by Eva Hudson
He leaned over and pressed the iPhone’s home button. “Seventy-eight percent.”
“That’ll do.” She nodded at his stack of paperwork. “What are you working on?”
“Money-laundering research. Got a list of firms that all have names like DDX, XPN, CCX or PCV and I’m struggling to remember which is which.” He paused. “Which is probably why shady lawyers use such acronyms.”
Ingrid grabbed her new coat from the foot of the bed and bit off the Selfridges tag. When Rennie put on his sheepskin, she grimaced: it was just like hers.
“We’ve merged,” she said.
“And we’ve only been working together a couple of weeks.”
“Just don’t call me your work wife, okay?”
“Deal.”
He slipped his laptop into his backpack and picked up his phone. “Right, let’s go.”
They took the stairs down two flights to the lobby and dashed out into the sharp November air. No matter how cold it got in London, it was nothing compared to Minnesota winters.
“I still reek of smoke,” Ingrid said. They headed through the back streets of Mayfair toward the embassy. “Do you think it will ever go away?”
“I imagine you’ll be smelling it for a while. There’s bound to be some phantom limb equivalent and you’ll still get a trace of it in two years’ time.”
Ah, Ingrid said to herself, so now I know what shame smells like.
“So,” Rennie said, sounding purposeful, “Jen has sent through the facial analysis of the men in the Starbucks and traffic camera images.”
“That was quick.”
They turned into Charles Street, a time-warp location with a cigar seller, a bookbinder and an umbrella shop that had been in the same family for two hundred years.
“Have we just landed in a Harry Potter set?” he asked.
“Feels like it, doesn’t it?” Ingrid had seen the first movie with Carolyn when she was still in first grade. She wondered why Rennie would have watched a kids’ movie, and then recalled the Tinder photo of him holding a party balloon. If he had a kid of his own, it would have come up by now, wouldn’t it?
“So the image analysis says there is a ninety-six percent chance it’s the same man in each photo—”
“That’s precise.”
“Bureau proficiency for you. I thought he had to be on a database somewhere, so I went through the profiles I have on the Pelicans, and guess what?”
Ingrid heard the car before she saw it. A black BMW 7 Series revved its engine like a Formula One car and roared up from behind them. It swerved onto the sidewalk, knocking Rennie into the air, over the hood and slamming him down on the ground.
“Rennie!” Ingrid ran to him. “David!”
His eyes stared into nothingness. Blood seeped from under his head. The world shattered into kaleidoscope pieces. People rushed over; someone bent down to check his pulse; everyone shouted. Out of the mayhem, a fierce and clear rage surged through Ingrid. She turned and sprinted after the BMW, dialing nine nine nine as she powered down the street.
“Which service do you require?”
“Police and ambulance. Road traffic casualty on the ground at the junction of Charles Street and Queen Street. Put a trace on a black BMW 7 Series driving north on Chesterfield, driving erratically.”
Ingrid reached an intersection and checked both directions. Pedestrians on Hill Street were all looking the same way. They’d all seen the same thing, and she was willing to bet it was a car driving too fast. Breathless, Ingrid updated the emergency dispatcher: “He’s gone east toward Berkeley Square.”
“Are you law enforcement?” the dispatcher asked.
“Yes.”
Ingrid needed both hands to run faster. She could hear the dispatcher’s voice but couldn’t answer as her arms pumped up and down. She drove her feet into the ground and forced herself to accelerate. The soccer training had been good for her sprint times. She bolted down Hill Street.
“Come on,” she shouted to herself. This was London. The traffic was permanently gridlocked. The BMW couldn’t get far.
A horn sounded, then another. Where was the noise coming from? A third horn. Someone must have blocked the road. She ran in the direction of the noise, down a side street, dodging pedestrians. She heard shouting. She had to be going the right way.
Up ahead, traffic was at a standstill. Drivers got out of their cars. Ingrid dug deep and pushed harder, feeling the burn in her quads. Her feet raged against the confines of her new boots.
The BMW was stationary at the next intersection. She had him. Another fifty strides and she saw the driver’s door was open.
“He just ran off,” someone said.
“Keys are still in the ignition,” another person said.
“We should move it.”
Ingrid almost ran into the car. “Where did he go?” she shouted, her heavy breaths steaming in the cold.
“That way. You won’t catch him.”
Ingrid gave the man a dirty look. Of course I can fucking catch him. But she couldn’t. He was gone, evaporated into the crowd and disappeared. She planted her hands on her knees and heaved air into her chest. It took her a moment to realize she was still connected to the emergency services.
“You still there?” she asked.
“Ma’am?”
“Car’s been abandoned at Fitzmaurice Place.” She turned to one of the eyewitnesses. “What did he look like?”
“Eh?”
“What did he look like?”
“Um, white fella. Dark hair. ’Bout my height. Leather jacket.”
“You catch that?” Ingrid said down the phone.
“How tall?”
Ingrid eyed the man. “Five six.”
“Seven,” he corrected.
“I’m sending someone now,” the dispatcher confirmed. “Do you want me to stay on the line?”
Ingrid canceled the call and shoved the phone in her new coat pocket. “Don’t touch anything,” she said. “This is a crime scene.”
“Who the fuck are you?” the man said, railing against her accent.
“You want to take charge here, fine. Don’t let anyone touch that car until the police get here.” She turned and ran. “They’re on their way.”
Ingrid raced back in the direction she had come, pushing herself forward. Right into Hill Street, dashing between two cars on Queen Street, and left back into Charles. There was a crowd where Rennie had been mown down.
She pawed her way through them. “Please,” she said. “Let me through.”
“There’s no point,” someone said. “He’s dead.”
She felt herself hollow out, bend forward, stumble. She heard a howl she thought came from inside her. A woman stepped to one side to reveal a man lying on the sidewalk.
Someone had placed a jacket over David Rennie’s head.
34
“Oh my God,” Jen said. “What happened to you?”
Ingrid, ashen, exhausted, moved slowly from the office door to her desk and put Rennie’s possessions down. She made eye contact with Jen and tears welled up.
“What is it?” Jen got to her feet. “What’s happened?”
Ingrid sniffed back tears.
Jen pulled out a seat for her. “Tell me! What’s happened?”
Ingrid pressed her lips between her teeth, unwilling to utter the words.
Jen looked down at Rennie’s bag, then back up, her features twisted with concern. “Ingrid?”
There was a stone in her throat. A sharp, jagged boulder. “He’s…” She started shaking her head. “He died. He’s been killed”
Jen’s hand covered her mouth. The two women looked at each other, unable to say a thing. The noise of the bull pen wafted in and out, like a badly tuned radio. “When?” Jen asked eventually. “He was just here. Like, two, three hours ago?”
Ingrid began to nod, her head rocking back and forth. “About an hour ago. A car…”
Jen’s legs buckled and she fell against
Ingrid’s desk. “Oh, my God. Dear God.”
Ingrid swallowed. “It came up from behind us, mounted the sidewalk—”
“Deliberately?” Jen’s eyes were wide with terror.
“Uh-huh.”
“You were with him?”
Ingrid wiped her nose with her hand. “Not when he died, no. I, um, I went after the car.” She couldn’t speak anymore.
“He was so nice,” Jen said. “Such a good man.”
Ingrid blinked away more tears. “He was. And that’s why I am going to find whoever did this.”
Jen’s posture stiffened. “You’re sure it was deliberate?”
Ingrid nodded and Jen let out a gasp.
Ingrid’s arm twitched as her body struggled to contain her anger. “I told the Met, told them it might be linked to Rybkina and her lawyer. All three of them were after Igor Rybkin for one reason or another. That means he must have been getting close, right?” Her hand hardened into a fist. “You know the last thing he said to me, Jen? He said he’d worked out who the man in the photos is, the man with the beard.”
“Who?” Jen said. “I only sent him the report at, like, eleven or something.” Jen’s face emptied.
Ingrid’s chest heaved as her fist slammed down onto her desk. “The car hit before he told me.”
The two women stalled, like toys without batteries, so stunned by the news they became lost within themselves. Somewhere, beneath the drifting layers of fog, Ingrid knew she had work to do, people to tell, but she felt paralyzed, unable to pick up a phone or get to her feet. Her thoughts wouldn’t stay in one place long enough to start any of the hundred things she had to take care of. She was only capable of sitting and staring into nothingness. Eventually she noticed Jen was back at her desk.
“He had a kid,” Jen said quietly. “Millicent. Five years old.”
Jen’s computer screen displayed Rennie’s personal file. “Dawn Rennie is listed as next of kin. I didn’t realize he was married. Though I suppose it could be a sister. Or his mom.” Jen propped up her head with her hand and stared at her monitor. “Ah, she’s his ex-wife. But she’s down as the next of kin.”
Ingrid didn’t have the words to respond. So he wasn’t cheating, then. He hadn’t seemed the type. It spoke well of him that his ex was still his emergency contact. Probably the most amicable divorce in history.
Jen turned round. “Have you told Marshall?”
Ingrid slowly shook her head.
“I suppose he’ll be the one to make the call.”
Ingrid didn’t envy him that. Hopefully Cath’s team would have an update soon, some crumb of comfort for Rennie’s family. The killer’s DNA would be on the car, and his face would have been captured on several CCTV cameras; the chances of finding him were high. There were enough witnesses. Catching the man who had paid the killer, however, would be a different matter.
Ingrid stared at her right hand: it would not stop twitching. On her desk, out of the corner of her eye, she saw the USB stick Nick Angelis had given her. It felt her whole world had changed since he’d showed up. Natalya. Redeployment. The fire. Rennie.
Next to the USB stick was Rennie’s high-security laptop in its ribbed aluminum case with built-in lock. She pictured him, just hours before, using it on his bed in his hotel suite. Ingrid’s jittery hand reached out for it.
It would be encrypted, but it was possible the identity of the bearded man was on it. And the bearded man was another link to Rybkin. There was also a chance, albeit a remote, infinitesimal chance, Rennie hadn’t shut it down properly. She pulled it toward her.
Ingrid couldn’t open it. Rennie had secured it with a four-number barrel lock. How many combinations was that? Math wasn’t her strong suit, but she presumed 9,999? Or would it be 10,000? Rennie was the one who would know. Ingrid felt a tiny jolt of energy.
“Jen?”
“Yes?”
“Have we got an intern working here at the moment?”
“Um, yes, sure. Give me a second.”
How long would it take to crack the code? One combination every five seconds? Every ten? How long was that? A day maybe? Two? It needed to be someone’s priority.
Jen approached Ingrid’s desk. “I emailed Marshall.” She stopped and sniffed. “Can you smell smoke?”
Ingrid couldn’t face explaining. “No. What did you tell him?”
“Everything you told me. Was that wrong?”
“No, no. Of course not.” She showed Jen the laptop case. “See this code? We need someone to sit over there until they get this open, okay?”
“Agent Rennie’s laptop?”
Ingrid nodded.
“Wouldn’t it be quicker to get a pry bar?”
“I don’t want to risk damaging it.”
“I’ll speak to Mandy. She’ll know who’s spare.”
Jen wandered out into the bull pen, leaving Ingrid alone. The image of Rennie’s body, the blood seeping out from under the passerby’s jacket. The photo on his Tinder profile with the balloon she now realized he had cropped his child out of. Her mind swerved through memories, careening from one snapshot to the next. His refusal to ride with her out to Essex. How sullen he’d been in that meeting with Usher.
Ingrid’s head tipped back. Her jaw slackened. “Oh my God,” she said out loud to the empty room. “Oh my God. That was the first attempt.”
He’d been standing right next to the man who was pushed under the Tube train. Her head lolled on her shoulders, like a boxer reeling from an uppercut. “They got the wrong guy.”
She reached for her desk phone, but as soon as it was in her hand, she couldn’t think who to call. She wanted to tell someone Rennie had been the real target of the attack on the Tube, but who? Her brain wouldn’t work properly.
Jen came back in, her posture stooped, her expression dull. “I was thinking,” she said, then hesitated. “Are there, like, codes we could try? To speed things up? Like his daughter’s birthday? His wedding anniversary?”
Ingrid turned toward Jen, but it took her eyes a while to focus. What had she said? A code? A smile trembled her lips. Of course David Rennie would use a code. The man was a math genius, a number nerd. What was it he had gone on about when he’d got off the train in Burnham-on-Crouch? A tiny burst of enthusiasm, like a caffeine hit, jolted Ingrid to attention.
“What’s that word,” Ingrid asked, “when something is like a mirror?”
“Huh? Reflection?”
Ingrid hadn’t phrased it right. She slapped the side of her head, trying to reorder her thoughts. “No, like when a word is the same backwards as it is forwards.”
“Yeah, I know the one you mean,” Jen said, perched on the edge of Ingrid’s desk.
“That’s what he liked, whatever, they’re called—”
“Palindromes.” Jen’s eyes brightened. “That should narrow it down.”
“Even if he changes his code every day, and knowing Rennie, he probably does… did… How many are there if you’ve only got four numbers?”
Ingrid moved the combination to 0000. She might as well get started. Her brain craved a mindless, repetitive task. 0110. She knew it was crazy, but it was only crazy until it worked. Maybe, just maybe, this was the quickest way of finding Rybkin. On some level, Ingrid understood she was avoiding the more pressing tasks that lay ahead. She knew it was procrastination, but she was unable to stop herself. 0220.
Even if she did open the case, the laptop itself would be password protected. But there was just a chance Rennie had forgotten to shut it down properly. She pictured him on his hotel bed. Had he just closed it, or had he made some keystrokes before slipping it into his backpack? Like a deranged father taking a shovel to the garbage tip in search of his daughter’s body, Ingrid knew she was wasting her time but couldn’t stop herself.
“Er, hi.” A tall, skinny intern who could be Barack Obama’s secret love child stood in the doorway. “Apparently you need some help in here?”
It took Ingrid several moments to re
alize why he had come, but she soon put him to work with the lock. Fatigue was setting in. How much sleep had she had? Two hours? Three? Plus there was alcohol. The weirdness of being taken to the hospital. The strangeness of McKittrick bringing her the latest in athleisure.
A ripple of conversation ruffled through the doorway from the bull pen. Something new on the TV screens probably. Something else about the president-elect, or Director Leery.
She had been ready to collapse when Rennie had turned up at her apartment, but he’d taken charge and sorted her out. She desperately wanted him to walk through the door now, for him to tell her what to do. But that wasn’t going to happen.
Her dad’s voice seeped into her consciousness. When all around you is darkness, that’s when you have to shine brightest, kiddo. She hadn’t heard him say that in decades, but he was telling her to dig deeper, to finish the job.
The screen on Natalya’s phone, still sitting on her desk, illuminated. Germany again. Ingrid let it ring. She needed more time to steady her thoughts before speaking to the German police. Besides, she had to be in a soundproof room to make that call. Couldn’t risk them overhearing the American accents inside the embassy.
There was someone else she needed to call too. Who was it? A guy in New York. Rybkin’s go-between. She sat a little straighter: she had a goddamn Picasso to sell.
Ingrid listened to Natalya’s voicemails. Leo Xavier Marx sounded every inch the Princeton wolf. The sort of man who thought the lessons of the financial crash were for lesser mortals. She despised him already, but she knew how to manipulate men like him. She was going to use him, and he was going to deliver Rybkin right to her.
She stood up and headed for the door. She would use one of the secure meeting rooms to call him.
“Hey,” Marshall was striding toward her, pushing her back inside her office. “Rennie here?”
“Pardon?”
Marshall seemed more uptight than usual. “Rennie. I need to speak to you both.”
“I—”
“Is he here or not?”
Jen stood up. “Mr Claybourne, you haven’t read your emails, have you?”
He flared his nostrils at Jen, then looked again at Ingrid, sensing something was wrong. “What is it?”
