by Eva Hudson
Ingrid shivered. Liquid nitrogen replaced the blood in her veins. She was too stunned to say anything.
“Then internal bleeding.” Ralph sat down and pushed the hair off his face. “When I first got the call I thought it had to be revenge, you know, for the case we’re working.”
Ingrid sat beside him. “She mentioned it. Some random stabbing outside a pub.”
He shook his head. “I mean, what are the odds? She’s investigating a shanking, a case of mistaken identity, and the moment she gets taken off the case she becomes the victim of a copycat crime.”
“She was stabbed in a pub?”
He rested his hands on his knees and leaned forward. “You know that pub I told you about? The Queen Mary? The one in Pimlico?”
Ingrid’s face went novocaine numb. “What?”
“I mean, what the hell was she doing in there?”
Her jaw moved but words wouldn’t come out.
“What is it?” he said. “What’s wrong?”
Could he see her guilt? Was it that obvious? “She was there for me,” she managed. “I asked her to look into something. Thought it would keep her occupied, keep her mind off the misconduct thing.” Her head slumped into her hands but the second she closed her eyes an instant replay of the Arding Manor driveway knifed its way through her head. The spray of Donaho’s blood on the other side of the windshield was stained into her retinas.
A set of double doors opened at the far side of the reception area. Two orderlies wedged open the doors and wheeled a gurney through. Neither Ingrid nor Ralph commented on the strapped and shrouded corpse they were taking to the hospital’s mortuary. Ingrid pictured Donaho and Vinny’s bodies being zipped into bags and loaded onto the back of a white truck. Angelis said they’d be wrapped in concrete and dropped somewhere over the English Channel. The image was quickly replaced by one of Megan’s coffin being lowered into the ground. Ingrid shivered. Not enough sleep, not enough food, too many memories. When the orderlies had pushed through another set of doors, the reception area returned to stillness, the quiet punctuated with occasional electronic bleeps from distant machinery and the whirr of a coffee vending machine.
Ralph reached out and put a hand on her shoulder. “Hey, you couldn’t have known.”
Oh, but she did. She had absolutely known how dangerous that pub was, and yet she’d still asked McKittrick to find out what had happened to the man she’d assaulted. It was a copycat crime all right. Ingrid didn’t know how much more she could cope with. It gave her some solace to know the new role at Fortnum’s would afford her alternative ways of delivering justice for her friend.
The door from the ward pushed open and a nurse in scrubs smiled at them.
“Are you here for Natasha?”
Ingrid stood up. “Yes?”
“You can go in and see her if you like.”
52
There was a line of vehicles waiting to get into the embassy’s underground parking garage. It was September 11th and security were doing a thorough job. Which was fine for everyone in a car, but there was only so much water Ingrid’s rain gear could repel. She imagined having to rewrite her resignation letter because the ink had run.
“I need you to take your helmet off,” the security guard said from inside his booth.
“But you know it’s me, Steve.”
“I’m sorry. Just for today.”
Ingrid pulled off her helmet, tilted her head in the direction of the security camera above the entrance and smiled as the rain got in her eyes and plastered her hair against her scalp.
“Thank you,” Steve said.
Ingrid put her helmet back on and kicked the bike into gear.
“And happy birthday,” Steve added as she rode down the tunnel into the garage.
How does he know it’s my birthday? She guessed her entire record flashed on his computer every time the cameras registered her presence.
She pulled round a corner to her usual parking space and was annoyed to see another bike parked where hers should rightfully be. She pulled alongside, wondering if both bikes could fit in the narrow space and saw that tucked inside the leather strap over the seat was an envelope labeled ‘Agent Skyberg’. Ingrid looked again at the bike. It was a Triumph Thunderbird. It was Truman Cooper’s Triumph Thunderbird.
Ingrid turned her engine off and put her bike on its stand. She pulled off her helmet and gloves, reached for the envelope and read the note inside.
Agent,
Truman asked me to give you this as a way of saying thank you for your help. He says that now he’s a father he can’t possibly take any risks. He and I both know that’s utter crap—he never used the thing anyway—but I guess he just wanted you to know how much he appreciates your efforts. And I do too: it’s good to have you working here.
FBW
Inside the envelope were the ownership documents and two sets of keys. Ingrid took a step back and admired her new bike. Midnight blue, blazing chrome and a cream leather seat. An absolute beauty. She allowed herself a smile. On any other day, on any other birthday, it would be an amazing gift: but the ambassador’s note made handing in her resignation even harder.
Ingrid peeled off her waterproofs to discover the rain had penetrated where the fabric had bunched up, which was right around the crotch. She looked like she’d wet herself. Her fabulous new clothes were at the dry cleaner’s in the hope of being rescued, so not only was she back wearing her frumpy suit, but it was clinging to her where it was wet. Perfect for meeting the new boss.
Ingrid hung up the waterproofs, took her bag from the Tiger’s top box and walked toward the elevator. Normally, she’d take the stairs to the third floor, but she wanted to look in the mirror and see if there was anything she could do with her wet hair.
She was impatient waiting for the elevator. There was no cell phone reception underground and she wanted to know if there was an update from Ralph on McKittrick’s recovery. She was also eager to get to the office and find out just what had happened to Louden. Sol had sketched the outline of the situation on the phone the previous night, but she had been preoccupied about Natasha.
The doors finally opened, revealing an elevator full of people who had got in on the ground floor and were annoyed the car had gone down instead of up. Ingrid pushed her way in, her suit pressing against someone else’s raincoat. Drips from a folded umbrella ran down her pants leg.
Ingrid wasn’t sure if she would need to be interviewed about Louden. After all, it was her emails she had been monitoring. When Louden had found out Ingrid was working on the Sutcliffe case, she had done a favor for an old Chicago colleague, an old and corrupt colleague who wanted to keep Sutcliffe on the streets so he could continue taking a slice of the Kings’ profits. In all likelihood, Louden’s intel had led Donaho to Arding Manor.
The moment the elevator doors opened, she checked her phone to see if Ralph had called. No messages. Ingrid entered the criminal division office and was surprised to see Sol sitting at her desk. She had prepared what she was going to say. No small talk. Just do the deed. Tender resignation. Work out the notice. And leave. But she’d imagined giving her speech in Sol’s office, not hers.
“Agent.” Sol smiled. “You seen this?” He pointed to the previous day’s edition of the Evening News and a piece by Angela Tate. Above a photo of Tom, Truman and baby Francis was the headline: ‘Truman Cooper All Set For Family Life.’
“I saw it in the departure lounge yesterday,” Ingrid said. “The same photo was on the cover of People.” This wasn’t the conversation with Sol she had rehearsed.
He got to his feet, scratched his beard and leaned in. “Listen.” His body language and his tone weren’t encouraging. “I thought I better wait for you. Wanted to make sure I saw you before the new deputy chief starts his rounds.”
He looked so serious that Ingrid thought he’d found out. Had Angelis’ deep clean left a speck of dust? Oh God. She wasn’t going to resign. She was going to get fired. She looked down
and noticed for the first time the wet patch the umbrella from the elevator had left on her trousers. It had been so crowded she didn’t get a chance to look at herself in the mirror. She reached up and felt her hair, plastered flat against her scalp. No doubt her make-up would have run too.
“Really? Why?”
Sol looked reluctant to answer. Her phone rang. It was Ralph. “I absolutely have to take this.”
Sol nodded his consent and walked over to the open office door, keeping lookout over the bullpen.
“Hi. How is she?” Ingrid’s throat hurt it was so tight.
“Awake. Did you ever meet my colleague Cath?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“She’s with her now. They’re transferring her to a recovery ward. It’s sounding good.”
Ingrid stumbled a little, holding onto the back of her chair for support. She inhaled deeply, as if more air would somehow allow her to absorb what Ralph was saying.
“That’s… that’s wonderful.”
Sol glanced nervously in Ingrid’s direction. Something was obviously going on out in the bullpen, but she didn’t give a damn what it was.
“So, I’ll see you there again tonight? Perhaps we could meet for a drink beforehand? Or afterwards?”
“Ralph, look…” She didn’t know what to say.
“It’s OK. I get it. We had our moment.”
“And it was a nice moment…”
Out in the bullpen, Ingrid heard a familiar voice. A Southern voice. Oh, please, no. Not him.
Her heart began to beat heavily and Sol stepped to one side, allowing the primped and pompous Marshall Claybourne to enter the room.
“I tried to warn you,” Sol said, taking a step back. “Meet the new deputy chief.”
Ingrid dropped the phone onto her desk without hanging up. She could hear Ralph’s voice asking if she was still there.
Marshall ran a manicured hand through his pomaded blond hair. “Hey, sweetie.” He smiled broadly. It was a smile that said he knew precisely how much his appointment would unsettle her.
“Really?” Ingrid said, uncomfortably aware of her tired, wet suit, puffy face and slicked down hair. Not the way she’d hoped she’d look when she saw him again. “You?”
He shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned back against the doorframe. The cocksure bastard had got himself yet another promotion.
“Thought I’d swing by, wish you a happy birthday and all. I know it’s not easy, what with it being today of all days.”
Ingrid hated that Marshall knew it was her birthday. She hated that she could smell his cologne. How dare he come to London. How dare he.
“Well, let me tell you something.” Ingrid was in no mood to play nice. “That is absolutely the last time you call me ‘sweetie’. You say it again and I will shove a harassment case so far up your greasy pole it’ll break your teeth. Got it?”
Ralph’s tinny voice applauded down the phone line. Sol smiled at her admiringly.
“Is that a threat, agent? Because there are procedures for agents who cannot handle authority.” His smile broadened. “Disciplinary procedures. Redeployment. Demotion.”
Marshall Claybourne had come to London to get revenge, to make her life hell.
“Well, I’ve got a lot of folk to introduce myself to. I’ll be seeing you,” he said to Sol. Marshall turned on his heels, rotated against the doorframe into the bullpen and out of sight.
She couldn’t resign now. Everyone would think it was because of Marshall. She was just going to have to find some other way of repaying Nick Angelis.
NEXT IN THE SERIES…
BELOW ZERO
AN INGRID SKYBERG MYSTERY BOOK 5
Stockholm is under siege. A bomb has gone off, several high profile people have been kidnapped and the city is on lockdown.
Unfortunately for Special Agent Ingrid Skyberg, everything is kicking off the day she arrives to complete a dangerous undercover assignment.
Her mission is so secret, and so illegal, neither the FBI nor the US government know about it. Her instructions are simple: no ID, no credit cards, no trace. If Ingrid ends up in jail, or floating face down in the harbor, there can be no way of identifying her.
Set in the snowy landscapes of a Swedish winter, Below Zero finds the FBI’s most dogged agent on the wrong side of the law and on the run. Using all her knowledge and training to evade capture, Ingrid is forced to break the rules again and again just to stay alive.
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Eva Hudson
After years of enjoying thrillers and police procedurals by authors like Lee Child and Michael Connelly, Eva was inspired to write thrillers herself. In 2011 she won the inaugural Lucy Cavendish fiction prize for her first novel, The Loyal Servant and never looked back.
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Published by Inkubator Books
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Copyright © 2019 by Eva Hudson
FRESH DOUBT, KILL PLAN, DEEP HURT and SHOOT FIRST are all works of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.
