by Eva Hudson
There was another thud from the barroom. The double doors to the street slamming shut. Her tee-shirt was starting to stick to her back. Gripping the helmet firmly, she opened the door into the bar.
“Hello? Who’s there?”
The only noise came from the street and the games machines. Whoever it was had gone. She glanced over the bar: the till drawers were both open, and had both been emptied.
The sound of the siren grew louder. Through the mottled glass in the leaded windows she saw blue flashing lights.
Stay or run?
She pushed against the kitchen door, ran out into the yard and scaled the wooden gate before dropping down onto the sidewalk.
18
Ingrid headed for the escalator, ducking and weaving past store assistants in Selfridges perfume department like they were combatants on the Quantico assault course. Every one of them had their arms outstretched, wielding bottles of noxious fluids and offensive fake smiles. Emerging on the second floor more or less unscathed, Ingrid headed directly to the personal shopping department. After the incident at the Queen Mary and a run-in with Agent Simmons, the last thing she felt like doing was browsing for clothes.
Eugene Simmons, a former Navy Seal and now orthodox G-Man complete with pressed white shirt and slicked-back hair, was so furious about her new assignment gathering background on Russians in London that he was actually spitting as he shouted at her. Cornering Ingrid in the corridor alongside the bullpen he accused her of compromising his counter-terrorism sources, of endangering the lives of American citizens because he’d no longer be able to extract intel from assets because she was—obviously—going to screw everything up. “You work with kiddies and shoplifters,” he’d sneered. Ingrid had taken some pleasure in responding in Russian—a childhood with Svetlana had supplied her with some particularly venomous expletives—but she was still liable to shove anyone who looked at her the wrong way.
While waiting for her appointment, Ingrid flicked through one of the nearby sales racks. She was inspecting the ticket on a gray pants suit when two hangers rapidly shifted apart to reveal Natasha McKittrick’s face staring through the gap.
“What on earth are we doing meeting here?” the detective inspector asked. “I thought you feared shopping more than wisdom tooth extraction.” She straightened up and peered at Ingrid over the top of the hanging rail.
“I need a go-bag. For the office.”
“A what?”
“For unexpected assignments. It’s supposed to have everything and anything you might need for a couple of nights away. Toiletries, a change of clothes, smart shoes, a cocktail dress, nightwear, underwear…”
“Back up a second. Cocktail dress? What kind of assignments are you likely to go on?”
“Well, this week I’ve been to a gallery opening in a dress that was falling off my shoulders and in shoes that doubled as instruments of torture.”
“Beats my trip to the morgue.”
“Actually, the dress was probably the high point, sartorially speaking. The rest of the time I’ve either been in a suit that makes me look like a matron from a nineties TV show or I’ve been dressed like a motorcycle messenger. I need clothes,” Ingrid said, pulling an A-line skirt from the rack. “I’ve needed them ever since I came to London. I thought I was only going to be here for four days, remember?”
“Well that sure as hell doesn’t suit you. Put it back and step away.” McKittrick sighed. “How long is this going to take? I really—and I mean really—need a drink.”
Ingrid checked her phone: it was 6:30pm. “Reckon we can be at the bar in forty-five minutes. I can’t shop for longer than that anyway.”
“Miss Skyberg?”
Both women turned toward the sales assistant. Forties, tanned, trim with a neglectful paunch just above the belt and beard that was unmistakably dyed: Christopher took longer to get ready in the morning than Ingrid and McKittrick combined.
“That’s me,” Ingrid said. “And this is my second opinion.”
“Natasha,” McKittrick said, extending her hand.
“And are you shopping too?” Christopher asked.
“Not today. Brassic.”
“Well, if you would both like to come with me.”
Christopher led them through a doorway into a salon with cream leather sofas, a coffee table laden with glossy magazines and a bank of noticeably generous changing rooms. To McKittrick’s evident delight, it also sported a fridge. “Would you ladies like a glass of champagne?”
“Too bloody right.” McKittrick turned to Ingrid. “Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.”
Christopher failed to keep a look of disapproval from his features, but nonetheless opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of what was clearly prosecco.
“You realize this will get added to your bill?” McKittrick said.
“Well, we’d be paying for it in a bar; at least here we’re not getting hit on by stag parties.”
McKittrick glanced at Christopher. “Nope, no chance of that.”
Ingrid was so grateful that McKittrick had agreed to come with her. Not only did she hate shopping for clothes—for some reason, buying books, CDs, gadgets and almost anything else didn’t induce the same feelings of insecurity and panic—but she would have found Christopher’s scrutiny deeply uncomfortable without McKittrick there as a foil. Natasha was really her only friend in London and would be the one person she could really talk to about what had happened in Minnesota if it weren’t for the fact that she was also Ralph’s boss.
A reassuring ‘pop’ was followed by a gentle hiss as Christopher poured out two flutes of fizz. “Ladies,” he said, handing them both a glass.
“Thank you,” Ingrid said.
“Cheers,” McKittrick added.
Christopher sat down on the couch next to Ingrid. “So, what are you looking for today?”
Ingrid shrugged. “Pretty much everything.”
Christopher’s shoulders raised and his mouth tightened. Ingrid’s card had just been marked as a difficult customer. “OK, and what sort of budget do you have?”
Ingrid shot a look at McKittrick. She hadn’t given it any thought. Jennifer had suggested a personal shopper, and given her appalling track record in clothes-buying she’d accepted it was a good idea, but she hadn’t had a chance to think it through before Jen had made the appointment. “I, er, I’ve never used a personal shopper,” Ingrid said. “I really don’t know what to expect.”
Clearly, this was a situation Christopher had encountered before. He gave her a smile. “OK, let’s take it another way. How much would you normally spend, say, on a pair of jeans?”
Ingrid thought back to when she had last bought denim. “A hundred bucks, I guess. Seventy pounds or so.”
Christopher nodded. “And how much on a pair of boots?”
“Maybe a couple of hundred dollars, but they were for the bike.”
“The bike?”
“Motorcycle. They have armor at the ankles, protection up the shins. Maybe they were closer to two-fifty. If we’re talking fashion shoes—”
Christopher exhaled. “Tell me more about the bike. Do you ride every day?”
Less than ten minutes later, Christopher’s skillful questioning had ascertained the key components of the average Skyberg day: a five-mile run, parkour, a motorcycle ride, several meetings with clients and superiors, representing her employer in a good light, constantly meeting new people while always trying to create the right impression. He’d also established her discomfort with heels that were too high, necklines that were too revealing and the importance of pockets.
“And what size do you normally wear?”
“Um,” Ingrid was suddenly a little embarrassed to be having this conversation in front of McKittrick. “In the US, a six, I guess,” she said, knowing that McKittrick was more like a ten or a twelve. “What’s that in the UK?”
“For you, honey, it’s the wrong size. You need something more fitted if you want to look smart.
” Christopher got to his feet. “Right, leave it with me. Help yourself to more champagne and I’ll be back in around twenty minutes when I’ve pulled together some options for you.”
He had barely left the salon when McKittrick got to her feet and opened the fridge door. She retrieved the prosecco and didn’t ask Ingrid if she wanted a top-up. “I’ll get a taxi home,” Ingrid said, “the bike can stay in the embassy garage.”
McKittrick took a long draft. “Your life is far too glamorous. Cocktail dresses, gallery openings, personal shoppers and underground parking. You’re like a character from The Good Wife.”
Another TV show Ingrid had never seen.
“I better not tell you about the case I’m working then. It’s all very A-list and millionaire riverside mansions.”
McKittrick flopped back on the couch. “Just don’t. I’m up to my arse in a random stabbing outside a pub in Deptford. It’s why I bailed on you at lunch. Poor fucking bastard. Mistaken identity. He was just having a drink with colleagues after work when this gang of the nastiest eight men in London set on him.”
“Christ.”
“Didn’t stand a chance. Bled out before the ambulance got there.”
“Poor guy.”
“Wife, three kids. He was thirty-nine.” The two friends sat in silence for a moment. McKittrick took another glug. “So I gather you met Ralphy-boy for lunch yesterday. It’s back on, then? You and him?”
“I, er—”
“It’s fine, you don’t have to tell me. Probably better if I don’t know the details.” McKittrick downed her second glass. She was—even for her—in a tremendous hurry to get drunk. She filled up her champagne flute and settled back on the couch. “So, oh glamorous one, distract me. Tell me about your A-lister. I promise not to get jealous. No, before you do that, tell me about Minnesota. How were things back home?”
“Well—”
Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival in the salon of a loud, overweight, flamboyantly dressed middle-aged woman shouting at her teenage daughter in Arabic. Behind them, two exasperated assistants were carrying armfuls of clothes. The teenager slumped on the couch opposite Ingrid and McKittrick without looking at either of them and promptly took her phone out of her bag. Ingrid let out an enormous sigh of relief: this wasn’t the moment for a quiet talk about Megan’s funeral, or indeed her night of shame with Clark Swanson.
19
“What do you think Christopher is going to come up with for me?”
“Oh, a diamante-encrusted denim onesie, I imagine.”
“Paired with stiletto heels.” For a few minutes, Ingrid had forgotten why she was drinking fizz with her mate, and the sheer terror of what lay ahead had abated. Now that she had remembered where they were, her intestines constricted. What had she let herself in for? “So,” she said, wanting to think about something else, “why are you so hellbent on getting drunk tonight?”
McKittrick drained her glass and put it down on top of a copy of Vogue. “Remember I told you I was being investigated?”
Ingrid had forgotten. Her only friend in the country and she hadn’t even remembered that she was navigating her own circle of hell. “Of course.”
“I have my misconduct hearing tomorrow, hence the determination to drink alcohol tonight,” she said, pouring herself another.
“Have they given you any idea what they’re going to say?”
“If the averted eyes and silent treatment are anything to go by, I’d say I’m about to be relieved of my duties.”
“Really? Natasha, I’m so sorry. What will happen?”
McKittrick kept her eyes on her champagne flute. “They’ll bring in another DI to run the case, but the career? Not so straightforward. Guess it kind of depends if they think I’m guilty.”
Ingrid couldn’t believe what she was about to say. “And are you?”
McKittrick took another mouthful.
Ingrid tried to recall anything Natasha had told her about the investigation. She’d been so evasive, so opaque, that there wasn’t much to go on. To pry now would only make it clear she hadn’t paid enough attention in the past. It had something to do with prescription drugs; not just taking them, but taking them from a crime scene.
“Won’t they just, you know, refer you to rehab or something?”
McKittrick exhaled. “God, that’d be worse than losing my job.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“Can you really see me in group therapy?”
It was true—Detective Inspector Natasha McKittrick was not someone you could accuse of over-sharing.
“What’ll you do?” Ingrid asked.
“Ladies!” Christopher reappeared in the doorway. Ingrid had been very ready to dislike Christopher when she first met him—anyone who dyes their beard deserves a certain level of mistrust—but she had already accepted her initial judgment had been harsh. He had asked intelligent questions, been thoroughly professional and, judging by the boots he was holding, he might even be very good at his job. “Won’t be a moment,” he said, and disappeared once more onto the shop floor.
Ingrid got up and walked over to pick up the boots. Black leather, low-heeled calf-huggers without a tassel, buckle or other unnecessary adornment. Good choice. She turned one of them upside down.
“Stop!” McKittrick said, loud enough to attract the attention of the teenage phone addict. “Don’t you dare look at the price. That will totally ruin the fun.”
Ingrid was taken aback by her friend’s level of insistence.
“Put it down. Step away from the boots. That’s a good girl.”
“OK, OK.”
Christopher wheeled in a hanging rack bearing a modest selection of clothes. “Do you like them?” he asked.
“You know, I think I do.”
“Don’t sound so surprised. This is what I do. Now,” he said firmly, “try these on.”
He proffered a pair of skinny black pants.
“I’ll never fit into those.”
“Oh, just do what the man says,” McKittrick said.
Ingrid took the pants into one of the changing cubicles. She looked at herself in the mirror. She hadn’t realized how filthy her jeans were, or how battered her boots looked. Or how badly she needed a haircut. She sat down on the stool, unzipped her boots and slipped out of her jeans.
“How are you getting on in there?” McKittrick asked.
“Give me a chance.”
“But I need entertaining!” The alcohol was taking effect.
Ingrid unclipped the black trousers from their hanger. They were soft and the stitching detail suggested an Italian atelier rather than a Bangladeshi sweatshop. She checked the label, just in case they happened to have been designed by Tom Kerrison. She couldn’t help but see the price tag: £195. Three hundred bucks for a pair of pants? Spending a little money wouldn’t be the most reckless thing she’d done in recent history, but that was a lot of dough. She slid one foot in and then the other and pulled them up. A little snug, but they’d give. She pulled back the curtain.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“More importantly, what do you think?” Christopher asked.
“I, er, I like them I think.”
“Good. They’re a hybrid material. They have a Kevlar lining so should offer some protection if you come off the bike. And the stitching here,” he pointed to the knees, “is reinforced. They’re actually from our equestrian range.” He handed her the boots, which she could now see were also inspired by riding gear. She sat down next to McKittrick and levered them on. Then she looked at herself in the mirror.
“Wow,” McKittrick said. “You are skinny.”
“I think I’m thinner than I realized,” Ingrid said. The past few months hadn’t contained much in the way of proper meals or adequate nutrition. One of the many ways in which she had not been taking care of herself. “What size are these pants?”
“They’re an eight,” Christopher said.
“What? They can
’t be.”
“A US size four.”
“A four, really?” She hadn’t been a size four since high school.
“Well, it suits you,” McKittrick said. “If I could find trousers that fitted me that well I’d buy a pair for every day of the week.”
You haven’t seen the price tag.
“So, a good start?” Christopher asked, knowing full well from Ingrid and McKittrick’s faces that he’d ticked the right boxes. “I have to say, selecting for someone of your proportions does make my job much easier. I imagine you could rock the proverbial potato sack.”
Ingrid pulled a face.
“That’s a compliment,” he reassured. “Now, I’ve brought a selection of tops for you to try on. I’ve avoided shirts—they’re lovely of course, make much more of a statement, but they wouldn’t survive five minutes under a leather jacket. So these are all mixed-fiber pieces that won’t crumple easily.” He handed Ingrid a gray tank.
“I can’t even work out which is the front,” she said, handing it back to him for guidance. He slipped it off the hanger and returned it to her facing the right way. She’d pulled off her tee before she’d considered the tattered state of her bra. For someone who used the showers at the embassy most days, the privacy of the cubicle seemed unnecessary.
“Oh my God,” McKittrick said, a little too loudly. Instantly, Ingrid knew her friend wasn’t alarmed at her less than glamorous underwear. “Is that what it looks like?”
Ingrid hurriedly pulled the tank on to cover up her scar. She adjusted the fabric and looked at her reflection. It was not something she would normally wear. It had a ruffle for Chrissakes.
“It’s the sort of thing,” Christopher explained, “that can go from daytime to night-time with the addition of accessories. I’ve brought some scarves and some—”
