.” Ingrid put her hand lightly on the girl’s shoulder. “I’ll help.”

  She bent down and moved the box to one side, propping its lid against the wall. The girl, shaking with fear, kneeled down and they both scooped up the cutlery faster than they could put it back in the box.

  “What the fucking fuck,” someone called out. “What’s broken now?”

  “It’s okay,” Ingrid kept saying.

  The girl said nothing, though up close Ingrid saw she wasn’t a girl. She was in her thirties. She had a thin red mark on her cheek, like she’d walked into a very narrow post.

  “Do you remember me?” Ingrid asked.

  The woman didn’t want to make eye contact.

  “We met yesterday. In Tesco?”

  The woman shook her head and kept pressing the cutlery into velvet-lined slots.

  “I was talking to Katja.” Ingrid passed her a handful of spoons. She held her gaze as their hands touched. The woman was trembling. “I want to help.”

  The woman took the spoons and stretched to reach others. A figure was approaching.

  “I need to speak to Katja again. Where is she?”

  The woman kept her eyes on the floor. “No,” she said softly.

  “I can help,” Ingrid repeated.

  A heavy black boot landed millimeters from Ingrid’s hand. She looked up.

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  Ingrid clambered to her feet. “Hi.”

  The man was broad and tall. His chef’s whites made his angry face appear very red. “I asked you a fucking question.”

  “Well, that’s good,” she smiled, “because I came here to ask you a fucking question.”

  He flinched. He hadn’t been expecting backchat.

  “Are you in charge of the food?” she said, standing a little taller. The Thai woman picked up the rest of the cutlery and closed the case. Ingrid bent to help her lift it.

  “Who’s asking?”

  “I need to check about allergies.” Sometimes, lying was fun. “We’ve got two people coming with shellfish intolerances. Wanted to be sure you knew.”

  The Thai woman wrapped her arms around the antique oak box and hurried away.

  “Was it on the list?” the chef asked. An Irish accent.

  “I’m sure it was. I just came to check.”

  He rolled his tongue over teeth. An enormous crash cascaded out of the kitchen. “What the actual fuck?” He turned to go back. “There are no crunchy little crustaceans, all right.”

  When he had disappeared inside the kitchen, Ingrid followed the woman through an open door to a room with a large table where three girls polished plates and paired cutlery. Katja wasn’t among them, though they all shared her gaunt expression.

  At the periphery of Ingrid’s vision, a door opened half way along the corridor. The man from the supermarket stepped through it, stroked his face and headed in her direction. She turned and walked away, keeping her back to him, hoping he would think she was one of the many agency staff in the busy house. He entered the room where the girls were and shut the door.

  Ingrid checked left and right, then retraced her steps. She reached the door the man had come out of and tried the handle.

  It turned.

  29

  Ingrid found herself in an airless room the size of a toilet cubicle. A bulkhead light illuminated bare brick walls surrounding an old-fashioned cage elevator, like the sort bellboys got a dime for operating in black-and-white movies. She entered and pulled the concertina grille across. The control panel only had two buttons, up and down. She pressed the up button, and the cart rattled as it climbed. With nothing to break up the brick, it was difficult to guess how far she was ascending, but when it stopped, Ingrid opened the grille as quietly as possible and stepped into a tiny lobby between the elevator and another door. She stood still and listened.

  Ingrid turned the handle slowly and opened the door an increment. She listened again. Through the gap she saw a narrow corridor. It had a low ceiling and its once-white walls were the color of cooked pasta. Cold air rushed in through the crack. It felt like she was only inches below the uninsulated roof; it was ten degrees cooler than the ground floor. She heard the scurrying sound of birds in the rafters. Birds, or mice. She had to be in the servants’ quarters, right up in the eaves of the house.

  She stepped as softly as she could, but the floorboards creaked. Every few feet she passed a narrow door
. An open door revealed a bathroom with broken tiles and a dripping shower head hanging off the end of a rubber hose. It smelled of stagnant water and wet towels. She tried the handle of a closed door. The latch sprang open to reveal a deserted bunkroom. Six people shared a room no bigger than a sleeper carriage on a train. Hand washed underwear and socks were draped over the ends of the beds. There was no sign of anyone. All the staff were helping with preparations.

  She stopped again and listened. The loudest sound was her heartbeat.

  Further along the corridor, she heard crying behind one of the doors. She didn’t have a cover story, so saying anything was a risk. What possible reason could she have for being where she was? Ingrid rested a hand on the egg-shaped door knob. The brass was cold to the touch, and it sent a shiver over her entire body.

  “Hello?” she said quietly.

  The crying stopped.

  Ingrid looked down at her hand. Above the knob was a key operated Yale lock. The door fitted in the frame so poorly it rattled. “Are you okay in there?”

  There was no reply.

  “I’m looking for Katja,” she said.

  More silence from the other side of the door.

  “Do you know where I can find Katja?”

  Ingrid waited for a reply.

  “Who is that?” The voice was halting and soft.

  Ingrid leaned in closer. She swallowed. “Katja, is that you?”

  Again, silence.

  “Katja, if that’s you, I’ve got some news for you.”

  “Who is this?”

  “We met yesterday.” Ingrid paused. “In the supermarket.”

  “Go away.” Katja’s voice was brittle.

  “Can you unlock the door, please?”

  “No.”

  Ingrid heard movement beyond the door, the rustling of fabric.

  “I want to tell you about your sister.”

  The rustling stopped.

  “Krystyna.”

  After a long pause, Katja responded. “Yes?”

  “She’s had her baby.”