by Eva Hudson
Ingrid nodded at Katja who stood up. They walked a few paces down the hallway to get a little privacy.
“How are you feeling?” Ingrid asked, immediately realizing it was a stupid question. “Listen, I want you to have this.”
Ingrid held out the burner phone Jen had bought.
“I’m going to call it, that way you’ve got my number.” Ingrid dialed from Marshall’s phone and the burner trilled. “Here. Take it. You can call your mom, too.”
Katja pressed her lips together and a single tear rolled down her cheek. She took the phone. “Thank you.”
“I’m really sorry that I have to go, but I want you to know you can contact me. For anything. I don’t have the charger with me, but I can get it to you. Or, you know, you can pick one up.”
Ingrid stopped talking because Katja had started to shake.
“What will happen? To me?”
Ingrid scratched her jaw. “You mean immigration?”
“No.” Katja’s eyes spilled over with tears that she did not wipe away. She lowered her eyes and said softly, “I killed him.”
Ingrid placed a hand on Katja’s shoulder and lifted her chin with the other. “Did anyone other than Chantana see?”
She shook her head.
“Then today, say nothing. I will speak to one of our lawyers for you.” What she wanted to say, but didn’t dare, was that Katja might be better off confessing to the crime. She would likely get longer on remand than the deportation process would take. A good attorney would claim self-defense and get her off. “I will call you. I promise.”
Katja wiped her face with the back of her hand.
“Listen to me. The Al-Kareems are going to prison. You are safe now. They cannot hurt you.”
Katja’s nose streamed.
“Come on, let’s find you a Kleenex.”
They turned back toward the waiting room when Marshall’s phone rang. “I need to take this. The restroom is just there, okay?”
Katja nodded.
“Jen, hi.”
“How come you’ve got Marshall’s phone?”
“Long story.”
“Well, I don’t have time for that. Whaddya need?”
Ingrid stepped to one side as two men rushed in, obviously in search of a loved one. Their anguished faces were drained of color. “I need to find Marcus Williams.”
“Who’s that?” Jen sounded distracted.
“The ambassador’s son.”
“Oh. Him. Hold on.” A swishing sound scrunched over the phone. “Well, that’s easy.”
“It is?” Nothing was ever easy.
“You want me to give him a message?”
“Jeez, no, absolutely not. What are you doing, Jen?”
“Getting ready.”
“What for?”
“It’s the ambassador’s ball tonight. At Winfield House. Remember?”
Somehow, it had slipped Ingrid’s mind.
“I can check the guest list, but I’d be amazed if he wasn’t on it.” Jen paused. “Come to think of it, you’re on it too. You had an invitation on your desk.”
“True, but I’m meant to be dead.”
“I doubt very much if they’ve, like, rescinded the invite or anything.”
Jen was probably right, as usual. Ingrid ran her fingers through her hair, calculating her next move. The chance to confront Marcus Williams was too good to miss. There was just one problem. Where the hell was she supposed to get a ball gown from at such short notice?
34
The perimeter wall of Winfield House curved inwards, guiding traffic toward a double gate shrouded on both sides by trees and shrubbery. A discreet name plaque belied the scale of the house beyond. After Buckingham Palace, it was the biggest residence in London. Ingrid rolled down the window and a uniformed Marine approached.
“Invitation please.”
“I was told it would be left here for me. By Jennifer Rocharde. My name is Ingrid Skyberg.”
Rain droplets hemmed the peak of his white cap. “One moment, ma’am.” He strode back toward the gatehouse and conferred with a colleague.
The black taxi was Ingrid’s third mode of transport in a little over two hours. First, she’d driven the Range Rover back to Burnt Oak and dumped it where she’d hidden the Harley, then she’d ridden to Marshall’s house. Needless to say, he hadn’t had an evening dress in his closet, but Ingrid thought she was rocking a Kristen Stewart vibe in his tuxedo and Carolyn’s Doc Marten’s. She’d found enough makeup in Carolyn’s bedroom to pull together what the fashion magazines might generously call ‘a look’.
The Marine approached. He looked at the item in his hand closely, then scrutinized her. “Here you go.” He handed her the invitation and her embassy ID badge still attached to its lanyard. That meant Jen had successfully retrieved the Prius from the Ilex forecourt. “You’ll need to show your passport to the guys in the house.”
“Thank you.” Ingrid was about to buzz the window up, but he raised a hand.
“I’m afraid you can’t go in this way. Your taxi is an unauthorized vehicle.”
“Oh, okay. So?”
He opened the door. “It’s just a short walk.”
Ingrid paid the driver using Jen’s credit card and stepped out into the night, stretching her left leg to stop her injured knee from seizing up. The hum of the city murmured from beyond the trees, and their wet scent sweetened the air. When the taxi had driven off, Ingrid spoke to the Marine.
“Am I very late?”
“Ma’am?” He stood to attention.
“Has everyone else arrived already?”
“Yes, ma’am. Most guests were here by twenty hundred hours.”
“Am I the last?”
“No ma’am. There are still a few to arrive.”
“And how many of us tonight?”
“Guest list of three hundred.”
“That’s a lot of hors d’oeuvres.”
Ingrid realized they had met before. He had been the guy asleep in the mess room when Estevez had taken her to the Marines’ frat house. He let her through the iron gate and directed her to a marquee with a sign that read ‘security’. Parked beside it on the lawn was a USAF Sikorsky.
“Who came in the helicopter?” Ingrid asked.
“First Lady,” he said with a smile. “And about seventeen Secret Service agents.”
“Principal Brady is here? I didn’t know she was coming.” Excitement unexpectedly inflected Ingrid’s speech.
“Get the impression it was all need-to-know.”
Inside the marquee, a welcome blast of warmth wafted down from overhead gas heaters. A young woman with a headset and clipboard stood in front of two airport-style security scanners. She looked at Ingrid and smiled. “May I see your invitation, please?”
The woman looked disappointed when she read Ingrid’s name. “I thought you might have been…”
“No, no I’m not.”
“Because you look a lot like her.”
Ingrid smiled at her.
“And we’ve had a lot of other movie stars in here tonight.”
Behind the woman, three tall men in dark suits observed Ingrid. They wore earpieces and the serious expressions of Secret Service agents.
“Your passport?” one of them asked.
Telling him she had surrendered it to Thames Valley Police wouldn’t help.
“I wasn’t told I needed a passport. Only ID.” She offered them her embassy security pass. “It’s clearly me.”
“We are operating enhanced security tonight due the number of VIPs—”
“It’s okay.” A Marine stepped through the metal arch of the scanner. It was Carlos Estevez. “I know Agent Skyberg. You can let her through.”
“Corporal. Nice to see you again.” Ingrid gave him a smile.
“Looking good,” he said, grinning broadly at the tux.
“Ha.”
“I wasn’t joking.”
Ingrid felt herself blush.
He instructed her to place
her jacket on the conveyor belt to be scanned, and then guided her through the body scanner.
“Please stand with your feet on the plate and face the camera,” Estevez said.
Ingrid did as she was told, then collected her jacket.
“Have a great evening, Agent.”
She turned back. “Say, did you get your laptop back?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And your phone?”
He tapped his pocket.
Her invitation was inspected one more time before a Secret Service agent let her exit the marquee and walk up the driveway toward the residence. It cut through wide lawns on either side and ended at a large circular pond bordered with stone ramparts. Every parking space in the forecourt was taken. The expected mix of Lamborghinis and Maybachs formed a semicircle around the ornamental pond. A sign pointed toward the overspill parking lot where the lesser cars would be parked. At the end of the line of prestige cars was a stand of five motorcycles, including Marcus Williams’ Suzuki Marauder with its 125cc engine, L-plate and polished panniers.
For the second time that day, Ingrid stared up at an enormous and impressive mansion. Winfield House was not nearly as old as Uppenham Hall—it had been built in the 1930s by Barbara Hutton, the Woolworth’s heiress—but shared its grandeur. Made of red brick, it sat three stories high amid manicured lawns and was surrounded by the noble trees of Regent’s Park.
Two Marines stood on the wide limestone steps leading up to the open front doors. They held carbines across their chests and had Beretta M9s holstered at their hips. Ingrid wasn’t sure if, like the embassy, the grounds of Winfield House were technically American soil, or if the presence of so many dignitaries meant the use of firearms had been authorized by the Home Office. Both Marines looked straight ahead as she entered the house. The vestibule was reminiscent of a boutique hotel lobby. Another security officer checked her invitation, then compared her face against the photo that had been taken in the marquee and was now on his screen. Satisfied she was who she claimed to be, he nodded her through into the reception room, which was dominated by a giant Jeff Koons’ balloon dog sculpture, its polished pink surfaces reflecting the twinkling Christmas lights. A waitress proffered a tray of champagne flutes and Ingrid took a glass.
“Thank you. Is that the way?”
“Yes, go straight through. You’ll see everyone when you get past the stairs.”
The oval lobby was bisected by a staircase that ran up to the second floor. A rope draped between the handrails bore a small ‘Private’ sign. Portraits of previous ambassadors lined the room and Art Deco light fittings hung from the ceiling like space rockets clinging to the underside of an improbable moon.
The gentle noise of the party—a piano, laughter, the tinkling of glasses—beckoned her forward. Ingrid stepped through a doorway into a grand hall and drank it all in.
The hall was understated, with white walls and smooth columns supporting a galleried balcony that ran down the entire length of the room. At either end, the balcony curled into a pair of spiral staircases that descended to the dance floor. Guests leaned over the balustrade and stared down at the dancers and networkers below. An enormous Christmas tree stood in the center of the room next to a table groaning with gifts for the ambassador. The far wall was lined with glass doors that, in summer, would open out onto a terrace overlooking the gardens. The attendees were mostly familiar but unplaceable. Her spruced up colleagues had obscured their everyday identities with close shaves, false eyelashes and the glassy expressions of people on their second drink of the evening.
“Ingrid?” The voice was uncertain, wavering.
Ingrid turned. It was Maisie Millane from the counterterrorism unit. Maisie’s hand covered her mouth.
“Maisie, hi. I almost didn’t recognize you. You look so, well, so glamorous.”
Millane’s expression was unchanged. She was as still as a photograph. “I… Oh, my God.” She let out the air from her lungs, bending forward slightly. “We thought you were…”
“Ah.” Ingrid played with the stem of her champagne flute.
“And you’re not.”
“Um, no.”
Millane blinked rapidly highlighting how expertly she had applied her smoky eyeshadow. “What happened? Does Jen know? She was… in bits.”
Embarrassment made Ingrid look away. “Yes, yes she does. Seems it was a prank by someone who hacked into my email.”
“Oh, Christ.” Millane held a hand over her heart. “I can’t believe it. We were all so… shocked.”
Ingrid grimaced. “Guess people are in for an even bigger shock tonight when they see me.”
“I’ll say.” Millane took a long sip of her drink. “Bold choice, by the way. The tux.”
Ingrid didn’t know what to say.
“Not many women can pull it off. But you’ve got the… height.”
Someone tapped Ingrid on the arm and she pivoted.
“See, it is her!”
Ingrid smiled at the ridiculously well-groomed man in front of her. “Mr Kerrison, hello. How lovely to see you.”
“Oh please, you know to call me Tom. Truman come say hello.”
Maisie Millane looked on with bewilderment as Ingrid talked to one of the world’s most famous couples. Tom Kerrison and his husband, the actor Truman Cooper, were old friends of the ambassador. Ingrid had got to know them on a case a few years back, and they had been so grateful for her help that Truman gifted her the Triumph Thunderbird.
“I saw some nice bikes parked outside. Any of them yours?” Ingrid asked Truman.
“Sadly not. How is the blue bird?”
Ingrid wasn’t about to tell him. “Still being appreciated, every second I ride her.”
“Have you seen the First Lady?” Tom asked, instantly bored with bike talk.
“No, not yet.”
“She is wearing the most exquisite ice blue Vera Wang.” Tom Kerrison was a fashion designer, famed for shoes that sold for four figures a pair. “She really doesn’t deserve to be called Principal Brady. She looks surprisingly elegant,” he lowered his voice, “for a woman of her age and build. She can’t quite carry it off, but you, Agent Skyberg, would look amazing in it.” He prodded at the shoulder pad of Ingrid’s jacket. “Is this your boyfriend’s?”
“Something like that.”
“Don’t be fucking stupid, Tom,” Truman said, his propensity for expletives evidently undiminished. “Obviously any woman who wears a tux like that doesn’t do boyfriends.”
Ingrid pulled a face. “Actually, I have even less success with women than I do with men.”
“Oh.”
That threw him.
“I’m really sorry, but you’ll have to excuse me,” Ingrid said. “I’m actually on duty.”
“Ooh. How exciting,” Tom said. He had always been the friendlier of the pair. “Say no more. But please, darling, Dr Martens?”
Ingrid leaned in and whispered. “Nothing I’m wearing is mine.”
“Glad to hear it.”
She made her farewells and deposited her empty glass on the tray of a wandering waiter. She declined a replacement as she needed all her faculties operating at maximum capacity.
Ingrid picked her way through the hall, passing a central bar where cocktails were being blended with flare, and reached the piano just as the crooner started the opening bars of ‘Jingle Bells’. She scoured the room and nodded and waved at colleagues, some of whom did double takes when they saw her. Out of three hundred guests, she was only interested in speaking to one of them.
Ingrid needed a better vantage point and edged her way between revelers toward the spiral staircases that led up the balcony. She was halfway up when she slammed right into a man running down toward the dance floor.
“Hello Marcus,” she said. “Remember me?”
35
“Yes, hi. Of course.” His tone—practiced, over-friendly—was a sure sign he didn’t have a clue who she was. “How long has it been?”
> Standing on the step above her, he appeared even bigger than when they’d crossed paths at the rowing club. He wore his collar open, and an undone black silk bowtie was draped around his neck. On his face was the easy smile of a man whose future was assured.
“Not long at all,” she said, stepping to one side to allow two women in high heels to cling onto the handrail as they made their way down. Marcus watched them as they passed, his gaze focused on their buttocks. “Just two days ago.”
“Oh, really?” He sneered slightly. If he couldn’t remember her, that obviously meant she wasn’t worth remembering. He ran a hand over his thick wavy hair. “You’ll have to remind me.” He was already looking over her shoulder for someone more useful to spend time with.
“At the rowing club.”
He glanced down at her. “Really?”
“In the parking lot.”
His expression hardened. His Adam’s apple lowered as he swallowed.
She smiled. “Now you remember, right?”
He placed a hand on her forearm and leaned over her. “I heard you were dead. Drowned in a sewer.”
“Yes, seems lots of people are seeing a ghost tonight.” She removed his hand from her arm and pressed it into the handrail, her fingers gripping his wrist. “I know you were riding my bike, Marcus.” She stared at him, but he refused to make eye contact, focusing on the partygoers below them instead. “And I know you killed a man.”
She felt his forearm stiffen. Below them, Ingrid spotted Jen holding on to her fiancé as he talked business with a counterpart from the Far East.
“You might want to shut your mouth or I will arrange for it to be shut for you.” He kept his voice low. He did not want a confrontation in this environment.
“Your friends at Red Box already tried to silence me. Worked out well, didn’t it?”
His nostrils flared as he sniffed. He looked down, as if searching for someone in the crowd, anyone who would come and rescue him from her inquisition. “You’re making some wild accusations…” He turned to her. “For somebody with no fucking evidence.” He tried to shake her grip, but she kept his hand against the rail.
“Oh, your Red Box pals did a fine job of destroying the evidence. Just not fine enough. How do you think I found out it was you?”