by Eva Hudson
“You think he’s a suspect?”
Ingrid took a long mouthful, giving herself time to think. “I don’t even know if it’s his real name. All I know is he’s from Tulsa, Oklahoma, and fifty-one years old. Though both those pieces of information could be as fake as the name.”
“And you’re interested in him because?”
She’d played everything by the book for so long this minor transgression felt like treason. She was terrible at lying. “It may be nothing.”
“Is he related to Lauren Shelbourne or something?”
“Not exactly.” Ingrid rummaged around in her bag for the printout of Barry Cline’s photograph. “And if you can, see if any of your colleagues recognize this guy.”
Mills looked at the already tattered sheet of A4.
“His name may or may not be Barry Cline.”
“Same drill? Trawl the databases?”
“Not for this guy—I’ve done that much myself. I’m figuring he’s a petty criminal, working over vulnerable tourists, and hoping he’s known to the Met.”
“Tourists from Tulsa, Oklahoma, for instance?”
“That’s the idea. Now… let me get you another drink.”
21
The GPS guided Ingrid and her Triumph Tiger 800 to a dark little side street in Deptford, a district of south London not far from Loriners college. She climbed off the bike, stowed her helmet and gloves, and pulled a dark blue beanie over her head, tucking her short blond hair inside.
The narrow street was lined on both sides by seven-story black-brick warehouses, the facades looking like ominous cliff faces in the dark. The road was paved with smooth, rounded cobblestones, slick with rain from a recent downpour. It was like stepping into another century. The buildings were run-down with broken windows and rusting ironwork. Surely it wouldn’t be long before they were converted into luxury apartments, like the rest of the old buildings in the city. She checked the address Jennifer had given her for Timo Klaason, as these buildings were so dilapidated it didn’t seem possible anyone could actually live inside.
She’d already tried calling the cell number Jennifer had provided. The line was dead, her call not even diverting to voicemail. Timo Klaason was a hard man to pin down.
Ingrid peered up and down the street. A single streetlamp at the far end emitted a weak yellow glow, illuminating no more than a circle beneath it ten feet in diameter. She pulled a Maglite flashlight from a pocket in her vest and flipped on the bright beam, tracing it up the buildings on both sides of the street. She walked slowly toward the streetlamp, stopping regularly to listen. Despite the busy main street just a hundred yards away, the noise of the traffic was no more than a distant hum. She aimed the flashlight in the direction of a scuttling, rustling noise, letting out an involuntary gasp when she saw what was making it. A rat the size of a cat, sitting on its hind legs, was watching her with beady eyes. It sniffed the air. Two more rats appeared, even bigger than the first. Ingrid feinted a step toward them, jabbing the flashlight in their direction, her arm extended. Unafraid, they continued to regard her with something approaching curiosity. A shiver crept up her spine. She was just a few hundred yards from a small creek that emptied into the Thames: this close to water, there were probably dozens of rats. She rolled her shoulders to shake some of the tension from her arms, then carried on walking along the street. She trained the light beam onto the warehouses on either side, looking for an entrance.
Painted in untidy, whitewashed brushstrokes on the wall of a building were the same symbols she’d seen on campus. Three zigzagging lines. She aimed the beam immediately below the graffiti and discovered a doorway set inside a twelve-inch-deep recess. Attached to the side wall of the recess was a broken intercom buzzer hanging from a single screw. Stuck to the intercom was a yellowing scrap of paper with the number 32 printed on it in faded black marker. This was the property she was looking for. She tried the handle. The door was locked. The frame was made of steel, the door opening outward. There was no way to kick or shoulder it open.
There was more scuttling and scraping. Expecting to see another half-dozen giant rats, Ingrid poked her head out of the recess. Two figures were standing by a dumpster, one holding open the lid, the other throwing an armful of rectangular packets inside. It was close to midnight: far too late for putting out the garbage. She stepped into the street, shining her torch toward them.
“Hey! Can you help me?”
Two men, early twenties, tall and trim, spun around, holding up their hands against the glare of the flashlight. The metal lid of the dumpster clanged shut.
“Hi. I’d like to speak to you for a minute. I’m looking for somebody who lives here. You might know him. His name’s Timo Klaason.”
They looked at one another, then turned and ran. Ingrid shoved the flashlight into her waistband and gave chase, pumping her arms and stretching her legs. “Hey! Mr. Klaason? I only want to talk to you!” she hollered.
After a few strides she was gaining on them, but a third man suddenly appeared from the other side of the dumpster. He dropped his head low and ran toward her. She checked right and left, looking for somewhere to go. Her momentum continued to take her forward, but still he kept coming straight toward her like a freight train.
She grabbed for the flashlight, ready to jab it into his face, but before she could retrieve it, the running man slammed into her, knocking her off her feet. She fell hard on the cobbles, and her attacker drew back his leg before driving his foot into her ribs. Intense pain radiated around her back one way and into her chest the other. He drew back his foot again and kicked hard. Her head buzzed; darkness crept into her vision. He lifted his leg a third time, and this time she rolled out of the way.
“Come on, man!” A shout from one of the other two. “We have to get out of here.”
Breathing hard, she watched them run off. She lay on the ground for what seemed like minutes before she felt able to roll onto her side. This, she said to herself, is why cops in the States carry firearms. No one else about, she could have put a slug in his thigh and stopped him.
Eventually, the pain eased slightly and she could draw a deeper breath. Then another. Ingrid pressed a hand against the wet cobbles and levered herself into a sitting position. Then, inch by excruciating inch, she got to her feet and staggered down the road toward the dumpster. She leaned against it, steadying herself before she attempted to move again. With one hand flat against the body of the big metal cube, she used all her strength to lift the lid, flipping it right over. She peered inside and retrieved one of the rectangular packets the men had discarded.
Within the transparent plastic wrapper, she could see, even in the faint glow from the distant streetlight, a perfectly folded purple and green polo shirt.
22
Aware she was listing to one side, Ingrid adjusted her posture. Each time her foot hit the ground, an electric shock of pain jolted around her ribs. The embassy MD had prescribed nothing stronger than Tylenol. No strapping, no binding, just a handful of over-the-counter painkillers and the unhelpful suggestion she ‘take it easy’ for a few days.
Sure.
Ingrid made her way slowly across the main piazza at Loriners, carefully avoiding groups of students not looking where they were going or anyone who appeared to be in a hurry. Another blow had the potential to bring tears to her eyes.
She hadn’t reported the incident the night before to the local cops. She hadn’t seen any of the men well enough to give the police a helpful description, so it would have been a futile exercise. She suspected one of the three men was Timo Klaason, but she had absolutely no way of proving it. Her presence in the deserted street close to midnight would have taken some explaining too. No need for that to get back to Sol or Louden.
Jennifer hadn’t been able to dig up much about Klaason, but Faber had said he was a student at Loriners. She had visited the registrar’s office and wasn’t entirely surprised to find out Timo Klaason had been studying under Professor Younger. U
nfortunately, the staff in the office also told her he’d left college the previous semester. Armed with directions, Ingrid set out to find the lecture theater where Younger was teaching: there was an outside chance he would be able to guide her toward Klaason’s friends and acquaintances at college. One of them might know where to find him.
Ingrid slipped quietly into the cavernous space, taking a seat right at the back. On stage, Younger leaned on a lectern, looking up at a young student who was standing to attention on top of a table.
“OK, you can come down now.” Younger snapped his fingers.
The young man on the table staggered slightly to one side and an ‘ahhh’ erupted from the audience of rapt students.
“And that, ladies and gents, is the power of suggestion.” Younger stepped toward the table and held out a hand. The student ignored it and clambered down unaided. He patted down his clothes as if he was half expecting a vital garment to be missing.
Younger took a bow and was rewarded with a round of enthusiastic applause. He held up both hands and turned his head to one side, feigning embarrassment. He was enjoying every moment. When the applause died down, the students got to their feet and shuffled toward the exits. Ingrid fought her way to the front against the tide of chattering young men and women, taking care to skirt around the gesticulating arms as she went. She reached the lectern as Younger packed the last of his notes into a battered leather satchel. He glanced up, frowned at her for a beat, then smiled. He looked more youthful without his beard. But his eyes were still bloodshot, his forehead crisscrossed with deep lines. Something was keeping him up at night.
“Agent Skyberg.” He drew down the corners of his mouth.
“Do you have a moment?”
“Ten whole minutes before my next… performance.” His shoulders slumped. “I do sometimes feel like a vaudeville entertainer. But it’s just the sort of thing that keeps the students interested. Stops them switching courses. Got to keep the faculty full of fee payers.”
Ingrid pointed to the first row of seats. “Can we sit down?” Her aching ribs were affecting her energy levels more than she’d expected.
“If the sun is still shining, I think we should take full advantage, don’t you?” Younger headed toward the exit.
Outside, the professor dropped onto the verdant lawned quadrangle, his long legs splaying out in front of him. Ingrid lowered herself to the ground, her ribs screaming in protest every inch of the way.
“Are you all right?”
She forced a pinched smile. “Perfectly.” She blinked, conscious her eyes were prickling. “That was an impressive performance.”
“A cheap end-of-pier hypnotist’s trick, believe me.”
“No, I meant what you did yesterday.” Ingrid gestured to the roof of the tall administration building. “Quite a feat of strength. And fast thinking.”
“Ah. I did what anyone would have done in the circumstances. Right place, right time.”
“Is the girl a student of yours?”
“Emily? No—she’s a medic.”
“Where is she now?”
“Gone home to her parents, I believe. Best place for her. Seems end-of-year exams stress really got to her.” He picked a stalk of grass from the knee of his pants.
“Will the college offer her counseling?”
“Most definitely.”
“And have you arranged a counselor for Madison Faber yet?”
He froze. “Not really my job.”
“Oh. Sorry.” Ingrid observed him for telltale micro-expressions. “I’m sure Madison said that was why she was coming to see you the other day.”
Younger said nothing.
“You remember, when we were talking in your office?”
His Adam’s apple plunged and rose in his newly shaved neck. “Yes, of course I remember. I should check with the office. Make sure she’s getting support. Is that what you wanted to speak to me about?”
Ingrid shifted her weight so she could straighten her spine and put less strain on her bruised ribs. “I actually wanted to speak to you about another student of yours.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Who?”
Ingrid stared into his face, not wanting to miss the merest flicker of emotion. “Timo Klaason.”
There it was—a definite tightening around the eyes.
“Timo?” He scratched his head. “It’s not ringing any bells. You’d think it would—an unusual name like that.” He screwed up his eyes. “Are you sure he’s one of my students?”
“I just checked with the registrar’s office.”
“I hate to be disloyal, but they do operate on a skeleton staff over there. It wouldn’t be the first time they’ve made a mistake. It’s not their fault; budget cuts, I’m afraid.”
“The staff were very thorough. They showed me the paperwork.”
“Ah. Well… I shall have to put on my thinking cap. Clarkson, you say?”
“Klaason. He’s Dutch. I’m supposing you don’t have too many Dutch students here.”
“It’s quite a mixed bunch, actually. Budgets again, of course. Overseas students are our bread and butter.” He pursed his lips and patted an index finger against his chin. Another performance, Ingrid suspected. “Timo… Do you know what he looks like? So many students pass through this place.”
Ingrid pulled out a printout the registrar’s office had given her, a blurry black-and-white version of Klaason’s passport picture. Younger squinted at the image.
“Perhaps,” he said eventually. “He’s not in the faculty now; I’d definitely know him otherwise.”
“He left just before the spring break.”
He nodded and handed the sheet back. “Well, there you are.”
“Can you tell me anything about him? What kind of student he was? How he got along with his classmates? Who he hung around with?”
Younger shrugged. “I know he can’t have excelled academically. Or indeed been struggling terribly. In either case he would have come to my attention.”
“You’re absolutely sure you don’t know him?”
Younger got to his feet. “One hundred percent. I’m really sorry I can’t shed any light.” He held out his hand. “Would you like some help getting up?”
Ingrid ignored his hand and did her best to stand without grimacing.
“My audience awaits. Another two hours of spinning plates and fire-eating. Please excuse me.” He smiled at her then strolled toward the lecture theater. A moment later he stopped and turned back. “If you happen to… I mean…” He puffed out a breath. “If you see Lauren’s parents, would you tell them all of us here at Loriners—staff and students alike—miss her terribly. She’s a great loss to the field. She really might have made a difference.”
Ingrid watched his loping gait until he disappeared inside the building. She wasn’t sure what to make of Stuart Younger. Her research revealed a man who appeared to have led a blameless existence. He didn’t even have a record for weed possession when he was at college himself. Or a speeding violation in the two decades since. He was squeaky clean. Too damn clean for comfort.
“Hello!”
The voice in her ear made Ingrid jump. She stepped back and found herself staring into the eager face of the medical student she’d met on Tuesday morning.
“So you must be seriously considering coming here to study, then?”
Ingrid quickly tucked her visitor’s badge into her jacket.
“Second visit in four days. That’s keen,” Mohammed said. “You got over the whole ‘serial killer’ thing?”
“I, um, haven’t made a final decision yet.”
“Good job you weren’t here yesterday. That would’ve put you right off.”
“Why?” she said innocently. “What happened?”
“We almost had another jumper splatted across the square.” He shook his head. “I thought Emily would have more sense than to get herself mixed up in all that crap.”
“Emily?” Ingrid walked him away from the lecture
theater building, concerned Younger might come back out and blow her cover.
Mohammed fell into step with her. “The girl who nearly jumped.”
“You know her?”
He nodded. “She’s in my year. Studying medicine, like me.”
“What ‘crap’ is she mixed up in?”
“If I tell you, you might decide not to come here. Like I said before, you improve the scenery round here, innit?”
“What if I promise you right now that anything you tell me won’t affect my decision one way or the other?”
“OK. You swear, yeah?”
“Cross my heart.”
Mohammed stared at her finger as she dragged it across her chest.
“Emily was a volunteer. I was telling you about the experiments when I spoke to you before. She was a guinea pig in the psycho department. I reckon whatever twisted shit they did to her must have pushed her over the edge.”
“You think the research program had something to do with what happened yesterday?”
“Emily’s sound. Not my type, like.” He smiled slyly at Ingrid. “But she’s a good sort, you know? Maybe too good. Maybe that’s why she agreed to take part in the research; she was too nice to say no.”
Ingrid frowned at him.
“What I’m trying to say… Emily’s solid. Smart. Sensible. She wouldn’t try to throw herself out of a window without someone or something influencing her.”
“Someone?”
Mohammed shrugged. “There’s a bunch of them running the experiments.”
“You’re sure about Emily’s involvement in the research?” she said.
Mohammed nodded vigorously. “I told you it was twisted.”
23
Madison Faber yanked hard on the black Labrador’s leash and the dog immediately stopped pulling.
Ingrid gingerly bent down and squeezed the dog’s ears. “You’re quite the disciplinarian.”
“You have to be firm with him, or he’ll take advantage. Sorry about just now, but I needed to get out of the apartment. Miriam, my mom’s college friend, is driving me crazy. Fussing over me, wanting to talk about anything that happens to pop into her head. Walking the dog gets me a break from her. Though I’m actually quite allergic to his fur.” She gave a little sniff as if to prove it.
