Below Zero

by Eva Hudson

  BILUNGS: So is she British? American?

  NYSTRÖM: Let me say now, I do not know. But… If I may continue. Of course the other item we retrieved from Järlåsa was the missile component. The arms trade tends, I’m sure this will not be a surprise, to be a very male industry and I was hopeful that we would track her down through the arms community. Once the technical analysis showed the circuit board was for the Haze family of weaponry, we started approaching the firms known to trade them, and although her photo was circulated widely within those companies, we did not get a positive identification. However, most of the companies involved were based in Europe, which possibly makes it more likely that she is British.

  BILUNGS: It’s all very tenuous, isn’t it, Inspector?

  NYSTRÖM: Yes, I’m afraid it is, Mr Bilungs.

  BILUNGS: So we don’t know where she came from or where she went to, is that correct?

  NYSTRÖM: No, not at all. In the weeks after the bomb and the kidnappings, plenty of evidence—mostly in the form of CCTV—came to light. We know, for example, that she arrived in Stockholm on the morning of December 15th on the 9:30am ferry from Riga, and it seems she left the city by the same mode of transport the following day.

  BILUNGS: She was only in Sweden for twenty-four hours?

  NYSTRÖM: [Pauses] It would have been more like thirty-one, maybe thirty-two hours.

  BILUNGS: I imagine the Swedish people will want to understand how the suspect was able to leave the country. We’ve heard a lot of testimony here in the past couple of days that has given the impression that every police officer in the country was looking for her. How on earth did she get away?

  NYSTRÖM: It is a fair question. The short answer is that around midday on December 16th she changed fifteen hundred euros into kronor at a hotel reception desk in Södermalm. The guy on the desk remembered her because the notes were wet. She then took a taxi to an outlet shopping mall in Sickla where she bought a complete change of clothes. In fact, she bought two complete outfits. We then understand that she spent several hours in the spa at Sturebadet, where, I assume, she knew there was no CCTV, and at this point no pictures were circulating in the media of her with a shaven head. We then picked her up again, around four o’clock, buying her ferry ticket at a travel agency in the city center; therefore, she did not have to queue for a ticket at the terminal, which the police had under surveillance, along with all major transportation hubs in the country. They weren’t just looking for her, of course, but for anyone connected to the events of the preceding day. It was only when a passenger on the overnight ferry to Riga came forward the following week—and he was absolutely certain that he had spoken to her on the crossing—that we even knew she had been missed at the port. She simply strode up, presented her ticket and boarded the ferry.

  BILUNGS: So she traveled to Riga? To Latvia?

  NYSTRÖM: Actually, we never found CCTV images of her disembarking.

  BILUNGS: What are you suggesting? That she jumped overboard?

  NYSTRÖM: Well, sir, there is absolutely no evidence for that—

  BILUNGS: But there wouldn’t be, would there?

  NYSTRÖM: [Pause] Given the profiles we modeled on her behavior, I think it’s much more likely that she hid inside a packing crate, or climbed into the back of someone’s car. Or maybe—remember, she had a change of clothes—she was able to walk out.

  BILUNGS: Have you considered a laundry cart?

  NYSTRÖM: I’m sorry?

  BILUNGS: Isn’t that how it usually works in heist movies and slapstick comedies?

  NYSTRÖM: I thought, Mr Bilungs, that this enquiry was a fact-finding exercise, not a blame-apportioning one.

  BILUNGS: [Pause] Yes, quite right. Quite right.

  43

  December 2016, London.

  Ingrid drained her coffee cup and looked at the clock on the wall again. She had already been waiting half an hour and the coffee in the Regency Café wasn’t good enough to hang around any longer. Either the woman from the Tate gallery had been held up, or more likely she had changed her mind. It wasn’t a surprise: after all, she was asking her to risk her job.

  The Westminster café—an old-fashioned 1950s greasy spoon—was popular with politicians and local construction workers, and a line of customers started to form at the counter, the beginning of the lunch rush. She looked up at the blackboard and considered whether there was anything she was actually prepared to eat. If she was in the Regency with a friend, she would happily gorge on bubble and squeak and fried eggs, but she was undercover as the glamorous Natalya Vesnina, one of London’s most influential art brokers, and there was no way Natalya would be seen eating fried food. Ingrid’s entire outfit probably cost more than the monthly salaries of some of the workers lining up with doorstep sandwiches and cans of Coke. If her contact from the Tate had had second thoughts, she should hail a cab and head back to Mayfair. She stood up, her left foot wobbling slightly on a four-inch heel, and bent to pick up her Stella McCartney handbag from the seat next to hers.

  “An Americano, I believe.”

  It was a voice Ingrid hadn’t heard for over a year. No, closer to two years. She took a deep breath, settled her features and turned to face him.

  “What the hell are you doing here, Nick?”

  “Buying you a coffee?”

  Ingrid was shocked by his appearance. The Elvis quiff had been replaced by a buzz cut and his normally tanned skin was sallow, his cheeks hollow. The ever-youthful Nick Angelis looked older. He looked ill. “Go to hell.” She pushed past him and moved toward the door.

  “Actually, I just came from there.” He reached out and grabbed her arm. “Please, let me buy you a coffee.”

  She turned and looked him in the eye. He was imploring her, his features full of pleading sincerity, but all she could think about was the grief he had caused her when she’d made it home from Stockholm. The interrogations from her superiors, the disciplinary review that nearly cost her career. She looked down at his hand where it grabbed her forearm—he was still wearing his wedding ring—then back up to his newly lined faced.

  “Not here.”

  There was no need to ask Nick how he had tracked her down as it was what he did for a living. The question was: why now? They stepped out onto the sidewalk where the harsh December air made Ingrid pull her pashmina tight around her neck. She took a cloche hat—another designer accessory she had purchased on behalf of the American taxpayer—out of her oversized purse and pulled it on.

  “It suits you,” Nick said. “The hair. And the hat.”

  A cab with its light on turned into the street and Ingrid raised her hand. “It used to be as short as yours. Taxi!”

  “I know,” he said, unusually softly.

  Ingrid looked at him as the taxi slowed. She couldn’t help but smile at him. For two years she’d wanted to belt him, but now that he seemed frail and penitent that would only make her feel like a bully. The cab driver’s window whirred open. “Connaught hotel, please.” She had opened the cab door before she realized that Nick hadn’t. He really was sick. “I take it you’ll ride with me?”

  “It would be my pleasure.”

  Ingrid helped him into the back of the taxi then climbed in, pulling the drifting hem of her pashmina clear of the door before closing it. She sat as far back in the seat as possible, putting the maximum possible distance between the two of them. For the first year after Stockholm she’d rejected all his calls, rebuffed all his offers and resisted the urge to visit his club and punch him in the face. Then, for the past year, she’d wanted answers. The war in Syria hadn’t stopped. There had been no peace accord from the Vienna negotiations. And every time she visited her physiotherapist for treatment on the shoulder injury she’d sustained falling out the van, she’d wanted to know if anything she’d accomplished in Sweden had been worthwhile. She wanted to know if the risks he had subjected her to were worth it. But she wasn’t about to hit a man whose trousers were now so big for him that they were bunche
d at the waist under his belt.

  “You look, as ever, amazing.” He was gripping the door handle tightly. “You can still make me catch my breath.” He wheezed just to prove his point.

  She was still so damn cross with him that she didn’t want to ask him what kind of illness he had, or what his prognosis was. “Obviously none of these clothes are my choice.”

  “If it helps, I would buy art from you.”

  Ingrid knew she should ask after his wife, whose name she couldn’t remember. She should absolutely mention his hair. She certainly knew she didn’t want to be talking to him about goddamned clothes. She wanted to ask him ‘why now?’ but she was scared of the answer. It had been two years. They weren’t close any more. From the look of him, she feared he was tying up loose ends, making preparations for… God, if he was dying she could be a little more charitable, couldn’t she?

  “How many millions have you got? I can put you in contact with a Rothko that I think you’d like.”

  He smiled at her. “You know it would be wasted on me.”

  It occurred to Ingrid that she had never seen inside Nick’s home. She had no idea what his taste was like beyond tailored shirts and alligator shoes. But something in the way he spoke suggested that a clash of artistic tastes wasn’t why it would be wasted on him. She couldn’t ignore his appearance any more. She had to say something.

  “So…”

  “So. Indeed. You may be wondering why—”

  The cab turned sharply left, beating the lights just as they changed to red.

  “I am,” she said. “I am definitely wondering.”

  “Well.” Nick reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a thumb drive. “I thought you would want to see this.” He placed it on the seat between them and Ingrid eyed it with suspicion. “Please. There’s no need to look like that. It’s not a Trojan horse. It’s not infected with a virus that will bring the embassy’s computer system crashing down.”

  Ingrid stretched out a hand and picked it up. She looked at it closely. “Are you sure I want whatever is on it?”

  Nick Angelis pursed his lips. “Yes, I rather think you do. And besides, it’s the least that I owe you.”

  She dropped it into her bag as the cab took a side road, rattling down a cobbled mews. “Are you going to tell me?”

  He looked at the taxi driver, then leaned forward. “It’s the transcripts from the Borg enquiry in Stockholm.” He spoke so quietly she could hardly hear him. “The committee isn’t due to publish its findings until the New Year, but I thought you’d want to see them.”

  Ingrid’s heart lurched and she felt the coffee rise in her throat. “They… Do they—”

  He raised his hand, weakly, to stop her. “You’re in the clear—”

  “I am?” She let out a gasp.

  “Yes. They have no idea who you are. Your cousin refused to testify.”

  “Yes, I heard.”

  He swallowed hard. “Does she know about you? That it was you?”

  Ingrid looked out of the window at a parade of boutique shops decorated with holly, fake snow and twinkling lights. For London, the Christmas decorations were discreet and understated. “Probably,” she said. Ingrid turned back to Nick and shook her head. “I mean, she must, right? She must have seen the CCTV. Must have joined the dots?”

  “So you’ve not spoken to her about it?”

  “No.”

  “Probably for the best.” He leaned forward and tapped on the glass behind the driver’s head. “Drop me here, please.”

  The cab driver indicated and pulled over toward the curb.

  “Because there are some things,” Nick said, “that are better left unsaid.”

  And, with that, Nick Angelis opened the door and climbed slowly out of the cab. Ingrid couldn’t stop looking at him as the driver pulled away. He kept both hands defiantly in his pockets and tears unexpectedly pricked her eyes: Nick was stopping himself from waving goodbye.

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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.

  If you enjoyed Below Zero, please consider leaving a review. It doesn’t have to be more than a few words, but every honest review helps new readers discover Ingrid Skyberg. Thank you.

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  Visit www.evahudson.com to get exclusive bonus material direct from the author. You can also follow Eva Hudson on Twitter and Facebook

  Also by Eva Hudson

  The Ingrid Skyberg Thriller series

  FRESH DOUBT (Book 1)

  KILL PLAN (Book 2)

  DEEP HURT (Book 3)

  SHOOT FIRST (Book 4)

  BELOW ZERO (Book 5)

  Other Crime Thrillers

  THE LOYAL SERVANT

  THE SENIOR MOMENT

  THE DEADLY SILENCE

  Published by Inkubator Books

  www.inkubatorbooks.com

  Copyright © 2019 by Eva Hudson

  BELOW ZERO is a work 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.