by Eva Hudson
Manuela’s heels clacked across the worn wooden floorboards back into the hallway. Instead of sitting, Ingrid walked over to the huge casement windows and immediately gasped: Truman Cooper’s back yard was the Thames. The house was right on the river. “Wow,” she couldn’t help saying out loud. She stood at the window for a few moments staring at the view. To the west she could see Tower Bridge and the colossal new Shard tower behind it. To the east, the broad river curved south in front of a cluster of skyscrapers at Canary Wharf.
An expertly assembled collection of rugs, throws, cushions and art made the industrial room feel like a home. Ingrid thought about her own apartment; furnished simply and cheaply by her landlord, the only personal touches she had added were the vodka in the freezer and the free weights beneath the bed. She knew comparing her home to that of a millionaire actor was ridiculous, but she nevertheless felt a twinge of panic: the emptiness of her apartment was an indication of just how rootless she felt. In the space of a few months she had broken off her engagement to Marshall, been more promiscuous than at any other time in her life, and now Megan had finally been buried, the fire that had compelled her to join the FBI had been extinguished. The certainties of marriage, morals and career had crumbled, and Ingrid didn’t really know who she was any more.
“Agent Skyberg. Thank you for coming.”
The man she had spoken to in the courtyard the previous night was striding toward her.
“Mr Kerrison,” she said, extending her hand to shake his. “I wasn’t expecting to see you.”
“You weren’t?”
“No, I was told to come and meet Truman Coop—”
“Truman will be up in a moment. I should warn you that he’s in a terrible state. Distraught. He just needs a moment.”
“What’s happened?” Ingrid asked. “Why does he need the Bureau’s help?”
“It’s our son,” Kerrison said. “He’s disappeared.”
5
“Your son?” Ingrid was confused. “Didn’t you say last night that you were about to become a father?”
“Frankie didn’t tell you what’s going on?”
Ingrid pursed her lips. “No, the ambassador only asked me to get here as soon as possible.”
Manuela reappeared with a tray bearing an iced bottle of water and three glasses. She set it down on the coffee table and retreated.
“Manuela, darling,” Kerrison said, “can you tell Truman that Agent Skyberg is here?”
She shrugged. “He knows.”
“I swear,” Kerrison said conspiratorially, “that woman is actually a robot. We call her Siri. Please, take a seat.”
Ingrid eased herself onto the designer couch, all too aware that her attire was the tawdriest thing in the room. The shoes Jennifer had bought for her were far too good for her tired suit: she desperately needed some new clothes. She glanced enviously at Kerrison’s light blue shirt. The material, the stitching and the fit suggested it had been tailored for him. His jeans, though soft and worn, were almost certainly also bespoke.
“Tell me about your son. When did you last see him?”
Tom Kerrison raised an eyebrow, his pale blue eyes betraying signs of disbelief. “You really don’t know, do you?”
“Don’t know what?”
“And there’s me convinced that everyone already knows.” He poured them both a glass of water, his hand trembling. “We must be doing a better job of keeping things private than I realized.”
“Mr Kerrison, please, you’re going to have to explain.”
There was a loud clatter and an enormous Old English sheepdog cantered toward them, his tail wagging. Kerrison’s face softened and he leaned forward to nuzzle the excited dog.
“What’s the dog’s name?”
“Cully.” Kerrison tickled the dog behind his ears. “As in cuddly.”
“He’s certainly that.” Ingrid smiled at the dog. Out in the hallway, Ingrid could hear heavy footsteps on the staircase. A familiar figure entered the room and she stood to greet him, the dampness of her palms confirming that she was nervous.
Truman Cooper was taller in real life than she had imagined from his movies. Still boyish and tanned at forty-nine, the costume designers on The Belgravia Set had to pad him out and gray his hair for him to play the aging cad. He was wearing sweatpants and a tight-fitting black tee that revealed he kept in shape. His hair was wet.
“Did that help?” Kerrison asked him.
Cooper shook his head.
“We have a pool in the basement,” Kerrison explained to Ingrid. “Sometimes a work-out can—”
“Well it hasn’t, all right.” Cooper was almost shouting. He leaned over and poured himself a glass of water and sat down on the empty couch. “Are you from the embassy?”
“Special Agent Ingrid Skyberg.” She stood up and extended her hand. He didn’t. “I’d say it’s a pleasure to meet you, but it’s obviously a very difficult time for you.”
Cooper’s face was stern, his jaw clenched. He took a slug of water and eyed her intently. “So can you find him?”
Ingrid sat back down. “I’m very sorry, Mr Cooper, but I really don’t know what has happened. Would you like to start at the beginning?” She was trying to sound sympathetic and soothing.
Cooper turned to Kerrison. “Really? This is who Frankie sent? A fucking idiot?” He fell back against the couch, his legs spread, his arms outstretched, taking up as much space as possible. The dog looked obediently up at him as he stared at Ingrid, daring her to look away. He wasn’t going to apologize, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to let it show that his insult had hurt her.
“I understand your son is missing,” she said calmly. “When did you last see him?”
“Wow,” he said. “You really are a waste of space.”
“Would you like me to leave?” Ingrid asked, straining to keep the irritation from her voice. She was grateful she had asked the driver to stay.
“No,” Kerrison interjected. “We wouldn’t, would we?” He reached out and placed a firm hand on Cooper’s knee. Cooper shrugged.
Kerrison turned to Ingrid. “Last night we received a phone call. While we were at the gallery.”
“Yes, I remember,” Ingrid said.
“It was from the surrogacy agency. The woman who is carrying our unborn child has gone missing.”
“Ah, I’m starting to understand.” She hadn’t even known that Truman Cooper was gay, let alone that he was in a relationship with Kerrison. Perhaps if she read the gossip magazines she would have had the appropriate intel.
“She is eight months pregnant,” Kerrison explained, “and Truman… we… are very worried about the wellbeing and whereabouts of our baby.”
Ingrid switched her attention to Truman, his angular features barely able to contain his anger.
“It’ll be the press. They’ll have offered her money.” The dog, sensing his owner’s discomfort, placed his head affectionately on the couch. Cooper pushed the animal sharply away causing Kerrison to flinch.
Ingrid reached into her purse and pulled out a pen and her notepad. “Well, I’ll take some details, make some calls and see what I can find out for you.”
“Thank you,” Kerrison said. He was definitely the calmer of the two, though his hands were constantly in motion, tapping his knee, stroking the dog, playing with his cuffs. A man in need of a cigarette.
Ingrid turned to a blank page. “What is your surrogate’s name?”
“Kate-Lynn Bowers,” Tom Kerrison said.
“And how long has she been missing?”
Kerrison looked at his Philippe Patek watch. “With the time difference, I’d say nineteen hours.”
“Time difference? She’s not in London?”
Truman Cooper inhaled sharply. “She’s in California.” His tone made it clear he thought Ingrid was stupid.
“The surrogacy laws in California allow us both to be on the birth certificate,” Kerrison explained.
California? This was a wast
e of her time, but she took a deep breath and decided to play nice. “I presume you’ve already called the authorities in California?”
“The surrogacy agency did,” Kerrison said.
“And they were told, I’m guessing, that an adult who has been missing for less than twenty-four hours isn’t going to be assigned any law enforcement resources?”
“And that,” Cooper said slowly, “is why we asked for your help. She’s eight months pregnant. That must change things?”
Ingrid ran her hands through her short hair. “I’m afraid not, Mr Cooper. Unless she’s a minor, and I’m guessing you wouldn’t be allowed to use a surrogate under eighteen, or unless there are clear reasons to suspect she’s in danger, there won’t be anything official I can do.”
“Then why—”
“But unofficially,” Ingrid carried on, mindful that Frances Byrne-Williams had personally asked her to help, “I’ll see what I can find out, but I’m going to need as much information as you have. Is Miss Bowers a resident of California?”
“She has been for the past nine months. It’s a condition of the contract: she has to remain at the facility in Los Angeles.”
“Facility?”
“It’s a baby farm,” Cooper said, his exasperation evident in every syllable. “A luxury holiday camp for pregnant women. Nine months of spa days and macro-fucking-biotic meals with a check for twenty-five thousand dollars when they’re discharged.”
Ingrid suspected the reality might be more like an extended stay at the YWCA. “And before her pregnancy, where did she live?”
“Iowa, I think,” Kerrison said.
Cooper muttered something.
“What was that honey?”
“It’s Illinois. Aurora, Illinois.” He seemed very certain.
“Manuela!” Kerrison called out. “Manuela would you mind coming here?”
Almost instantly Ingrid heard the sound of the housekeeper’s ominous footsteps moving at an unhurried pace toward them.
“Yes?” she said, standing in the doorway.
“Would you print out the documents we have from Nuestra Señora for Agent Skyberg?”
“Yes,” she said solemnly and promptly disappeared. She was the embodiment of unflappable; a sullen if efficient automaton.
“I can check some databases, but you might also want to hire a private investigator in Los Angeles. I can ask a colleague to recommend one if you like?” Ingrid offered.
Truman Cooper shook his head. “The more people who know, the more danger the baby is in.”
“Why do you say that?”
He inhaled so sharply he practically snorted. “Kidnapping. Frank Sinatra Jr. Michael Douglas. The Beckhams. There’s a damn good reason why Brad and Angelina have their own security arrangements.”
He was sounding paranoid. “I understand your need for privacy, Mr Cooper.”
“The hell you do. Do you know what’d happen if this gets into the magazines? Do you?”
Ingrid decided it was a rhetorical question.
“Our lives will be a circus and our son would be the chief freak. I’ll be outed—”
“You’re not already out?” Ingrid was perplexed. “I mean I didn’t know you were gay, but then I don’t read those magazines—I couldn’t even pick a Kardashian out of a line-up—but from the way you were talking, from the way you are with one another, I assumed… Being gay isn’t really such a big deal any more, is it?”
The dog made a whining sound. Tom Kerrison patted the couch and the dog came to sit beside him. “Can you name any out actors?”
Celebrity tittle-tattle wasn’t something Ingrid knew much about, but she felt sure someone like Jennifer could rattle off an entire list. Maybe not a long list, but a list none the less.
“You’re right,” Cooper said. “Being gay is no longer such a big issue. Being closeted for thirty years is. I’ll be the jerk who was too ashamed to be honest when everyone else was spilling their life stories to Oprah. I’ll be the self-hating, paranoid idiot that didn’t come out when he should have done. That’s the fucking story now, not that I’m gay but that I never came out.”
“And now you feel like you can’t?”
“Not now I have a son to protect. I won’t have his life becoming a shit storm of a tabloid mess before he’s even born, do you understand?”
It was the first reasonable thing Truman Cooper had said since she’d arrived. “I think I do.”
Manuela reappeared clutching several sheets of A4 paper and handed them to Ingrid. “This is her application to the agency?” Ingrid asked.
“Yes, that’s all her personal details,” Kerrison said.
“Is this the best photo you have of her?” The girl was slim, long mid-brown hair, pale skin. She’d be pretty if she smiled.
“No, we have others.” Kerrison turned to Manuela. “Would you print those out too?”
She nodded and disappeared.
“So your housekeeper knows all about the surrogacy?”
“Housekeeper?”
“Manuela.”
“She is Truman’s assistant,” Kerrison explained, “and, yes, she knows all the details.”
“And you obviously trust her,” Ingrid said.
“Obviously,” Cooper thundered. “Besides, she’s signed a non-disclosure that means she needs my permission to get out of bed.”
Ingrid sensed the actor’s fuse was about to blow. It was time to leave. “OK, this looks like a lot of good information here,” she said. “I’ll make some calls, run it through some databases, see if I can’t find Kate-Lynn for you.” She stood up. “I’ll be in touch later in the day.”
“I’ll show you out,” Kerrison said. The moment he got to his feet, the dog went to sit next to Truman Cooper, desperate for its owner’s affection. She wondered if any hearts would be broken by the revelation that Truman Cooper was gay, and how many more would be shattered by the knowledge he was such an ass.
“Is there some reason,” Ingrid asked Tom Kerrison as they walked toward the front door, “why the agency believe Miss Bowers is missing? How do they know she hasn’t just stayed with a friend, or gone to see her folks?”
“Apparently,” he said in hushed tones, “she left everything in her room. Her phone, her pocket book, her medication, her clothes.”
That didn’t sound good but Ingrid wanted to offer reassurance. “You know, in ninety per cent of cases like this, it just turns out she met a friend in a bar and got talking and…”
“The girls aren’t allowed to leave the compound. That’s part of the deal. It’s how the agency guarantees that your child won’t have fetal alcohol syndrome, or be born with an addiction.”
“You make it sound like prison,” Ingrid said.
“From what I understand, for most of those girls it’s more like heaven. No abusive boyfriends, no dealers, no pimps for nine months. They get clean, they get sober and then they get paid. Win, win, win.”
“You think Miss Bowers has a history of addiction?”
“Listen, we’re not naive, we know a girl only chooses to be a surrogate when she doesn’t have many options, but she passed the medical, she seems like a bright girl, it’s why we chose her.”
“You’ve met her?”
“We’ve Skyped.”
“She knows whose baby she’s carrying?”
Tom Kerrison peered at Ingrid, not quite sure how to answer. “If you’re asking whether she knows that Truman is famous, then yes, but I doubt she’s ever seen him in anything, she’s only twenty. And it’s not like she’d ever have been in one of my boutiques. What impresses her is that we are rich.”
Now Ingrid peered back at him. “You think her disappearance is about money? You think she’s, what, kidnapped herself? For a higher payment?”
He crossed his arms and exhaled. “I wouldn’t be surprised. Why make twenty-five thousand dollars when you can emotionally blackmail your client into doubling your fee?”
Ingrid became aware that Manuela was st
anding in the hallway, observing them.
“Photos.”
“Thank you, Manuela,” Kerrison said.
The black-clad assistant handed the photos to Ingrid then opened the front door.
“I’ll be in touch,” Ingrid said.
Tom Kerrison fished out a business card from his back pocket and Ingrid nodded her thanks.
“Nice shoes, by the way,” he said as she stepped back out into the courtyard. He smiled broadly, revealing a broken tooth.
If Ingrid didn’t know better, she might have thought he was flirting with her.
6
“You can just drop me here,” Ingrid said to the driver as they crossed London Bridge. “You don’t want to drive into the market. You may never make it out.”
“Need me to wait?”
“No, you can head back to base.”
Ingrid picked her way through four lanes of traffic toward a steep flight of steps that led from the bridge down to the street below. She dialed as she walked.
“Jennifer, it’s me.”
“Hi, Ingrid.”
“I know it’s lunchtime, but could you check a name against all the usual databases for me?”
“Of course.”
Ingrid stood to one side when she reached the bottom of the steps and retrieved the print-outs from her bag. When she had conveyed Kate-Lynn Bowers’ age, address and description, Ingrid put the phone in her rear pants pocket and returned the paperwork to her bag. She steeled herself: in about two hundred yards she would risk seeing Ralph. How difficult can it be? We’re both adults.
The pathway snaked under the train viaducts and into Borough Market. It had once been a traditional produce market, but was now famous for selling everything from artisan breads, to empanadas, purple carrots and gourmet take-out. Ingrid followed the smell of grilling meat, letting it lead her past chattering workmates and overwhelmed tourists.
