The Ingrid Skyberg Mystery Series: Books 1-4: The Ingrid Skyberg Series Boxset

by Eva Hudson

  “I didn’t know you smoked,” Ingrid said.

  “I didn’t. Seems to help.” Faber clocked Ingrid’s look of disapproval. “For now.”

  There was a coffee cart outside the café, which didn’t open until ten a.m.

  “Can I get you anything?” Ingrid asked.

  “An Americano?”

  Five minutes later, coffees in hand, Ingrid found Faber pacing up and down the wooden decking beside the lake, obsessively checking her phone every few seconds. “Sorry about the wait. You take it black, right?” She handed Faber the cardboard cup. “Shall we find somewhere to sit? It’s such a lovely—”

  “I want to keep moving.” Faber set off toward a path running east-west through the park. “What’s happening with the case?”

  “I won’t know any more until I get into the office. How did it go yesterday, with the police?”

  The girl was walking briskly, her gait deliberate as if the placement of each foot required concentration. Madison Faber was a serious young woman. “The police told me not to leave the country. Can you believe that? They let me go, but then lay that on me.”

  Ingrid wanted to reassure her. “It’s nothing personal. They need you as a witness at the coroner’s hearing. Now, you said you were scared. Has something happened?”

  Faber ignored the question. “When are Lauren’s parents arriving?”

  An alligator of kindergarten children walking in pairs appeared around a kink in the path, all dressed in gray and yellow uniforms. Ingrid ducked out of the way, but Faber didn’t seem to notice them and stood in the center of the path, forcing the pairs to walk around her or unlink hands. She was buffeted and banged on both sides by the tide of tiny bodies. When the final pair had negotiated the unwelcome obstacle, Faber squeezed her eyes shut. Ingrid put a hand on the student’s shoulder.

  “I think you need to sit down.” She guided her to a nearby bench bathed in dappled sunshine.

  Faber allowed herself to be led and set her coffee on the wide wooden slat beside her. “You haven’t answered my question. When do they get here? I’d like to speak to them.”

  “They’re due in this afternoon. They might not feel up to visitors. And there’s a lot of ugly official business they have to deal with.”

  “It wouldn’t be a social call. I need to talk to them about Lauren.”

  “I’ll have a word with them—pass on your condolences.”

  “No!” Faber’s eyes widened, and Ingrid was caught off guard by the power of her gaze. “I mean really talk to them, not spew out platitudes. I’m sure they’ve had enough of those already.” Faber checked her phone again, reached for her coffee, brought the cup to her lips and returned it to the bench without taking a sip. The girl was on edge. Faber seemed more distressed than after discovering Lauren Shelbourne’s body.

  “You haven’t told me why you wanted to see me.” Ingrid kept her voice low and gentle, trying to sound as soothing as possible. “What’s happened?”

  “You’ll only think I’m crazy.”

  “Try me?”

  Faber stared at two women, nannies judging by their age and ethnicity, pushing bulky three-wheel baby strollers along the path. The women chatted happily to one another in Russian. Ingrid tried to stop her ears tuning in to their chat, something she always did when she heard people speaking in her mother’s native tongue. One woman shrieked a high-pitched laugh that made Faber jump. Ingrid placed a hand on Faber’s knee. “What’s going on, Madison?”

  The girl nodded vigorously. “There’s something at college. Something bad.” She lifted a hand to push a stray lock of hair from her forehead. It was trembling. “The atmosphere in the psychology department is really jumpy. Especially Professor Younger’s group.”

  “Really?”

  “I said you’d think I was crazy.”

  “Jumpy in what way?”

  “Really tense, like they’re waiting for something bad to happen.” She stood up abruptly. “I’ve got to keep moving.” She checked her phone.

  “Are you expecting a call?”

  “No, just checking the time.” She walked in the direction they’d just come. “Do you think whoever wrote that graffiti has something to do with Lauren’s death?”

  “What makes you mention that?” Ingrid asked. “You weren’t taking it very seriously yesterday.”

  “I’ve had more time to think about it since then.” She quickened her pace, glancing at her phone again.

  What had gotten into the girl to make her this nervous? “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  “I just… I’m scared.”

  “There’s no need to be. The police have eliminated you from their inquiries.”

  “I’m not scared of the police.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “I’m scared for my life.”

  “Has someone said something?”

  “I think I’m next.” Faber broke into a jog. Ingrid ran after her, grabbed her arm and pulled her to a stop.

  “Next? What are you saying?”

  “First that Canadian girl died last week, now Lauren…” Her eyes widened and she stared blankly at the ground.

  “The student last week committed suicide. And Lauren… well, the police aren’t connecting last week’s suicide and Lauren’s death.”

  “Well, they should. They’re linked. I know they are.”

  “Even if they are, why would you be next?”

  “I found Lauren, didn’t I? Maybe whoever did that to her is worried I saw something, and they can’t risk me telling the police.”

  Ingrid wondered if she could persuade Faber to see the embassy doctor. “You’re in shock. What you’re feeling right now is completely natural.”

  “You’re patronizing me.” Faber pulled away and hurried back toward the café.

  “Please, Madison. I’m not. I’m really not,” Ingrid called out. She jogged to catch up with her.

  “You said you were here for me. I thought you meant it.” Faber was speaking in an urgent whisper.

  “I am here. I’ve got your back.”

  “Your friend—the one you lost…”

  Not this. Not again.

  “How did she die?”

  “It’s really not relevant.”

  “Why won’t you tell me?”

  Because it’s none of your goddamn business!

  Ingrid took a steadying breath. She needed the girl to trust her. “She was abducted. And never found.”

  “So she could still be alive somewhere?”

  “It was eighteen years ago.”

  “But she could be? And what if the police looking for her hadn’t turned over every stone? Wouldn’t you want to know they did everything to find the truth?”

  Ingrid stared into Faber’s pleading eyes.

  “You have to find out what’s happening at college.” Faber took hold of Ingrid’s arms and squeezed tight. “You have to take me seriously.”

  “And you have to tell me what’s happened to you since the last time I saw you.”

  Faber let go of Ingrid and visibly sagged, all the pent-up energy leaving her in one simple gesture. “If I tell you, you have to swear not to tell anyone else.”

  “That depends on what it is.”

  “Promise me!” Passersby stared, making them both realize Faber had been shouting.

  “OK, I promise.”

  Faber dropped her gaze to the ground. “It happened last night. I was at college, in the psychology lab. I left my workstation for a few minutes, and when I returned from the restroom, there it was, just lying there, its guts spilling out onto the desk.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “A white laboratory mouse. Partially dissected.” Her owlish eyes widened. “There was no one around. I’d assumed I was alone in the whole building. But someone must have been there, just waiting for me to leave my desk for a moment.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I panicked. I ran. That’s when I call
ed you.”

  “Did you call the police?”

  “I was too scared.”

  “So the mouse could still be there?”

  “I doubt it. Whoever put it there got the result they were after. It terrified me.” Faber chewed the inside of her cheek.

  “Is it possible it was just a prank? A practical joke?”

  “At close to midnight? With no one else around?” She blinked deliberately then looked into Ingrid’s face. “It was a warning. I know it was.”

  “What kind of warning?”

  “It’s obvious, isn’t it? They’re making it clear that what happened to Lauren will happen to me. If I don’t keep quiet.”

  “I don’t think it’s clear at all.”

  “The mouse on my desk… they hadn’t just disemboweled it.” She pulled a pained face. “They’d stitched its mouth shut.”

  13

  The embassy car was stuck in traffic on the freeway. Ingrid’s frustration was rising. If she’d taken the bike, she’d be waiting in Terminal 5 by now, in plenty of time for the Shelbournes’ flight from JFK.

  “There must be a faster route,” she said from the back seat. It was all she could do not to grab the steering wheel.

  “This is the only way to get to Heathrow. I have been there before.”

  The driver had already explained, repeatedly and at great length, he used to drive a black taxi, which he called a ‘cab,’ and that Ingrid gathered was some kind of badge of honor. She squeezed her fists into tight balls and took a few deep breaths as the line of traffic ahead ground to a halt yet again.

  Madison Faber’s revelation was preying on her mind. Ingrid hadn’t been able to persuade the girl to go to the police about the incident in the psychology lab. Faber was convinced the police secretly thought she was involved in Lauren’s death, but without having the mouse as evidence, Faber was worried they would take it as a sign of her mental instability. On reflection, Ingrid agreed: Faber’s behavior and demeanor had been understandably erratic since she’d discovered Lauren’s body, and without the mouse, even she wasn’t entirely sure she believed the student.

  Ingrid’s priority for the next few hours was chaperoning the Shelbournes and bringing them, tactfully, up to date with the investigation into their daughter’s death. When the driver finally dropped her off, she ran all the way to the arrivals lounge, aware of the soreness in her left ankle. She pulled down the bottom of her jacket and combed her fingers through her hair to tidy it as the first few passengers from flight 489 trickled through. She held up a printed card with the Shelbournes’ names and directed it toward any couple who were vaguely the right age. Her research had revealed Anthony and Lisa Shelbourne lived in Greenwich, Connecticut. He owned an ad agency in New York City, and she collected art and good causes.

  Ingrid hadn’t needed the card.

  Lauren’s parents were easily identifiable by their strained expressions and gray complexions. Though they had dressed for first class, their clothes were crumpled and disheveled. Mrs. Shelbourne had done her best to refresh her makeup, but her eyes were puffed and lined. No amount of cosmetics could hide her distraught features.

  Ingrid set her face somewhere between a concerned frown and a sympathetic smile, not at all sure she was pulling it off, and approached the couple with an outstretched hand. “Ingrid Skyberg, from the embassy,” she said and steeled herself for her first platitude. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  Anthony Shelbourne squeezed her hand in his and nodded. His wife held onto him as if she might slide right onto the floor if she let go.

  “We have a car waiting,” Ingrid told them. “If you’d like to follow me?” She gestured toward the exit.

  “We have to wait for my daughter,” Mrs. Shelbourne said. “She’s bringing the bags.”

  “Your daughter?” Ingrid hoped she’d managed to suppress her surprise, struggling to keep her expression and tone neutral.

  “We left her at the baggage reclaim,” Mr. Shelbourne explained. “Alex volunteered to wait for the suitcases.”

  A full ten minutes of awkward silences and painful small talk later, Alex Shelbourne emerged from the customs channel, pushing a baggage cart stacked high with suitcases and carry-ons. The girl had to be no more than sixteen or seventeen, a little over five feet five and less than a hundred pounds. She was struggling with the weight of the cart. Ingrid hurried to help her.

  “It’s OK—I can manage,” the girl told her firmly.

  She wore thick eyeliner, dark purple lipstick and had lilac streaks in otherwise jet-black spiky hair. Alex Shelbourne had cast herself as the rebel of the family.

  Ingrid planted a restraining hand on the uppermost bag and guided the Shelbournes through the busy arrivals hall, navigating a channel through the crush of bodies. The embassy limousine was waiting at the curb.

  “We can go straight to your hotel or deal with the formalities at the embassy first, if you’d rather,” Ingrid told them as the driver loaded the bags into the trunk.

  “Take me to the morgue. I want to see my baby.” Lisa Shelbourne’s voice was surprisingly clear and strong.

  “I’ll, um, I’ll need to make a few calls to arrange that for you. At this time of day it may be difficult.”

  “Make as many calls as you like. We’re going to see my daughter.”

  Ingrid sat next to the driver, who buzzed up the glass partition between the front and back seats. Each time she turned to check on them, the Shelbournes were gazing out their respective windows, never once looking at one another or exchanging a word.

  Once they were making good progress on the freeway, Ingrid called Sol and told him about the unexpected arrival of the Shelbournes’ youngest.

  “I get the impression she’s the type of teenager who can’t be left at home alone,” Ingrid told him.

  “It’s going to be tough on the kid.”

  She caught sight of Alex Shelbourne in the wing mirror. She was staring at her smartphone, earphones snaking from the device and disappearing into her ears. So far she seemed to be coping with the situation remarkably well.

  “I need you to make some calls for me,” Ingrid said.

  “Can’t Jennifer do it?”

  “I need your help. Mrs Shelbourne is insisting we visit the mortuary first. I figure they might listen to you. I really need the body in a viewing room in ninety minutes.”

  Sol was good to his word. When they arrived, an orderly was waiting for them at the entrance of the hospital mortuary. Anthony and Lisa Shelbourne followed the earnest man in scrubs into the single-story building while Alex hung back.

  “Is it OK if I don’t come in?” the teenager asked her mother. “I feel like I need some fresh air.”

  Lisa gently rested a hand on Alex’s arm. “You’re sure you don’t want to see her?”

  “Not here. Not like this.”

  “OK. Don’t go wandering off.”

  “I’ll stay with her,” Ingrid said. “You’ll need some privacy.”

  “Thank you.”

  Ingrid watched the ashen-faced couple disappear through the sliding doors.

  “I don’t need a babysitter,” Alex Shelbourne said.

  “Good, because that’s not my job.” Ingrid gave her a smile.

  “I’m just fine by myself.”

  “I know that.”

  The teenager, instead of taking herself for a walk, pulled the earbuds from her ears. “Was she murdered?”

  The bluntness of the question caught Ingrid by surprise.

  “Well? Was she?”

  “The police are still investigating.” Ingrid still hadn’t had the final autopsy from McKittrick.

  “You must have an opinion.” Alex Shelbourne fished a pack of cigarettes from one of the many pockets of her black combat pants. She offered the pack to Ingrid, who declined.

  “Do your parents know you smoke?”

  “Give me a break.” She lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.

  “It must be very difficult
for you, coming here like this.”

  “I wanted to come.”

  “Were you close to your sister?”

  “You’re trying to change the subject. Do you think someone murdered Lauren?”

  An ambulance parked nearby. Two EMTs opened up the back and pulled out a gurney. A black body bag was strapped to the guardrails. The EMTs wheeled the gurney toward them, so Ingrid grabbed the teenager’s arm and walked her away from the entrance.

  “It’s OK—you don’t have to shield me from it. I do know what happens in a morgue.”

  Ingrid wondered how long it would be before the hard exterior the girl was doing her best to project started to crack.

  The teenager took a deep drag on her Marlboro. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

  “You’re asking the wrong person. Only the Metropolitan Police can tell you.”

  Alex Shelbourne shrugged her dissatisfaction at Ingrid’s answer. “So what happens now?”

  “That depends on what the police find.”

  She ground her half-smoked cigarette under her sneaker. “Do you trust the local cops? To do a thorough job?”

  Where did her cynicism come from? “I have every confidence in the ability of—”

  “Don’t give me the official crap.”

  Ingrid made deliberate eye contact. “I do. I trust them.”

  “You don’t sound too sure.”

  “They’re doing a good job. Believe me.” This time, Ingrid heard the doubt in her own voice.

  Alex Shelbourne put the earphones back in her ears. “They’d better be. Otherwise my dad’s gonna hire a private investigator to do the job for them.”

  14

  “Look, can this wait? We’re up to our eyeballs.” DI McKittrick shoved Ingrid out of the way and hurried from her office in Lewisham police station, her arms full of case papers and card files.

  “I’ve just come from the morgue. They need answers.” Ingrid followed her down a long corridor and into the elevator.

  “Number six.”

  Ingrid punched the button with a knuckle. “Where are you taking all this stuff, anyway?”