by Eva Hudson
32
“How many more times will I have to patch you up, huh?” The embassy doctor was standing in the doorway of the office, wagging a finger at Ingrid.
As far as she could recall, she’d never even asked for his assistance. She threw an accusatory glance at Jennifer, who quickly looked away.
Ingrid then managed to force herself to sit still through the doctor’s examination, an endless list of questions and finally the application of a fresh dressing. All in all, she was incapacitated for well over an hour.
Eventually he snapped off his latex gloves. “Now please—take it easy, will you? How’s the shoulder?”
“A little sore, but fine. It’s nothing more than a big ugly purple bruise.”
“I’ve a mind to sign you off active duty.”
“That really won’t be necessary.”
“There’s nothing wrong with admitting you’re hurt, you know.”
“I’m just sitting at my desk—what possible harm can I come to?”
The doctor turned to Jennifer. “Can I rely on you to make sure she does exactly that?”
Jennifer nodded meekly at him, but avoided Ingrid’s gaze. When finally he exited the office, the clerk said, “I only did what was right. I’m not going to apologize for that. You need somebody looking out for you.”
Ingrid immediately got back on the phone to Mike Stiller.
“What was the problem?”
“Just an open head wound.”
“Yours?”
“Yep.”
“You OK?”
“Right as rain. Couple Tylenol and I’ll be fully restored.”
“Something else you want to discuss?”
“I’ve been thinking… if you were Ellis’ son, why wait so long to avenge your dad’s death? Henry Ellis died in 1992, David Brite was killed in 2003.”
“Cory Ellis was only thirteen when his dad died. What did you expect him to do? Quit school and go on the rampage?”
“But the ex-congresswoman was murdered just last May, twenty years after Henry Ellis committed suicide. Cory Ellis must be an exceptionally patient man.”
“Maybe we could describe him as goal-oriented and extremely focused. Determined, single-minded.”
Mike Stiller had just set out more character traits for a narcissistic sociopath. Ingrid got a little fidgety. She had a link connecting Highsmith and Fuller and a profile that fit the one she’d sketched of Darryl Wyatt. Cory Ellis had to be her man.
“Wait a minute,” Mike said.
“What is it?”
“What a tragedy.”
“What have you found out?”
“Mary Ellis, Henry’s widow, Cory’s mom, also committed suicide, May 15th 2001.”
The date was significant, Ingrid was sure. If her head had been a little clearer, she might have remembered why before Mike Stiller chimed in.
“The ninth anniversary of Henry Ellis’ death,” he said, a note of smugness creeping into his voice.
Ingrid sat very still. She tried to concentrate. The date of Henry Ellis’ death wasn’t the one she was thinking of. Then, despite the anvil pounding in her head, it came to her. “That’s the day Barbara Highsmith was killed.”
“It was?”
“When did David Brite have his fatal accident?”
Mike tapped in something to his keyboard. Ingrid waited. “Same date,” he told her after a few moments.
“That’s one way to mark the anniversary of your parents’ deaths.”
At the other end of the line Mike Stiller let out a breathy whistle.
“Can you send me everything you have from the Marshals Office?”
“Sure. Who knew a stupid Ponzi scheme could cause so much havoc?”
“It wouldn’t have been the first time. Or the last.”
“Listen, I’ll send you everything I’ve got. But you should take it easy, you hear? Open head wounds don’t heal without a little help.”
“No need to worry about me.” She hung up and stared for a little while at the phone. Something was niggling at her, but the harder she tried to pin it down, the more elusive it became. She waited for Mike’s email to arrive, and tried to get a little more comfortable at her desk.
Just a couple of minutes later, a cascade of emails and attachments arrived courtesy of Agent Stiller. Ingrid set to work. After an hour or so of going through both Matthew ‘Brite’ Fuller’s records and those of his mother and father, her eyes started to swim a little. She closed them and relaxed back in her seat. Maybe it was time for another couple Tylenol.
Ingrid snapped open her eyes. The stabbing pain in her temple was so intense that she saw black dots in front of her eyes. It took her a few moments longer to realize her head was resting on her arms and her arms were leaning flat on her desk. She blinked. Someone had thoughtfully draped her jacket over her shoulders. Her mouth was connected to her sleeve by a trail of drool. She managed to lick her lips.
Slowly, painfully slowly, she pushed up off the desk and sat up straight. The room spun a little. She waited for it to stop before trying to move again.
Both Jennifer’s and Isaac’s desks were empty. They’d obviously left silently, not wanting to disturb her. Given how stiff her limbs felt and how sharp the pain in her temple, she might have welcomed a little gentle prodding. Then she noticed an old-fashioned alarm clock sitting on the corner of her desk. It was set to go off in five minutes. Next to the clock was a bottle of Evian, two white, oval-shaped pills and a note telling her to take it easy. Jennifer Rocharde had thought of everything.
Ingrid’s cell started to buzz. She watched it creep a little further across her desk with every vibration. She peered at the screen before picking it up.
Crap.
It was the real estate agent. She was supposed to be moving into her apartment today. She grabbed the phone.
“Hi.” The word came out as a croak.
“Ms Skyberg?”
She was so used to having her name prefaced with “Agent” she was momentarily at a loss how to respond.
“I’m here outside the property. Have been since six-thirty.” His voice sounded weird, a little higher pitched than she remembered it. He was obviously very pissed at her.
“I’ll be there in ten minutes, I swear.”
She shrugged into her jacket, grabbed her purse and headed for the women’s restroom. A splash of cold water turned out to be even more restorative than she’d hoped.
She headed for the basement parking lot, her stiff legs getting a little looser with every stride.
33
Getting out onto Park Lane and then around Marble Arch at the north-east corner of Hyde Park was no problem at all. Ingrid maneuvered the bike around stationary buses and black taxis, and quickly turned left into Edgware Road, made it fifty yards north, then stopped. Suddenly nothing seemed to be moving up or down the street. There was barely enough space for pedal cycles to squeeze through the gaps. Most of the cyclists had taken to the sidewalk. All she could do was sit and wait. She pulled her phone from a pocket and sent an apologetic text to the realtor. He responded with a text back: no worries.
The bike crept forward by tiny increments for the next twenty minutes. More than once, Ingrid considered abandoning it at the side of the road. But she was still faster on two wheels than two legs—especially given the soreness in her shoulder and the throbbing pain in her head. Frustrated as hell, she continued to make very slow progress for another ten minutes, until she passed under the Marylebone expressway. Then, as if by magic, the gridlock ceased. Glancing across the street, Ingrid noticed an ambulance and two smashed up cars. The snarl-up had been caused by an accident on the southbound carriageway and rubberneckers on the northbound side, curious to see what was happening. Ingrid had slowed down herself to take a good look at the wreckage at the side of the road. She quickly chastised herself and accelerated toward Maida Vale.
Five minutes later she was climbing off the bike in the forecourt of the apartment block. S
he took off her helmet and gloves, stored them in the box on the bike and surveyed the parked vehicles for a red, white and blue Mini. There wasn’t one. She jogged out onto the street. No Mini there either. And no sign of the realtor on the sidewalk.
Dammit.
He must have gotten tired of waiting for her. So much for his laid back response to her text. She checked her phone. She definitely hadn’t missed a call. She returned to the bike and glanced at the main entrance of the building. An envelope was wedged inside one of the long brass door handles. Ingrid pulled it free and discovered her name was scribbled on the front. She tore it open and shook out a set of keys, three in total. Two for the apartment itself and one for the main entrance. She peered inside the envelope expecting to see a note, but there wasn’t one.
She thought about going straight up to remind herself just how great the view was, but it was already after eight p.m., so she decided to return to her hotel to check out.
The journey to Marylebone was much easier than the one to Maida Vale. No sign of the road traffic accident at all. Less than a half hour after leaving the apartment block, she was stuffing her handful of possessions into a small suitcase.
She opened the safe inside the closet and removed her Glock 23. She didn’t really have any safe place to store it at the apartment—she’d need to invest in a strong box. Meanwhile she’d just have to leave it at the embassy, which meant an unwelcome detour on the way back to her new home. She shoved the gun in a daypack and pulled out the remaining items from the safe: her passport, a little under $1000 in cash, and her engagement ring. She slipped the ring onto her finger. It felt cold. And a little loose. She must have lost weight since she last wore it. Staring down at the cluster of diamonds set in white gold, she pictured Marshall on one knee—in the middle of his favorite restaurant—reciting a little speech he’d obviously rehearsed. It had to be one of the few times she’d actually detected a flicker of vulnerability in his expression. He’d looked so earnest, so serious, so needy. And the most handsome she’d ever seen him. She wasn’t sure how long it had taken her to say yes, but long enough for all the other diners to stop eating and stare at them. With that kind of audience anticipation, she couldn’t really say no.
They had been engaged for over a year now. She’d have to agree to a date for the wedding soon. But she couldn’t think about that right now. She took off the ring and slipped it into her purse. Immediately she felt a little lighter.
She sank onto the bed. What was she doing? She hadn’t even told Marshall about the apartment yet. And here she was, getting excited about her first night there. Thinking about waking up in the morning to glorious views. She wondered if she should call him right then. Tell him she was planning to stay on in London—at least for the next little while. She pulled her cell from her purse, then just stared at the screen.
Tomorrow. She’d tell Marshall tomorrow.
With her daypack on her back and the suitcase strapped to the back of the bike, Ingrid rode the short distance to the embassy, deposited the Glock with security, picked up the sleeping bag she kept in the large drawer beneath her desk, then headed north to her new home.
When she finally got inside the building she discovered the elevators were out of order. She struggled over to the stairway with her suitcase and stood looking up at the first flight. A sudden and overwhelming fatigue enveloped her. The eight-story trek to the top floor felt like an attempt on Everest. She took a deep breath and started to climb. By the time she’d reached the halfway point she texted McKittrick, suggesting a little company and a large bottle of tequila seemed like a nice way to welcome her into her new home.
The final flights seemed to go on forever, but she finally made it to the apartment door, fumbled a little with the keys, and practically fell into the hallway.
The apartment was way too hot. It felt like a tropical plant house in there. Or maybe she had overheated because of the eight-story climb. Immediately, her head pounded a little harder. The heating had to be on. The realtor had promised her all the appliances would be checked before she moved in. Presumably, whoever checked the gas heater had forgotten to turn it off. She dumped her bags in the hall and headed for the bathroom, where she remembered seeing the heater on her earlier visit.
Sure enough, the heater was busy distributing heat to all the chunky white radiators in every room. She searched for an off switch, but couldn’t find anything that looked right. She did find a red dial, which she gave a good hard yank counter-clockwise. Half the dial came off in her hand, the plastic fracturing in a jagged diagonal line.
Her head throbbed a little harder. Her breathing quickened. She needed to get some cool evening air into the apartment. As she turned toward the window, she noticed something shiny lying in the bath. She bent down and reached out a hand. In an instant her head started to spin. She straightened up and leaned against the wall, wondering if the dizziness was a result of her head injury or the lack of air. She took a couple of deep, steadying breaths and turned again toward the window. She unscrewed the latch and tried to push the top sash upward. It wouldn’t budge. It looked painted shut.
Goddammit.
Maybe she could open the door onto the roof terrace. She spun around and started to head for the hall, but the sudden movement made her dizziness worse. She grabbed onto the doorframe with both hands, but her head started to buzz. She took a deep breath and stepped out into the hall.
Her sense of balance abandoned her completely. Her legs buckled and she sprawled across the floor. She tried to get up again, but her limbs felt so weak. Her eyes started to close and there was nothing she could do to keep them open. She laid her head on the floor—her flushed cheek found some relief against the cold floorboards—and drifted into unconsciousness.
34
An intense pressure squeezed Ingrid’s arms. Her head lolled from side to side. She couldn’t seem to stop it. There was more pressure across her chest, as if something were pressing down on her. She tried to open her eyes.
She saw her dad, his arms open wide, just waiting for her to run into them. But how could she run when she couldn’t move her legs? In the distance she heard a voice she recognized. A woman’s voice, far, far away.
Natasha? What was Natasha McKittrick doing here in Minnesota? Was she on vacation?
“Ingrid! Wake up!”
Ingrid’s head lolled again, faster than before. She was shaking. No—being shaken. Why couldn’t Natasha just let her sleep? She was so tired. The pressure on her arms subsided. It started up again around her wrists. Then the floorboards started to slide beneath her. Who was moving the floor? She heard a door slam behind her. The floor felt wonderfully cold. Colder than it had before.
She didn’t know this place. Where did her dad go? This wasn’t Minnesota.
Cold liquid splashed across her face. What was that smell? Tequila? She heard Natasha’s voice again, urgent and loud. What was she saying? Ingrid opened her eyes. Even though she could have sworn they were already open.
This time she didn’t see her dad. Where was she? “Natasha?”
“Oh thank God. Stay with me, Ingrid.”
Ingrid managed to prop herself up on an elbow. She had seen this place before, but couldn’t recall when.
“The ambulance is on its way.”
“I’m so hot.”
McKittrick helped Ingrid to her feet and they limped out through a set of doors and into a stairwell. They sank down onto the first step. “That’s it,” McKittrick said, “big deep breaths.”
Moment by moment, Ingrid’s head cleared a fraction more. Her apartment. That’s where she was. “What happened?”
“I’m not sure. How’re you feeling?”
“Like crap.” She tried to swallow. “Thirsty.”
McKittrick fished around in her purse and pulled out a half full bottle of mineral water. Ingrid gulped down the lot. Then threw it all back up again two seconds later. All over her friend’s shoes.
“I’m sorry.”
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“In the circumstances, I don’t think that really matters.”
Ingrid grabbed the banister rail and managed to haul herself up to her feet. She blinked hard a few times and dragged a sleeve across her mouth. She swayed left then right.
“Sit down, for God’s sake.” McKittrick put a hand under Ingrid’s elbow to support her.
“I don’t understand. What happened?”
“Let’s not worry about that for now, shall we?”
A siren sounded in the distance. “You called the police?”
“No—I’m hoping that’s the ambulance.”
Ingrid pulled her arm away from McKittrick’s. “I don’t need an ambulance. I feel better already.” She lurched to one side and reached out a hand for the banister rail.
“Tough. You’re going to hospital even if I have to arrest you first.” McKittrick punched a number in her phone. “This is Detective Inspector Natasha McKittrick, HSCC, area team four. I’m going to need police and fire brigade. I think there might be a gas leak.” She pulled the phone from her ear. “Ingrid—could you smell gas when you arrived?”
“What? No—there’s no leak. What are you saying?”
“Did you hear that?” McKittrick said into the phone. “I’d hazard a guess at carbon monoxide.” She listened for a moment to the person on the phone. “I might not be here when they arrive, I’ve got to take my friend to the hospital. But if anyone needs to speak to me, you can give them this mobile number.” She hung up.
“Carbon monoxide?” Ingrid’s words continued to slur, no matter how hard she tried to speak normally.
A loud bang echoed up the stairwell. Then a door slammed. A minute or so later the door into the stairwell opened and an EMT ran through. He took one look at Ingrid and called out to his colleague, who was still in the lobby. A gurney appeared in the doorway.
“I’m not getting on that thing. I can walk.” Ingrid stumbled forward a couple of steps and her legs gave way.
