by Eva Hudson
Jennifer nodded reluctantly, still keeping her eyes trained on her new rival.
“Good.” As Ingrid straightened up, something on the 24-hour news channel Jennifer had playing permanently in the corner of her monitor caught her eye. It was an artist’s impression of a young woman with a ghostly pale face and a peculiar shade of red hair. Ingrid pointed at the player window. “Can you make that full screen and turn up the volume?” Jennifer’s fingers flew over the keyboard and suddenly Ingrid was staring at a large portrait of the woman she’d seen two nights ago in Dulwich.
According to the reporter, the police were appealing for anyone who might know the identity of the victim of a vicious knife attack. The picture changed abruptly to show divers on a river police boat peering into a murky, churned up River Thames.
“What is it?” Jennifer was staring at Ingrid rather than the news report.
Isaac was hovering uncertainly next to Ingrid. “You know her?” he said tentatively.
Ingrid ignored their questions and grabbed her cell from her desk. She quickly punched in McKittrick’s number and waited for the DI—who probably felt as hungover as she did—to pick up. Finally the detective answered, slightly out of breath. It was only at that moment Ingrid remembered McKittrick had an early morning meeting with Internal Investigations. “Can you speak?” Ingrid asked her.
“I’m out of the Spanish Inquisition, if that’s what you mean.”
Ingrid left the office and quickly explained both her trip to Dulwich on Monday night and what she’d just seen on TV.
“If you think it’s her, why are you calling me and not the incident line?”
“I need you to check something for me. The woman I saw had a distinctive tattoo on her throat, in the shape of a crucifix.”
“Where was she found? I need to know which murder investigation team to contact.”
“In the river, beneath one of the bridges, London Bridge, maybe… I didn’t catch it. The body had gotten tangled in some mooring chains of the boats there. According to the report, if it hadn’t, it might not have shown up for weeks. Or ever. The body might have washed right out to sea, if the tide was moving in the right direction.”
“Leave it with me. I’ll see what I can find out.”
Ingrid hung up and quickly called Marshall. It was early hours of the morning in D.C., but she figured this was something he should know about as soon as possible. He answered the phone with a mumble.
“It’s me.”
“Jesus! Honey!”
Ingrid heard the rustling of bedclothes.
“Is everything OK?” he asked.
“I’m fine. Sorry to wake you, but I thought you’d want to know. That address I checked out for you? I’m pretty sure the woman I met there has turned up dead.”
There was a pause. Ingrid wondered if she should repeat what she’d just said. Was Marshall even properly awake? Finally he broke the silence. “How did she die?”
“Stabbed—I don’t have all the details—I figured you’d want to know right away.”
“How many stab wounds?”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“How many?”
“I don’t know, enough to be described as ‘vicious’. Why is that important?”
“It’s not our guy.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“That’s not his M.O., is all. He wouldn’t kill in that way. It’s not his style. He doesn’t like to get his hands dirty.”
“Maybe he’s changed. Who is ‘your guy’ anyway? You didn’t actually give me his name.”
“It doesn’t matter, because it’s not him.”
“Why won’t you tell me?”
“Because it doesn’t concern you.” He let out an impatient breath. “Listen, I have to go. I have an important briefing this morning. I can’t be late.” He hung up.
Ingrid checked her watch and counted back. It was four-thirty a.m. on the East Coast. Any meeting Marshall had would be hours away. He was lying to her. He was notoriously bad at it. The question was, why? Why wouldn’t he give her any information about the case? Her desk phone rang.
“Do you want me to get that?” Jennifer started to get up from her chair.
Ingrid held up a hand to stop her. “Agent Skyberg, US Embassy, Criminal Investigation Unit.”
“Do you know, I didn’t actually realize that’s what your little outfit was called.” The unmistakable tones of Angela Tate. “So, when are we going to fix up this interview?”
“Don’t you have better things to do than harass me?”
“Harass? I haven’t even started. It’d be much easier for you to give me what I want, believe me.”
“And what is that? You still want to do this damn fool fly-on-the-wall thing?”
“It’ll be fantastic, trust me.”
“OK! Friday. Ten a.m. I’ll meet you at the embassy gate.”
“Fine.”
“Good.”
Ingrid slammed the phone down. It took her a few moments to realize the two clerks were staring at her. “What’s the matter with you? Don’t you have work to do?” Her cell phone started to buzz. She jumped up from her desk and answered the call outside in the corridor. “Hey, Natasha, that was quick. Does that mean there was a tattoo?”
“No.”
“Oh.” Ingrid had felt certain the portrait she’d seen on the news report was the cherry soda haired Latvian from Dulwich. “Are you sure?”
“Not at all.”
“Wait a minute. Then what are you saying?”
“There was no tattoo on the victim’s throat because there was no skin there either.”
12
As soon as Ingrid ended the call from McKittrick, she tried Marshall again. This time her call went straight to voicemail. She cursed him silently and started back toward the office. If she just had the identity of the suspect he was monitoring, she could decide for herself how significant his M.O. was.
Jennifer and Isaac were both looking up at her expectantly when she entered the room.
“What’s happened?” she asked them.
“Shouldn’t you be leaving about now?” Jennifer said. She pointed to Ingrid’s desk. “Kristin Floyd said she had a window between eleven and twelve. It’s in my note.”
Ingrid glanced down at the indecipherable scrawl and tried to remember who Kristin Floyd was. She wasn’t sure it was a name she’d even heard before.
“Matthew Fuller’s girlfriend—she’s back in London. You wanted to speak to her. I arranged it for you yesterday evening.”
“OK—thank you. Can you text me the address? Is it some place I’ll be able to park the motorcycle?” She noticed Isaac had grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair.
“We’re going on a bike? Awesome!”
What the hell was going on? “Wait a minute. We are going nowhere.”
“Agent Franklin said I should accompany you the next time you interview someone. To use my victim support skills.”
Ingrid vaguely remembered Sol mentioning it the day before. Dammit. Isaac’s skills better be worth it. “Could you book me a car, Jennifer? I’d really appreciate it.”
A half hour later they arrived at an upmarket glass and steel apartment block in Bankside, just a couple hundred yards from the Tate Modern art gallery.
“Do you want me to lead on this?” Isaac innocently asked Ingrid as they ascended the building in an external glass elevator.
“As it’s your first case, why don’t you just observe on this one? Let me do all the talking.”
“But I really want to be able to help.”
“Trust me, a sympathetic smile can make all the difference in the circumstances.”
His shoulders slumped and he stuck his hands in his pockets. Ingrid wondered if he might sulk his way through the entire interview.
“This isn’t about what we want. It’s all about Kristin Floyd. We’re putting her needs first, OK?”
He nodded his head rapidly and
stood a little straighter. If he’d put up any kind of argument, Ingrid would have told him to go wait in the car.
The elevator arrived at the twenty-first floor and Ingrid straightened her jacket. She turned to Isaac. “Ready?”
“Sure.”
They walked the length of a thickly carpeted corridor—it seemed more like the hallway of a five star hotel than an apartment block—and Ingrid leaned on the buzzer of apartment 210. The door opened right away, as if Kristin Floyd had been waiting just behind it for their arrival.
“Thank you for fitting in with my schedule,” Fuller’s girlfriend said. “It’s much appreciated.” Her accent was pure upstate New York.
Ingrid introduced herself and Isaac as she studied the woman’s face. The eyes were red-rimmed, as were her nostrils. She wasn’t wearing any makeup and her hair hung loose over her shoulders. It looked slightly damp from the shower.
Isaac stuck out his hand and said, “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
Ingrid flinched a little.
“Thank you.” Floyd closed the apartment door and led them down a wood-floored hallway to a large, light-filled living room. The room was sparsely furnished, just two couches, a low coffee table sitting on a ten feet by twelve cotton rug, and a large TV mounted on the wall.
“Do you mind if we speak outside?” the woman asked. “I need a little air.” She grabbed a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from the coffee table and stepped outside onto a balcony that ran the length of the room.
By the time all three of them had settled themselves around a small circular aluminum café table, Floyd’s cigarette was already an inch shorter.
“What is it you want to speak to me about?” Floyd’s voice was steady, as was her gaze. She looked first at Ingrid, then glanced in Isaac’s direction. Isaac wriggled back in the seat and sat a little taller, the sympathetic smile Ingrid had mentioned earlier plastered across his face.
“I’d like to get a little background on Matthew, if you feel strong enough to talk about him.”
“Oh I’m plenty strong enough.” Floyd raised an immaculately threaded eyebrow. “Ask me anything you need to. I want to help.” She took a long drag on her cigarette. “Although I may not have all the answers.”
Ingrid smiled gently at her. “We appreciate any help you can give us.” She pulled out a notebook.
“Do you know how the police investigation is going? Have there been any threats toward Fisher Krupps?”
“I’m afraid I can’t comment on the investigation. I only have an overview. I believe the police are making progress.”
“Who would do a thing like that? Sick bastards.”
“That’s what the police hope to find out. I’m sure they will.” She flicked through her notebook to a fresh page. “How long had you and Matthew been together?”
“Just over…” Floyd stopped and looked up toward the early May sky, fluffy white clouds skudded across the blue. “Eight months.”
“So you knew him well?”
“Gosh, no, I wouldn’t say that. I barely knew him at all.”
Ingrid didn’t comment, but leaned in a little closer.
“Matthew was a very private man.” Floyd almost whispered the words. “He didn’t even really open up to me. It frustrated the hell out of me. We fought about it sometimes.” She took a long drag on her cigarette. “I guess I shouldn’t say things about him like that. Makes me sound a little callous.”
“Not at all.” Ingrid tried a sympathetic smile of her own. “Did he speak about his family at all?”
“He doesn’t have one.”
“He doesn’t?”
“Not much of one, anyway. He was an only child. His dad died when he was still at school. I guess he’s still pretty close to his mom. Have you spoken to her?”
Ingrid couldn’t admit they still hadn’t tracked down contact details for the woman. “Not personally, no.”
“She must be taking it so hard.”
“You haven’t spoken to her yourself?”
“I don’t have her number. I’ve never met her. Matthew and I didn’t really have a ‘meet the folks’ relationship.”
“You weren’t planning to make things more permanent?”
“Gosh no. We both knew it was a temporary thing that would end when one of us went back to the US. Or maybe even before.” Her voice caught in her throat. “I guess that’s exactly what’s happened. Never thought it would be under these circumstances.”
Ingrid paused a beat to allow Floyd to regain her composure. “So you hadn’t considered moving in together while you were both based in London?”
“No way! I like my own space. Matthew likes…” She wriggled her shoulders as if she were trying to cast off an unwelcome arm. “I mean Matthew liked his.”
“So you split your time between both apartments?”
Floyd hesitated. “Actually, you know, I don’t think Matthew spent a single night here. We always went to his place.”
Ingrid jotted down a few notes. “Would you say that Matthew was happy at work?”
“I guess. He was quite driven. You have to be in our business. It’s not for the faint-hearted.” She stubbed out her cigarette into a dirty saucer on the table. “I’m so sorry—I haven’t offered you anything. Would you like tea or coffee?”
“We’re fine, thank you.”
Floyd lit another cigarette. “What was I saying?”
“You were telling me how driven Matthew was.”
“He worked so damn hard. He never really relaxed. He was always twitchy about something. I guess that was all part of his condition.”
Ingrid tensed. “His condition?”
“The anxiety and all.” She drew on her cigarette and slowly exhaled. “You don’t know about it?”
Ingrid said nothing.
“But then, how could you? I only know because I stayed over at his apartment. He kept the whole thing very private. Made me promise I’d never tell anyone. I guess that doesn’t matter now.”
“What condition did Matthew have?”
“General anxiety disorder. He’s had it ever since his dad died. He took it really badly. The OCD was Matthew’s coping mechanism.”
“He was suffering from obsessive-compulsive disorder?”
Floyd nodded and took another puff on her cigarette. “He was a complete control freak. Everything had to be just the way he liked it. I have to admit—it drove me crazy. My place was way too messy for him. Everything had to be super neat and clean. Like, for example, the towels in his bathroom were always perfectly folded, all facing the same way. Same for the crockery in the kitchen cabinets, all had to point to the left. Or was it the right? Jesus—you’d think I’d remember, he drummed it into me so often.” She turned her head and stared toward an oblique view of the Thames. “I’d always get it wrong. And if I ever used any of the special cream he had for his hands…” She shook her head. “Listen to me, bitching about his OCD. What kind of person am I?”
“Tell me about the hand cream.”
“It was perfume-free, had extra vitamin E in it. He hands used to get so raw.”
“Raw?”
“He washed them over and over. I think maybe he counted how many times. If I ever interrupted him, he’d have to start over. I learned not to interrupt pretty quickly.” She let out a shaky breath.
“How did he manage to keep the hand washing thing a secret at work?”
“He learned to be strategic about it.”
“But he’d still wash his hands many, many times?”
“He didn’t have a choice. Poor bastard.”
Ingrid stood up. “Would you excuse me a moment—I need to make phone call.”
“What did I say?”
“It’s OK. Nothing to worry about.” Ingrid shot Isaac an encouraging look before she went back inside the apartment. She hoped he understood now was the time to put his recently acquired victim support skills to good use. He nodded back at her. Ingrid quickly found Mbeke’s number in her
contact list.
“I don’t have any new developments to report. I’d call you straightaway if I did, I hope you know that.”
“Sure, sure. Listen, something came up I thought you should know about. I think maybe Matthew Fuller might have been the intended target.”
“You’ve heard from Witness Protection?”
“No—I’ve just been speaking to Fuller’s girlfriend. She told me Fuller had OCD—one of the ways it manifested was in repeated hand washing. We’re talking dozens of times every time he visited the bathroom.”
“Which is why the toxin affected him so much more than anyone else?”
“It’s what I’m thinking. Say he was the intended target. The killer hangs around, watches Fuller die. Then removes the evidence from the restroom, having done what he intended to do.”
“Doesn’t explain the delay. Fuller died approximately 9.25 a.m. Colin Stewart was taken ill over forty minutes later. Why leave the soap around to do collateral damage once the job was done?”
“Like I said before, maybe the killer doesn’t care about collateral damage.”
“Like some kind of sadist?”
“I couldn’t possibly make that kind of judgement.”
“But it’s what you’re thinking.”
“I’m thinking we’re dealing with a sick bastard who needs to be tracked down as soon as possible.” Another thought occurred to Ingrid. “If Fuller was the target, the killer had to know about Fuller’s OCD. According to his girlfriend, no one knew except her.”
“So?”
“So Hernandez—let’s just agree for the sake of argument right now he’s the most likely suspect—must have been observing him closely. He must have been working in the bank planning his move for weeks or maybe even months. This had to be a meticulously prepared attack.”
13
The morgue in Westminster wasn’t open by the time Ingrid arrived there early the next morning. She’d decided to walk from Marylebone to Horseferry Road through the back streets, feeling a need to clear her head and work through some of the frustration she felt.
After she’d gotten off the phone from Mbeke the day before and wrapped up the interview with Kristin Floyd, Ingrid had returned to the embassy and gone on a hunt for Sol Franklin. She still hadn’t managed to have a conversation with him about contacting Witness Protection and forcing them to reveal the details of Matthew Fuller’s former identity. In the end she’d had to settle for leaving a longwinded voice message for him, justifying her request as well as she could. He hadn’t gotten back to her before she left the embassy for the night. DI Mbeke had, however, and the news he had to share didn’t give her much hope they would ever track down Miguel Hernandez. The officers staking out his apartment finally managed to track down one of the property’s occupants only to discover that Hernandez didn’t live there and never had. At least not for the last five years. The tenant’s story was confirmed by the landlord of the property. It seemed Hernandez, or whatever his real name was, had given the cleaning agency a false address.
