by Eva Hudson
“How about the house-to-house inquiries? Do any of the neighbors remember seeing a man at the address?”
“Nope.”
“And none of them recognize the man in the photograph I sent you?”
Fraser drew in a noisy breath.
“What is it?”
“When no one confirmed a sighting of a man, we wound down the house-to-house interviews. We’re concentrating our efforts elsewhere.”
“Are you saying that the woman’s neighbors haven’t even seen the photograph?”
Another rasping inhale.
Goddammit.
“Why aren’t you treating her murder as a priority? Is it because she’s an immigrant?”
“Of course not! We take all homicides very seriously. It’s not like America. We don’t have this sort of thing happening every day of the week. Thank God.”
“Where are you concentrating your efforts?”
“The boss is due to fly out to Latvia on Sunday morning. He’s liaising with the police force in Riga.”
“That’s it?” It sounded like an excuse for a weekend away to Ingrid.
“We’re still looking at the CCTV footage from the area around her flat. Nothing of interest has come up so far.” He let out a long sigh. “Look, we’re all as frustrated as you are with the lack of progress on this case. But it doesn’t mean we’ve given up on finding out who killed her.
Ingrid hoped he meant what he said. She hung up and opened the search app on her cell. Tate was striding toward her.
“And what was that call about?”
“Another ongoing case.”
“That you can’t share.”
Ingrid looked up from her phone. “Actually, I can. But I need some help first.”
“From me?” Tate threw what was left of her third cigarette into the gutter. Ingrid nodded back at her. “Fire away!” The reporter rubbed her hands together.
“Do you have a chain of copy shops here in the UK? I need to find one—fast.”
Forty minutes later, Ingrid and Tate were walking out of a Kall Kwik copy shop on Wembley High Road, laden down with a box each of 250 color copies of Darryl Wyatt’s photograph.
“Where to now?” Tate said as they shoved the boxes onto the front seat of the car.
Ingrid leaned in and punched an address into the sat nav. The driver shifted uncomfortably in his seat a little but offered no word of protest.
“Actually—before we go anywhere,” Tate said, “I need to find some lunch.” She slammed shut the door and grabbed Ingrid’s arm around the elbow. “My God you need feeding up. Let’s get you something substantial to eat, shall we?”
Lunch took a lot longer than Ingrid would have liked, and mostly consisted of her deflecting Tate’s intrusive questions about her life in London and her work in the FBI. By the time they were back in the car and turning off Lordship Lane, the traffic was starting to get heavy—mainly moms picking up their kids from kindergarten and the first signs of the evening rush hour—it was Friday afternoon after all—and the embassy driver seemed a little irritated.
“You know, you still haven’t told me where we’re going,” Tate said as she wriggled to get comfortable in the plushly upholstered rear seat of the sedan. “Though I’ve got to admit, I could get used to having my own personal driver. What a treat!”
The car pulled into the curb a few minutes later and Tate peered out the window. “What are we doing in Dulwich?”
“Something I guess you’ve done plenty of over the years.”
Tate arched a single eyebrow.
“A little doorstepping.”
“Really? Let me at ’em. I thought I might die of boredom.”
Ingrid reached into the front seat, pulled a sheaf of color copies from one of the boxes and handed them to Tate, who was practically limbering up on the sidewalk like a marathon runner, she was so keen to start. She looked at the photograph of Darryl Wyatt. “I’m already sick of this bloke’s face. What’s the score—asking people if they recognize him, if so when did they last see him, etcetera etcetera… Does he have a name?”
“I doubt he’d be using the one I have on record for him.”
“So, if they happen to put a name to the face, I get bonus points.”
“You only get those if they give you an address for him.”
“I’m glad you’re not my boss.”
Ingrid pointed to the Latvian’s building. A little blue and white police tape had gotten caught in the branches of a nearby tree and was fluttering in the breeze. “We’ll start there. With the other apartments in the building, then work outwards.”
Tate was already halfway up the path leading to the front door before Ingrid finished speaking. She rang all five buzzers, leaning her hand against them until she got a response. An intercom crackled and a distant voice hollered at her. Ingrid decided to give the reporter some space and tried the neighboring property. She knocked on the door and a dog started barking almost immediately. A deep, menacing bark. She heard an internal door open and close. The barking got louder for a moment then faded. A few seconds later the front door opened a few inches.
“Where’s the bloody fire?” The woman holding onto the door was dressed in training pants and a sweatshirt, she had bright white sneakers on her feet.
Ingrid flashed her badge at her and held up one of the copied sheets.
“Not more bloody coppers. I’ve already told you, I don’t know anything and I haven’t seen anything. I mind my own business.” She started to close the door.
“Please ma’am, just a take a quick look.”
“You’re a Yank.”
“FBI, from the American embassy, ma’am.”
“So who’s this then?” She pointed to the sheet. “One of your Most Wanted?” She let out a little snort of laughter.
“He is, as a matter of fact. The sooner we track him down the safer we’ll all sleep in our beds.” Ingrid had grown sick of the subtle, softly, softly approach. She decided to try scaring the crap out of this woman. See if that made her pay attention. So far it seemed it might just be working.
“What’s he supposed to have done?” The woman jabbed a finger at the photograph.
“Murder.”
“Of her next door?”
“You know the deceased?”
“No—but I’ve seen her around. Said hello a couple of times.” She scrutinized Ingrid’s face. “Why’s the American embassy getting involved? She wasn’t American. Not with that accent.”
“This man is the prime suspect in a murder investigation in Georgia.”
“And you think he’s come all the way over here?”
“It’s one line of inquiry we’re pursuing.”
“God you sound just like the policewoman I spoke to yesterday. Do you all get the same training?”
“Please, ma’am, take a good look at his face. It’s possible he’s clean shaven now, maybe his hair’s a different color. He could be wearing glasses.”
The woman stared a little longer at the color copy, then started shaking her head. “I’ve not seen him.”
“Is there anyone else in the house who might have?”
“My husband. But he doesn’t pay attention to anything outside work and football. I’m lucky if he even notices me.”
“Please keep the photo and ask him, would you?” Ingrid handed her a card too. “Call me anytime if you think of something.”
The woman closed the door just as Tate approached from the next door property.
“Any luck?” Ingrid asked her.
“The only person to answer their buzzer was half deaf. I popped a few photocopies through the main letter box anyway. I scribbled my phone number and ‘have you seen this man’ on the back of each one.”
“Don’t you think asking them to contact the embassy would have been more appropriate?”
Tate shrugged. “Didn’t occur to me.” She reached into her purse and pulled out her pack of cigarettes. “I heard most of what you told that wo
man.”
“So?”
“Who did this one kill in Georgia? I’m guessing it’s got to be quite a high profile case for the FBI to get involved.”
“We take every homicide just as seriously as any other. High profile doesn’t come into it.”
“Sure, sure. So who was it?”
“Just some woman in a restaurant.” She’d already revealed too much.
“Another stabbing?”
Ingrid wondered if she should lie. It wouldn’t help her investigation to have Tate sniffing around the ex-congresswoman’s death. She decided to be as vague as possible. “That’s right. I haven’t received the case file yet—I don’t know all the details.”
“Maybe when you do, we can have a follow-up interview?”
“Sure, why not?” As if that would ever happen.
Tate looked down at the cigarettes and shoved them back in her purse. Then she quickly moved on to the next house. “We’d better get stuck in, or we’ll be here all night.”
Ninety minutes, and at least three dozen properties later, Ingrid met Tate back at the car. “Anything to report?” Ingrid asked her.
“Most people were either out or chose not to answer. I shoved the picture through their letterboxes anyway. You never know, someone might get in touch. What about you?”
“Same story. It was worth a try.”
“Yes—and it kept me out of your hair for a while. But I’m not that easily deterred. We’ve done everything we can here. You can tell me all about the dead trader while we drive to Fisher Krupps.”
Ingrid pursed her lips and shook her head. She pointed at her watch. “Five-thirty. End of my working day. You’ve had all the access you’re going to get.”
25
Ingrid had only managed to get rid of Angela Tate after promising to update her with any progress on the City trader case, just as soon as it happened.
“Be warned—I will hold you to that. If I don’t hear from you, I shall make your life absolute hell,” she’d said.
Ingrid didn’t doubt that for a second. She knew well enough not to cross Tate. If she were being entirely honest with herself, she would have to admit she was a little in awe of the journalist’s single-mindedness. And maybe even a little intimidated.
When she returned to the embassy, after dropping Tate at the Evening News building on Blackfriars Road, Ingrid decided to check in with DI Mbeke.
“Have I caught you still on duty?” Ingrid asked him after she’d almost hung up—the call rang out for what seemed like ages.
“Actually I was just heading out of the building.” He sounded slightly out of breath.
“Any news?”
“I was going to leave it until Monday.”
Ingrid sat up in her chair.
“It’s not earth shattering. We still haven’t located Hernandez. But we have confirmed that aconite was used to kill Fuller. The lab found traces of it in his liver and kidneys.”
“What about the washroom?”
“Nothing. Which presumably means the poison was in the soap dispensers.”
“Which the killer removed. Right under our noses.”
“Wait a minute—I hadn’t arrived at that point.”
“OK—I admit it—I was the law enforcement officer he made a fool of.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“No offense taken. I’m just still so mad at myself about it.”
“But why would he take that risk?”
“Maybe it was his only opportunity to remove the evidence.”
“He could have just left the poison there. Wreaked more havoc.”
“He did what he came to do.”
“You’re still certain Fuller was the intended victim?”
“It’s the explanation that makes the most sense.”
“Then why not leave as soon as Fuller was dead? We still have that hour and a quarter to account for between Fuller’s death and the footage of Hernandez making his escape. Why did he hang around for so long?”
“Maybe he enjoys the thrill.” Ingrid tried to recall her Psychology 101: narcissistic sociopaths take great pleasure in watching the drama they’ve created unfold. Especially when it makes them feel so much smarter than the investigating officers. He must have been there, silently mocking them. Mocking her. Ingrid thought of Darryl Wyatt standing in the restaurant, watching Barbara Highsmith gasping her last breaths. “During your interviews of Fuller’s colleagues, did anyone mention seeing a cleaner hanging around the area while Fuller was actually dying?”
“Don’t forget, no one discovered Fuller for a little while. He was lying in the corridor outside the main trading area. It wasn’t until someone visited the toilet that anyone even knew he was in trouble.”
“Where the hell is Hernandez? You really have to put all your efforts into finding him.”
“You think?”
“Sorry. I’m really not telling you how to do your job.”
There was a silence at the other end of the line. Had she really offended him so much?
“Listen, I’ll be working right through the weekend,” Mbeke eventually said. “I’m just popping out of the station now to get a bite to eat. Would you like to join me?”
Ingrid paused. It didn’t sound like he was asking her out on a date.
“We could discuss the case in… slightly more pleasant surroundings.”
“The case? Sure, why not? I can be with you in less than thirty minutes.”
“Good, great. I’ll text you the address of the restaurant.”
By the time Ingrid and Mbeke had ordered their meal, they’d already raked over pretty much everything about the investigation that they’d discovered so far. Ingrid updated Mbeke on the Savannah poisoning case and he ran through how the City of London Police were liaising with other forces up and down the country to try to track Hernandez down.
“Without a photograph, or any consistent description of the man, we’re not holding out much hope,” Mbeke told her.
“Nobody on staff recognized the photograph I sent you?”
“Don’t you think you would have been the first to know if they had? No one notices the cleaners.”
“Apart from the other cleaners.”
“None of them is comfortable speaking to us. I think the cleaning agency might be running some sort of immigration scam. I’ve got some colleagues looking into it. But whatever they find, it isn’t exactly going to encourage any of the employees to tell us anything.” Mbeke was leaning his chin in his hands, his elbows planted on the table. He stared into Ingrid’s eyes, his gaze almost uncomfortably intense.
Ingrid started playing with the corner of her napkin, just for something else to focus on. “I guess it’s possible Hernandez has left the country already.”
“It’s impossible to say. Hernandez probably isn’t his real name. If he has left, I would imagine he’s got alternative paperwork for a different identity. Border control can’t help us.”
Ingrid wondered if maybe the suspect was smarter than the law enforcement agents investigating the case. She was certainly feeling decidedly dumb right now.
Mbeke sniffed loudly and sat up straight. “This is my first murder case, and I’m completely lost. I don’t have a single promising lead to follow up. I feel useless. I can’t help thinking there’s something blindingly obvious that I’m missing.”
“If there is, then I’m missing it too.”
A waiter approached their table holding a steaming bowl of pasta in each hand. Following the ritual of the black pepper grinding and the parmesan shaving, Ingrid and Mbeke ate in silence for a few minutes. They’d pretty much exhausted all case-related avenues of conversation. Then they both awkwardly started to speak at the same time.
“You first,” Ingrid insisted.
“I was just going to ask you about your life back in the US. A pathetic attempt at small talk.” He smiled at her.
Ingrid sensed this was the time to bring her fiancé into the conversation. But the t
hought of even mentioning Marshall’s name right now reminded her she was still mad at him. “Oh there’s not much to talk about, really. I pretty much live for the job. Sad, I know.”
“Not at all. I’m guilty of the same thing myself. You can ask my ex-wife!”
“Oh—I’m sorry.”
“It was all my fault. In the end it came down to choosing between the job and my marriage.”
“Do you ever regret choosing your career ahead of your love life?” Ingrid was aware just how career-focused she and Marshall were.
Mbeke raised his eyebrows.
“I’m sorry—that was too personal.”
“Not at all, I just wasn’t expecting it. When it came down to it, I couldn’t imagine doing anything else for a living. But I could see myself single again. I guess I’m just too selfish to be in a relationship.”
This was all getting a little too intense. Ingrid attacked the bowl of linguine with her fork as if she were trying to harpoon the prawns in their sea of cream sauce.
“What about you?” Mbeke asked.
Ingrid was afraid he might ask that. “Oh I love the job too. It’s in my DNA.”
“Literally? Your dad was a policeman?”
She laughed. “My dad was a hog farmer.”
“Some people might say those two professions are closely related.”
Ingrid laughed again, more out of embarrassment than amusement. Time to bring in the cavalry, much as it pained her to do so. “But my fiancé’s dad was a cop. A sheriff, as a matter of fact.”
“Your fiancé?”
She nodded and shoved another forkful of pasta in her mouth to avoid the need to speak. She couldn’t help but notice Mbeke’s shoulders sag a little. He stared down at his meal and chased a button mushroom around the bowl.
“Marshall and I are both married to the job, I guess,” she said, attempting to fill the awkward silence. “Maybe dating a fellow cop is the answer. We understand the issues. The missed dates, the forgotten birthdays.”
“How long have you been engaged?”
“Just over a year. But we started dating two years before that. And we’ve known one another forever—since Academy training at Quantico.”
