by Eva Hudson
Babić shook his head.
“For the record, the suspect has indicated no. It’s the payment details for your EasyJet ticket from Athens to London Gatwick on October 25, 2016. The flight was paid for using a credit card registered to a company in Moldova.”
Ingrid kept her eyes on Babić, scrutinizing his reactions.
“Can you tell me what field Typhoon Holdings LLC operates in?”
Babić checked with his solicitor, then said, “No.”
“Okay,” Dell continued. “Can you tell me why Typhoon Holdings was paying for your ticket?”
“Maybe is travel company?” Babić said. He was obviously uncomfortable.
Dell produced another printout. “For the record, I am showing Mr Babić another payment made by credit card. This one is by Arc International, another company registered in Moldova, for the ticket of Oleg Tarlev on the same Athens-London flight.”
The solicitor leaned in, but Dell started talking before she could get a word in. “You are aware, Mr Babić, that we have Mr Tarlev in custody, pending trial, for the murder of Yvgeny Kashlikov, a partner at Kashlikov and Lytkin?”
“What has this got to do with my client?” the solicitor asked. She had a surprisingly sonorous voice.
“Well, we think it’s a little surprising that two men whose flights are paid for by Moldovan companies, companies they themselves do not work for, come to London on the same flight and both kill people in what appears to be very deliberate acts.”
“My client has explained that he lost control of the vehicle. There was no premeditation.”
Dell nodded. “As you say. We’ll come onto video footage of the incident shortly.”
Panic started to contract the features on Babić’s face. He was blinking excessively.
“So,” Dell continued, “as I think I said, we thought it was an odd coincidence, so we spoke to our colleagues in Chisinau—that’s the capital of Moldova, by the way—and they have informed us that Arc International and Typhoon Holdings are both subsidiaries of another company, XPN Data.” Dell paused. Babić swallowed. “It’s starting to look like more than a coincidence, isn’t it, Mr Babić?”
He said nothing.
“So, Mr Babić, I’d like to take you through your movements since arriving at Gatwick on October 25.”
“With respect, Constable, my client has already given you this information.”
Dell pressed his lips together. “Then this should be easy.”
Ingrid turned to Cath. “Did you know about this? About the Moldovan thing?”
“No, I only got in five minutes before you.”
“So you don’t know if XPN is one of Rybkin’s companies?”
“Never heard of it.”
Ingrid frowned. “I think I have. In fact, I’m sure I have.” She dialed Jen.
“Let me guess,” Jen said instead of a greeting. “You need something.”
“As I keep on saying, you are very good at your job.”
“Well, it is, like, why you call. What do you need?”
“I’m guessing you still can’t access the case files that have been locked, but can you see if Rennie’s background analysis is still on the server?”
“Gimme a sec.”
Cath scrunched up her face with curiosity as she listened in.
“FYI, I have rescheduled your appointment with Dr Ives.”
“Did I miss it again?”
“Yep. You got the last appointment tonight. Eight p.m. Okay, I’m in,” Jen said. “Let’s have a little look-see. Ooh, his Omaha research papers are all visible. What should I be looking for?”
“Is there anything on the server about a company, registered in Moldova, called XPN Data. It’s really ringing a bell.”
“Hold on.”
Ingrid leaned toward Cath. “I think we’ve got something about XPN on our systems. If we have, Jen’ll find it.”
“Behind every great woman, there’s a Jen.”
“Ain’t that the truth.”
Cath nodded at the screen. “Look at him. He knows he’s not going to get away with this.” Ingrid recognized Cath’s expression from the football pitch. It was one she only ever saw when they were winning.
“You ready for this?” Jen said.
“Hit me with it.”
“Them,” Jen corrected. “Results over two pages. Clicking on one authored by Agent Rennie, cos I figured that’d be what you’re after. Hang on.”
“What have you got, Jen?” Ingrid remembered Rennie had said lots of offshore firms used cryptic acronyms.
“Um, just doing a file find. Right, okay. There’s, like, a whole list of company names here, XPN is… right at the bottom. The subheading for the list is… ‘Firms known to have been part of Operation Mother Tongue.’”
“And Mother Tongue is?”
“Um… A 2014 investigation into money laundering. Um… seems it’s related to, and I quote, ‘capital flight from the former Soviet republics into the US banking system.’”
Ingrid was suddenly short of breath. “Money laundering?”
“Just, like, reading what it says here.”
The ground beneath Ingrid felt shaky. The hand holding her phone started to tremble. She wasn’t sure why, but she was getting the horrible feeling the entire investigation was about to fall apart.
44
“Boss,” Cath said, “thanks for coming down.”
DI Faulkner stepped into the observation room. “Sit down, everyone.” Dell, Waring and Cath all found perches on the edge of plastic stackable chairs. Ingrid had never stood up. “What’s going on?”
Cath looked at Ingrid. “Do you want to explain?”
Ingrid nodded reluctantly. “Okay, so the flights of the killers of both Agent Rennie and Yvgeny Kashlikov were paid for by XPN Data. Stop me if you already know this.”
Faulkner uncrossed her legs and sat with her elbows on her knees. “Assume I’m an idiot and tell me everything.”
“XPN Data is a firm registered in Moldova that Agent Rennie was investigating as part of an anti-money-laundering operation.”
Faulkner sat upright. “Oh.”
Ingrid continued. “Oh indeed. Also, Detective Dell here stopped his interview with Babić because… Sorry, I’ve forgotten what your actual first name is.”
“Del Boy is fine.”
“I really don’t know if I can call you that. Do you want to fill them in?” Ingrid said.
“Yeah, sure.” Del Boy sniffed nervously “Basically Babić has agreed to co-operate. When DS Murray fed us the info about XPN, the suspect kinda froze and asked to consult with his brief.”
“He’s admitted he was hired by this XPN to kill Rennie?” Faulkner asked.
“Not quite,” Dell said. “He was sent by his boss, who, I gather, runs one of the biggest organized crime groups in Moldova. The OCG was hired by someone working for a subsidiary of XPN. They’re essentially using criminal gangs to protect their laundering operation.”
“Boss,” Cath said, “we should listen to Agent Skyberg for a minute. Ingrid?”
Ingrid ran her hands through her hair. It felt soft and limp thanks to the hotel shampoo and Rennie’s beard wax. Her phone buzzed. A London number. “Sorry, but I need to take this.”
Ingrid stepped out into the corridor. Muffled sounds of other interrogations filtered through a regiment of closed doors. “Hello,” she said. “Special Agent Ingrid Skyberg.”
“Hi.” A man’s voice. Unfamiliar. “This is Tim. We, um, met the other night.”
Ingrid’s face flushed with embarrassment. “Oh, yes, hi.”
“So I googled you. Like you asked.”
Silence.
“And now I’m calling you. Like you asked.”
“Thank you. I know it was a strange request.”
“Well, I didn’t want to call too soon. Wouldn’t want you to think I was keen or anything.”
Ingrid leaned against the wall. “No, that would be terrible, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes, so.” Ingrid didn’t know where to start. “So the other night.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t remember all that much.”
“I’m not surprised.”
Double doors at the end of the corridor swung open. A uniformed officer guided a ranting suspect and her solicitor into one of the interview suites.
“I’m guessing it wasn’t my finest hour, but if I can park my embarrassment for a bit, I’m hoping you can fill in some blanks for me.”
“You want to meet for lunch?”
The uniformed officer put his head out the door. “You’re not DCI Evans, are you?”
Ingrid shook her head and he slunk back inside his room. “Actually,” she said to Tim, “I’m hoping we can do this over the phone. You mentioned something about me having a husband, which, I have to tell you, was a hell of a surprise.”
“You don’t live with someone?”
“Nope. Not for a long time.”
“So who was that guy?”
Ingrid sighed. “You’re just going to have to tell me what happened from the beginning. Can you start with when you arrived at the bar?”
“Really. You remember that little?”
He recounted how they’d met at the pub and said he thought they’d been getting on very well. They’d ordered a second bottle of wine then called a Ryde.
“How much of the wine did I drink?” Ingrid asked.
“I wasn’t really paying attention. I guess we had a bottle each.”
“And did we discuss if you were coming back to mine, or if I was going back to yours?”
“We did, and I remember you saying that, as a woman, you could never go to a strange man’s home. So we went to yours.” He paused. “I feel like I’m one of your suspects being brought in for interrogation.”
Ingrid let out a tiny snort. “Well, that might have something to do with me currently being in a Metropolitan Police interview suite.” She placed the sole of one boot against the wall and rested like a flamingo. “I’m sorry I’m asking so many questions, but like I said, my apartment burned down, and if we were getting along as well as I thought we were, I’m struggling to work out why you weren’t there when the fire service kicked the door in.”
“You didn’t get my note, then?”
“You heard the bit about the fire, didn’t you?”
“Your place really burned down?”
“Smoke damage mostly. It was an oven fire.”
He swallowed audibly. “The takeaway?”
“You remember stopping for food?”
“Sure. Some kebab place north of Marble Arch. Oh, shit. I’m so sorry, I put it in the oven, didn’t I? Jesus. I caused the fire, didn’t I? Oh, fuck. Ingrid, I’m so sorry. I thought we could warm it up a bit, but by the time I came into the bedroom, you’d passed out—”
“Classy.” She was cringing with shame.
“And well, to quote Jimmy Stewart, or to misquote him, there are rules about what to do when a lady is worse for wear.”
Cath opened the door to the interview suite. “Just checking you were still here.”
“I’ll be right with you,” Ingrid said. “Give me five.”
“You need to go?” Tim asked.
“Shortly,” Ingrid said. “So you just left?”
Cath pulled her ‘is everything all right’ face and retreated when Ingrid gave her a thumbs-up.
“Well, I left the note,” Tim said. “I completely forgot about the takeaway. I wasn’t exactly sober.”
Ingrid inhaled deeply. “So get to the bit where my husband shows up.”
“Yes, right, so when I let myself out, he was standing at your front door, he took one look at me and punched me in the face.” He paused. “So I hit him right back.”
That explained the bruise on the face of the man in the hospital.
“Did he say anything to you?” Ingrid asked.
“Not that I remember, he just kind of grappled with me. I’m surprised we didn’t wake you up.”
“He didn’t use a weapon?”
“Christ! No. Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”
The sound of shouting pulsed out of an interview suite. Ingrid tried to ignore it. She needed to think. “Is it possible you knocked him out?”
He didn’t answer.
“Because he was pulled out of my apartment by the fire service.”
“Are you telling me I set fire to your place and I killed a man?” His voice quavered.
“No, he’s still alive.”
“Oh, thank fuck.”
“And if it helps, you probably saved my life because I think he had come to kill me.”
Neither of them said anything for a while.
“Listen, I have one more question. When we stopped at the kebab shop, did you see the man who attacked you there?”
“Um, no, I don’t remember.”
“Okay. Apart from the food, did we order anything more to drink?”
“Er, no. Oh, but you asked for a glass of water while we waited.” He sounded distant. “But it didn’t seem to sober you up. In fact, it had the opposite effect.”
Ingrid slid down the wall to a crouching position. Her head fell into her hands. She was starting to figure it all out.
“You okay?” Tim asked. “You still there?”
“Yes,” she said wearily. “Still here. I think he followed us. I think he spiked my water in the kebab shop.”
The interview suite door opened suddenly, and DI Faulkner stepped out. Ingrid stood up.
“Ah, Ingrid,” Faulkner said, “really sorry, but I have to get back to my meeting. Cath will fill you in.” She started walking down the corridor, then looked back at Ingrid. “It’s been lovely working with you.”
“I don’t understand,” she said, but Faulkner didn’t turn round. She lifted the phone. “Tim, I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go.”
She ducked back into the observation room. The expression on Cath’s face alarmed Ingrid. “What is it?”
Cath pursed her lips. “Lads, can you give us some space?”
“Yeah, yeah, sure,” Dell said.
Waring looked disappointed. “Of course.”
They picked up their belongings and filed out of the room. Ingrid didn’t move as Cath shut the door behind them.
“I’m guessing,” Ingrid said, “I’m not going to like what you’re about to say.”
Cath bit her bottom lip. “No, I don’t think you are.”
45
Ingrid kept her eyes to the floor as she walked through the bull pen, keen not to get drawn into conversation. She was primed to flare and snap like a cobra at anyone who asked how she was.
Jen swiveled in her chair the moment Ingrid dragged herself over the threshold, but recognized the danger signs and boxed her chirpiness. “Good morning,” she said softly, then returned to something on her screen.
“Hi,” Ingrid said. She knew she sounded grumpy. She put down her Starbucks cup, hung up her coat, switched on her computer and slumped heavily into her chair. She was still reeling from Inspector Faulkner’s decision, and she wasn’t sure what to do next, so she began making a list.
Buy clothes.
Interview man in hospital.
Search Rennie’s phone.
Out in the bull pen, Ingrid heard the slimy Southern tones of Marshall Claybourne playing nice with one of the interns. She got up and signaled to him from the door.
“Can I have a minute?” The weariness of the battle to come infused her voice.
Marshall barely acknowledged her. She returned to her desk and continued with her list. Her pen was scratching over her notebook when Deputy Assistant Director Claybourne appeared in the doorway, one arm against the doorjamb in a posture that took up as much space as possible. “What do you need, Ingrid?”
Where should she start? She put her pen down and noticed how many strands of her hair had fallen out over her notes. Stress. “Rennie’s killer has con
fessed.”
“That’s great.” He stood upright. “Why’d you look so darn downbeat about it?”
She blew out all of the air in her cheeks, fluttering the paperwork on her desk. “Well, I guess, because… Can we do this properly? Can you come in here and take a seat?”
He gave her a one-shoulder shrug. “Sure.”
“And can you close the door?”
He didn’t like acceding to a request from a subordinate, but reluctantly did as he was asked. He nodded hello to Jen and sauntered over to Ingrid’s desk.
“If you don’t mind me saying so, sw… Ingrid, you look like you could use a good night’s sleep. Say—” he turned to face Jen “—what’s the latest with Agent Skyberg’s apartment?”
Jen’s shoulders moved upwards with a deep, calming breath. She’d learned long ago not to take umbrage at Marshall’s lack of manners; Ingrid fumed on her behalf.
“I spoke with the facilities and estates team yesterday,” Jen said, her breeziness and bright tone a reminder of how to deal with surly colleagues. God, how Ingrid envied Jen’s ability to switch on the sun. “And my understanding is they were, like, starting work and—”
“Already?” Ingrid said. “What about my stuff?”
Jen nodded reassuringly. “Um, well, I believe they pack everything up, pop it into a storage facility and unpack everything at the end, I guess.”
Ingrid’s head rolled backwards. She was just so glad she’d retrieved the box of mementos.
Jen looked crestfallen. “I’m sorry, Ingrid. I got the request from Agent Claybourne here and…”
Ingrid snarled at Marshall. “I asked you not to!”
“I… I… I was trying to take care of things, take a load off.”
Ingrid thumped her desk. The office swirled. She pictured men in coveralls going through her underwear drawer, the condoms in the nightstand, the leftover prescription drugs. She mentally scanned her apartment and thought what needed saving. Her head slumped into her hands. How had she got to thirty-five and accumulated so little?
“Agent Skyberg,” Marshall said.
“Pardon?”
“You calmed down now?”
Ingrid looked blank.
