by Eva Hudson
“I’ll be fine.” A CSI closed the doors of a nearby truck, making Ingrid flinch.
“Some people go to the cinema on a Saturday afternoon, you know, settle down with a big box of popcorn and while away a couple of hours. Are you auditioning for the part of a superhero?”
“I thought you’d want to be updated if I discovered new evidence connected to the Shelbourne investigation.”
McKittrick’s face sank.
“Why else did you think I’d get you here on your day off?”
“I dunno, maybe you wanted to see a friendly face, a shoulder to lean on? Instead I see you’ve added to my workload.”
McKittrick blinked, her eyes swimming slightly as she stared at the front of the building. “I take it you think this meth factory supplied the drugs Lauren Shelbourne took?”
“It’s run by a student in Shelbourne’s study group. Timo Klaason, the man responsible for this… enterprise, was, or is, in Professor Younger’s research program at Loriners.”
“He was Lauren’s supplier?”
“According to Madison Faber.”
McKittrick’s eyebrows shot up. “Didn’t know you were still in contact with her.” She licked the last of the ketchup off her fingers. “I’m sure I don’t need to remind you the cause of death wasn’t an overdose. The girl hit her head. That’s what killed her.”
“I thought you weren’t happy with the findings.”
“Never said that.”
“I thought that’s why you sent Mills to help—”
“I’m not happy being leaned on. Being told what I should be delivering and by when, especially when you’re not my boss, and extra especially when it makes me look bad.”
Ingrid let out a sigh. “That’s why I figured you’d want to see it. This way you can let your Crime Squad colleagues take the bust, or you can send in your CSIs and see if there’s anything that relates to Lauren.”
McKittrick tapped her foot rhythmically. She didn’t seem to be concentrating. She was hyper. “Jesus, Natasha, are you high?”
McKittrick whipped round so fast Ingrid took a step back, fearing she might actually slap her. McKittrick nodded at her Met colleagues, all of whom were out of earshot. “What did you say?”
Ingrid was in no mood for another fight. “Nothing.”
“Good. Because it is my day off. Or at least it was meant to be.”
She didn’t know Natasha that well. She liked her. They’d been out for a few drinks, but Ingrid realized she knew very little about her friend. And she had enough experience with addicts and users to think McKittrick wouldn’t pass a blood test. Her cell phone bleeped twice. The vibrate function hadn’t survived being dropped. She retrieved it from a pocket and scanned the text message. It was from Mills, suggesting they meet. He had ‘discovered something’ about their ‘American friend.’
“Anyone I know?” McKittrick asked.
Ingrid glowered at McKittrick, suddenly very unsure where she stood with the inspector. “It’s personal.”
McKittrick raised her hands and took a step backward. “Sorry I asked. You said Faber put you onto this Timo fella?”
Ingrid nodded.
“Why?”
“She said she was scared. Scared that Lauren’s dealer would seek to silence her.” Ingrid thought better of mentioning the mouse.
McKittrick rubbed her chin. “She called the station yesterday, wanting to know if we’d found Lauren’s laptop and mobile.”
“You seem to be implying there’s something wrong with that. What am I missing?”
“I thought she was smarter than that.”
Ingrid wasn’t catching Natasha’s drift. “What point are you making?”
“Faber’s pushing you; she’s nagging us—doesn’t she realize she could be putting herself back in the frame? She was covered in Shelbourne’s blood when we found her.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Ingrid said. “Why would she be so insistent we look into her friend’s death if it could backfire on her?”
McKittrick shrugged. “Don’t you think there’s something odd about that girl?”
Ingrid was exasperated. “She just found her best friend in the country dead in a pool of blood. Trust me, none of us know how we’ll behave in those circum—” She was cut off by sudden shouting on the other side of the police cordon.
McKittrick’s lip curled. “Christ, not her.”
Running toward them, pursued by a uniformed policeman, was Angela Tate. “Just a brief statement,” Tate shouted. “The people of Lewisham have a right to know what’s happening on their streets.” She reached McKittrick and Ingrid just as the constable caught up with her. “Don’t even think about laying one of those fat-fingered paws on me.” She scrutinized McKittrick, a sudden sparkle in her eyes. “What are you doing here? Do we have a homicide to report as well as a drug bust?”
“How did you find out about this so quickly?” McKittrick asked her. “Does the Evening News have spies on every corner?”
Tate caught Ingrid’s eye. Ingrid tensed. She’d called the journalist right after dialing nine nine nine. She’d decided she needed to keep Tate on side, in case she needed a favor later. With only three days before the Shelbournes were due to return home with their daughter’s body, Ingrid needed all the help she could get.
“Spies on every corner? Hardly. But keen-eyed members of the public with camera phones at the ready are happy to tell us what’s going on,” Tate said, still looking at Ingrid. “So—have you found a dead body in there?”
“Detective Inspector McKittrick isn’t here in a professional capacity,” Ingrid told her.
Tate raised her eyebrows. “What? Is this what you do at the weekend for kicks?”
“Something like that.” McKittrick pulled Ingrid to one side. “Anything new, let me know. Else my hands are tied.”
“Ma’am?” The uniformed police officer was still hovering nearby. He nodded toward Tate.
“Oh, leave her be. Just don’t let her get inside the building.”
Ingrid and Tate watched McKittrick leave. “What do you make of her?” Tate said when the detective was far enough away.
“What do you mean?”
“There’s something… not quite… I don’t know. Journalist’s nose. Something about her doesn’t smell right.”
“Can’t say I’ve noticed.” There was definitely something up with McKittrick—Mills had said as much—but Ingrid was far too faithful a friend to voice her concerns to a reporter. Especially this one.
29
Ingrid ordered an orange juice. When she put her change back in her wallet, she saw the photograph of Marshall. She found a table with a view of Greenwich Market and considered giving her fiancé a call.
We look so young.
The photo had been taken at the finish line of a half marathon. They looked exhausted but elated, covered in mud. Ingrid remembered the day well. Marshall had said he would run with her for the first few miles but intended to push himself. He hadn’t reckoned on Ingrid’s extra hours of preparation and her absolute determination not to be beaten. When they’d crossed the line together, everyone said how well matched they were. And for a couple of years she had believed them. She stared down at the photo, unable to unsee the indignation behind Marshall’s smile. The hand that held the photo wasn’t wearing an engagement ring. It hadn’t left her hotel safe for months.
She didn’t even reach into her bag for her cell. An impromptu conversation with Marshall was likely to make her feel even more unsettled. He’d only ask her again about a date for the wedding. Instead she fished out a packet of paracetamol and administered two more painkillers. She closed her eyes and relived her jump onto the roof. The rush was electric. She would never forget the look of astonishment on Klaason’s face. She opened her eyes to see the tall, slim figure of Ralph Mills standing in front of her.
“I’ve kept you waiting again. I’m so sorry.” Mills grabbed her shoulder. She winced and he pulled back his hand as
if he’d been electrocuted. “What did I do?”
“I’m a little worse for wear. I’ll get over it.”
He pointed to her orange juice. “Can I get you something stronger?”
“I’m driving. I’ve got a hire car to deliver back to Mayfair.”
An expression of intense disappointment cast a shadow over his face. He had hoped this might be more of a social meeting. “Oh, OK. I’ll just get myself something.”
Ingrid heard him charming the woman behind the bar with his schoolboy banter. He was the polar opposite of Marshall. It took her a while to realize she was gawping at his skinny ass and admiring his slender torso. No preening muscles. No tight tee shirt. There was a modesty to Mills she was finding attractive.
You’re engaged.
She turned in her seat, sending a wave of pain from her hip to her shoulder. Maybe McKittrick had been right; perhaps she should go to the hospital. Mills returned with a pint of Guinness. His first sip left him with a white mustache.
“That’s the trouble with these things,” he said, producing a pocket square and dabbing his mouth.
The silence that followed was awkward.
“Ah. Um. You had some information, I think, that you wanted to share?” Ingrid prompted.
“Oh yes. Of course. The whole reason you’re here.”
Not entirely. The logo on his tee shirt was for a band she’d never heard of. It had been years since she’d been to a gig. Damn, now she was staring at his chest. “So, you got something on Greg Brewster?”
He smiled one of the Clark Swanson smiles. “He’s an arms dealer.”
“Really?”
“Honestly. All aboveboard and everything. Works for a major arms manufacturer in Florida. I wrote the name of the company down somewhere…” He patted his pockets.
“It’s OK—that can wait. What else did you find out?”
“It seems his… entertainment preferences… I mean…” He pulled a face. “I’m not really sure how to say this in the right way.”
“I know about his taste in men.”
“Right. OK. Good. Well, it turns out the company he keeps when he’s over here isn’t the most… wholesome.”
“How d’you know that?”
“He’s been robbed before.”
Ingrid said nothing. She’d expected as much by the casual way Brewster had reacted to the loss of his laptop.
“Less than twelve months ago he was over here for some big trade show—an arms fair. Can you believe that? They actually have shows at conference centers where regular punters can just wander round and gawp at automatic machine guns and ground-to-air missiles.” He frowned, staring right into Ingrid’s face. The frown disappeared and his face softened. “Where was I?”
“Brewster was robbed last year.”
“Yes. His wallet. Cash, credit cards, everything. He reported it to the local borough force—the Belgravia uniforms dealt with it. I was a uniform there once. Seems like a million years ago now.” He stared out the window at the bargain hunters and tourists browsing the market stalls.
“Ralph?”
“Hmm?”
“You got distracted again.”
“Sorry. Anyway, one day he gets his wallet taken—mugged in St James’s Park two o’clock in the morning—the next day he’s withdrawn his statement. Said he was mistaken. The wallet wasn’t missing after all. My ex-colleague at Belgravia said he wasn’t that surprised, given the circumstances.”
“He was with a guy in the park?”
“That’s what he’d said originally. Then he said he’d been mistaken about that too.” He took a sip of his pint and managed to avoid a frothy upper lip this time. “You’d expect he’d be more careful. I mean in this day and age, there’s no need to be skulking around public lavatories and parks after dark. There are apps for that kind of thing now. You can just tap something into your phone and Bob’s your uncle, or… whoever you want him to be.”
“You seem to know a lot about it.” Ingrid decided to distract herself from the pain in her back by teasing him. He didn’t rise to the bait. Another way in which he was so very different to Marshall.
“Me? I’m an expert. Another ex-colleague of mine keeps me up-to-date on all that stuff.” He smiled to himself. “You should meet Cath. You’d like her.”
Was he so easily distracted because he was nervous?
“Brewster obviously thought he was being careful this time,” Ingrid said, yanking the conversation back to Brewster. “He went to the trouble of using an escort agency.”
“But they’re not exactly… reputable, are they? They can’t afford to ask too many questions in their line of business.”
“Did your friend at Belgravia have anything else to say?”
“It wasn’t the incident itself that he said was interesting, which is why it stuck in his mind so much. It was the way Brewster withdrew his statement. My mate said he seemed really twitchy when he saw him the second time. Anxious, like he was looking over his shoulder constantly. You’d think he would have been more anxious straight after being mugged by the strange bloke he’d picked up in the park. But apparently he was quite defiant about the incident just after it happened. Throwing his weight around. Not embarrassed in the slightest. He was a different man the second time my mate saw him. Meek as a lamb.”
“Did your friend have a theory why Brewster had changed his attitude so much?”
“No, he just thought it was strange. What do you make of it?”
“Not sure. Did you have any luck tracking down information about the escort?”
“Didn’t really have much to go on. False name. False address. Throwaway phone.”
It had been a long shot asking Mills for help, but he’d delivered. “Talking about phones… did you ever find Lauren Shelbourne’s cell phone and laptop?”
“No. We’ve not managed to track them down. We’ve checked the phone company records, obviously, but her phone hasn’t been switched on since she died. We’re still monitoring it.” Mills took a long drink of his Guinness and sat quietly for a moment. “The thing I mentioned before, about our meeting being mutually beneficial?”
Ingrid shifted in her seat. What was he going to suggest?
Mills swallowed noisily. “I’d be really grateful if you could do me a favor.”
“Name it.” She braced herself.
“I’m worried about the boss.”
“Natasha?”
“She’s going through a tough time at the moment. She’s not been in London that long. I’m not sure how much support she has in this part of the country. She worked out west before—Bristol. I’m doing my best to keep an eye out for her, but I think she might need a mate, you know? Someone to confide in.”
Ingrid considered her erratic behavior at the meth bust. “You think she’d confide in me?”
“I know she respects you.”
Didn’t seem that way earlier.
“I just saw her, actually.”
“You did?”
She filled him in on the afternoon’s action. “She wasn’t in much of a confessional mood. She certainly didn’t seem to relish the prospect of reopening the Shelbourne case.”
He screwed his face up. “There’s a lot of stuff going on at work at the moment.”
“You mentioned as much before. What kind of stuff?”
“I can’t say what.” He pushed away his glass. “Maybe you could go out with her? Let her know she can speak freely to you.”
“I can try. But Natasha isn’t really the talking kind.” She wondered if McKittrick thought exactly the same thing about her. Perhaps they should go out and sink a few tequilas.
“My hunch is she puts on a good front.”
Jeez, you’re a nice guy, Ralph Mills.
“I’ll call her. I promise.”
Ingrid’s phone buzzed and she glanced at the screen. “I should take this.”
“Sure. I’ll get us another drink.”
Ingrid turned away to answer the
call. “Madison, how are you?”
“I have to see you. Now. I’m at my apartment.” She hung up.
30
Ingrid slammed the taxi door. She froze as she turned from the cab toward Madison Faber’s building. Painted across the front door in wide brushstrokes were the words faber = whore. The bright yellow paint had dripped messily down the door and onto the step.
Ingrid looked up and saw a twitch in the wooden window shade at the second-floor window, then glimpsed Faber’s face at the glass. A moment later the face disappeared and the buzzer sounded on the door. Ingrid hurried up the steps, doing her best to ignore the grinding pain in her side and back.
Inside, Faber was waiting for her at the top of the flight of stairs within her apartment.
“What took you so long? I’ve been going out of my mind.”
“I came right away.”
“You’ve seen what they’ve done to the door?”
“Did you call the police?”
Faber marched into the living room and Ingrid followed.
“Sit down, Madison. Big, slow breaths.”
“Don’t patronize me!”
“Did you call the police?”
“I can’t speak to them. I’ve got to get out of here. I only hung around because I need to show you something.” She stopped abruptly and studied Ingrid’s face. “What happened to your cheek?”
Ingrid lifted a hand to her face, lightly tracing her bruised cheekbone with her fingertips. “It’s nothing. Madison, listen. We need to tell the police. They need to take a sample of the paint. They need to take prints. You understand?”
Faber got up and paced the room. “I should never have told you about Klaason. My God. What if I’d been here when he did that to the door?” She shivered.
Ingrid held up her hands, only just managing to stop herself telling Faber to calm down. “Why did you come back?”
“I needed fresh clothes.”
“And the door onto the street was already vandalized when you arrived?”
“Yes.”
